“Well done,” Müller said.
“Where’d you get the photograph?” Berg asked.
Storf sidestepped the question. “Her name is Marlena Druer. She’s from Berlin. She came down to visit family friends in Munich . . . the family Schulweiss. They haven’t seen or heard from her in three or four days. They never reported her disappearance to the police because it was not unusual for her to come and go as she pleased. The family tells me she was staying at a pension—Der Blumengarten in Giesing. I haven’t gone through the room. I thought we could all go together when we’re done with supper.”
“How did you find out about her?”
“I was lucky.”
“Good job,” Berg said. “Excellent, in fact.”
“Danke.” Storf finished his beer and smacked his lips. “I needed that.”
Müller poured him another round. “Drink up.”
“I will.” Storf sipped, then looked at Berg. “Is something wrong?”
“You have blood on you—”
“Blood? Where?”
“Something red on your neck.” Berg reached over and touched him right under the jawline. He wiped it away with his thumb. “Gone.”
“Nick yourself shaving?” Müller asked.
“It was lipstick.” Berg laughed and raised his stein to Storf. “To a man whose dedication to his bound profession knows no professional bounds.”
EIGHTEEN
Volker was listening with less than half an ear. The context of the speech was hackneyed and worn, but still Hitler kept going with force and energy as if he were delivering the diatribe for the first time, his blue eyes flashing something that was not quite human. The confidence that oozed from his voice belied the nervousness in his hands as he picked up a third roll from the bread basket, working it through his fidgety fingers and turning it into dust. Immediately, one of his devoted followers appeared, a boy not more than fourteen with bad acne and a bulging Adam’s apple. Whisk in hand, he brushed the bread crumbs from the tabletop into a plate. The Austrian was a meticulous man.
Osteria Bavaria was normally one of Volker’s favorite restaurants, featuring the cuisine of Italy, dishes lavished with wonderful cheeses, spices, exotic vegetables like artichoke hearts, and noodles in all shapes and sizes. Tonight’s special had been a superb veal parmigiana with fresh asparagus. The bistro sat in the heart of Schwabing and attracted many from the artistic community, along with Nazis who mistakenly fancied themselves as painters. On other days, Osteria Bavaria was filled with bohemians who might have thrown dinner plates at tonight’s speaker. But Hitler and the National Socialist German Workers Party had conned enough money from benefactors to rent out all the dining rooms for the party supporters. The man’s lecture ranged from topic to topic—from degenerate art to degenerate Jews.
The space was appointed with traditional Bavarian furnishings made from dark walnut and carved with southern German scrollwork. Brown leather booths were lit by the amber glow of electric lighting. There were fresh flowers on each table and sketches on the wall that extolled the thrill of the hunt. Oversize tankards and painted mugs were set on shelves and fireplace mantels. A roaring blaze had been set in each of the three hearths and still the stone building let in a draft. No matter. Whoever wasn’t made comfortable by the heat from crackling logs was warmed by alcohol.
Drumming his fingers against his pants leg, Volker glanced at his table companions: his immediate superiors, Direktor Max Brummer and Kommandant Stefan Roddewig, and their superior, assistant mayor Roderick Schlussel—a morose man in his fifties. Though Schlussel had outwardly forgiven Hitler for his 1923 misstep—a lapse in judgment that cost sixteen lives—he still did not fully trust the Nazi. Volker recognized the predicament the man was in. Schlussel and the government were forced to deal with the rising popularity of a very moody man, who shifted from charmer to lunatic within a heartbeat. Such unpredictability bore watching.
Hitler continued his ramblings for another ten minutes, then abruptly stopped. Without warning or explanation, he clicked his boot heels like a Prussian, gave a little bow, and, with legs extended at the knees, marched out the door before anyone knew he was through. Quickly, his attendants pulled napkins from their chins and followed, being caught off-guard by his sudden exit. His dinner—a plate of spaghetti with vegetables in tomato sauce—was left untouched.
After the entourage had left, Volker sat back and whispered to the ceiling, “My God, he’s long-winded!”
Roddewig leaned over to Volker and whispered, “Careful . . .”
“I’m not saying his points don’t have some merit,” Volker backtracked. “But I am suggesting that he could be more succinct.” But secretly he was relieved that Hitler spoke as long as he did. It meant that there was little time left for his superiors to discuss the two murder cases—and the lack of progress made by the police.
Schlussel sipped coffee laced with liqueur. “Yes, it is always preferable that things be done in a timely fashion.”
Leave it to the politician to make the pointed comment. Schlussel was a bald man with a long face. Spectacles were perched midway on his prominent nose. Ignoring the barb, Volker reached into his pocket and offered each of his dinner companions a cigar. Within minutes, the table was engulfed in foul-smelling smoke.
Schlussel persisted. “Were you aware that Herr Hitler mentioned the murders more than once?”
Volker retorted, “Distraction is the bread and butter of politics.”
“It is not a distraction, Martin, it is a reality,” the assistant mayor answered. “It’s on everyone’s mind. We cannot have Munich engulfed in panic.” Schlussel exhaled acrid fumes. “We need answers.”
Slowly, Volker turned to his companions, giving each one the full heat of his eyes. They both knew that Volker, although inferior in rank, held unmentioned power by virtue of his family wealth and position. His contributions to the police were also significant. Without his keen, organized mind, many of the recent police developments, including the newly formed Mordkommission, would have dissolved long ago in disarray. Most important, Volker had somehow managed to accumulate dirt on notable Munich politicians. It allowed him to operate as a maverick. His power was effective but only if he wielded it with subtlety. Too much greed and he’d wind up with a bullet in his back. “And what, gentlemen, would you propose that I do?”
No one spoke. Then Roddewig signaled the waiter for another brandy by holding up his glass. “What about Anton Gross?”
Again we are back to him? Volker said, “What about him?”
“Once again, I think it would be wise if you brought him in for questioning.”
“And how, Stefan, would you explain to the public Herr Gross’s connection to the newest murder victim, Marlena Druer?”
His query was met with resounding silence. Schlussel sipped his coffee. The haze of cigar smoke thickened.
Max Brummer finished the last of his apple schnapps and then spoke up. “Bring in Gross, then suggest that the two murders are unrelated. That way, at least we have a suspect for one murder.”
“But what if the killings are related?” Volker said.
“Since you don’t know one way or the other, it does no harm for us to assume they’re not,” Schlussel said. “Perhaps these killings are the Jewish conspiracy that Herr Hitler warns about: Jews killing their German wives.”
Volker tried to keep his temper. “Druer was not even married.”
“But from what you’ve told us, Martin, she was bohemian,” Brummer stated. “Maybe she was murdered by her Jewish boyfriend.”
“What Jewish boyfriend?” Volker said. “We are looking for a Russian, not a Jew.”
“How about a Russian Jew?” Roddewig suggested. “No matter what Stalin does, the Bolshevik Party continues to be flooded with them.”
“So if it is a Bolshevik Jew, let me find him,” Volker said.
“You may do that on your own time,” Schlussel told him. “In the meantime, it is not so hard to construct charges again
st Gross . . . that he, like many of his race, is infected with Lustmord, which compels him to swoop down on our virginal German women.”
“One minute Druer is a bohemian, the next moment she is the Virgin Mary.” Volker blew out a cloud of smoke and smiled. “With all due respect, gentlemen, I do believe that it would be more constructive to stop the perpetrator of the crimes than to blame it on the Jews.”
“But perhaps it is the Jews.”
“Fine,” Volker said. “If it’s the Jews, everybody will be happy. And even if it isn’t the Jews, we can find ways to blame the Jews. But right now, the best thing to do is to find the murderer because what we really want is for the crimes to be stopped.”
“They better be stopped,” Schlussel snapped. “This is just the kind of propaganda that Herr Hitler can use against our government. We can’t afford another putsch.”
“That’s not going to happen. If the Austrian fails again, he’ll be permanently discredited.”
“Ah, but what if he doesn’t fail?” Schlussel shook his head. “I think you’re being a bit naive, Martin.”
“So maybe we should blame the murders on Hitler’s minions before he blames them on us.”
“Go back to the Jews, Martin,” Brummer piped in. “Arrest Gross and put him in custody. When you find the real murderer, you can let him go.”
“I have no grounds on which to arrest him, Herr Direktor. We’ve gone through this before.”
Schlussel stared at him with hatred. “I must ask you, Hauptkommissar Volker. Is your reticence a sign of sympathy for the dogs?”
Volker smiled, although the corners of his mouth barely rose. “I don’t have sympathy, I don’t have antipathy, I am merely trying to solve a puzzling case.”
“One day you will be called on to take a stand!” Brummer preached.
“Perhaps one day, but not at this moment.”
Schlussel said, “Since you insist on being impartial, I’m afraid I’m going to give you a direct order, Herr Kommissar. Tomorrow morning I want you to arrest Anton Gross for the murder of his wife. I will make sure all the papers are notified. If Anton Gross turns out to be guilty of the crime, then we were one step ahead of the dog. If he is innocent, we’ll sort it out when we have a real suspect. But we need to calm down the public.” He turned to Brummer. “I hold you responsible for this.”
“It will be done.” Brummer regarded Volker. “And of course you have no trouble accepting these orders, Kommissar Volker?”
Volker was livid, but maintained his outwardly calm appearance. “If you order it, it will be done.”
“Good man,” Brummer said.
“Are we finished with our business?” Volker asked.
“In a hurry?” Schlussel asked.
“Just a bit uncomfortable,” Volker said. “I am full, more than a little drunk, and the room is filled with much hot air.”
Roddewig said, “I’ll walk you to your car, Martin.”
Volker was taken aback. “You need a lift, Stefan?”
“If you’re offering, I won’t say no.” Roddewig turned to the table. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us.”
Brummer said, “We’re having a meeting with the Scharnagl tomorrow. Ten o’clock sharp, Stefan.”
“I’ll be prompt,” Roddewig answered. “You know me, Max. You can set your watch by my arrival. Good evening.”
As soon as they were out the door, Volker said, “You were rather quiet tonight, Stefan. I would have thought that you’d enjoy a good witch hunt.”
“I don’t mind blaming Jews, but that really doesn’t solve the problem, does it? If the two murders are related, we have another possible Haarmann.”
“It’s only been two murders.”
“These types . . . they never stop at two. Look what’s happening in Düsseldorf. How many has the Vampire killed?”
Volker didn’t answer.
“The police over there look like inept fools. That will be us unless we find him.” A small smile rose to his lips. “Hitler will make political hay with this. I don’t think Herr Direktor realizes how precarious his position is right now.”
“Indeed.”
“In the meantime, arresting the Jew might get the public’s mind off of murder long enough for your boys to find the real culprit.”
“That would be nice.”
“Yes, it would be nice.” Stefan nodded. “Gute Nacht, Martin.”
“You don’t want a ride?”
“Right now, I’d prefer to walk. It helps me think.”
• • •
MARGOT’S FINGERTIPS brushed the bruise on her cheek as her eyes peered into the dull mirror of an old compact. Though the pain was gone, it had turned ugly—a jaundice-yellow inkblot in the middle of her face. She wanted to cry out in protest, but to whom could she possibly complain when the source of the indignities both external and internal was a man who had sworn an oath to protect Munich’s citizens?
Brief thoughts entered her mind. She wondered why he had become so nasty of late and with so little provocation. Normally she would think it had something to do with the two murdered women, but his rage had begun weeks before. Margot suspected he was jealous.
Idiot.
They are all idiots.
Still, he had his good points. He was strong. He was handsome. More important, he was powerful. He had connections, and he had used them to help her out in the past. When those swine at work were tormenting her, all she had to do was mention it once. They hadn’t bothered her since.
It was good to know someone like that, because she was a Jewess.
In the end, it was worth the intermittent outbursts and the occasional welt. Besides, what couldn’t be rationalized away was hidden behind the application of makeup. With deft hands, Margot dipped the powder puff into her compact and dabbed a fresh pink cover over the hideous discoloration, smoothing out the blotches with her fingers.
Almost as good as new.
Almost was acceptable.
NINETEEN
Der Blumengarten Rooming House for Women was a two-story wooden structure, one of the many broken buildings that littered the southern area of the city. Fronted by a mud-filled rut that, in drier times, passed as a lane, the place was badly in need of repair. Some shutters were missing slats, rot had settled into the steps of the porch, and paint was peeling from the wood siding. It could easily have been mistaken for a notorious “cigarette room,” but the proprietor had put up an additional sign stating FOR PROPER LADIES ONLY. Most of the units had been rented to long-term residents, but two ground-floor flats were let out at weekly rates.
The lobby was little more than a front desk, and everyone—tenant as well as guest—was required to sign in and sign out. Tending the register was an English lady named Ruth Baylor, a desiccated old woman with gray hair that had been knotted into a tight bun. She was initially inattentive, but her indifference was shattered as soon as Berg, Müller, and Storf pulled out their police identifications.
Flipping through the pages of the guest book, Frau Baylor confirmed that Marlena Druer had signed out four days ago, at three-thirty in the afternoon to be exact, and as of yet, had not signed back in. Since she had paid two weeks’ rent in advance, and since two weeks had not elapsed, Frau Baylor saw no reason for alarm.
“And what is this about?” she finally asked.
“We need to look in Fräulein Druer’s room.” Berg looked around. Why someone like Marlena Druer—a woman of supposed means—had chosen to stay in such an establishment was an interesting subject of speculation.
Consternation spread across the Englishwoman’s face. “For what reason? Is she in trouble?”
“No, madam, she is not,” Storf replied.
“Then why are the police here?”
Since the morning papers hadn’t identified the newest body, Berg decided to lie for convenience. “We were told that she was looking for a specific item of importance. It might have been left behind in her room.”
“What item i
s that?” Frau Baylor asked.
“That is all we’re allowed to divulge, madam,” Müller broke in.
Berg said, “Am I correct in assuming that no one has disturbed the room since Fräulein Druer left?”
“But of course! I run an honest establishment.”
“Then you’ll not mind escorting us to her room?”
Frau Baylor hesitated. It was then that her English heritage showed itself. A true German woman wouldn’t have stalled when given an implied order.
“Bitte?” Berg requested.
Slowly, the woman rose from her desk and retrieved a ring of skeleton keys hanging on the wall behind her. “Come this way.”
The trio followed her down a dark hallway, trampling on a wood floor that creaked under the weight of human travel. Using the weak illumination of a gas wall sconce, Frau Baylor took several tries to find the correct key. Since it was evening, the chamber was dark. Frau Baylor lit two kerosene lamps that bathed the room in a flickering orange glow. The fuel gave off a stale odor. It took several moments for Berg’s eyes to adjust. When they did, he gave the room a quick look around, eyes traveling floor to ceiling. A decent amount of space, enough for a bed, a chair, and a cluttered desktop—books, papers, pamphlets, and a Remington 2 model typewriter.
The Englishwoman arched her brow, eyes affixed on the printed material strewn across the desk. As her hand inched toward one of the pamphlets, Berg blocked it with his body. “Thank you, Frau Baylor, you may leave. I know you must get back to your duties, looking after your women . . . and their guests.” Berg smiled. “My men and I can conduct the rest of the search without inconveniencing you.”
Frau Baylor took a step back, arms folded across her chest. “And how do I know that you will not steal anything?”
Berg conjured mock outrage. “Are you accusing the police of misbehavior?”
There was a moment of stiff silence. Without responding, Frau Baylor turned on her heels and stomped out. The men waited a few moments, then attempted to stifle spontaneous laughter.
“What a witch!” Storf said.
“Nothing that a good ramming couldn’t change,” Müller added.
Straight into Darkness Page 14
