The Good Cop

by Peter Steiner

  Willi stood up. ‘Will you walk me out, Herr Major?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the major. He wanted to be certain Willi left the building. The two men stopped outside the entrance. The guard stood to attention.

  ‘Thank you, Herr Major. This has all been very useful. I’ll look in on Frau Gleiwitz tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’ll let her know,’ said the major. The two men shook hands and saluted one another.

  Wendt, who was watching from a doorway across the street, gave an astonished low whistle. Willi descended the stairs just as a streetcar approached. When the streetcar had passed, he was gone.

  The next morning, Bertha Gleiwitz opened the door as soon as Willi rang the bell. She offered him tea but Willi declined. She escorted him through the apartment to the major’s bedroom. She showed him where she had first seen the intruder and offered a fairly detailed description of the man’s appearance. She did not know him, had never seen him before, but he had made an impression. ‘What was it about him that impressed you, Frau Gleiwitz?’ Willi said.

  ‘Well, he seemed to know what he was looking for and where to find it. Like he had been here before. He had discovered the secret drawer in Hubert’s desk. It was on top of the desk.’

  ‘And what do you think he was he looking for, gnädige Frau?’ said Willi.

  ‘I only know what he took.’

  ‘And what was that?’ said Willi.

  She mentioned some silver and some jewelry. She had made a list.

  ‘Did he take any papers, as far as you know?’

  ‘Oh, Hubert is always worried about his secret papers. I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Could the intruder have been anywhere else in the apartment before you surprised him?’

  ‘Oh, no, Detective,’ she said. ‘He came in through the bedroom window, and I was in the living room. You have to go through the living room to get from the bedroom to the rest of the apartment, so I would have seen him.’

  ‘And what caused you to go into the bedroom, gnädige Frau?’

  ‘I heard a voice.’

  ‘A voice?’

  ‘Yes, Detective. The thief’s voice. He was talking.’

  ‘Did you hear anything he said?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it a voice you recognized?’

  ‘No.

  ‘Do you have any idea who he was talking to?’

  ‘Himself, I suppose. He was quite alone when I surprised him.’

  ‘What was he doing when you walked in on him?’

  ‘He was going through my son’s desk drawer.’

  ‘The secret one?’

  ‘The center one. He had already gone through the secret one. It was on the desk.’

  ‘Show me which drawer he was going through,’ said Willi. She pointed and Willi opened the drawer and looked at it briefly. It contained the major’s personal stationery and envelopes, postage stamps, an ink bottle, and other writing supplies.

  ‘And what did he do when you came into the room?’ said Willi.

  ‘He leapt through the window. It was still open.’

  ‘And did he say anything before that?’

  ‘Say anything? Detective, we were not having a social afternoon.’

  ‘You said you heard him talking to himself before you came in. Did he say anything as he was leaving?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Well, yes, you’re right. He did. He said, “Watch it,” or “Watch out.”’

  ‘And then he jumped from the window?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you see where he went?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Now, there’s a small garden, then an iron gate, and then an alley down below. Did you hear anything? Someone running, the gate creaking or slamming, a car starting, anything at all?’

  ‘I was expecting to hear something, but I didn’t. The gate is rusty and it creaks. And I didn’t hear a car start either.’

  ‘And then you called the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the bedroom?’

  ‘No. The phone is in the kitchen.’

  ‘Did you close the window before you left the major’s bedroom?’

  ‘You know, I thought I had. But when I went in later it was still open. So I closed it then.’

  ‘You said he took some silver and jewelry. Whose silver and jewelry was it?’

  ‘It was family heirlooms.’

  ‘Just family heirlooms, by which I mean, was any of it not family heirlooms?’

  She looked through her list. ‘No, it was all family heirlooms.’

  ‘And your son kept these family heirlooms in his bedroom? That seems a little unusual to me.’

  ‘Well, it might be. But I had just given them to him the week before. Since my husband died, I wanted to pass them on. He has a safe in the living room. I guess he hadn’t had time to put them in the safe, so he had them in a desk drawer.’

  ‘The secret drawer?’

  ‘Not the secret drawer. No.’

  ‘Do you have other children, gnädige Frau?’

  ‘I have another son, Detective. But let’s not speak of him.’

  THE CRIMINAL CLASS

  It turned out Bertha Gleiwitz’s second son Hartmut – twelve years younger than the major – was a convicted thief, a repeat offender, recently released from prison, now with a serious drug habit and without a job. He knew of the family heirlooms and that his mother had given them to his brother while he was getting nothing but the back of her hand. ‘You’ll just sell them,’ she’d said.

  Hartmut, with the help of a fellow ex-con with housebreaking experience, had decided to help himself to what he thought of as his share of Bertha Gleiwitz’s wealth. Hartmut knew she was staying with his brother but had expected her to be out. She usually was at that time of the afternoon. Willi thought they might both have been in the room when she walked in, but that her son was concealed. After she closed the window and left to call the police, Hartmut opened the window again and went out.

  Hartmut was arrested and, after a brief interrogation, confessed. ‘It’s not robbery. That stuff was as much mine as it was his. More, maybe. That shit Nazi prick.’ Most of the loot had already disappeared by way of a fence Hartmut had used before. ‘I don’t have any of it. Neither does Alfred.’ Alfred was his partner in crime.

  ‘You don’t approve of your brother’s politics?’ said Willi.

  ‘What? I don’t give a shit about his politics. He’s an asshole.’

  ‘So, you’re not political?’

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘Well, I thought, with your gangster act, you might want to be part of all that. There’s lots of money in it, I hear.’

  ‘Yeah, well, they’re nuts.’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘Sure. The joint is full of them.’ It finally dawned on Hartmut what Willi was driving at. ‘You want to know if I know some of those clowns? Well, I don’t. Anyway, I’m not a snitch. Not even for assholes like that.’

  ‘If I told Otto Bruck you and I talked,’ said Willi, ‘what do you think he’d say?’

  ‘I don’t know him,’ said Hartmut.

  ‘Listen,’ said Willi. ‘You can help yourself here …’

  ‘You think my mother’s going to press charges? You’re crazy. She’ll be pissed off but I’m still her son. And if she doesn’t press charges, then Hubert won’t. She’s got a lot of money he wants. Momma’s boy. It’s not going to happen.’

  Hartmut was right.

  Alfred Streck, Hartmut’s partner, was even more reluctant to talk than Hartmut had been. ‘You know what happens with snitches?’ said Alfred.

  ‘You give me something, and I’ll help you,’ said Willi.

  ‘Help me? How can you help me?’

  ‘I can do my best to see that you get a fair trial.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like much to me.’

  ‘Listen, Alfred: you robbed an SS major and scared his mother to death. You’ll be
lucky to get any trial at all. You’re going to need all the help you can get just to get in front of a judge, especially a fair judge.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, it was Gleiwitz’s idea. He’s the mastermind.’

  ‘Really? Well, consider this: Gestapo Major Gleiwitz, your buddy Hartmut’s brother, isn’t going to press charges against his own flesh and blood. I can guarantee you that. And neither is his mother. But somebody’s going down for this, Alfred. You know what that means, don’t you? It means you’re going to be hung out to dry. No lawyer, no trial. You’re on your own here, Alfred.’

  Alfred slumped in his chair. Willi offered him a cigarette. ‘And you think you can get me a fair trial?’

  Willi nodded. ‘You give me something useful and I’ll do my best.’

  ‘So, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Konrad Milch,’ said Willi. ‘Ever heard of him?’

  Alfred laughed nervously. ‘Sure. Everybody has. He’s dead, the crazy bastard.’

  ‘Crazy?’

  ‘He scared the shit out of everybody, including his friends.’

  ‘Including you?’

  ‘I didn’t know him and didn’t want to.’

  ‘So who were his friends?’

  Alfred was feeling nervous again. ‘That’s all I’m giving you.’

  ‘Who were his friends?’

  ‘I can’t. Please.’

  ‘These are some bad people, right?’

  Alfred remained silent.

  ‘You need friends in high places,’ said Willi.

  ‘I’ve got friends in high places,’ said Alfred with a shrug.

  ‘Like Otto Bruck? Maybe I should tell Dr Bruck about the jam you’re in. I’m sure he’ll want to help.’

  ‘Who’s that? I’ve never heard of him.’ Alfred drew deeply on his cigarette, trying to be nonchalant. But his hand trembled, showering ashes onto the table. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Talk to Bruck. I don’t give a shit.’

  ‘Have it your way,’ said Willi, gathering his papers and walking out of the room. Alfred stared at the green metal walls, the iron door, the tiny grated window that went nowhere, the lightbulb in the rusty cage on the ceiling. Somebody had carved ‘HAHA’ into the battered black tabletop in front of him. Alfred rubbed his fingers across the deeply incised letters like a man reading Braille. He took one more drag on his cigarette and crushed it out in the tin can that served as an ashtray. ‘Call him back,’ he said to the policeman standing by the door.

  Willi sat down at the table.

  ‘Don’t talk to Bruck about me.’

  ‘OK,’ said Willi. ‘Milch’s friends. Give me names.’

  Alfred gave him four names and descriptions. Two of the four sounded like Milch’s accomplices that night. Over the next two weeks Willi tracked them down. He found them together one afternoon in a billiard hall. They were standing by a table in the midst of a game when Willi called out their names.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ said the one called Jürgen.

  ‘Detective Geismeier,’ said Willi. ‘Tenth precinct.’ Other men who had been standing around watching backed away from the table. Just like a cowboy movie, thought Willi. Jürgen and Karl stayed where they were, their cues in their hands, their eyes on the table. Karl was slowly rolling the cue ball back and forth with the flat of his left hand. Back and forth, back and forth. The two men glanced at one another.

  The mistake men often made with Willi was to assume from his appearance he would be neither quick nor strong. But as Jürgen lunged, a switchblade in his hand, Willi slid sideways, grabbed a pool cue by the wrong end, and, swinging it like a bat, caught Jürgen full in the side. You could hear his ribs break as he crumpled to the ground. Karl took a step toward Willi. Willi pulled a pistol out of the holster at the small of his back, and Karl thought better of it.

  Willi guarded the two men – Karl face down, his hands cuffed behind him, and Jürgen moaning nearby – until three patrolmen arrived to take Karl to jail and Jürgen to the hospital. Both men had served time and were wanted on outstanding warrants, which was why Bruck had had to find stand-ins for them as witnesses to Milch’s death.

  Jürgen and Karl both professed allegiance to Hitler, but neither man knew much about Hitler’s program or, for that matter, had any serious interest in it. They liked the patriotism stuff, the idea of getting rid of foreigners, and the street fighting. Their anti-Semitism was just as casual. Karl’s grandmother was a Jew. ‘She was a nasty old bitch,’ said Karl. ‘So to hell with her and her kike tribe.’

  The NSDAP represented a golden opportunity; it was an irresistible expression of their anarchic soul. Both men were devoted thieves, and the Party practically invited them to rob and sow mayhem with impunity. Who knew whether it would last? But as long as it did, and their mayhem advanced the cause, why would they want to be anywhere else?

  Karl mostly stayed in an apartment in the city. But sometimes, when he needed to disappear, he stayed with his mother, an occasional prostitute, who lived in a hut beside the train tracks by Krailling. She was frightened of Karl; he beat her up sometimes. ‘Just like his father,’ she said.

  She lived in an alcoholic fog now, but, yes, she said, she knew Jürgen. ‘His mother used to be a friend of mine, before …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Jürgen and Karl played together back then. He was sweet.’ She brushed the hair back from her face, and that one gesture told Willi everything about her hardship, longing, and sadness. She recalled another ‘friend’ of Karl’s, an older man with a black hand. ‘Very nice,’ she said. ‘But he didn’t come back.’

  ‘When did you last see that man here?’ said Willi.

  ‘Oh, it’s been years,’ she said.

  ‘Does the shack back in the woods belong to you?’

  ‘I used to keep chickens,’ she said. ‘Not anymore.’

  The shack had a rusted corrugated roof and sides of rotting wood. Vines of ivy and honeysuckle had climbed up and over the walls and door. Willi pulled at the door; it wouldn’t open. When Willi pulled again, a little harder this time, the screws holding the hinges tore out of the rotten wood. Another tug or two and the whole shack might have come down.

  Willi squeezed through the door. The inside was covered with vines too. It smelled of the mice and rats that lived there now. Someone had laid down some boards as a makeshift floor, and in a hole in the earth under the boards was a large canvas bundle tied up with rope. It contained a substantial cache of military weapons. The serial numbers had been mostly filed off. But when Willi came back with the list of weapons stolen from the armory, there was enough of a match to identify these as those weapons. There were also some metal boxes containing some cash, but mostly miscellaneous goods, obviously robbery loot: jewelry, dinnerware, silverware, candlesticks. One small box contained nothing but pocket watches. Willi puzzled over the pocket watches for a while. He took them with him when he left.

  Karl’s lawyer, a ferret-eyed martinet named Stefan Müller, smirked in Willi’s direction as Willi entered the interrogation room. Willi took a watch out of his pocket and laid it open on the table. He opened the file he had put together on Karl and studied it for a moment. ‘I see, Karl, that you have had an interesting and long career. Long for such a young man. Your mother tells me’ – Karl’s eyes narrowed, he looked at Müller and then back at Willi – ‘your mother says that you have been a thief pretty much your entire life.’

  Karl remained silent, his face blank.

  ‘You seem to specialize in watches.’

  Karl looked bored.

  ‘I’m guessing that you see a watch and you almost can’t resist taking it. Herr Müller, you may want to check your pocket, to see whether you still have yours. Am I right, Karl?’

  ‘Listen, Detective,’ said the lawyer, ‘I’m sure you find this amusing. But I assure you that my client – who, by the way, has a family name, which is Meier, which both he and I would like you to use – my client, Herr Meier, and I find it both tedious and extremely un-amusing. Herr Meier has be
en charged with theft of government property and assault, and we would like to hear of any evidence you have that backs up these charges.’

  Willi presented the evidence that Karl was involved in the armory theft – the weapons in his mother’s shed.

  ‘His mother was in possession of those weapons,’ said Müller. ‘Not Herr Meier.’

  ‘The testimony of other witnesses,’ said Willi.

  ‘What witnesses?’ said Müller.

  ‘His mother will testify that Karl and his friend Jürgen brought the weapons and hid them in her shed.’

  ‘You’re relying,’ said Müller, ‘on the word of a drunken whore. And the other witnesses?’

  Willi remained silent.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Müller. ‘I presume the assault charge is just as flimsy.’

  ‘He assaulted a police officer …’

  ‘He didn’t touch you, Detective.’

  ‘And his part in the death of Konrad Milch,’ said Willi.

  Karl had been gazing at the watch on the table. Now he looked up. ‘What are you talking about?’ said Müller.

  ‘Milch, Jurgen, and Karl entered the English Garden around midnight on the night of Friday, December 14, 1923 with assault on their mind. They attacked a couple – an artist and a journalist – with a lead pipe, with the clear intent of killing them. They had a pistol as well as the pipe. When Milch was shot dead, they ran. Come on, Karl. You haven’t even told your own lawyer what happened?’

  Karl started to speak, but Müller silenced him. ‘And you have evidence of this?’

  ‘The two intended victims and a third bystander.’

  ‘And what are the names of these so-called victims?’

  ‘Ask Karl,’ said Willi. ‘Oh, sorry: ask Herr Meier.’

  GOOD TIMES

  One evening, as 1924 was coming to an end, Willi went to one of the Horvaths’ gatherings. He arrived a little early. The Horvaths seemed in good health, although Benno was frailer now and more circumspect than when Willi had seen him last. He embraced Willi with urgency. ‘How are you?’ said Benno, holding Willi by the shoulders. ‘Are you all right?’