“Right, I will need to inspect all the companies’ lorries.”
Ms. Behringer, who was putting the tins of meat in her desk drawer, paused for a moment. “You mean you have a lead? Do you know who killed Inge?”
Oppenheimer shrugged. “At the moment, it’s just a hunch,” he reassured the young woman. It was still too early for a triumph.
* * *
When war had broken out, the party had drafted motorized vehicles to the front, and so the sight of them was rare in Berlin. The few automobiles that still drove around the city were largely official cars. It seemed that Höcker had successfully used his connections to the SS to organize a small vehicle fleet for his business.
But Oppenheimer didn’t care about these details. He hurried down the steps. He was in luck. Ms. Behringer had told him that the entire fleet of Höcker’s lorries was in the courtyard. She had just been preparing the delivery slips for the first load when he surprised her with his gift. He approached the open warehouse door with big strides.
A man in a long smock turned around. It was Häffgen, looking just as cranky as during Oppenheimer’s last visit. He did not seem pleased at the sight of this unauthorized person in his warehouse, crime officer or not. “Ah, you again. What do you want?”
“I need to inspect the tire profiles of your delivery vans.”
“Are you also with the traffic department?”
Oppenheimer ignored the comment. It was better to present Häffgen with a fait accompli. “How many vehicles does the company own?”
“There are four delivery vans in total.”
“The other three are still in the shed?”
“I suppose so.”
Oppenheimer took out the plaster cast that he had wrapped in a piece of cloth, bent down, and compared the profile with the tire of the vehicle that was currently being loaded. They didn’t match.
Next, he went to the shed where the other vehicles were parked. One driver was already in his vehicle, dozing. The front tire of the lorry was easy to compare to the plaster cast, but it was more difficult with the back tire, as the sky was overcast and there wasn’t much light in the back of the shed. Oppenheimer had difficulty recognizing the profile. He crawled from tire to tire on his knees, bending toward the rubber profile. He also checked the grooves with his fingertips just to make sure.
Oppenheimer spent almost half an hour there to be completely sure. He even checked the spare wheels. He inspected them several times over, until he came to the devastating conclusion that none of them matched the print that the murderer had left at the site where the body had been found.
Of course, Oppenheimer knew that so-called hot leads were all too often deceptive. Which was why he’d become relatively careful about drawing conclusions during his time with the murder squad. But he’d been so sure this time. Maybe it was because he had missed the important clues. Oppenheimer walked unhappily across the yard, racking his brain, his hands deep in his coat pockets, the cigarette tip between his lips. It would all have fitted so well together.
When he reentered the office, Ms. Behringer looked at him expectantly. “And? Did you find anything?”
“Unfortunately, I was out of luck,” Oppenheimer replied, his head bowed. “Just one more question: Were any of the vehicles in the garage this week? Have any tires been replaced?”
“Not that I know of. I didn’t get an invoice. And if one of the vehicles had broken down, I would have had to inform Mr. Ziegler.” Ms. Behringer thought for a moment. Then she said slowly, “Of course, Ziegler. There is one more vehicle.” Her eyes wandered around the room absentmindedly, then she nodded.
“What were you saying?” Oppenheimer pressed her.
“Ziegler. Karl Ziegler. We call him when one of the lorries breaks down or we have more to deliver than our four vehicles can manage. He has his own lorry. Well, actually, it’s little more than an old boneshaker, but at least it has a loading area. If we need Mr. Ziegler, I call him at short notice.”
“I’ve never heard of a Karl Ziegler. He wasn’t on the list of employees Mr. Höcker gave me.”
“He’s not on the payroll because he doesn’t receive a regular salary. Wait a moment.”
Ms. Behringer went over to the filing cabinet and after a brief search pulled out a file. “Here, his address and telephone number.”
Oppenheimer took the card. When he saw the address, his hands began to shake. “Ziegler lives in Köpenick?”
“As you can see.”
“What sort of person is this Ziegler guy? How would you describe him?”
As usual, Ms. Behringer spoke frankly. “He’s not very bright. Barely speaks. That’s why everyone here calls him Gormless Kalle. And, well, he’s a creep.”
Oppenheimer pricked his ears. “Did something happen?”
“It’s not really worth mentioning. I caught him looking under my skirt. He stood right under the stairs and stared up at me through the steps. I’ve switched to wearing trouser suits since then. Better safe than sorry.”
The building blocks fitted together. This also explained how the murderer had probably come across Traudel Herrmann. He knew his first victim through his work with Höcker. He knew Mrs. Herrmann because he lived near her, just as Oppenheimer had presumed. They had a suspect. Now they just had to find him.
24
FRIDAY, JUNE 23, 1944
Although Billhardt was in his own sweet home, he felt anything but comfortable in the presence of his unexpected guest. Reluctantly, he thought of how, in a sudden moment of obedience, he’d written that bloody letter. When he’d passed it round at police headquarters, he’d never expected someone would come by and see him about it the next day. And even less so that the someone would be an SS Hauptsturmführer. Billhardt swore quietly to himself. That’s what you got for doing your civic duty.
Despite the awkward situation, he tried to keep calm. And in actual fact, his thoughts were clear as rarely before. He was in a bit of a dilemma. He had to find a way to play down his role. It must not become known that it had been he who had made Oppenheimer aware of Lutzow.
The SS man who’d introduced himself as Vogler seemed to be in a hurry. He’d refused to sit down, simply stood in front of the window and fixed Billhardt with a challenging look.
Billhardt said vaguely, “The day before yesterday, he came to see me in the afternoon. Inspector Oppenheimer. I mean the former inspector, of course. It was just as I described it.”
“I want to hear it from you,” Vogler demanded.
“He’d already paid me a visit the week before. Initially, I didn’t know there was a purpose to his visit. I thought he just wanted to get back in touch with an old colleague. Then he came out with it the day before yesterday. He wanted to get his hands on an old file. I was meant to procure it for him, but of course, I sent him away and told him that I couldn’t do something like that.”
“Which investigation was this?”
“It involved a member of the SA. His name is Johannes Lutzow. He was arrested in September 1932 because he attacked a Bolshevist in the man’s flat. It seems Lutzow created a right bloodbath. The victim’s wife sustained bad knife injuries.”
“Were there injuries to her genital area?”
Billhardt couldn’t hide his surprise. Angry with himself, he immediately lowered his gaze again. He mustn’t show any emotion. That could be dangerous. It was better not to admit the details that Oppenheimer had given him on the current investigation. “Maybe. I believe I heard there were injuries of that sort. It was an unusual case that quickly spread around police headquarters. Lutzow was sentenced to death, but he was let off the following year. The führer’s amnesty, you remember. It seems that Oppenheimer had also heard of the case at the time. He was still in service then. And now that he’s involved in this new investigation, he remembered the old case and wanted me to get hold of the old file. Just like that. Of course, I refused.”
“Did Oppenheimer give you further details of what he is curr
ently working on?”
Billhardt shook his head vigorously. “He didn’t want to tell me anything. He just mentioned something about female corpses. But I didn’t press him. Then out of the blue, Oppenheimer asked about the Lutzow investigation. At first, I didn’t know what to think of it, but then it seemed suspicious, and I considered it my duty to report it.”
“But he must have at least given you my name; otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to write me this letter.”
“I must have picked it up.” Billhardt looked guiltily at Vogler. “But I know nothing more about the case that he is working on right now. I swear an oath to the führer on that, Hauptsturmführer Vogler.”
Vogler frowned and paced up and down with his head lowered. “Does anyone else know about it?”
“I went directly to my superior.”
Vogler stopped and looked at Billhardt. Doubt was reflected in his gaze. Billhardt tried with all his might to control his eyes. He knew that he mustn’t look away if he wanted to convince Vogler of his story. Finally, the Hauptsturmführer said, “Very good. You acted perfectly correctly, Billhardt.” To reinforce this, he approached Billhardt and patted him on the shoulder. “If only everyone were as vigilant as you are. You see, I have a very particular task. The case is still classified as top secret. Whether the results of the search are made public or not has not yet been decided. It is also not for me to decide. My instructions are to ensure that all possible connections between the murder case and our party are not made public. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Billhardt nodded. He had understood only too well.
“There is more to this case than meets the eye. Enemies of the state may be at work. They have an interest in damaging the party. They’re probably fabricating evidence so it appears that the perpetrator comes from our own ranks. Even a hint or a rumor could severely damage national uprising, especially in times like this. You do understand that you must keep this matter in the strictest confidence?”
“Of course,” Billhardt replied automatically. “My lips are sealed.” He breathed a sigh of relief. Fortunately, the Hauptsturmführer had confirmed that he had done the right thing. Therefore, nothing would happen to him. And yet he felt a certain restlessness that had come over him several times in the last few hours. Could his behavior be considered a betrayal of Oppenheimer? He placated his conscience by telling himself that it hadn’t been anything personal. He had only done what a good German had to do. It was that simple. Billhardt told himself that there was no point in thinking about it any further.
* * *
Although Oppenheimer was lucky and the telephone line was working, he was unable to reach Vogler in Zehlendorf. The radio operator who was manning the desk in the cellar of the small house had assured him that he would inform the Hauptsturmführer immediately and that backup was on its way.
Restlessly, Oppenheimer paced up and down in the dark entrance, his gaze fixed on the building opposite. He had set off for Köpenick immediately. Although he couldn’t do much without Vogler, he wanted to play it safe and observe Ziegler’s house so that the man couldn’t get away. Not now, not after all the effort it had cost him to finally find a connection between the murder victims. Hoffmann was somewhere around the back of the building, guarding the back exits. Now all they could do was wait until Vogler arrived with his men.
In situations like this, time stretched out unbearably. An eternity passed until he finally spotted Vogler’s Daimler. The vehicle stopped a dozen meters away. Three men in civilian clothes got out of the car with Vogler. Oppenheimer stepped out of the building’s entrance and approached the group.
“His name is Karl Ziegler,” Oppenheimer whispered. “He’s a tenant with the owner of the garage, Mr. Braun. It is possible that Ziegler knew the victims.”
Vogler inhaled loudly. “Well, let’s get to it, then.”
They crossed the street. The entrance to the garage was open. Before they reached it, a gentleman came toward them. He was in his early sixties. “Can I help you?” he asked as he cleaned his oily fingers on a cloth and took in Vogler’s uniform.
“Mr. Braun, I presume?” Vogler inquired.
“Yes.”
“We’re here to speak to your tenant, Mr. Ziegler.”
“You want to speak to Karl? No idea where he is. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
Oppenheimer stepped in. “Could you show us his flat?”
* * *
There wasn’t much to see. Ziegler’s accommodations were little more than a wooden hut behind the garage, just a few meters away from an old privy, consisting of two rooms, an anteroom where some shabby clothing hung, and the actual living room, which was just large enough to house a bed, an old cast-iron stove, and a table. Oppenheimer was glad that Vogler’s men had waited outside. It would have been a squeeze if they’d all made their way into the room together.
“It looks like a pigsty in here,” Oppenheimer said and pushed his hat back on his head. Ziegler had few possessions; the showpiece was the gramophone that was enthroned on its own stool. Several records in their paper sleeves were arranged next to it in an orderly manner. But Ziegler didn’t seem to pay much attention to the rest of his belongings. Clothes strewn everywhere, old newspapers, in between cheap tat that looked like it had been won at a funfair. Ziegler did not take care of his things. Oppenheimer picked up a pair of shoes from the corner of the room. After a brief inspection, he showed Vogler the soles. “Just like the print found at the Olympic stadium.”
“Has Karl been up to something?” Mr. Braun asked curiously from the door. They turned around.
Vogler cleared his throat. “No, it’s just a routine matter. We think Mr. Ziegler might have been a witness to a traffic accident, and we have a few questions for him.”
The look on Mr. Braun’s face showed that he didn’t believe a word of Vogler’s white lie. But he didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, it was Oppenheimer’s turn to pose a few questions. “How long has Mr. Ziegler worked for you?”
“Let me think now. It’ll be four years in August. Karl is not the brightest spark. He can just about read, but only when he really concentrates. But he can repair machines, yes, he can. He’s not too stupid for that. I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw it.”
“So he works in the garage and delivers for Höcker as a sideline?”
“Insofar as anything comes from them. I used to do it myself, but lifting all those crates has become too much for me. But Karl can do it.”
“Is he gone a lot?”
“He’s usually gone at the weekends. He gets restless by Friday afternoon and leaves as soon as he can. Sometimes heads off on Thursdays already. No idea where he goes. He’s always back on Mondays. You can set your watch by him.”
Oppenheimer looked around once more and thought for a moment.
“Where is the delivery van that Mr. Ziegler uses to deliver to Höcker & Sons?”
“He took it with him, just like every weekend.”
Oppenheimer hesitated. It seemed that Braun gave his employees a lot of leeway. “You mean he drives around with your delivery van?”
“No, you don’t get it. The van’s his. Karl claims he put the whole thing together himself. Using individual parts from the scrapyard. Think he used to live in it, too, before he came to me.”
Braun led Oppenheimer to the shed where Ziegler usually parked his van. Oppenheimer crouched down and examined the ground. It had been damp yesterday. The soil had had enough time to soak up the rainwater, a good prerequisite for getting a tire print. And Oppenheimer did indeed discover a clear print not far from the shed in between clumps of grass.
“This profile is a bit smudged,” he said to Vogler. “At the Olympic stadium, the van had driven directly across the damp clay, which then dried. This print here is much harder to read. It probably couldn’t be used in court, but the similarities are enough for me.” Oppenheimer stood up and turned to Vogler. “I would say it’s the same tire. Send
out a search party for Ziegler. We need to catch him as quickly as possible. He’s a prime suspect.”
Vogler’s men were already searching Ziegler’s accommodations. “If you find an address, on a piece of paper or wherever, or maybe a street map, a sketch, or anything like that, please tell me,” Oppenheimer instructed. “We are looking to establish the gentleman’s whereabouts. Any little thing might help.”
The men stopped rummaging. One of them glanced in Vogler’s direction. When he nodded almost imperceptibly, they continued with their work. The men’s hesitation once again reminded Oppenheimer that he had no official authority here. He was barely able to stop himself from joining the men in their search, but the hostile attitude of those around him made him reconsider. After just a few minutes of poking around, they had actually managed to worsen the disarray in Ziegler’s room. The men worked almost soundlessly as they cut open the mattress with precise, rehearsed movements, raised the planks on the floor, and sounded out the walls for cavities that might contain something. Their faces reflected no hunting fever; they emotionlessly carried out their tasks. There was no doubt that these men were experts.
Oppenheimer stood in the backyard, indecisive, looking around. Church bells rang in the distance. His pocket watch showed a quarter to five. Soon it would be time to pick Lisa up from work. He realized that he still had no idea of where they would be housed after Goebbels had forbidden them to continue living in the Jewish House.
He turned around and knocked on the doorframe of Ziegler’s hut. “Position someone in Ziegler’s place just in case he comes back,” he said to Vogler. “I need to head off to pick up my wife. Do you know where we are supposed to stay?”
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 31
