A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2)

by Frank Goldammer

  Heller heard a noise. Frau Marquart. She moaned and wheezed, and her lungs emitted what sounded like a squeaky pump. Then came a dull thump. Heller turned to Karin, but she was fast asleep. It was on him to get up. He tossed his blanket aside, put on his slippers, and left the bedroom.

  He felt his way along the hallway to her room and opened the door. “Frau Marquart?”

  She was having trouble breathing, letting out a disturbing whistle. Heller approached her bed with hesitation. A crack in the curtains let in weak gaslight from the streetlamps, making the ill woman’s face loom like a death mask. Heller reached for the cloth lying next to the washbowl, moistened it, and wiped her sweat-soaked forehead.

  Frau Marquart moaned and grabbed his hand. “Herbert?”

  “No, it’s Max.”

  “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” she groaned.

  “No, you’re not dying,” Heller said in a firm voice.

  Frau Marquart wheezed, her wide eyes looking at the ceiling, and wouldn’t let go of his hand. Heller didn’t want to pull his hand away but was frantically trying not to think about the woman exhaling infectious germs. It would be a catastrophe if he or Karin got sick.

  When he thought Frau Marquart was asleep again, he cautiously tried to break free. But she grabbed him again.

  “I can’t go on any longer,” she wailed. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t want to go on like this; it’s too pathetic.” She clamped both of her hands around Heller’s wrist and tried to sit up.

  “You’re not going to die. We’ll get you through this. I’ll see what else I can do.” Heller gently pulled his hand away, lowered her back down onto the pillow, and touched her forehead. He recoiled when he felt how hot she was. Again he dabbed her forehead with water.

  “We made it through so much,” Frau Marquart said. Then she reared up and coughed into his face.

  Heller shuddered and closed his eyes. “Don’t talk so much. You need to rest,” he said, irritated. He wanted to wipe his face but couldn’t, because he had to keep Frau Marquart from falling out of bed. She was trying to get up at all costs. She was vehement about it and put up a fight.

  “Ach, Herbert, help me, Herbert . . .” She sobbed and doubled over in a coughing fit.

  Karin finally came into the room. She pressed Frau Marquart’s shoulder back down to the bed. “You need to keep still! I’ll make you tea. Drink it, and please try your best to keep it down.” She looked at Heller. “Max, go wash yourself!”

  Heller was relieved. As he left the room, his foot struck something hard, and he bent down to see what it was. It was his pistol, which was normally always inside his overcoat. A nasty shock shot through him—in her delirium, Frau Marquart must have taken his gun to finish herself off but dropped it. He quickly left the room before Karin noticed.

  In the washroom, he turned a light on. When he saw his face in the mirror, he recoiled. It was speckled all over with blood.

  February 8, 1947: Morning

  Oldenbusch knocked and glanced in Heller’s cellar office before entering. “Small miracles do happen from time to time, Max,” he said, brandishing a folder. “These photos are already developed. Right as I was about to leave the lab yesterday, we got more developer fluid. I’d kicked up a little fuss and was sure to mention Medvedev’s instructions.”

  Heller tried to blink away the weariness in his eyes but couldn’t. He reached for the folder and pulled it a little closer to his desk lamp. The lamp was always on since the small high window reaching his cellar room brought in little daylight, and they had no lightbulb for the ceiling lamp. “Thanks, Werner. But please don’t go around dropping his name too much.”

  Heller opened the folder. The photos Oldenbusch took at the crime scene looked sharp compared to the slightly blurry and underexposed images of the dead officers, Cherin and Berinov. He had photographed the head in a way that a person might think it was a normal photo of a man, which made it more suitable as an official search photo.

  “He’s staring right into the camera. If we cropped the picture right under the chin, no one would notice he’s dead.”

  “Do that, Werner, and get some copies made if possible.” Heller handed back the folder. A coffee would do him good about now. Instead he was drinking dull tea, likely reused. “Do you know if Kassner had a chance to look at the bodies of those two officers over at the Soviet barracks?”

  “I believe he was planning to go up there today.” Oldenbusch sat in the chair on the other side of Heller’s desk. “You know, the way I understood it, we’re not supposed to make that severed head photo public.”

  Heller picked up a typewritten page and handed it across the desk to Oldenbusch. It was an official order to investigate all manner of organized Werewolf activities as well as send a daily status report to Soviet MVD authorities. Upon reasonable request, he was being assigned staff and means of transportation. All manhunts, raids, or similar operations would have to be authorized by the MVD.

  The document was signed by Police Chief Opitz and Lieutenant General Medvedev.

  “I’m not even sure if the Russians would authorize it, or if Niesbach doesn’t dare request it because he knows they wouldn’t want to,” Heller said. “As the victors, they’re afraid it would look like their hold on the situation is slipping. Now, do you have a report for me regarding the incident at the Münchner Krug?”

  Oldenbusch nodded, still reading the document.

  He gave the page back to Heller. After a pause, he said, “Not being allowed to make the photo public doesn’t necessarily mean we can’t use it to question people.”

  “Let’s hope so, Werner. I can’t tell you what a rough night I had last night. And that idea you had yesterday of looking up my friend Heinz Seibling is a good one. I’d only need something to take him . . .” Heller didn’t need to say any more, as Oldenbusch placed a pack of cigarettes on the table.

  “From the evidence room. That’s all you need to know, Herr Oberkommissar. The attack on the Münchner Krug, by the way, was carried out using two German stick grenades, the Schwarzer Peter bar with Russian ones. At the Münchner Krug no shots were fired, and there was no Molotov cocktail. That’s how the attacks differ. Yet both were done in an amateur fashion, each one most likely carried out by a lone assailant.”

  “Which raises the question of why leaflets were thrown for one attack but not the other. And if both attacks were carried out by the same person, does that mean he was responsible for murdering the Soviet officers? The conclusion feels illogical.”

  “Maybe it’s a group, rather than an individual? An amateur group, sure, but still.”

  “Our men with the dogs still out there?”

  “Yesterday they searched the immediate vicinity of the crime scene, around Bautzner Strasse; today they’ll expand the search area. There are only two police dogs right now, and they’re only allowed to sniff for two hours since forensics demands high-level concentration.”

  “Did analyzing the leaflets reveal anything?”

  “They seem to have been made using a simple rotary press or mimeograph. The paper can be found in any organization or office. Machines like that are common, but it’s clear the user was highly skilled. Which fits the theory that it’s someone from the trade. So I got an extract from the business register back in ’39—listing all the printers in Dresden at that time. Canvassing them all is a tall order, but at least it would be a starting point.” Oldenbusch drew a paper from his briefcase and, visibly proud, handed it to Heller.

  Heller scanned the page. Then he drank his tea in one gulp and stood.

  “Well done. Let’s start here in the vicinity. It looks like a few printers are nearby, and maybe we’ll run into Heinz Seibling while we’re at it. Get the car.”

  Oldenbusch shook his head with frustration. “I couldn’t get any gas and don’t want to drive on fumes, in case we have to leave the car sitting somewhere.”

  Heller reached for the phone. “All right, I’ll see if someone can t
ake us across the Elbe. We can do the rest on foot.”

  February 8, 1947: Late Morning

  The streets around the Neustadt area were full of people running errands or standing at the water pumps, which were warmed by open fires to safeguard against freezing. There were long lines at the housing and food offices. A constant stream of people advanced on the train station. After the center of Dresden was destroyed, the city infrastructure had relocated to outer-lying, less affected neighborhoods. Now buildings were slowly being repaired, bricks cleaned, power lines refitted. Soviet soldiers as well as German uniformed cops patrolled the streets. A master glazier advertised “Window Cardboard Now in Stock” on a chalkboard sign, and a long line formed immediately outside his shop. Schools had closed because of the persistent freezing temperatures. Children roamed the streets in mended and often-too-large shoes, and played in the ruins; if there was anything at all to grab, they snatched it up at once. Some went out begging, their small ragtag figures standing there mute with hands stretched out. Hardly anyone gave them anything.

  Others made traps for pigeons, though there were few left and hardly any cats. People gathered around the notice boards and shook their heads at the latest directives. Pickpockets slinked through the crowds. People would pick anything off the ground, be it a cigarette, an old newspaper, or a small lump of coal. Those with a bicycle watched over their valuable possession like a hawk. Even more people crammed into the long lines outside the soup kitchens, at the water pumps. Whenever a Soviet Army vehicle approached, the people shrunk back. “72 Companies Already Returned to the People” proclaimed posters of the Socialist Unity Party in courting new members as well as the voters’ favor.

  Heller and Oldenbusch had already located two printers. One was now under state ownership, run by a former Communist who had spent six years in Dachau under the Nazis. He himself used to make leaflets and described to Heller the exact type of machine they needed to search for—a rather simple device that could fit on a table and was operated with a hand crank.

  The other printer was privately owned, printing out applications, forms, ration coupons, and food stamps under strict supervision by order of the authorities. The manager gave Heller the names and addresses of all his employees.

  Another printer was located on Tannenstrasse. The grounds were closed off and looked overgrown. The workshop stood wide open; all the equipment had been removed. Grass was now growing between the cobblestones of the main yard, clumps of it sticking out of the snow. The office building next door was deserted. “Schlüter Printing” it read in large, curving script on the exterior. “We Print It All.”

  Heller looked around. Across from the printer was a coal yard guarded by soldiers. He and Oldenbusch crossed the road, presented their police IDs, and were admitted onto the compound. Workers were shoveling large mounds of coal briquettes into jute storage sacks. A large Russian truck with another soldier in the passenger seat pulled in, and the driver honked at Heller and Oldenbusch for not getting out of his way fast enough. Once they reached the little office, the supervisor shot up from his chair in shock. He was around seventy, stocky, his short hair parted.

  “You from the police?” he asked, so shaken by the surprise visit he could barely move.

  Heller raised a hand to calm him. “We just have a question about the printer across the street.”

  “It’s been closed since the war ended. The owners had it all dispossessed. The Russians took everything away.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Last year. They took it all, even ripped the cords out of the walls and took the lighting.”

  “Dispossessed, you said?”

  “The Schlüters, yes, real über-Nazis. Herr Schlüter and his sons never came back from the war. Frau Schlüter ran the business with a partner, but he’s gone now too; Russians took him. Schlüters still have a residence, Nordstrasse 20, but I don’t know if they’re living there. Don’t even know if any are still alive.”

  “All right.” Heller jotted it all down. “Herr?”

  “Dienhagen, Armin.”

  Heller wrote that down too, then took a look around. It smelled like coffee, real coffee. Herr Dienhagen didn’t seem in need—it was clear he was earning a little extra under the table from all the coal. That was the Germans for you, Heller thought. You had to have it to do it.

  “All right,” Heller said. “Enjoy your day.”

  Nordstrasse was about twenty minutes away on foot, and the route took Heller and Oldenbusch right over Alaunplatz, the square where large military exercise halls once stood. They were later torn down, the grounds left idle. A crowd of people had gathered. They hurried every which way, whispering to one another, handing each other items, then nimbly making them disappear inside their pockets before pulling out other items.

  It was a black market, one of many, yet this location proved especially good for it. From here a person could disappear in any direction if a raid happened. None of the streets could be quickly barricaded. And here the people who possessed something essential got rich. The prices were always rising. A person had to give up a good pair of shoes for a loaf of bread. A half-dozen eggs cost a valuable watch; meat, all a family’s jewelry if need be. The currency here wasn’t money. The only solid currency was cigarettes—almost always American ones. That, too, was the Germans for you. Heller didn’t blame them for it, but it seemed absurd how that once self-titled “master race” now robbed each other blind.

  Heller and Oldenbusch kept out of sight as they moved along to avoid any unnecessary concern, since even without uniforms they were easily recognizable as police officers.

  The Schlüters’ residence on Nordstrasse was a large art nouveau villa with several stories, similar to homes Heller noticed in the Striesen and Plauen neighborhoods. It was clear at first glance that the Schlüters weren’t the only ones living here. Frozen laundry hung from windows. Smoke rose from homemade vents. The surrounding area had seen air raid damage, and several homes were destroyed, as was the villa on the neighboring property. The four-story building had collapsed from the third floor down. Parts of the attic were still visible, as was a spiral staircase leading to nowhere. Yet while other nearby buildings were being rebuilt or cleared, this site was left fully overgrown. Blackberry bushes and rhododendrons formed an impenetrable thicket, and hedges ran wild, the ruins covered with dandelions and birch saplings.

  Heller spotted smoke billowing up from the ruined building and soon heard a knocking sound. An old woman in an apron came out of a tiny door a few steps up from the ground floor. She carried a crate that she stood next to a chopping box, then grabbed a log and started splitting wood with a little ax.

  “Who are you here to see?” asked an imperious woman from the second floor of the Schlüters’ villa.

  “Frau Schlüter,” Oldenbusch shouted.

  “And who are you?”

  “Police detectives,” Oldenbusch replied, whereupon the woman pulled the window shut.

  Heller let out an indignant laugh and opened the garden gate. He wasn’t going to tolerate that. Yet as soon as he reached the front door, the woman was there to open it.

  “Can you show me your identification?” she asked. She was roughly Heller’s age, not quite fifty, big, and blonde. She had her hair pinned up, and her clothes confirmed her former good standing.

  “Frau Schlüter, I presume?” Heller said, showing his police ID.

  Her unfriendly stance changed abruptly. “Oberkommissar Heller,” she read. “Please excuse my impoliteness, but there’s plenty of riffraff out there these days.”

  “We have a few questions regarding the printing business,” Heller said.

  “Would you mind coming up? Please. No one else in the building needs to know.”

  Heller and Oldenbusch followed her up a curved staircase. The large, open home had been partitioned into smaller spaces using plywood walls, and busy lives could be heard inside. Children screamed, mothers scolded, someone sang softly. On the upper
floor, something clanked. Snippets of conversation in Silesian surged out of another room. A telephone set hung on the wall at the landing.

  Frau Schlüter opened a door for Heller and Oldenbusch.

  “This is what they left me.” She sighed, sank into an armchair, and crossed her legs. The large room was full of valuable furniture. A sofa and two armchairs stood around a low table, and there was a makeshift kitchen on the window wall. Next to a glass cabinet was a black piano. “Emil Ascherberg,” Heller read.

  “A living room and a bedroom. You can see my kitchen there. Cobbled it together from what was left of my kitchen on the ground floor. I had to have a stove made; that cost me two hundred marks. Six families have been given quarters here in my own house. They’re getting everything dirty, breaking everything. I lost it all! My husband, my sons. They took my business away, then the house. And we were good people. We had fifty employees—printers, drivers, apprentices, bookkeepers—and now it’s come to this.”

  “The printshop was confiscated?”

  Rage flared in her eyes. “I was dispossessed, unlawfully, and they carried it all off to Russia. Those barbarians. They wrecked all the presses with their hammers and tools, their big clumsy hands. They even made our foreman go with them to Russia.”

  “Tell me something: Did you keep anything from the printshop? Were you able to set some of it aside, or did you have any equipment at home?”

  “They would’ve hanged me for that, Herr Oberkommissar. I have none of it left, nothing!”

  Oldenbusch cut in. “What about a small manually operated press? Or basic mimeographs? A Greif Rekord model, maybe, or a Centrograph?”

  Frau Schlüter reached over to an end table for a pack of cigarettes. Pall Mall, Heller noticed. Frau Schlüter took one out and lit it without offering them one. She took a deep drag, visibly upset at recalling all her losses.