Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  Fichte sat with his glass in hand. He was feeling a bit light-headed, although he was doing his best to keep himself under control. Not that he had ever thought of the Polpo. They were safe in deep water, shoals closer in, or something like that: he could never remember the exact words Hoffner had used. But that seemed so far from the truth, given tonight, more so given his recent encounters with Hermannsohn. Still, Fichte knew to be wary. “I need a bit more under my belt before I start thinking about any of that.” He took a sip.

  Braun nodded. “That’s your Kommissar Hoffner speaking now.” Braun corrected himself. “Your Oberkommissar. Pardon me. How can we forget the great promotion ceremony at the Royal Palace? Quite a show they put on.”

  The word “show” pricked at Fichte. It reminded him who was sitting across the table. “Yes,” he said. “The Kripo spares no expense.”

  Braun seemed surprised by the answer. He smiled. “I’ve offended you again. My apologies.” He took a slow pull on his cigarette. “I’d like to say it’s the whiskey, but we both know it’s that jealousy rearing its ugly head. Ignore it, Hans. I do.”

  This time Braun’s mea culpa seemed more contrived. Fichte returned a bland smile and took another sip.

  Braun said, “You’re quite devoted to your Herr Hoffner, aren’t you?”

  The tone of the conversation had shifted, and Fichte was strangely aware of it. He knew that Braun was hinting at something. Even so, Fichte took his time. He placed his glass on the table and said, “He was my Kriminal-Kommissar, and he remains my partner. I’ve learned a great deal working with him.” He looked across at Braun. “He also happens to be a brilliant detective.”

  “Your loyalty is admirable.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If a bit nave.”

  This time the word more than pricked. Fichte was not terribly good at hiding his resentment, especially with a few drinks in him. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, Herr Oberkommissar.”

  Braun was more direct. “We don’t like letting the good ones get away, Hans. And we’re very persistent.”

  Fichte waited. “Why nave?”

  “Herr Hoffner is an excellent detective. No question about that.”

  “And yet you don’t let the good ones get away.”

  “We don’t. But you have to understand that it’s more than just detective work up on the fourth floor. It’s a man’s character, his past. Herr Hoffner . . . well, he comes up a bit short on both counts.”

  Fichte was amazed at Braun’s candor. “We’re talking about my partner, Herr Braun.”

  “Yes,” said Braun unapologetically. “I know.”

  Fichte felt suddenly ashamed for having let it get this far. There was something decidedly petty in Braun’s style. Fichte reached for his glass and downed the whiskey. It was a mistake. He instantly felt the effects. “It’s been a pleasure, Herr Braun. Thank you for the drinks.” He started to get up.

  Braun said calmly, “He’s fucking your girl, Hans. Not much character in that.”

  Fichte stared across the table. He was certain he had misheard. “Excuse me?”

  “Your girl,” said Braun no less directly. “Lina. Herr Hoffner’s been screwing her ever since your little trip to Belgium, or didn’t you know that? There’s your Kripo, Hans. There’s your loyalty.”

  Fichte felt his legs begin to slip out from under him; luckily, he was still only a few centimeters above the banquette. It did nothing to help the sudden throbbing in the back of his head. Fichte wanted to answer, make a joke, but he was swimming in booze, drowning under the image of Hoffner with Lina. He felt his neck constrict, his lungs tighten, and he began to gasp for breath. He thought Braun was saying something, reaching out a hand, but he could hardly see him. Fichte fumbled in his pocket for his inhaler. He took in a long, deep suck and his lungs began to open; he could breathe again. He felt himself standing. Not sure what was coming out, he said, “Thank you for the drinks, Herr Oberkommissar.” He tried to regain his focus. “You’ll excuse me.”

  Without waiting for a response, Fichte made his way for the front doors. His head was clearing, but his face felt as if it were on fire. He needed cold air, anything to be away from this noise and the crush of bodies. He began to push his way through the crowd, when he saw little Elise, Lina’s roommate, standing alone inside the coat-check room. The sight of her was like another crack to his skull. Fichte barreled his way over.

  Her expression soured the instant she saw him. “Ticket, sir,” she said sharply,

  Fichte steadied himself on the counter. “Is she fucking someone?” he said loudly.

  Elise looked past him, afraid that someone might have heard. “Keep your voice down, Hans.”

  Fichte was no less insistent in a whisper. “Is she fucking my partner?”

  It was clear that Elise had been waiting weeks to hear the question. She now took her time in answering. “What do you care?” she said in a hushed, nasty tone. “You’ve been screwing everything that walks through that door in the last month. Serves you right.”

  Fichte held himself rigidly at the counter. He wanted to reach over and slap her to the ground. With a sudden jab, he thrust his hand into his pocket. He saw her flinch, and he laughed sloppily. He then pulled out his ticket and tossed it on the counter. His words were growing more slurred. “My coat, you fucking bitch.”

  Elise had shown all the fight she had. She backed away slowly and turned to the rack. She laid the coat on the counter and again stepped away.

  Fichte teetered momentarily. He tasted a dry sourness in his throat. “Bitch,” he said. He then grabbed his coat and headed for the doors.

  AS BRITTLE AS PAPER

  Sometimes you need a bit of good fortune, and today it was Hoffner’s turn.

  A cable had arrived in the morning from Belgium: van Acker had come up with a name for the substitute Wouters. He was a Konrad Urlicher, a German from Bonn. Strangely enough, it was Urlicher’s anatomy that had been the key to his identity. During the autopsy of the body, the doctors had discovered that Urlicher had suffered from a rare bone disease. This discovery might have meant nothing had there not also been indications that Urlicher had been treated for the disease using somewhat innovative if experimental techniques: something to do with marrow extracts. The upshot was that only a handful of clinics in Europe had been using the new techniques. Photographs of the man had been sent out to each of them. Within a week, Urlicher’s name had come back.

  What was more startling was that Urlicher had not been insane. He had simply been dying. Who better, then, thought Hoffner, to take the place of a madman? Van Acker had sent along as much information as he could on Urlicher—and his stay at Bonn’s Fritsch Clinic—including background, family, and recent past. He had also included the names of those who had visited Urlicher while he had been hospitalized, and it was there that Hoffner had turned up gold.

  Two names appeared on both the Sint-Walburga and clinic sheets: a Joachim Manstein and an Erich Oster. Both men had visited Urlicher one week before his disappearance from the Bonn clinic in October of 1918, and again two days before he had killed himself at Sint-Walburga in January of 1919. Hoffner had also discovered that Manstein had made a solo trip to the asylum in June of 1918, some six months before the suicide, and it was the tracking of that first visit that had brought the picture into focus.

  Whatever these men had had in mind, their plan had been initiated as of June 1918. It was at that time, according to the doctors at Sint-Walburga, that the real Wouters had begun to let himself go: no bathing, no cutting of the hair. It was clear now that the purpose of Manstein’s first visit in June had been to prepare Wouters for the switch to come in October. By then Wouters would be unrecognizable, allowing for a reasonable facsimile—long hair, etc.—to take his place. The visit to the Bonn clinic in October had been to alert Urlicher that the switch was coming. And the last visit to Sint-Walburga in January had been to give Urlicher his final orders. That he had wrapped a rope arou
nd his neck was proof enough that Urlicher had been willing to follow them to the letter.

  The precision of the operation—and it was an operation, in Hoffner’s mind—led him to conclude that the military connection extended beyond the Ascomycete 4. That Manstein and Oster had been able to cross into Belgium on two separate occasions during the war—one to prepare Wouters, the other to make the switch—could have been possible only with military credentials. A single man without papers might have been able to slip across the border. Three men—one of them looking like a raving lunatic—would not.

  With the names in hand, Hoffner now knew where to start digging: the Office of the General Staff.

  Fichte, of course, had yet to appear this morning. These late arrivals were becoming irritatingly commonplace. Hoffner was about to write him a note when there was a knock at the door. He looked up to see Polpo Direktor Gerhard Weigland standing in the hall.

  “Busy, Nikolai?” Hoffner’s mistrust must have registered on his face. “Just to talk,” said Weigland. “If you have a minute?”

  Hoffner placed the pages in a drawer and motioned Weigland to take a seat. “Of course, Herr Direktor.”

  Weigland glanced around the office and then sat. “As organized as ever.” Hoffner remained silent. “A chief inspector should have a bigger place, don’t you think?”

  “This suits me fine, Herr Direktor.”

  “Yes,” said Weigland. “I imagine it does.” He shifted tone. “Nice bit of press for you and young Fichte. Quite the heroes, these days.”

  “The press believes what it wants to believe, Herr Direktor.”

  “Does it?” Weigland nodded knowingly. “So, no heroes, then?”

  “You’d do better to ask Fichte about that, Herr Direktor. I’m sure you see more of him than I do.”

  Weigland ignored the jab. “The boy has ambition. Not such a bad thing.”

  Hoffner cut to it. “What is it that I can do for you, Herr Direktor?”

  Weigland nodded knowingly. “No time for chitchat. Of course. All those murders to get to.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver medallion that hung on a ribbon. He placed it on the desk. “I’ve had this for a good many years. It was your father’s.”

  Hoffner barely moved as he glanced down at the small pendant. He looked across at Weigland and said coldly, “It’s very nice. Was there anything else, Herr Direktor?”

  “It’s meant for you, Nikolai.”

  Hoffner nodded to himself. “And is there a reason it’s coming to me now?”

  Weigland reached for the pendant and flipped it over. “There’s an inscription.” He read: “‘Third Highest Marks, Political Police Entrance Examination, Martin Hoffner, 1877.’ Your father gave it to me.” Weigland stared a moment longer at the silver finish. “He didn’t want it after all that business.” Weigland set it down and looked across at Hoffner. “It was a long time ago. I thought you might want it.”

  There was never any subtlety with Weigland: no doubt someone had been standing by the wire room, Weigland now aware that the lines between Berlin and Bruges were still very much open. It was a further reminder for Hoffner not to step where he wasn’t welcome. “You’ve been waiting for the right moment, is that it, Herr Direktor?”

  Weigland looked as if he might reply with equal callousness; instead he said, “I just thought you might want it. A medal for a hero. Silly, I suppose. But then one can’t always be a hero. Best to make the most of it while you can.” Subtlety, thought Hoffner. Always subtlety. Weigland stood. “Well . . . please pass on my congratulations to Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Fichte. When you see him.”

  Hoffner stood. The two men exchanged a nod and Weigland moved to the corridor. He was at the door when he turned back and said, “I imagine it’s time for a new map, Nikolai. Keep to what you do best.” Weigland waited a moment and then headed out.

  Hoffner listened for the footfalls to recede before he sat and reached across the desk for the medal. It was a cheap little thing, silver plate, something to be won at any school outing. Hoffner read the inscription: the lettering had blackened over the years.

  He found himself staring at the date. His father had been a young man then, and ambitious. Hoffner could hardly imagine it. It was not the man he had ever known: Weigland had seen to that. For a moment Hoffner felt his father’s bitterness as his own. He tossed the thing onto the papers and slammed the drawer shut.

  Regimental Affairs was a relatively small office on the third floor of the General Staff building. None of its occupants looked up as Hoffner stepped inside: a distinguished-looking major sat at the far end—beyond a waist-high partition that ran the width of the room—his desk piled high with thick volumes; four lieutenants, also at desks and just this side of the partition, were leafing through mysterious reams of paper; and a young clerk—his coat off, his rank another mystery—sat closest to the door and was typing up the pages as they came down the line. The walls were nothing but floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, each filled with tall brown volumes with dates and regiment numbers etched across their spines. It might have been a university reading room—the air had that musty, academic smell to it—if not for the ramrod-straight backs of the men: these were soldiers, not scholars.

  Hoffner pulled out his badge and said to the clerk, “I need a word with your Herr Major.”

  The boy looked up. “May I ask what business the Herr Chief Inspector has with the Herr Major?”

  “Personnel.”

  The boy stood and moved briskly through the swinging half-door to the other side of the partition. Hoffner watched as the boy waited for the Herr Major to acknowledge him. The two exchanged a few words, and the clerk returned. “The Herr Major wishes to inform the Herr Chief Inspector that the Personnel Office is located—”

  “On the third floor,” Hoffner cut in. “Yes. I’ve just had the pleasure of your Captain Strasser’s assistance. I’m not interested in the personnel of the General Staff. I’m looking for specific regimental members.”

  Again the clerk made his way back. This time the Herr Major looked up and gazed out at Hoffner. Half a minute later, Hoffner was seated in front of his desk.

  “This is a criminal investigation, yes, Herr Inspector?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

  The man showed no reaction. “All investigations of personnel, criminal or not, are handled internally, Herr Inspector. I don’t think we can be of any help to you.”

  Hoffner wondered if men like this ever got tired of giving the same answer. “We’re interested in this man after his service, Herr Major. When he was a civilian. We’re simply trying to track him down. We don’t consider this a military affair.”

  The Herr Major answered coolly. “Then I fail to see why you are troubling us with your investigation.”

  “He’s not your responsibility, Herr Major. This happened after he was discharged.”

  “So, again, I fail to see why you are troubling us.”

  This, thought Hoffner, was why the war had been lost. “Our dossier is incomplete, Herr Major. Any information would be most helpful. However, I wouldn’t want to tax the General Staff beyond its limits. Perhaps the Polpo might be a better place for me to begin?” Hoffner began to get up. “Thank you for your time, Herr Major.”

  This was not the first time the man had played at this game. He said calmly, “Have a seat, Herr Inspector.” He waited until he had Hoffner’s full attention. “The General Staff is, of course, eager to do what it can in the aid of a political case.”

  It was remarkable to see the effects of one little word, thought Hoffner. Even the high walls of army insularity buckled at the prospect of the political police. “I didn’t say it was a political case, Herr Major.”

  “No, of course not,” the man answered. “You have a regiment number, Herr Inspector?”

  “No.” Somewhere behind the eyes, Hoffner saw a look of mild surprise.

  “Of course you know a name will be of no help,” said the Herr Maj
or. “We file everything according to regiment number. It would be impossible to wade through over a thousand volumes in search of a particular name.”

  Hoffner—of course—did not know this. He nodded anyway and, thinking as he spoke, opted for the only other detail he had. “But you do list discharges by date, isn’t that right, Herr Major?”

  “Those volumes are kept in a separate office, yes.”

  Again Hoffner nodded, so as to give himself time to calculate. Van Acker had placed Urlicher’s arrival at the Bonn clinic in the third week of March 1918. Figuring on time for dismissal, transportation . . . “March seventh, 1918.” Hoffner spoke as if he were reading the date from a file. “The name is Urlicher. Konrad Urlicher.”

  The information was written down and the clerk called over. The Herr Major then went back to his books, and fifteen minutes later the clerk returned with two large volumes. Hoffner had been spending his time alternating between counting the number of books on various shelves and the number of times the Herr Major blinked in any given minute. The books had won out eight to one.

  The clerk handed the first of the volumes to the Herr Major and said, “It was the fifth of March, Herr Major. I checked four days in either direction.”

  The boy had marked a page two-thirds of the way through. The Herr Major scanned it as he answered indifferently, “Well done, Corporal.” He found the name, flipped the book around to Hoffner, and pointed to a line on the page. It read:

  Urlicher, Konrad. First Lieutenant. Anemia and Osteitis Deformans. Unsuitable for service.

  Hoffner, however, was more interested in the further annotation:

  14th Bavarian, Liebregiment.

  Keeping his eye on the page, Hoffner said, “The Fourteenth Bavarian is recruited out of Munich, yes, Herr Major?” It was a reasonable-enough guess. Hoffner was still recovering from the gambit with the discharge date.

  The Herr Major turned to the clerk, but the boy was one step ahead of him. The boy produced the second volume, his finger wedged between two pages. He opened it and handed the book to the Herr Major.