‘What do you think?’ said Wendt as they left the offices of the Post.
Bergemann was still scowling at his portrait. Maximilian had given it to him, after promising not to put it in the paper. ‘It makes me look old,’ he said.
Wendt laughed. ‘Not about the drawing, man. What do you think about Wolf as a suspect?’
‘I don’t know. He’s hiding something. But then, everybody’s hiding something.’
‘Yeah, I agree. We should talk to the girlfriend.’
THE GUN
Sophie had applied for a permit to carry a pistol and, because of her dangerous work, had received one. After she shot Konrad, Willi threw the Luger into the Isar. He watched as it sank from sight. ‘Get another one,’ he said, and she did. Post reporters received threatening calls and letters all the time. Sophie was as used to being under constant threat as one can be.
But killing a man, shooting him and watching him die, hit her harder than she might have expected. She didn’t want to carry a gun again; she wanted nothing more to do with guns. She wanted to research Konrad Milch, to find out what she could about him, about his life and family. Maximilian did his best to discourage this. ‘Please, don’t,’ he said. ‘You won’t learn anything that will make what happened easier to live with. You’ll learn, whatever he did, there were still those who loved him and will miss him.’
‘Irena,’ she said.
‘Yes. Maybe Irena,’ he said.
So, when Bergemann and Wendt asked to interview her, she agreed to meet the detectives at her office. But even in that safe place, she felt uneasy in a way she could not conceal.
‘Remember,’ Willi had told her, ‘the police don’t know anything about that evening.’
‘They don’t know we were there,’ said Maximilian.
Still, she was nervous.
‘Miss Auerbach,’ said Bergemann as the very first thing, ‘do you own a gun?’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie.
‘Do you have a license?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Could we see the gun and the license?’
It was a small Derringer. They smelled the gun and studied the license.
‘Why do you need a gun?’ said Wendt.
‘For protection,’ she said.
‘Have you been attacked?’ said Bergemann.
Sophie looked at him in astonishment. ‘Do you consider being blown up being attacked?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Wendt.
‘It must be in your files. I worked at Das Neue Deutsche Bild when it was bombed. I was sitting with my editor, Erwin Czieslow, when a hand grenade was rolled into the office. He and another man were killed. I was badly injured and spent many months in the hospital. Are you really unaware of any of this?’
It was evident that they were. Wendt and Bergemann looked at one another, then rifled through the papers in front of them to discover whether there was any mention of this major fact. There was none. Their lack of preparation for the interview made them look like fools, and they were plainly embarrassed. Sophie could have been indignant, but instead she chose the wiser course, which was to fill in the blanks in their understanding in such a way as to elicit not just their sympathy, but also their gratitude for not rubbing their noses in their ineptitude.
‘She doesn’t appear to have anything to do with the murder,’ said Wendt.
‘I think that’s probably the case,’ said Bergemann. ‘And she gives Maximilian Wolf an alibi too.’
‘Still,’ said Wendt, ‘she has a gun.’
‘Let’s check the permits and see if there are any other guns,’ said Bergemann.
THE LONG LEASH
Hermann Gruber had engineered a rise through the police and detective ranks with what could be called brilliant cynicism. He had taken advantage of the political moment to get where he was now, a detective sergeant in charge of a squad. His father would have been proud and amazed. And now he was ready to take the next step and go even higher. Only one thing stood in his way.
Hermann’s wife of ten years, Mitzi, whom he loved dearly, and who loved him, had parents, Werner and Anna Schwarz (née Flegenheim), living in an apartment in the southern outskirts of the city. On a clear day they had a view of the Alps. Mitzi had recently begun paying them weekly visits. And lately she seemed moodier, at least to Hermann. ‘What is it, Mitzi?’ Hermann asked. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘Vati and Mutti are getting old,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’ But both Anna and Werner were robust and active. They worked long hours in their orchard and garden, and showed no sign of slowing down.
It wasn’t that they were getting old. It was that they, or rather she, Anna, was Jewish, which made Mitzi half-Jewish. Mitzi was not blind. She saw the anti-Semitic graffiti when she went out for groceries or just took a walk. She read about attacks on Jews and Jewish shops.
She watched Hermann in front of the mirror each morning, adjusting his brown uniform, the same uniform some of the men making these attacks wore. He tightened the knot in his tie, smoothing it against his stomach. ‘Mitz,’ he said. ‘There’s a wrinkle. See it?’ He pointed. ‘I can’t have that. I’m going with the captain on his rounds today.’
She turned and walked from the room. He followed her. ‘Iron it yourself,’ she said.
‘What? What’s gotten into you, Mitz?’
She didn’t answer, and Hermann knew better than to push it. He gave the wrinkle another look. ‘It’ll have to do,’ he muttered, and went off to work.
Hermann didn’t think of Mitzi as Jewish; he thought of her as German. So had she, for that matter, until recently. She had never in her life been inside a synagogue, never celebrated Passover, hardly even knew what Passover was. And yet, people just like her had been attacked, were still being attacked, even though the times were supposedly better. She’d asked Hermann about it once. ‘Did you investigate when that Jewish jewelry store was attacked?’
‘Of course not,’ he’d said, a little too gruffly. ‘We have more serious crimes. We’re overloaded with work.’ Hermann must have known the moment would come when his career and Mitzi would collide.
After making the rounds with Captain Reineke, Hermann returned to the office to find Willi working at his desk. Hermann had used Reineke to get where he was and then cultivated other connections which were about to pay off. But Reineke believed in all that Aryan stuff. He made cracks to Hermann about Jews on the force and how, one day, they would all be gone. ‘Is Geismeier a Jew?’ Reineke said one morning.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Hermann.
‘That seems like something you would want to know about the people under you, Detective Sergeant. Especially someone like Geismeier.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hermann.
‘You’ve still got a tail on him, I hope.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Word had come down that Hitler was organizing a brand-new security unit, a sort of elite guard, called the Schutzstaffel, the SS. Reineke had told Hermann Gruber he was being considered for membership. Membership required loyalty to Hitler, which was no problem, and a clean record, also no problem. But you also needed a clean racial history. Which brought Mitzi into the picture.
Since Reineke had made him a sergeant, Hermann had looked mainly to pleasing his superiors, and had treated the detectives under him with indifference. He had assumed Wendt and Bergemann were reliable, but were they? Why would they be? What had he ever done for them? And Geismeier. He had a tail on Geismeier, that Geismeier certainly knew about. Geismeier was the smartest one of the bunch.
Hermann suddenly felt isolated and vulnerable. ‘Geismeier, do you have a minute?’ he said, calling from his office door.
‘Detective Sergeant?’
‘Do you have a minute? Could you please come in?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Willi, closing the file he had been studying, putting it in the desk drawer and locking it.
Gruber gestured toward the chair facing his desk and Willi sat
down. ‘Cigarette?’ He held out his case toward Willi.
‘No thank you, Sergeant. I don’t smoke.’
I didn’t even know that about him, thought Gruber. ‘How’s your wife, Geismeier? I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure.’
‘No, sir, I don’t think so. She’s fine. Thank you for asking.’
Gruber hadn’t even known for sure whether Willi had a wife, so that had worked out all right. Or had it? Did he have a wife, or was he lying? You never could tell with Geismeier.
‘Are congratulations in order, Detective Sergeant?’ said Willi. ‘If so let me be the first.’
How the devil did Willi know about the SS thing? It hadn’t even been approved yet. ‘Yes, thank you, Geismeier. That’s kind of you.’
‘What can I do for you, Detective Sergeant?’ said Willi.
‘We haven’t caught up in some time, Geismeier. I just wanted you to bring me up to date on what you’re working on.’
Willi listed three cases and gave brief summaries of each. One was an attack on an Orthodox Jewish family, but Hermann wanted to give that one a wide berth, and he hardly knew enough about the other two cases – both house break-ins – to ask any questions. ‘And what about the murder of Konrad Milch, Geismeier?’
‘You ordered me off that case, sir.’
‘But you’ve continued to investigate, despite my order, haven’t you?’ He said it in what was meant to be a jocular tone.
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, damn it, Geismeier, I’ve heard that you were talking about the case, planting rumors …’
‘If that’s Blaskowitz you’re asking about, that was before your order, sir. And I wasn’t planting anything. I was giving him a little misinformation, trying to get him to make contact with Hoffmeister, the other witness. Just to see where that might lead. Trying to sow a little panic, Detective Sergeant.’
‘I see. And did it? Sow panic, I mean?’
‘Well, you’ve heard from him, so it seems to have done something. You did hear from him, didn’t you, sir?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Hermann.
‘Well then, from Dr Bruck,’ said Willi.
‘Never mind about that. Let’s get back to that Jewish case of yours for a moment.’ This suddenly seemed like safer territory.
‘Jewish case?’ said Willi.
‘The attack on the Jewish family. How are you dealing with that one, Geismeier?’
‘I’ve interviewed the family. There were several witnesses, and I’m interviewing them as well. I’m not sure I understand your question, sir.’
‘Well, they are Jewish, Geismeier. I’m just wondering whether you’re doing anything … different there.’
‘Should I be doing something different, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Of course not, Geismeier. I mean, just give it your full attention. Like you would any other case.’
‘Is there something you’d like me do that I’m not doing, sir? I’m always happy to get your guidance.’
That cheeky little bastard, thought Hermann. ‘No, Geismeier, that’s not what I meant. Continue what you’ve been doing. And stay away from the Milch shooting.’
‘Milch?’
‘Damn it! The young patriot killed in the park.’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said Willi. ‘The young patriot. Will that be all?’
‘Yes, thank you, Geismeier. And my best regards to your wife.’
‘Thank you, sir. Shall I close the door?’
Once he was alone, Hermann groaned. It felt like he had just been interrogated by his own detective.
THE RIVER ISAR
Since she had shot and killed Konrad Milch, Sophie was fearful and distraught. She was afraid to go out alone. She withdrew into herself. She couldn’t eat or sleep. She didn’t want to see anyone. Elizabeth Grynbaum knocked at the door, but Sophie didn’t answer. Not even for Elizabeth who had become like a mother to her. Maximilian assured Sophie the incident was just that – an incident – and it was over. He could think that way because he had killed men in the war. He reminded her she had saved his life. But it didn’t help.
Then one morning it was as though the fever broke. The killing of Milch was still on her mind, but it had become a kind of admonition, a reminder of the danger National Socialism had presented for her, and also for all of Germany. It helped too that everybody else seemed to think the National Socialist moment was past. Even some editors at the Post argued for giving the Nazis less space in the paper. The Nazis were a laughing stock, they said. The threat was over. More important stories were getting short shrift because of the Post’s Nazi fixation. France’s and then Japan’s recognition of the Soviet Union were certainly important stories. The Soviet Union, a dangerous regime, was gaining legitimacy from day to day, and yet that had barely gotten a mention in the paper. Even the machinations within the Bavarian government were being neglected.
Maximilian’s successful show at the Appelbaum Gallery and the sale of many drawings had allowed Maximilian and Sophie to move from Elizabeth Grynbaum’s narrow bedroom to an apartment across the landing. They now had a large modern kitchen, with an ice box and a new gas stove, a full bathroom, and two bedrooms. They used the bedroom with its skylight as their office and studio. They worked across from one another at a massive oak table – it had taken four men to get it up the stairs and into place. Sophie clattered away on her typewriter. Maximilian liked the noise; to him it was the sound of happiness.
He had spread out several dozen drawings on his side of the table and then on the floor and chairs, wherever there was space. He was beginning to put together a show for the coming winter at Appelbaum’s Berlin gallery and needed to narrow the number to fifty.
‘Can you take a break?’ he said. ‘Come help me with this.’ He steered Sophie past the drawings he had laid out.
‘Not this one,’ she said. ‘But all of these should go.’ She pointed to the series of drawings he had made in clubs and cabarets around the city, leering men and half-dressed women. Most were starkly drawn with slashing black lines and sharp angles. The perspective was skewed, and in some he had added a touch of color – a dash of red on a mouth, a blueish nose, pale yellow sagging flesh.
Sophie also liked the movie series. Maximilian had happened on a crew making a film in the old city. There were trucks and lights and cranes and dollies crowded into the narrow street. Cables snaked this way and that. Maximilian did drawings of actors, including Emil Jannings and Pola Negri, in medieval dress. He drew the crew. His likenesses of Fritz Murnau, the director, Jannings and Negri ran in the Sunday edition. Sophie liked the portraits. ‘They’ll be good in Berlin,’ she said. She especially liked the drawings of the crew, bored, smoking while they waited to shoot the next scene, or moving equipment around. In one drawing Murnau peered through a square opening he made with his hands. Sophie laced her arm through Maximilian’s and pointed to other drawings she would choose. Neither Sophie nor Maximilian had ever expected such happiness or good fortune.
It was late on a September afternoon. The windows were open. The sound of traffic came in on a warm breeze that tossed the lace curtains this way and that. Sophie was alone. There was a knock at the door. She looked through the peephole and recognized Wendt and Bergemann. Bergemann leaned in and knocked again. Sophie opened the door.
The two policemen introduced themselves, in case she had forgotten who they were. No, she said, she hadn’t. Could they come in? they wondered, although they were both already halfway through the door when they asked. Sophie stepped aside and gestured toward the kitchen, which was the first room you came to. She invited them to sit down and offered them tea, which they declined.
The two men looked around and nodded approvingly. ‘This is a very nice apartment, Fräulein. Congratulations.’
‘What is it you want?’ she said.
They both looked shocked, as though they had really meant to pay her a compliment.
‘We’re here about Konrad Milch,’ said Wendt.
> Sophie’s heart began to pound. ‘Who?’ said Sophie.
‘We spoke with you about him some time back,’ said Bergemann. ‘You remember.’
‘The man who was shot in the English Garden,’ said Wendt.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘What about him?’
‘Well, Fräulein, you probably recall that the last time we spoke, we weren’t aware that you had been … attacked, which had led you to apply for a gun license and to carry a gun for your own protection.’
‘Which is understandable,’ said Wendt.
‘We went back and checked your story,’ said Bergemann.
‘And found it to be true,’ said Wendt. ‘But then we also checked to see whether you had owned any other guns. It came to light then that you had owned another gun.’
‘A Luger. Fully legal and licensed, of course,’ said Bergemann.
‘But the thing is,’ said Wendt, ‘the gun that killed Konrad Milch could have been a Luger.’
‘We think it could have been your Luger, Fräulein Auerbach,’ said Bergemann, and immediately regretted saying it.
‘We’d like to close this case, Fräulein,’ said Wendt, trying to hurry past Bergemann’s blunder.
‘Could we see the gun, please, and your permit?’ said Bergemann.
‘Do you have a warrant, either for my arrest or to search my home?’ said Sophie.
‘No, Fräulein, we don’t,’ said Bergemann. ‘But your refusal makes me wonder what you might have to hide.’
‘We can come back with a search warrant and a forensic team, if that’s what you want,’ said Wendt. ‘Then your beautiful apartment is liable to be turned upside down. Our officers are not always as careful in their searches as my partner and I would like them to be.’
‘I don’t have the Luger,’ said Sophie.
‘Where is it?’ said Bergemann.
‘I threw it in the Isar.’
‘You threw it in the river?’ said Wendt.
‘I didn’t like carrying it, I didn’t want to have it any longer, and I couldn’t think how else to get rid of it.’
The Good Cop Page 11
