Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  “This is Germany, Herr Green, not America. As you stated, I ask the questions; you answer.” Berg stuck his notepad into his jacket. “If I have more questions, I may visit you again.”

  “Sure, I’m not going anywhere . . . unless I’m kicked out of the country.”

  “Why would you be kicked out of the country?” Storf asked.

  “A lot of people in England are not too fond of your Munich Meister, Herr Hitler.”

  “He is not our Meister, Herr Green,” Berg said.

  “Not now . . .” Green pulled out a cigarette. “But the situation here, Inspektor, is a volatile one.”

  Berg opened the door and pointed to the hallway. After everyone had left the room, he shut the door. “Guten Abend, Herr Green.”

  “Don’t you Bavarians say . . . what is it? Pfueti?”

  “How about ‘good-bye’?” Berg said, speaking English.

  Green blew out a cloud of smoke, which wafted through the cold air and traveled down the dimly lit hallway. “By the way, the Hurlbutts are a very prominent Harvard-educated family from New England. Lord Robert or whoever the heck he is may have spent some time at Harvard . . . or at least in Cambridge . . . Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

  “Yes, I know that Harvard is in Massachusetts, Herr Green.” Berg paused. “Choosing that name Hurlbutt, sir . . . does that mean anything?”

  Green shrugged. “I don’t know, Inspektor. You’re the police, you figure it out.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Trying to plead a case that held few concrete clues and very little evidence, Berg used drama and feigned excitement to further his cause. By the expression on Volker’s face, it was a useless endeavor.

  Berg plodded on. “We are closing in, Herr Kommissar. Yesterday we discovered his apartment.”

  “Whose apartment?”

  “The suspect. He is using aliases.”

  Volker studied his nails, a practiced mannerism that showed he was bored. “So you do not know his true identity, much less know where he is right now.”

  Berg rubbed his hands together. A bitter wind rattled the ill-fitting windows and chilled the stone floors of the Ett Strasse station house. The country’s coal supply was strained; the mines had been stripped almost to the center of the earth. Suppliers were asking exorbitant prices. Volker and his family grew wealthier by the hour. Not surprisingly, the Kommissar was dressed in a fine woolen three-piece suit with a silk tie. Why the man continued to work as a public servant was anyone’s guess. Why the family didn’t support his sister with more than subsistence handouts was a dark mystery.

  “He’s been using the name Robert—Robert Schick and Robert Hurlbutt. We have no listing for either man yet, but—”

  “Is he English?”

  “He speaks English—”

  “That was not the question.”

  “Possibly he is a Russian who has learned English and German. We think he may have some diplomatic connections.”

  “That would not be good—”

  “Or maybe not,” Berg quickly added. “I just brought that up because it seems that the man may have spent some time in England or America.”

  “Accusing a diplomat of murder would be out of the question,” Volker told him. “I hope you understand that.”

  No one should be allowed to kill without consequences. Berg would simply have to explore the diplomatic possibility without Volker’s help. “Most likely, he is a bourgeois who has done some traveling.”

  Volker grew irritated. “I need to know if you’ve made significant progress beyond what you have told me.”

  “I think that is significant progress.”

  “Perhaps to you, but for others it is not enough.”

  “You are getting pressured, sir?”

  “I am accountable for answers, yes. But in the end I make decisions.” Said with ego and a hint of malevolence. Volker adjusted his tie, knotting it high on his throat, more for warmth than for vanity. “I’ve decided to go back to my original plan. Arrest Anton Gross for the murder of his wife, Anna. If people demand a reason why—and I suspect they won’t because Gross is a Jew—tell them that Anna was making a cuckold out of her husband. Moreover, she was pregnant with another man’s child. It was this last fact that sent Anton into a murderous rage.”

  Berg swallowed hard. It was early in the morning, and his throat was dry. This morning’s coffee was bitter, laced with cheap grain used as an extender. A little bit was tolerable, but Britta had used way too much. “And where is our proof of Anton’s guilt?”

  “You don’t need proof for an arrest, Axel. It is early, Herr Gross should still be home. You may take the Zweikraftrad rather than go on foot.”

  “And what about Marlena Druer?”

  “What about her?”

  “Are you telling me that her murder is independent of Anna Gross?”

  “Can you find something that links Anton Gross to Druer?”

  “Of course not. I cannot even find a link between Anna’s murder and Anton Gross. He was in bed the entire night.”

  “So Anton hired someone to do the nasty deed.” Volker took out a cigarette and lit up using an engraved silver lighter. He took a deep inhalation, then offered the cigarette to Berg.

  “Danke,” Berg said. The bastard! Volker knew how expensive such cigarettes were. He was trying to bribe him into compliance with a whiff of fine tobacco.

  Volker lit a fresh smoke for himself. “You will continue to investigate Druer’s murder. If your suppositions about Marlena and Anna dying at the same hand turn out to be true—and you find a reasonable suspect—we will release Anton Gross.”

  “And if he is executed before I can establish my case?”

  “Such is the fate of Jews, Axel. They are cursed from birth, but we Germans are civilized. We carry out the execution in a swift and painless manner. We are nothing if not efficient.”

  • • •

  “THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!” the butler cried out. “A complete and utter outrage!”

  “Now, now, Haslinger.” Gross reassured his servant with a pat on the shoulder from his gloved hand. “I am sure this terrible mistake will be rectified before the day is over.” He glared at Berg. “It is not enough that I have lost my wife? That I am still grieving for her? You have the audacity to accuse me of being her murderer?”

  Berg felt small. The best reply was none at all.

  “My attorney will have your job for this recklessness. I will have your head!”

  “I don’t think so, Herr Gross, and I would recommend that you cooperate.”

  Gross put on a dark wool overcoat. “I don’t understand why I must ride in that silly contraption of yours when I have a perfectly suitable car.”

  “Orders from Herr Kommissar Volker.”

  “He thinks I am going to escape?”

  “It is not my duty to question his orders, only to comply with them.”

  “Yes, God forbid a good man like you would question!”

  Berg flinched at the sarcasm. He took his charge’s arm, but Gross pulled away.

  “I can walk without an escort, thank you.”

  Haslinger, the ever-faithful butler, opened the door for his master. Quickly, he ran ahead and pushed the button for the elevator operator. There were tears in his eyes. “Do be careful, sir. Please. The climate in Munich is not at all favorable to . . .”

  He stopped short.

  “To Jews, you mean.” Gross smiled at his servant. “Yes, I know, Haslinger. And your loyalty to my household has been a source of light in these dark times.”

  The butler bowed his head. “Thank you, Herr Gross.”

  “Be strong, Haslinger, be strong.” The elevator door opened and Gross stepped inside, giving his servant a jaunty wave. To Berg, he said, “Are you coming, Inspektor?”

  Wordlessly, Berg entered the lift. The quick ride down was uncomfortable: The elevator operator’s eyes remained fixed on the buttons. Gross’s demeanor was expressionless.

  Outside, a sma
ll band of hoodlum teenagers wearing swastikas jeered as soon as they saw Gross. Berg helped Gross inside the sidecar of the Zweikraftrad, then glanced at the group of ruffians. The tallest of the young boys had a familiar face—long and red and pitted with acne. Lothar Felb, Volker’s nephew, was in the throes of puberty, beginning to develop a layer of muscle. That was truly worrisome. Lothar taunted Gross as if his actions were without repercussions, a stupid move considering his jaw still had a lump from the whack his uncle had given him a week ago.

  “Away with you now,” Berg shouted. “This is a police matter. Out of my way!”

  “This is a matter for the people!” Lothar shouted back. “Herr Hitler will see to it that justice is done.”

  Berg went up to Lothar until they were nose to nose. The lad’s breath stank of onions and cheap beer. Berg spoke quietly and pointedly. “Herr Hitler can mete out justice when Herr Hitler is in power. Right now, he isn’t in power. But your uncle is.”

  No one spoke.

  Berg said, “Out of my way, lad. Don’t be foolish.”

  Lothar didn’t back down. To avoid confrontation, Berg let the kid save face. He turned around and tended to his business.

  “Idiots,” he whispered. But Gross heard him.

  “It is idiots like you who urge them on.”

  “I suggest you watch who you are addressing.” Berg’s words rang hollow. He was getting nervous. The crowd was gaining in numbers. One of the boys picked up a small rock and hurled it at Gross, hitting him in the arm. The lawless act emboldened another to act accordingly. A bigger rock followed. Then another. Berg started the Kraftrad and bolted onto the street, hoping to speed away. Unfortunately, he was slowed down by roads clogged with pedestrians, bicycles, autos, wagons, taxis, and buses. The vagabonds dogged the motorcycle, running as they shouted epithets.

  “Jude! Jude!” the boys screamed.

  “Schmutziger Jude!”

  “Dreckiger Jude!”

  “Übler Jude!”

  Their obscenities attracted attention. The crowd grew steadily, swarming toward the Kraftrad as Berg frantically tried to steer it through the congested streets. If Berg had been on a single motorcycle, he could have dodged the hooligans easily. But with this vehicle’s cumbersome sidecar, it was hard to maneuver through the traffic. He began to worry about Gross’s safety.

  Damn Volker!

  Berg was forced to stop for a streetcar. The crowd swelled.

  “This has gone beyond absurd,” Gross protested. “I feel threatened. I’m leaving the car this instant!”

  A rock pelted Berg across the chest. “Stay where you are!”

  “And get stoned? How dare you!”

  “It’s for your own safety!” Berg called to the crowd to disperse immediately, but his shouts were drowned out by the mob’s booing. Without conscious thinking, Berg reached down for the pocketknife hidden in his boot, but before he could retrieve it, he was knocked in the chest by a rock. “Damn it!”

  “Yes, I see how safe you’re keeping me!” Gross ducked, barely escaping the path of a whizzing projectile. “Damn you and damn the police! I am getting out of here before these monsters kill us both!”

  Gross hoisted himself out of the sidecar.

  “He’s getting away!” screamed one of the hoodlums.

  “The Jude is trying to escape!” yelled another.

  “I’ve got the bastard!” Lothar Felb cried in delight. He pulled back his fist and punched Gross in the stomach. Berg jumped off the motorcycle and vaulted onto Lothar, clipping him across the chin. Lothar reared back and elbowed Berg hard in the ribs. Berg fell to his knees. Lothar and a buddy continued to kick him until he lay on the ground, prostrate, his arms over his face, his hands over his head. Finally, the kicking stopped, but that was only because he was being trampled to death, beaten and crushed by a malodorous pile of hot human flesh.

  He gasped and sputtered, his lungs begging for fresh air, his hands flaying about.

  I am not going to die like this, he told himself. Not without a fight! Using his limbs as weapons, he kicked and grabbed and poked and yanked until his eyes made out the cool gray mist of daylight. Clawing like a caged cat, he dug his way out of the human mass, using his fingernails as rakes as he gashed through clothing and skin. Once he had surfaced, he inhaled hungrily, and as he did, a sharp pain coursed through his lungs and chest. His nose was bleeding and so was his lip. As he ran his tongue across his teeth, he thanked God that he could feel his incisors still firmly rooted in his mouth. In the distance, Berg could hear the welcome sound of official horns blowing.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what he hoped was the police wagon. He was feeling woozy, barely able to stand on his feet. Abruptly, he felt an arm on his jacket. He pivoted around, and a tingling shiver went down his spine.

  Face-to-face, staring into calm blue eyes. Black hair, a long face, and a swatch of black mustache hiding a thin upper lip. “I would never sanction an attack on our good German police,” Hitler said to Berg. “Never!”

  “Just as you would never sanction a putsch!”

  Hitler’s brows narrowed, his nostrils flaring in indignation.

  “You sanction nothing but lawlessness.” Berg was suddenly aware that his speech was slurred.

  A smile formed on Hitler’s lips. “I sanction whatever is necessary to get rid of the enemies of our Fatherland. Make sure you are not counted among them.”

  “I hold you responsible for this!” Berg barked. He coughed sputum veined with blood.

  Hitler’s upper lip twitched. He turned to one of the youths and nodded.

  Without warning, Berg was grabbed by his coat collar and pulled upward. Before he could react, a granite-hard object thwacked his cheekbone. Immediately, he went light-headed, as his vision turned to pinpoints of light. His stomach turned into a pit of acid as bile wormed up through his esophagus. When his eyesight cleared, Berg realized he was looking at the world in blurred duplicate.

  But even through his compromised vision, he could make out the remnants of what was once Anton Gross, now a bloodied mass of flesh and pulp, unrecognizable as a living being. One of the Jew’s eyes dangled from its socket on the white twine of a nerve. The man’s nose had been crushed so hard, his face was now concave.

  That was the last image that burned in Berg’s brain before he blacked out.

  TWENTY-TWO

  In and out of a drug-induced stupor; mercifully, the pain lasted only for brief interludes. It took several days for Berg to wake up, for the medication to wear off sufficiently until he knew he was in a bad way. Head throbbing, his mouth caked with dust, each pulse of his heart sending waves of agony through his jaw. He blinked several times, then tried to swallow. When no saliva materialized to soothe his throat, he hacked drily, his temples pounding with each cough. He knew he wasn’t dead, but he felt as if he were.

  “Papa is up!” Monika shrieked. “Papa is up.”

  “Hush!” Britta scolded, then softened her tone of voice. “This is a hospital, dolly.”

  “Here, Papa.” Joachim brought a wet rag to his father’s mouth, moistening his lips, and wiping his face with filial love. With great effort, Berg hoisted his body upward until he was in a semireclined position. Monika smoothed his sheets as Britta propped up his head with soft pillows.

  “You want water, Axel?”

  The answer was yes, but Berg couldn’t move his head. He blinked because that was all he could do, and even that seemed Herculean.

  A needle in his arm was attached to an IV. That meant he was in a hospital ward. The muscles of his neck creaked as he slowly turned his head.

  Ten beds on each side, and all of them were occupied. Above the headboards hung wooden crucifixes; nuns in black habits and nurses in starched white uniforms scurried about—a life-size chessboard. As the grogginess lifted from his brain, he became aware of sounds . . . moans . . . groans . . . the soft sighs of weeping. Whispers crackled through the air like radio static. He freed his hand from u
nder the sheets and pointed to the water glass.

  Britta held the cup to his lips. “Sip slowly.”

  As if to sip any other way was an option. Feeling the cool liquid course down his parched throat, he nodded for more.

  Again, Britta offered the glass, but this time his thirst was greedy. Trying to make up for forty-eight hours of breathing hot, stale air.

  “Slowly, Axel,” Britta told him.

  Within a minute, he had finished the entire glass.

  “Good man,” he heard Müller say.

  Georg was here?

  “More water,” Berg said. His voice was tinny. It reverberated in the hollows of his skull.

  Britta held her hand to her face and tears leaked out. “It’s good to hear your voice, Axel.”

  “Water.”

  “Let me ask the nurse—”

  “Damn the nurse,” Berg responded. “More water.”

  “Das ist gut,” Storf told him. “He’s recovering quickly.”

  Georg and Ulrich were both here. For them to have come . . . had he been that close to the other side? Joachim poured water from a pitcher into the empty glass, then brought it to his father’s lips. Berg managed to take the vessel out of his son’s hands and into his own grip. “I’m fine,” he stated.

  His announcement was met with laughter from everyone except Britta. “You are not fine, Axel. You were beaten up, and you must stay in bed if you hope to recover.”

  “Horseshit!” Berg insisted. “How long have I been here?”

  “Talk slowly, Axel,” Storf told him. “Your jaw and lips are twice their size. It’s hard to understand your words.”

  “How . . . ?” Another swallow. “How long . . . have I been . . . here . . . in a hospital?”

  “You came in Monday morning; it’s now Wednesday,” Storf told him.

  “What some people won’t do to sleep late in the morning,” Müller said.

  Berg felt his lips break into a lopsided smile. His hand traced the topography of his jawline, his fingertips delicately moving over an enormous swelling. There were no bandages around the area. Though very tender and sore, his mouth had mobility. “It isn’t broken . . . my jaw?”