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

by Frank Goldammer

  “I already told you. It’s gone. The pencils even, down to the last paper clip. I’m living off my savings. And I’m always scared of those Ivans roaming the streets at night, kicking down doors and doing whatever they please. This is exactly what Adolf tried to protect us from—from the Ivans and Bolshevism. But he was kept from doing so!”

  “Could maybe one of your employees have set aside that kind of machine? Do you know anyone who could build such a thing?” Heller gestured for Oldenbusch to hand her one of the leaflets.

  “Real fine work,” she said after a few seconds, then gave the leaflet back to Oldenbusch. “It’s possible that one of our people appropriated something.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  Frau Schlüter took another drag of her cigarette and shook her head.

  “Could you provide us with a list of your employees’ names?”

  “From memory perhaps. I don’t have any records anymore. But I can’t guarantee I’ll remember every single person.”

  “When do you think you could have the list finished? An hour? Two?”

  “Ha!” Frau Schlüter laughed. “Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow, same time.”

  “I’ll come back this afternoon,” Heller said.

  Frau Schlüter nodded, then gestured at the leaflet with two fingers clamped around the cigarette. “You looking for whoever started the fire in that bar? Let me tell you something. He should receive a medal. That filthy, whore-filled dive, the Russians coming and going. A disgrace. A disgusting bordello. Run by Germans. I’ll be frank. This country of ours is sick. Traitors everywhere. Traitors to the Fatherland. Someone finally dared rise up against treason, against such a disgrace. And it must be such a disgrace for you personally, one of the old school, to have to capture such brave people for the Russians. Such tough times!”

  Outside, Heller exhaled with relief. “How can someone be so self-righteous and unreasonable?” he asked Oldenbusch as they left the property.

  Oldenbusch waved the leaflet. “She showed more than enough fanaticism to back something like this, don’t you think, boss?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t prove anything. We need to request a search warrant for that place.”

  “But our visit just warned her. She could make anything incriminating disappear.” Oldenbusch thought about it. “I guess she wouldn’t be dumb enough to keep anything at home anyway. She’s a clever one.”

  Heller took him by the arm. “Let’s go stand where she can’t see us from the house. You go find a couple of uniformed cops to watch the building. Maybe there’s a field telephone nearby? If you can’t find the cops, there’s a police station at Alaunplatz. I’ll wait here. And please, don’t call me boss. How many times do I have to tell you? Where did you pick up such a bad habit?”

  Once Oldenbusch was gone, Heller strolled a little farther on but made sure to stay within eyeshot of the villa. There had to be another exit. He’d have to stay alert and hope she didn’t make any sudden moves. Heller calculated how long it would take Oldenbusch to return, estimating a good half hour. He shifted from one foot to the other, looking around for something to fix his eyes on. Simply staring at the house the entire time would make it feel like an eternity in this terrible cold.

  Over at the destroyed home, the old woman continued chopping wood. Heller took a couple of steps to the side, so he could watch her, standing on his tiptoes and craning his neck to see.

  The woman placed a much-too-large chunk of wood on the chopping block. She could hardly lift it. Once she got it to stand, she took the little ax in both hands and swung. Her chop was so weak that Heller felt sorry her—the ax only sank an inch into the wood. The old woman got it loose, swung again, and missed the block. Undeterred, she pulled back and took another swing. This time the ax got stuck, and she couldn’t free the head from the wood no matter how much she wrenched and pulled on it.

  Heller couldn’t take much more of this. He imagined how tough it would be for his old mother, if she were still alive, to have to struggle like this. He took a glance at the Schlüters’ front gate. Then he looked back.

  The woman was now attempting to drag the stuck-together ax and wood off the chopping block. The whole block toppled over. Heller couldn’t stand it anymore. He marched the ten yards to her property, clearing a path through the bushes and weeds.

  “Wait, I’ll help!” he shouted to the old woman, as she couldn’t see him from where she stood. When Heller came around the corner of the house, she was waiting for him, holding just the ax, the wood having dislodged when it fell.

  “Let me help you,” Heller offered again.

  “Go away!” the old woman shouted, upset, and raised the ax to her apron smock, partly in defense, partly as a threat.

  “My name’s Heller. I’m a police detective. I saw you—”

  “Go away! This is my property!”

  “Listen, I couldn’t help but see how hard it was for you to chop that wood. Just let me help. I don’t want anything out of it.”

  “Go. I’ll manage all right. I don’t need any help. Not from anyone!” She was practically scolding him. Again she threatened him with the ax.

  “All right, fine.” Heller felt like a fool. What was he thinking? The woman didn’t believe him, and why would she? He could’ve been anyone. He could’ve shown her his police ID, but that probably would have only confused her more.

  “My apologies, enjoy your day,” he added with a slight bow and turned back for the street.

  An older man wearing a pom-pom beanie and pulling a handcart saw him coming from the property and spoke to him as he passed. “There’s no point in trying with the likes of her. She’s not letting anyone inside that house.”

  “We completely forgot about Herr Seibling,” Oldenbusch reminded Heller. He had returned in twenty minutes with two uniformed cops. Heller instructed them to be inconspicuous and watch for anything stirring at Frau Schlüter’s villa. They should only intervene if they spotted her taking something out of the building.

  “I didn’t forget,” Heller said. “I was keeping an eye out for Seibling the whole way over.”

  “So what now? Back to headquarters? If we’re back by noon, we might be able to get that search warrant. That or you get those MVD Russians on board, but then things might get a little hairy for Frau Schlüter and—”

  Heller raised a hand. “We’ll visit Captain Kasrashvili at the barracks up on Carola-Allee. It’s ten minutes from here; we can use their telephone. Also, it might give you a chance to get some better photos of the two dead soldiers. I’ll inform the MVD, but I can’t have the house searched yet.”

  “Kasrashvili, that doctor? Doesn’t sound Russian.”

  “He’s Georgian. Very meticulous. Wipe off your shoes and don’t touch anything.”

  Oldenbusch nodded. “Will do, boss!” Heller looked annoyed. “Sorry, Max—”

  “It’s one of those silly new buzzwords, Werner.”

  “But I don’t mean it disrespectfully. It was a respectful title in the military, after all.”

  “Nevertheless. The way everyone speaks nowadays—hole up, go off the rails, use your noodle, have a screw loose.” Heller could only shake his head.

  They walked the last few yards to the barracks. At the gate they showed their identification, and Heller asked to see Kasrashvili. The duty officer made a call, and they were allowed inside.

  The young Georgian barely seemed interested. He listened to Heller’s request, then ordered one of his men to accompany Oldenbusch to the corpses. He stayed behind with Heller, who’d noticed that Kasrashvili’s office also served as his sleeping quarters.

  “I’ll meet you back out at the gate,” Heller shouted after Oldenbusch.

  Kasrashvili furrowed his brow at Heller’s shouting. Then he offered Heller a chair, went over to the window, and leaned on the sill. “Ovtcharov was here, making inquiries about your investigation. I told him I don’t know what you’re finding.”

  Heller nodded. He hesita
ted to get to the point.

  “Didn’t you want to make a call?” Kasrashvili gestured at the telephone on his desk. It was an old model, black, with a metal rotary dial.

  “In a second. Um, I—”

  “I can step outside if you’d prefer . . .” The doctor moved to leave the room.

  “No, wait. Pardon my asking, but do you happen to know Tariel Kasrashvili, the piano virtuoso?”

  The Georgian froze.

  “My wife thought she remembered us seeing a concert of his some years ago.”

  Kasrashvili moved around the desk and took a seat in his reclining chair. “He is my father.”

  Heller laughed. “Your father! What a coincidence!”

  The Georgian’s expression remained blank.

  “Is he still playing?”

  “No, he’s long since retired.” Kasrashvili stared at the desktop. Then he looked up. “You know Rachmaninoff?”

  Heller perked up. “Rachmaninoff! Exactly, that’s what it was. Your father was playing Rachmaninoff.”

  “Did you know that Rachmaninoff lived in Dresden from the winter of 1906 until 1908? I think he still owns a home here. My father is an ardent admirer of Rachmaninoff. He defended him, where he could, against his critics.”

  “What about you? Do you play?”

  Kasrashvili raised his hands in resignation, showing Heller emotion for the first time. A hint of regret flashed across the Georgian’s face.

  “The war hasn’t given me much opportunity. And the piano I have here is missing pedals and completely out of tune. Now and again I give it a shot, but . . .” He frowned, resigned.

  Heller wanted to know more. “Would you have become a pianist if not for the war?”

  Kasrashvili hesitated, his face contorted as if in pain.

  “I’m not a medical man. I only studied medicine to avoid getting called up. I couldn’t see myself getting torn to shreds by a German shell just for the Russians. At home, we always considered ourselves more German than Russian. We spoke German and French. Russians were considered barbarians in our house. And then I became a doctor, went to the front, and had to see all these limbs blown off, the bodies riddled with bullets. Filth disgusts me. Dirt, blood, excrement. I can’t bear it. All these illnesses, the sputum, the excretions. I find people disgusting, and sometimes I find myself disgusting.”

  Kasrashvili was working himself into a minor frenzy. “But when I play, everything is so clear. You understand? A lovely piece is like pure water, like a stream flowing through dense forest.” His gaze wandered. “But would I have become a pianist?” He shook his head. “Three months ago, I was appointed the army’s cultural advisor. Now I’m leading the choir.”

  Heller was intrigued. He wanted to give the doctor time to reflect, but he still had a request. Oldenbusch would be back soon. He considered the right words.

  “Can I ask you something? We live in the home of an elderly woman. She’s sick with a very high fever. I’m worried it’s typhus. She’ll die if I don’t—”

  Kasrashvili pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “If it’s medicine you need, I can’t just give it to you!”

  Heller kept at it. “But you do have some?”

  “It’s for members of the Soviet Army. I can’t just give it to anyone who comes asking.” Kasrashvili, upset, rubbed at his hands as if applying lotion.

  “Please, sit down.” Heller stretched out a hand, in appeal. “You shouldn’t get so worked up. I was only asking. I didn’t mean to be pushy.”

  Kasrashvili didn’t sit, though he was calming down.

  “I can’t just give it to everyone. Not without . . .” He stopped.

  Heller breathed a little easier. It wasn’t the request that had gotten the doctor so worked up. Perhaps he regretted having revealed so much of himself. The Georgian was looking for something in return, it seemed. So there was hope for Frau Marquart after all. Yet what could Heller offer the man?

  “Perhaps cigarettes would be—”

  “I don’t smoke. Just imagine all that tar in a person’s lungs. Have you ever seen the lungs of a smoker?”

  Heller had never given it much thought.

  “I have everything. Food, heat, liquor. Everything a person could need.” Kasrashvili went over to a cabinet, opened it, and pulled open a small drawer. He returned to his chair and placed two white pills on the desk.

  “Here. Consider it gratitude for our pleasant conversation. I haven’t thought about Father and music for a very long time. You can make that phone call of yours now. I’m going to lunch.” Kasrashvili nodded and clicked his heels together, then rushed out of the room.

  Heller picked up the pills but wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. He wrapped them in a tissue and tucked them into the inside pocket of his overcoat. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Then he picked up the phone and got connected to the public prosecutor’s office.

  “How did it go, Werner?” Heller asked Oldenbusch when they met outside at the gate.

  “You’re not going to like this, Max.”

  Heller stopped walking. “The bodies aren’t there.”

  Oldenbusch sighed. “I almost thought someone was pulling my leg. The orderly was rushing around the basement, checking all over, but it was clear he was putting up an act.”

  Considering what Heller knew about the Soviets, he wasn’t surprised. They were trying to wipe the slate clean. In this way, the Soviets were quite effective. Maybe Kasrashvili had known the corpses were gone, which would explain why he left so quickly. Maybe he’d even given the order. Who knew. But speculating was pointless. Heller checked it off the list for now.

  “Did you know there’s supposed to be another new head public prosecutor?” he said.

  Oldenbusch shook his head. “That kind of thing happens every day. A person gets a position, then three months later? Gone again. Maybe it’s a good thing you haven’t been competing for a top spot, bos—Max.”

  Heller smiled.

  “At least they were all out to lunch,” he said. “But this pushes that house search to the top of the list. Werner, go to the nearby station. Find a way back to headquarters. I’m going to locate Heinz Seibling. I think I know where to find him. Once I’ve taken care of that, I’ll find a phone and call you at the office. By then we should know more about the search warrant. Maybe you can help facilitate things. But be careful, Werner. No riot squads, you hear?”

  “All right. And maybe next time we’ll take the car after all.”

  February 8, 1947: Midday

  Traffic was backed up at the intersection of Görlitzer and Louisenstrasse. A streetcar rang its bell at people to clear the street. There were two soup kitchens here where people could get a meal for ration coupons and a few Reichsmarks. They started serving meals around eleven, at which time long lines had already formed. By noon, all the tubs and pots were mostly empty. This intersection had also developed into a good spot for exchanging information and rumors. No one trusted the Soviet-controlled papers. Here, everyone knew the score.

  Soviet headquarters didn’t like people gathering like this. In their paranoia, they immediately assumed a conspiracy or uprising. So the German heads of the People’s Police agreed to post a few policemen here to keep watch in the background.

  For small-time crooks like Heinz Seibling, curious kids, day laborers, and poor rascals, it was the best place in the city. Something was always happening here. There was always something to eat, and say, and steal, and entertainment was assured.

  Heller neared the intersection from Alaunplatz a few blocks north, where the morning black market had dispersed before blooming again in the evening. He knew he wasn’t likely to spot Seibling among the teeming crowds, but he wanted to give it a shot.

  Aromas of food rose up. Heller smelled turnip soup. It reminded him of that horrible turnip winter of 1917, when he had returned to Dresden, having just recovered from his wounds. For a few months, he, his mother and father, and millions
of others had lived on nothing but turnips. Turnip bread, turnip casserole, turnip soup, and even turnip jam. It was nearly reaching that point again, and, just like then, when almost a million people died of starvation, there were always a certain number of people who hoarded food like it was treasure. And yet now, despite believing back then that he’d never be able to touch a turnip again, the smell was making him hungry.

  Forcing his way to the front of the line was a hopeless endeavor; he’d get something to eat back at police headquarters, even though he didn’t know when that might be.

  Heller pushed his way through the throngs of people, looking for Seibling. A schoolboy passed by, and he nabbed him by the collar.

  “You see a man on crutches, a one-legged man?” he asked.

  The boy fought to get free.

  “Listen, I’m a cop,” Heller warned him.

  The boy gave in. “That clown, ya mean? He was just over there!”

  Heller let the kid go and headed in the direction he’d pointed, even though it was probably just a lie to get free.

  Fortunately, Heller did find his one-legged young acquaintance. Sure enough, Seibling was performing minor stunts on his crutches for a small group of neglected-looking children. Balancing acts, pirouettes. He still wore the old overcoat he’d had back in ’45, now completely worn out. A top hat rested on his head, and he’d drawn his clown face with ash, giving himself a big laughing mouth. A sad clown is what Heller saw. He stopped and watched awhile. Then Seibling recognized him.

  “Shoo, shoo, scram!” Seibling raised one crutch as if to swing at the kids, which made them laugh hysterically before scattering. He then swung around to Heller.

  “My dear Herr Heller,” he said, sounding genuinely delighted.

  “What’s with the getup?” Heller asked and slapped Seibling on his shoulder.

  “You do what you can.” Seibling winked.

  “This isn’t what you live off, though. You do still pilfer!” Heller said it as a joke, though he knew it was true.

  “What are you talking about? I’m a respectable citizen.”