Hoffner nodded once. “Is it also new Polpo policy to take Kripo bodies from the morgue in the middle of the night?”
Weigland was unprepared for the question. Tamshik, however, was not so reticent. He spoke with a clumsy arrogance. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
The look from Braun told Hoffner where the teat lay.
“If,” Braun said calmly, “this is a political case—as the Direktor has just said—then your confusion, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar, seems unwarranted.”
Hoffner continued to look at Weigland. “And the body would simply have found its way back to the morgue by tomorrow morning? Or would my confusion have begun then?”
Braun answered with no hint of condescension: “There are things here you can’t fully understand, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Luxemburg’s been our case since she got back to Berlin in early November. A Kripo officer happens to find her body in mid-January and you think she’s no longer ours? You must see what little sense that makes.”
“Yes,” said Hoffner. “I’m beginning to see the lack of sense. Did you have a man waiting for her outside the prison gates, Herr Oberkommissar, or does the Polpo leave the distant edges of the empire to someone else?”
Braun said, “Frau Luxemburg was a threat no matter where she was, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Breslau, Berlin, it makes no difference. That’s why she spent the war inside a cell. The last few months should have made that obvious, even to you.”
“I see.” Hoffner saw how pleased Braun was with his answer. “Funny,” said Hoffner, “but I thought the last few months were all about how the generals and politicians were divvying up what the Kaiser had left behind when he ran off to Holland. I wasn’t aware that one little crippled woman had played so important a role. Unless the game was charades.”
Braun’s jaw tightened. “And I wasn’t aware that officers in the Kripo had sympathies for such extremists.”
“Just for pawns, Herr Oberkommissar,” said Hoffner. Braun said nothing. “May I see the body?”
Braun said, “And what would be the reason for that?”
Hoffner waited. Braun’s expression told him nothing. Hoffner turned to Weigland. “I assume the body will not be coming back to us tomorrow.”
“No,” said Braun.
Hoffner continued to speak to Weigland: “I didn’t know the fourth floor had storage and examination facilities, Herr Direktor.”
“A recent addition,” said Braun.
Hoffner kept his gaze on Weigland. “Can I assume the markings on the back will go untouched?”
Braun said, “Again, I’m afraid we can’t promise that, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. But we’ll do our best. For your case, of course.”
Hoffner finally turned to Braun. “Of course,” said Hoffner. The room became silent as the two men stared at each other.
“Why not simply take her this afternoon?” The voice came from behind them. Hoffner turned. It was Fichte from the corner; he showed no fear at all. “I mean, if it was your case, Herr Oberkommissar,” Fichte continued. “Why not take the body then?”
Hoffner stared at his young Assistent. It was the first time he had felt pride in him.
Braun had also redirected his attention. “A courtesy, Herr Kriminal-Assistent,” he said coolly. “We do, after all, work in the same building.”
“I see,” said Hoffner, retaking the reins. “A courtesy that runs out at, what, seven-thirty, eight o’clock? Is that about the time Frau Luxemburg made her way up to the fourth floor? And, forgive my confusion, Herr Oberkommissar, but how did you know Herr Kriminal-Assistent Fichte was down in the morgue if you already had the body?”
For the first time, Braun hesitated. “There were tools we needed—”
“Tools?” Hoffner countered. “I see. And what exactly were you planning to do with our body, Herr Oberkommissar?”
“I find it strange,” said Braun, “that you should have such an interest in this one body when you have yet to make sense of the other five. Surely the pattern should be clear enough, by now?”
“Clear as day,” said Hoffner, “if we could be certain that those bodies wouldn’t go missing in the middle of the night, Herr Oberkommissar. Will our ice room be empty in the next week, in the next two weeks? I’m just asking so as to minimize any confusion.”
Weigland suddenly thumped his hand on the desk. “Let’s have a walk, Nikolai,” he said amiably. “You and I.” He stood and stepped out from behind the desk. “A walk would be good, yes?”
The suggestion was as inappropriate as it was unexpected. Hoffner felt like the class idiot about to be ushered from the room. Tamshik seemed to be enjoying the moment immensely.
Hoffner said in a quiet tone, “If that’s what you’d like, Herr Direktor.”
“Absolutely,” said Weigland as he put a hand on Hoffner’s shoulder and started to move him toward the door. “There should be a pot of coffee at the end of the hall. A coffee would be nice, don’t you think?” Tamshik had the door open. “See if Herr Assistent Fichte would like something, as well,” said Weigland as he passed Tamshik.
Hoffner found himself out in the corridor, the door closed behind him. Weigland kept his hand on Hoffner’s shoulder: it helped to maintain the surreal quality to the little jaunt. “Your boys are what, six and ten now, Nikolai?” said Weigland as they slowly made their way down the hall.
“Seven and fifteen, Herr Direktor.”
“That’s right. Seven and fifteen. Very nice.” Weigland continued to walk. “I lost a grandson in the war, you know. Not much older.”
“Yes. I was sorry to hear, Herr Direktor.”
“Yes.” They walked a bit more before Weigland released Hoffner’s shoulder. “This business with Luxemburg,” he said. “Best to let it work itself out, don’t you think? She’s not crucial to your case, and I’m sure whatever Herr Braun feels is of such vital importance is . . .” Weigland seemed to lose the thought.
“Of such vital importance?” said Hoffner.
Weigland laughed to himself. He patted another knowing hand on Hoffner’s shoulder. “It’s that mouth of yours that kept you out of the Polpo, you know.”
“It might have been that I never filed an application, Herr Direktor.”
Weigland nodded as if having been caught out. “I suppose that might have had something to do with it, yes.”
They reached the end of the corridor and stepped into a kitchen, of sorts: table, icebox, sink. A kettle of coffee sat on a small iron stove. Weigland found two cups and placed them on the table. The two sat and Weigland poured. “Your father would have made an excellent Polpo officer,” he said as he set the kettle on the table.
Hoffner was unsure where Weigland was going with this. He answered, nonetheless. “He always thought so, Herr Direktor.”
“But then there was all that business with your mother, which made it impossible.” Weigland took a sip. He kept his eyes on the cup as he placed it on the table. “Jewish converts weren’t exactly popular at the time.”
Hoffner watched Weigland for a moment; the man was so obvious in his baiting. Hoffner brought the cup to his lips; he said nothing. This was not a topic he discussed.
Weigland looked up. “You never had any trouble with that, did you? The Jewish issue, I mean. Even if you are technically one of them.”
Hoffner placed his cup on the table. “I was raised a Christian, Herr Direktor.”
“Lutheran?”
“No idea.”
Again, Weigland laughed. “That sounds like your father.” Hoffner nodded. “It was your mother’s idea, I think?” said Weigland. “For his career.”
“I imagine it was.”
Again, Weigland focused on his cup. “We came up at the same time, you know, your father and I.” He continued to stare at the cup until, with a little snap of his head, he looked up at Hoffner. “I had no idea, of course. None of us did. Not until it came out.”
Hoffner took another sip. He had no interest in Weigland’s excuses. Hoffner place
d his cup back on the table and said, “So, you want me to let this one go.”
Weigland nudged a bowl of sugar cubes Hoffner’s way. “Go on. Take one. They’re real.” Weigland clawed out three and dropped them into his cup. “We pulled them out of a shipment Pimm was smuggling in from Denmark. He would’ve made a fortune on the black market.”
Hoffner picked out a cube and slipped it into his cup. “I didn’t know the syndicates were Polpo jurisdiction.”
“Neither did Pimm.” Weigland took a fourth cube and popped it in his mouth. “Look, Nikolai,” he said, “you’re making a good name for yourself in the Kripo. You solve this one and the papers will turn you into a nice little celebrity. You’d probably make chief inspector.”
“This one, but without Luxemburg.”
Weigland sucked for a moment on the cube. “Why would you want to drag yourself into all of that?” He shook his head. “Honestly, I have no idea why she had, as you say, the bad luck to run into your maniac. But for you, she’s just one more body. To the rest of Germany, she’s Red Rosa, the little Jewess who tried to bring Lenin’s revolution to Berlin. Your case will get lost in all of that. Braun’s right. You don’t know how these things work. You’re a very capable detective, Nikolai. So why not do what you do well, and leave this other piece to us.”
Hoffner reached over and took two more cubes; he slipped them into his pocket for Georgi. “And if Herr Braun needs another body from the morgue?”
“I’m sure he thought he was doing all of us a favor. Think about it. If your man doesn’t come back in tonight, no one’s the wiser.”
“You really think I wouldn’t have noticed?”
“Fine,” Weigland conceded, “I’m sure you’re just that good.” He waited, then said more emphatically, “This is a touchy business, Nikolai. Ebert’s still not on firm ground. You don’t want to make the same kind of mistake your father did.”
And, like a slap to the face, Hoffner understood. It required every ounce of restraint to answer calmly. “And what mistake was that, Herr Direktor?”
There was nothing comforting in Weigland’s tone: “Understand the situation, Nikolai. Luxemburg, a Jew. Your mother, a Jew. And a Russian, to boot. Times haven’t changed all that much.”
Hoffner nodded slowly. He thought to correct Weigland: Luxemburg had been a Pole. Instead, he pushed his cup across the table and stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Herr Direktor.”
Weigland reached out and grabbed Hoffner’s forearm; the grip was as impressive as Hoffner had imagined it would be. “People make mistakes, Nikolai, and the rest of their lives are filled searching for penance.” Weigland continued to squeeze Hoffner’s arm. “Understand that, and do what I’m asking you to do.”
Hoffner felt the blood pulsing in his hand. He twisted his arm slightly and Weigland released it. “Technically, Herr Direktor, I’m not sure I’m in a position to give or receive absolution.” Not waiting for a response, Hoffner turned and walked back down the hall. He opened the door to the office and poked his head in. “We’re done here, Hans.” He turned to the rest of the room. “Gentlemen.” None of the three said a word.
Unsure for a moment, Fichte stood and moved across to the door. He then turned back with a little bow. “Oberkommissar, Kommissare.”
Hoffner pulled the door shut behind him, and the two headed back down the stairs. They walked in silence until they reached the courtyard, where Fichte finally managed to get something out. “I’m—sorry for all that, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” said Hoffner.
“I shouldn’t have been trying to impress Lina.”
“No. That was stupid. Don’t do that again.” Hoffner began to button his coat. “As for the rest, you were fine, Hans. You handled yourself very well.”
Fichte’s concern gave way to genuine appreciation. “Thank you, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
They passed through the door to the atrium. FliegFlieg was dozing; Hoffner didn’t bother to sign out. Out in the drizzle, the soldiers barely gave them a second glance.
When they had moved out of earshot, Hoffner said, “You didn’t mention anything about today’s discovery, did you?” They continued to walk. “Nothing about the woman in the Rosenthaler station?”
“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Fichte was doing his best to keep up. “Absolutely not. Nothing.”
“Good.” They reached the middle of the square. Hoffner stopped and turned to Fichte. “Go home, Hans. Take a cold bath. We start in at eight tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Fichte was about to head off when he said, “The PKD, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. You know him well, don’t you?”
Hoffner stared at his young Assistent. “Good night, Hans.”
Five minutes later, Hoffner watched as the Peace Column flew past his window, the cab racing him south to Kreuzberg.
The scarf, he thought. I forgot the damn scarf.
TWO
MECHLIN RSEAU
The wail of a siren reached up through the bathroom window and momentarily drowned out the street sounds of early morning. Hoffner tapped his cigarette into the basin, retrieved his razor, and set to work on the stubble just under his chin.
The fires were still burning out in Treptow, where, up until a few days ago, a “unit” of university students had been fighting with epic navet. The last of them had fallen on Tuesday to a roving band of Garde-Kavallerie-Schtzen-Division men who had pulled the three boys out into Weichsel Square and beaten them to death. On a whim, the right-wing thugs—only the uniforms made them soldiers—had then lit up the place. According to the papers, the fire brigades had thus far recovered the remains of two children who had been burned alive. Hoffner listened as the scream of the siren faded to nothing.
“And he still won’t admit it?” said Martha from the bedroom. “Even after all this time.”
Hoffner waited while another siren passed. “Of course not,” he said. For some reason he was having trouble with the angle this morning: his neck was sore. He did what he could, then unplugged the drain. He was wiping off the last of the shaving soap when Martha brushed by him with a pile of clean towels. She placed them in a cupboard by the tub. Hoffner tossed his into the hamper.
“You can use them more than once, you know,” said Martha.
Hoffner picked at a piece of raw skin on his cheek. “I thought I had.”
She retrieved the towel and hung it on a rack. “Did he mean it as a threat, do you think?”
Hoffner continued his examination. “He’s never been that clever.” He splashed some cold water on his face.
“Then why bring it up?”
“Make things right,” he said. “I don’t know. He’s an old man.” Hoffner dried off, put on his shirt, and started in on his tie as Martha knelt down to rub a damp cloth over the tub. He said, “You know, I think he was actually asking for my forgiveness.”
“For something he claims he never did?” She shook her head and pushed herself up. Hoffner said nothing. “You shouldn’t work with those people, Nicki. Especially now.”
“Not my choice.”
Nudging him to the side, she wrung out the cloth in the sink. “Sa—” She caught herself. “Alexander has a match this afternoon. Four o’clock.” She hung the cloth next to the towel. “You should be there.”
The morning had been progressing so nicely, thought Hoffner, talk of Weigland notwithstanding. Now he felt a knot in the pit of his stomach: why was it that she could never understand he would be the last person Sascha would want to see at a match?
“I’ll try,” he said.
“Try hard, Nicki.”
She moved past him and into the hall. Hoffner was left alone to sort out the mess he had made of his tie.
Hans Fichte was waiting for him outside his office when Hoffner got to headquarters. The boy’s face was bloated from last night’s alcohol, and his inhaler seemed to be doing double duty. Fichte was in the midst of a good
suck when Hoffner walked up.
“Glad to see you’re here early,” said Hoffner, busying himself with his coat so as to give Fichte a moment to recover. He stepped into the office, tossed his hat onto the rack, and settled in behind the desk. “Come in, Hans. Close the door.” Fichte did as he was told. “You’re not a drinker, Hans. Try to remember that. Take a seat.”
Fichte moved a stack of papers from a chair. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” He sat.
“Your girl get home all right?”
“Yes. Thank you for asking, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
“Good.” Hoffner watched Fichte’s expression; the boy had no idea what he had signed on for with this Lina. Hoffner wondered if he had been any less thickheaded at Fichte’s age. He hoped not. With a smile, Hoffner leaned back against the wall, his elbows on the chair’s armrests, his hands clasped at his chest, and said easily, “So. What exactly do you think we learned last night?”
Fichte thought for a moment and then said, “That I shouldn’t bring Lina—”
“Yes,” Hoffner cut in impatiently. “We’ve been through all that. What about from upstairs?”
This took greater concentration. “That—this is a political case and we shouldn’t overstep our bounds?”
“Exactly right,” said Hoffner. Fichte’s surprise was instantaneous. “Something wrong?” said Hoffner coyly.
“Well”—Fichte showed a bit more fire—“I didn’t think you—we—would back down so easily.” He waited for a reaction. When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte added, “It is our case, after all.”
“It is, isn’t it.” Hoffner sat staring across at Fichte.
Uncomfortable with the silence, Fichte said, “I’m not sure I understand, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
Hoffner sat forward. “You need to ask yourself, Hans: Is Luxemburg an element of our case?”
“Of course,” said Fichte.
“According to the Polpo?”
“I suppose not, no.”
The response provoked several quick taps of Hoffner’s fingers on the desk. “And so their focus will be—” He waited for Fichte to complete the thought.
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