One of the people at the table, a youngish woman with deep bags under her eyes, put down the newspaper she'd been reading.
'Hungry, detective?' she said in a soft voice.
I turned to her with a smile. 'Is it that obvious?'
'The hunger? Or the profession?'
'Either. Both.' The woman wore a dress and an apron in contrasting shades of off-white. Both garments were too big for her. She had her dark hair tied back from a high forehead.
'Well, given the state of you, you had to be a bull or a boxer,' she said.
I pointed at the pot. 'How long's that been bubbling away?'
She went to the stove and turned off the gas. She smiled, the tip of her nose turning up. The newspaper she'd been reading was a copy of the Volksstimme. Her companion was a white-haired man who squinted up close at a boys' adventure comic that obscured his face below the eyebrows.
'Listen, I was hoping to speak to Frau Stausberg,' I said. 'About her son.' As though it was ever going to be about anything else.
The woman glanced down at her paper, weighing her options in her mind.
I went closer and handed her my ID. The old man flicked down the edge of his comic. He flicked it back up before I could get a good look at him. I got a flash of white stubble on sunken cheeks, but that was all. The woman handed my ID back and brushed the edges of her newspaper with her fingers. She chewed the inside of her cheek. Hard to tell if she'd recognised my heroic status from the paper or not. She'd have made a mean card player, this hausfrau.
I took a breath. 'Look, I'll make it easy for you. I know she lives in this building, so you wouldn't be giving anything away. You'll just be saving me a little time.' The woman's eyes reminded me of the little Jewess who'd pointed me in this direction. Perhaps this woman was the girl's mother.
The woman sighed. 'Apartment seven, third floor.' That seemed to be all I was going to get. I made for the stairs back in the foyer. Then she shouted after me. 'But she could be in the kitchen.'
I turned back and raised my eyebrows.
The woman got up from the table. She crossed her arms. 'There are kitchens on each floor.' She shrugged, turned away. Looked like that really was it this time.
I took the stairs to the third floor and knocked on door number seven.
The door opened a fraction. I held out my ID and the door opened all the way. A stooping woman in her mid-fifties beckoned me in.
'Is this about my son?' she said.
I took another look: the Stausberg file said she was forty. She was so thin I could count the tendons in her neck. How hard could I be on her when she looked so frail?
I crossed to the nearest window. A crack ran from the top to the bottom of the frame. I pushed aside the thin brown curtain. Some of the children who'd been playing were now standing across the street. They weren't playing any more, they were watching. Even as I stared at them and they saw me staring they kept on watching.
I turned back inside the room. A draught tugged at the loose sheets on an overstuffed bed in the corner. A second mattress was rolled and bound and stashed beneath the bedstead. A couple of easy chairs faced in from the windows. Both chairs bore a patchwork of stains and small tears through which the stuffing was fighting its way out. Several tears had been stitched up and had split again. It was the kind of stitching that would give if you sat down too vigorously.
'You getting any trouble from the neighbours, Frau Stausberg?'
She swallowed and hugged herself. She wore a wool-lined coat and was smiling the kind of smile that blows away in a stiff breeze.
'You didn't come here to ask about my neighbours,' she said, with another nervous swallow. 'Or my windows.'
There were all sorts of ways I could've responded, but what I did was cross to a padlocked door set in the wall opposite the bed. People were talking on the other side.
'I need to talk to you about the 28th February and the 1st March last year,' I said.
She hovered next to one of the easy chairs waiting for me to sit first, so I did. She sank down with a groan and the click of brittle knee joints.
'That's not your room?' I said, pointing to the padlocked door.
She shook her head, swallowed.
'In your statement to police at the time you said Johann came back late and washed his coat in the sink.'
'Yes, the sink in the kitchen, if you'd like to have a look.'
I was about to get up and humour her when I realised she was being sarcastic.
'Look.' The eyes that met mine were soft and watery. 'We know Johann did not kill Rosa Ohliger or Rudolph Scheer.'
She choked and fluid dripped down her cheeks. At first I thought she'd got something in her eyes, but no: she screwed her face up and started gasping – she was weeping. I wanted to ask if it was possible her son might've lied to her or been confused when he told her he'd killed Emma Gross, but Jesus, how far could I push this woman before she broke?
I leaned in and spoke softly. 'You understand why I need to check the details with you?'
She took my hands in hers. Hers were so cold I flinched. I hoped she didn't notice.
'You think he's innocent of the Gross girl's murder too?' she said. There was such emotion in her voice I didn't know how to respond. I didn't want to give her too much hope. Didn't want to snuff out what was there, either.
'Look, Frau Stausberg, I don't have the evidence yet, you understand? Did Johann really tell you he'd killed her?'
She tightened her grip and swallowed. 'Have you spoken to my son?'
'Yes.'
She stroked the bruising under my eyes with an icy finger. 'And what did he say?'
'He...that someone told him what to say in his confessions,' I said. 'His memory wasn't clear. He became...upset. That's why I've come to you. Dr Glauser believes Johann's making a lot of progress, opening up about all sorts of things. To do with the case. She said you'd been a big part of that process.'
Okay, so that last bit wasn't the God's honest, but I was trying to make her feel better about talking to me.
Frau Stausberg released me and pulled herself up. Her jawline tensed as she ground her teeth. 'That doctor should mind her own business.' When she turned to face me her eyes were still wet. 'It's so hard for him, my poor dear Johann,' she said, 'with his epilepsy.' She crossed to the door, opened it and wandered out. 'Did you want coffee?' she called back.
'No, Frau Stausberg, please don't trouble yourself.' I got up to follow her.
'No trouble.' She returned with a sealed tin and a coffee pot. 'Out on the kitchen window ledge,' she said, shaking the tin at me. 'Keeps it fresher.'
'So he told you he'd killed the Gross woman?' I said.
Frau Stausberg dropped the coffee pot lid. She bent at the hip to pick it up and I went over to help ease her upright.
'Would you like me to do that, Frau Stausberg?'
'It's not easy, young man.'
'No, I imagine not – '
'Don't interrupt me, please,' she snapped. 'It's not easy testifying against one's own son. But if it means he can go to a place where he'll be happier, where the people will understand him and his wants...' She gestured past me to the cracked window, her mind's eye seeing further even than that.
'Those damned children out there. Devils, more like. Of course, it's their parents' fault, really.' She swallowed a sob. 'All he wanted to do was join in their games, you see. But they didn't understand. They laughed, and made a game out of him, out of running away from him, teasing him.' The lines in her brow deepened and a single tear squeezed its way to her chin. 'They can be cruel, can't they?'
She left the room and I followed her into the kitchen across the way.
The kitchen was empty. Of people, at least. Of bric-a-brac it was chock full. The small circular table was crammed with spirit bottles, none of them empty but none of them full either. A series of open cupboards against the back wall revealed a stash of silverware, china and dusty glass. A clothes line stretched across the room.
Amid the hanging bloomers and brassieres were a half-dozen dented cooking pots of some dull grey metal.
Frau Stausberg lit the stove beside the door. She spooned coffee grounds into the top of the pot. I held the top for her while she filled the bottom with water from the tap at the sink. She screwed the two halves together despite my protests that I could do it for her. She placed the coffee pot on the flame, led me to the table and pushed me onto a stool. She leaned against the table.
She swallowed a couple of times. Light from the tall kitchen window bleached her flesh.
'And now you come here with your questions, your suggestions that my son might be innocent.' A mouse ran along the skirting board on the other side of the room, but Frau Stausberg didn't notice. 'Can you imagine how unbearable it would be to testify against your own flesh and blood? To tell a court of law that he was capable of doing murder?'
I wanted to look away from those eyes but I didn't want to disrespect her so I shook my head instead.
She raised a shaking hand and said, 'And how much more unbearable if the testimony were untrue?' The coffee pot began to bubble and she got up and headed back to the stove. 'Now,' she said, 'do you take sugar?' She spooned sugar into a cup without waiting for my answer.
There was no way of avoiding all the questions I'd gone there to ask. 'During your visits, did Johann tell you who told him what to say in his confessions?'
She put down the sugar spoon with a clatter that cut me short.
'He has told me nothing of any consequence during any of my visits. As he has never said anything of consequence in all of his miserable life. Except for that terrible night two Februaries ago.' She poured coffee and handed me a cup. 'Now drink up, young man. I have to go shopping this afternoon, and I've left it late as it is.'
She didn't want to answer my questions. She probably didn't even want to think about her role in committing her only son to the asylum, and if anyone could understand her unwillingness to dredge up the past it was me. Besides, if I pushed any harder and she made a complaint to headquarters, it wouldn't go well for me. That was how I rationalised my being so eager to leave, anyway. So I just thanked her for the coffee and I drank it, undissolved sugar and all, and then I left her to her guilt.
15
The dark-haired woman from the downstairs kitchen met me at the foot of the stairs. Her forehead was creased and her eyes darted about, unable to settle.
'Is everything okay?' she said.
I looked back up the way I'd come.
'I don't think so,' I said.
'No, I meant she's not in any trouble, is she?'
'Is there some reason she should be?'
The woman scratched the back of her neck where some hairs had come loose. She moved closer. 'I saw a man. Hanging around, you know?'
'You know who he is?'
She shook her head.
'How long has this man been hanging around?'
'Since you arrived. About five, ten minutes after you. '
I took out my notebook. Seeing that, her shoulders relaxed. She scratched the back of her neck again.
'Tall?' I said. 'Short? Dark hair? Light?'
'Not sure on the height,' she said. 'He was stood across the way there so it's hard to tell.' She pointed at the front door of the apartment building opposite. The door was set into an alcove, further back from the road. 'And he was wearing a hat so I don't know about his hair colour.'
'Eye colour?'
She shook her head.
'Okay,' I said, 'what about the hat. What style?'
'Oh, a fedora. Dark green. Wearing it low, about here.' She touched her brows with her fingers in a kind of loose salute. She plucked her brows. That is, I noticed she was a woman who plucked her eyebrows on a regular basis. Either she wasn't very good at it or she'd done it in a hurry that morning, as there were a couple of beaded scabs in amongst the fine black hairs. The eyes beneath them were the colour of polished rosewood cabinets. She flashed me a smile and I remembered myself.
'Any other remarkable clothing?' I said.
'Well...' She thought about this. 'There is…He's wearing a scarf, you know, quite high up over his chin. I know it's been cold the last few days, but not so's you'd need a scarf, surely?' She chewed on her bottom lip. The lip was plump and deep red without any touch of make up. 'Or is it just me? Especially not with that big thick wool overcoat he was wearing.'
'What colour is this scarf?'
'It's a kind of dark green, to match his hat,' she said.
'What makes you think he's a threat to Frau Stausberg?'
'My daughter was due for her lunch. I came out front here to see if she was back yet and I saw this man just staring up at her window, standing there like a statue, you know? It was kind of unnerving. Then when I went over to ask him what he was doing, he almost ran off he was so quick getting away.' She leaned in. 'I worry about her. Up there on her own, you know? Like this is just what she needs, her son’s problems getting raked over. It's a bit of a coincidence, is what I was thinking, you coming around asking questions and this man coming around and staring up at her window like that. You know what I mean?'
'He left when you tried to speak to him?'
She nodded.
'When was this?'
'About five minutes ago. Ten maybe. A little before you came back down the stairs.'
Funny to think if I'd looked out the window a little longer maybe I'd have spotted him.
'I just thought I should tell you, you know...' She scratched the back of her neck.
'Well, I'm glad you did. May I have your name?'
'Name?' Her eyes widened. I got the feeling she didn't have much time for police officers.
'In case I need to come back for a statement.'
'Oh, it's Frau Wenders.'
Her fingers were devoid of jewellery.
'You don't wear a wedding ring, Frau Wenders?' I tried a smile on her.
'Not when I'm cooking, no. Is that a crime?' She thrust her wrists at me. 'Or are you looking for an excuse to slap on the cuffs?'
She walked away, leaving me feeling stupid and obvious. I glanced at my notes:
Fedora
Scarf
Wool overcoat
Dark green???
Interest in Frau Stausberg?
I toyed with going back upstairs to ask Frau Stausberg if she'd seen this green fedora wearer hanging around, or whether she'd received any threats. Or – I thought of Du Pont – hassle from the press. I could commiserate with her in the latter case, certainly. But I decided against it. I'd bothered her enough. And anyway, wasn't she supposed to be going shopping any minute? Either way, she wouldn't want to see me again and I couldn't face another basting from those washed-out eyes.
When I emerged into the street, the children had gone and, sure enough, there was no sign of any green man. I headed for the bus stop and caught the next omnibus for the train station. The bus had been about to pull away from the stop and I just made it in time. I huffed up to the top deck; I had half a mind to smoke and mull over what I'd discovered during my morning.
I needed to talk to Gennat, that was clear. Kürten had killed several people, but he hadn't killed Emma Gross. And – his mother's testimony notwithstanding – there was no way Johann Stausberg had done it. So Ritter had charged an innocent man with three murders and left Kürten to kill again. But worse than that, if neither Kürten nor Stausberg had killed Emma Gross, that meant her killer was still out there. My biggest problem was that I had nothing solid enough to counter Frau Stausberg's testimony, so how was I going to get Gennat to take me seriously – especially after he was done shitting me out for abandoning him all morning?
The conductor came by and hung on to the back of my seat. I turned and asked for a single ticket. Behind him, a flash of green. I leaned forward to look around the conductor, whose uniform struggled to contain his rotund form. Sure enough, there was a man in a green fedora and scarf, staring straight ahead and giving no sign he'd noticed my
interest in him. That was a broad set of shoulders he had under his coat.
The conductor was speaking.
'I'm sorry?' I said.
'Two pfennigs,' the man repeated, rolling his eyes at me.
I rooted in my trousers pocket for change and handed it over. The conductor gave me a ticket and moved on. I faced the front of the bus. This was too strange. Was this green man following me? That would explain his turning up at Frau Stausberg's place around the same time as me. But that wouldn't explain his hanging around there before now. Of course, he could have followed me from the lodging house, picked up my trail there.
There was one way to be sure.
The next stop approached. There were a good few people in the queue. That was ideal. I got up and walked back to the stairs. The bus pulled to the kerb and I jumped off. I walked on for a few metres, then stopped to kneel down, undo my shoe laces and retie them. No green man reflected in the nearest shop window. Autos and carts trundled by and shoppers browsed the windows.
I stood up and gazed all about me. Still no green man.
Maybe I'd imagined it. Clearly brown eyes of a certain type could exert an undue influence on me.
Up ahead was an alley between tall apartment buildings. Maybe the green man had gone that way. I turned into the alley, my footsteps echoing in the narrow space: blank walls with no windows, no lines of drying clothes, no fire escapes. I walked to the other end and stopped where I had a view of the next street. The street was all residential with no shops to speak of, or none that I could see from where I was standing, at any rate. I put a cigar between my teeth and struck a match. Still no sign of any green man. Only thing was, even though I'd stopped walking, my footsteps kept echoing behind me.
I lit the cigar and puffed at it. The footsteps got louder until they were all I could hear.
The Killing Of Emma Gross Page 12
