Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  “I suppose telling you to go away would do no good.”

  His accent was that of an educated Bavarian even though his look exemplified Prussian. He was tall with a sharp nose and as bald as an egg. Deep blue eyes were set behind rimless spectacles.

  “No, sir, it will not do you any good whatsoever.” Berg glanced over his shoulder. “Perhaps it would be better if we could speak inside, out of sight of your neighbors.”

  “They can’t see over the shrubbery,” the tall man answered. “Nevertheless, there’s no point in being rude, seeing as this conversation is bound to take place one way or the other. You may come in.”

  The door swung open. Berg stepped into a vestibule steeped in light: such a rarity for Munich in the early spring. The floor was white marble tiles with diamond-shaped black inserts at the corners, but most of it was covered by a silken Oriental rug woven in jeweled colors—deep blues, royal golds, and rich reds. Directly ahead was the great room with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased spring trees abloom with white and pink flowers. The furniture was beautifully appointed and beautifully crafted—a symphony of exotic woods and stunning marquetry. The fireplace screen was the most magnificent ironwork that Berg had ever seen.

  “Edgar Brandt,” the man said. “This way.”

  Berg followed the man into a gentleman’s parlor, not at all typical of Germany, let alone Bavaria. The walls were papered in concentric designs of orange and green, the furniture sleek, thin, and tall, echoing the skyscrapers heralded by this modern age. Furniture that was much more suited to New York where actual skyscrapers existed. The rug that covered the dark wood planks was a swirling whirlpool of muted green eddies. The artwork—oils, sketches, drawings, and prints by Kandinsky, Klee, Picasso, Channel, Fencer, and Matisse—was as modern and as fine as that found in any gallery in Paris. Berg couldn’t help but be momentarily distracted by such wealth and taste.

  “You approve, Herr Inspektor?”

  The tone was slightly mocking. Berg turned around. “In my opinion, you have a wonderful eye.” His own eye settled on an Otto Dix oil. Like the artist’s war series, the Lustmord paintings were graphic and violent. This particular piece, done in Cubist primary colors, featured a mad, murderous fiend in a top hat, snickering over a floating naked woman with truncated limbs. How he wished Professor Kolb were here. “However, there are some who might consider such outlandish works to be violent and degenerate.”

  The man’s laugh was snide. “Then those in the know will have to educate them.”

  Berg didn’t comment, his face remaining bland. The man offered Berg a seat in an enormously large, rosewood-framed, black leather chair. It was one of a matched set. “Rolf Schoennacht.” He clicked his heels by way of introduction. “I’m guessing that this nasty business has something to do with the murder of my wife’s ex-seamstress.”

  “Then you’d be guessing correctly.” The man was still standing. Berg had to crane his neck to look at him as he spoke. “I am familiar with your name, but I don’t know from where.”

  “I often write for the Völkischer Beobachter.”

  “Ah, yes. The Völkischer Beobachter.”

  “You are familiar with the paper?”

  “I read everything. I try to keep an open mind.”

  “A fine quality, Inspektor.” Finally, Schoennacht sat down in the matching chair and propped up his long legs on a zebra-skin ottoman. “It is merely an amusement, my writing. It doesn’t require a great deal of time. And anything I write is at least literate . . . which is more than I can say for most of the current trash that is printed.” He shook his head. “If Hitler is to get anywhere, he must do better in the propaganda department.”

  Berg nodded. “Interesting. I would not have guessed that you were a supporter of Herr Hitler, certainly not with this art.”

  “I certainly don’t agree with Herr Hitler’s taste in art. Nor do I like the thugs and hoodlums that give the Nazis a bad name, but I do like what he has to say about honor and loyalty. And I think he has some fine ideas about how to improve such virtues.”

  “While I would love to address what virtues you speak of, I unfortunately must address this nasty business of murder.”

  “Regina Gottlieb.” Schoennacht almost spit out the name.

  “You did not like her?”

  “I do not like any Jew. And I was particularly peeved at my wife for using her, a Jewess, when there are so many good German women out of work. I insisted that Julia fire her and hire one of our own.”

  “You did not know she was a Jew when she started working for your wife?”

  “No, of course not. She didn’t look particularly . . . I didn’t think my wife would be that stupid. So there you have it. Never underestimate the stupidity of women.”

  Berg looked out the window at what appeared to be an orchard of fruit trees covered with blossoms. Then he fixed his eyes on Schoennacht. Several faint scratches at the base of his jawline extended downward until they were hidden by his ascot. “What happened to your face?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The scratches?”

  His fingers flew to his face. “Ach, that’s what you get for using a dull razor.”

  Schoennacht’s face betrayed nothing. Berg said, “May I ask where you were on the night of the murder?”

  The tall man smiled. “And what is the purpose of that question? Do you think I’d risk the law to kill a sewer rat? Not that I think there should be a law against killing sewer rats.”

  “I respectfully ask that you answer the question.”

  “I was home.”

  “All night?”

  “Yes, all night. Anything else?”

  “Yes, Herr Schoennacht, there is more. Please indulge me. You were home all night. Is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts that night?”

  “My wife, of course.” His look was hard. “My valet.”

  “I would like to speak to both of them.”

  “I have no problem with your speaking to Helmut, but you’ll have to come back later. He is very busy right now, packing three weeks’ worth of clothing for my upcoming business trip to Paris and New York. It is quite the ordeal.”

  “And what kind of business demands such travel, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

  Schoennacht smiled. “I am an art dealer.”

  “Ah. Now your collection makes sense. You have clients in The States?”

  “I have many clients all over the world.” He stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Berg didn’t budge from his seat. “When may I talk to him . . . your valet?”

  “I am scheduled to leave this evening. Come back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Very good,” Berg said. “And your wife?”

  Schoennacht shook his head. “I will not have you upsetting my wife. Her constitution is delicate, and she has been near hysteria after finding out about Regina’s murder. She hadn’t spoken to the Jewess since she fired her. There is no sense risking her health for your satisfaction.”

  “I understand your concerns, sir. I can be very sensitive, I assure you.”

  Schoennacht puckered his lips in distaste. “You may not be with her while I’m not at home. Come back in three weeks when I return from my business trip.”

  “That, I’m afraid, will not work. Exigency makes it necessary for me to speak with her before you leave. That would mean today. And since I’m here already, now would seem like a good time.”

  “And if I refuse to let you speak to her?”

  “I don’t see why you’d want to do that, Herr Schoennacht. It reflects poorly on you, refusing to cooperate with public servants.”

  “That is true. You are very much a public servant!”

  Berg didn’t respond.

  “Very well.” Again Schoennacht’s fingers caressed his scratches. “I will speak with my wife and let you know if an interview is feasible.”

  “Thank you, sir. The sooner I ask my questions, the sooner I can leave you al
one to attend to your business.”

  “Yes, that would be a very good thing,” Schoennacht pronounced.

  • • •

  AN HOUR PASSED without word from Schoennacht. Berg didn’t care. During that time, he was offered hot tea and a platter of cakes. Refusing would have been impolite. Then, embarrassingly enough, he found that he was hungry, and it took effort not to finish off the entire tray. He had made himself very comfortable in this big chair with big armrests of wood. Too comfortable. He had to fight to stay awake. Finally, the mistress of the house came in, accompanied, of course, by her husband.

  Julia Schoennacht was a beautiful woman with hair piled adroitly atop her head in a style reminiscent of Victorian England . . . a snub at the modern cuts of today. Her chignon was formal and elaborate, and Berg decided it must be a hairpiece, but a good match to her ash-blond locks. Her eyes were the palest blue, her nose was delicate and thin, and her creamy skin was as smooth as alabaster. She wore a long-sleeved, simple dress, maroon in color with the hemline of the flared skirt dipping just below the knee. Her calves were shapely, her wrists and hands fragile with the long, graceful fingers of a pianist. Berg stood up, and she answered him with a nod.

  Rolf said, “Madame Schoennacht has consented to answer a few questions. Please be brief as she’s not feeling well.”

  “Do sit, madam,” Berg said.

  She did, then folded her hands in her lap and waited. Schoennacht took the other chair, leaving Berg to stand. To stand was fine with him.

  “I would like to know when was the last time you saw Regina Gottlieb,” Berg began.

  The hands tightened, blanching the knuckles. “It was quite a while ago.”

  Her voice was light and sweet and tinged with a French accent. Her words, however, were a bald lie. He could tell by her manner and the fact that she averted her eyes from his face. Furthermore, Professor Kolb had told him more than once to look at the pupils when people spoke. The pupils of liars often dilate. For a moment, hers had widened, turning her eyes dark and mysterious. Professor Kolb had also told Berg that dilated pupils indicated sexual interest. In this regard, Berg knew he was flattering himself. He smiled inwardly.

  Schoennacht piped in, “So there you have it. She hasn’t seen the Jewess in a long time. I don’t know what more she can tell you.”

  Berg looked at Julia. “Madam, women seem to have an intuitive nature about other women. Might it be possible to ask you for your impressions of Frau Gottlieb?”

  Schoennacht said, “This is all nonsense.”

  Berg shot back, “It might be, Herr Schoennacht, but please let me be the judge. And as this might involve some personal things about Frau Gottlieb, I would like to talk with your wife privately. Not long . . . maybe ten minutes at the most.”

  “I will not allow that.”

  Julia sighed. “It’s all right, Rolf.” She smiled at him ever so sweetly. “I won’t melt, my darling.”

  Schoennacht pinkened. “I’m just thinking of your welfare.”

  “I know, Rolf, you always think of me first.” She looked squarely into his eyes—a hardness that Berg hadn’t noticed until now. “Ten minutes.”

  “Certainly.” Berg waited for Rolf Schoennacht to leave. He was slow in moving and more than a little irked by his wife’s boldness. Still, he hoisted himself out of the big black leather chair with the rosewood frame and closed the parlor door without slamming it. Berg started to talk, but Julia held up her hand to silence him.

  “The last time I saw Regina was almost a month ago. The woman was hardworking, honest, and very good. You’d be surprised at how many lazy people there are these days even with jobs being so hard to find. But Rolf insisted that I let her go. I wasn’t pleased.”

  She began to wring her hands.

  “And I would have acquiesced except I really did need a blue gown. And I just couldn’t find anyone as talented . . . not among these German women.” A look of distaste. “I am from Paris so I am more discerning than the average Bavarian Dame. I know I am certainly more tolerant than those around me. I don’t care one way or the other about Jews. They don’t bother me as long as they work well and are honest. Rolf is more forthright in his opinion of Jews as an inferior race. He really didn’t want anything to do with them even if it meant shoddy work that cost more money.”

  She let her hands drop into her lap.

  “What I am going to tell you has to be kept a secret, Inspektor. Do we understand each other?”

  “Absolutely.” Berg added encouragement. “Please, I am very trustworthy.”

  She smiled angelically. “Inspektor, men are never trustworthy!”

  Berg lowered his eyes. “What is it you want to tell me, Madame Schoennacht?”

  “As I have stated, I really did need this blue gown. Le Comte Boucher is to hold a weekend gala in his château in the Alps, and it was imperative that I have the finest that money could buy. Not for me, but for Rolf. The count is one of Rolf’s biggest clients.”

  There was the French accent again. Biggest came out as beegest.

  “I wasn’t going to go looking like a ragamuffin. The night of her murder, Regina was coming here to show me a sample of her work. But she failed to keep the appointment. I was very peeved. Rolf was out, and I needed to sneak her in.”

  A pause.

  “Except now I realize why she didn’t keep the appointment.” Her eyes watered for a moment. “This is just terrible!”

  “So you didn’t see her that night.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Again, she started wringing her hands. “And I don’t know why she or her family would say that I owed her wages. I hadn’t ordered anything. If she made a dress in anticipation of my buying it, that wasn’t my doing. I’m not required to pay for it. They should not be hounding me, especially because I had been most generous with Regina.”

  Not to be outdone by Professor Kolb’s fascination with Freud, Berg jumped in with his own conclusions. “You are constantly kneading your hands, madam, as if you are washing them. Is anything wrong?”

  “Yes, there is something wrong! A woman who worked for me was murdered.”

  “And that makes you nervous?”

  Julia dropped her voice to a whisper. “Regina was wearing an evening dress. Not that I had ordered it, but the woman did know my taste. Perhaps she came to show me a finished product. She knew I was sneaking her in.”

  “Ah . . . and you think it is possible that someone mistook her for you?”

  “I would not like to think about it, but maybe I should think about it.”

  “And who would want to harm you?”

  “My husband is a man of loud opinions. The city is rife with subversive Kosmopoliten—Jews, Kommunisten, Gypsies, homosexuals, and licentious Negro dancers who wear nothing but fans. Who knows what these perverts are thinking?”

  So much for the tolerant Frenchwoman. Berg wished his city had such diversity. “This is Munich, madam, not Berlin. I see many more Brownshirts than perverts.”

  “That is true.” Julia sighed. “I wish they’d all just go away.”

  Berg steered the conversation back to the topic. “You say your husband was out that evening?”

  “He was at one of his clubs.”

  “Which one?”

  She shrugged.

  “Herr Schoennacht told me he was with you.”

  Julia looked up in surprise. “Well, yes, he was with me after he came home from the club.”

  What the man had actually told him is that he had been with his wife the entire night. So many bald lies. Berg said, “And what time would that have been?”

  He could see the look in Julia’s eye—an expression that was hesitant to say the wrong thing. She hedged. “Not late, but I’m not quite sure I remember the exact time. Herr Schoennacht could tell you better than I.”

  “Perhaps his valet might remember?”

  “Helmut? Maybe. When Herr Schoennacht comes back late, Helmut isn’t always here to do his evening toilet. No m
atter . . .” A wave of the hand. “I am sure that Herr Schoennacht is capable of removing his clothes all by himself.”

  Said with a tint of anger. What was lurking behind the loyal-wife facade?

  The door opened and Rolf Schoennacht strutted in. His eyes went from Julia’s face to Berg, then back to Julia. “Are you all right, my darling?”

  She clasped her hands tightly. “Actually, I do feel a bit light-headed.”

  Rolf said, “You’ll have to leave now. My wife is quite shaken, and all these questions are quite injurious to her fragile health.”

  This time, Julia nodded emphatically. Her cheeks had become a shade paler. Her husband helped her up and took her arm. His voice was low and angry. “This wasn’t helpful, Inspektor.”

  “I apologize for the intrusion, Herr Schoennacht.”

  “You damn well should apologize.”

  “Rolf, there is no need for profanities.”

  “I’m sorry, my love.” He glared at Berg. “You must go. The help will show you out.”

  “I can find my own way, sir.”

  “I’m sure that is true. After all, you are a servant.” He smiled. “Public servant, private servant. You’re all the same small-minded mentality.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  It was a simple lunch of wurst and cabbage, but everything was tastier when enjoyed under the sun. White plumes of clouds rolled through aqua skies, and the wind was fresh and crisp. Since it was before eleven, Berg had decided on weisswurst, and the pale sausage went down as smooth as butter. He had chosen a local beer, Kochelbräu, the label featuring the jolly Schmied von Kochel, a favorite character in Bavarian tales. The brew was served ice-cold and with a good head.

  Squinting as he looked up at a partially masked sun, his eyes bleached from the intense rays, Berg returned his focus to the faces of his colleagues. Georg was happily munching away; Ulrich wasn’t hungry but elected to sip beer and stare at the parade of humanity that passed by the open-air café.

  “Schoennacht lied about being in his house all night,” Berg started off. “His wife claims he was at a club for part of the evening. He certainly had enough time to murder Regina Gottlieb and scrub up before he went home. He also has a few scratches on his face.”