Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  “Yours?” Berg asked.

  “That so-called Cubist one, yes.”

  “It’s very good.”

  “Actually it’s dreadful,” the old man said. “I did it twenty years ago and keep it up to remind me of my limitations. Humility is good. The traditional art is my father’s work.”

  Berg’s brain suddenly sparked. “Lukas Krieger?”

  The old man shrugged.

  “Ah, Oskar Krieger.” Berg hit his forehead. “The poet.”

  “Poet, playwright, author . . . I am called all three and still cannot pay my bills. I sell off my father’s paintings one by one. Thank God he was prolific; otherwise I would be languishing in debtors’ jail.”

  “Your father and Lenbach . . . they were in competition for the longest time, no?”

  “‘Competition’ isn’t quite the right word.”

  “Rivalry?”

  “More like utter hatred.” Krieger laughed and took out a cigarette from a case. “How does a policeman know so much about art and poetry?”

  “It is a personal interest of mine.”

  “You are in the wrong job, my man.”

  “As you said, it pays the bills.”

  “Right you are.” He offered Berg a lit cigarette. “Sit down. I will boil water for tea.”

  “You needn’t go to any trouble.”

  “Nonsense, I was about to take tea myself.” He disappeared into the kitchen and came back several minutes later. He had smoked his cigarette down to the butt and was in the process of lighting up another one. “My father . . .” Krieger began as he blew out smoke. “He abhorred the way the Academy was going—or not going—and of course, blamed it all on Lenbach. Papa was a Frenchman at heart. He was great friends with all the painters of light—Renoir, Monet, Degas, Seurat, Pissarro.”

  “Did you grow up in France?”

  “No, not at all. Papa’s behavior was incompatible with marriage, you see, too much interest in too many women. Mama and I were left to fester with resentment in Berlin. Then the Franco-Prussian war broke out. The Prussians considered my father French, and the French considered him German. He fled to Switzerland where he alternated between being French and being German, depending on what was expedient.”

  Krieger broke into unrestrained laughter.

  “I was drafted and fought for Prussia. The ignominy of it all . . . I was captured by the French . . . probably one of the only prisoners they got. They left me to rot in one of their miserable dungeons in the Bastille. My diet consisted of rotten turnips and infected water. I contracted cholera and almost died on two separate occasions. Somehow I survived. My father got word of my incarceration and managed to fabricate some official French seals and forge some papers. It was easy enough for him to do: He was a masterful artist, after all.”

  More laughter.

  “Good old Papa. He rescued me under false pretenses hidden by the cloak of night. Of course, by that time the Prussians had thoroughly annihilated Louis-Napoléon’s army. I was liberated and whisked back to Prussia.”

  “So what brought you to Munich?” Berg asked.

  The teakettle whistled.

  “One moment and I will tell you.” He left and returned with a tray holding two glasses of bronze-colored tea, lemon slices, and sugar cubes. He placed the tray on the couch, then propped one of the sugar cubes between his teeth as he sipped tea through it. “Ah . . . the only thing that interrupts my smoking. Please sit.”

  Berg looked at the chair, the mountain of books that covered the seat.

  “Just put them anywhere,” Krieger said.

  Berg put the tomes on the floor, picked up the glass of tea, and sipped the steaming liquid. Then he sat down. “Thank you. It feels good.”

  “Yes, it is chilly in here. I can’t get the blasted radiator to work . . . it’s either too hot or too cold. I think it’s the draft that comes up from the Bach.”

  “It’s a nice view.”

  “The view is lovely. The smell in the summertime is not. Ah well, Venice in the summer stinks as well.” He took another healthy swig of tea. “What brought me to Munich? Well, my friend, that is a long and twisted tale with many stops along the way: Paris, Rome, Venice, Salzburg, Prague . . . oh, those Bohemian women. At the turn of the century, Munich was a vibrant and cultural city, at the forefront of art and literature, liberal in spirit and in population. In my mind, I came to Munich strictly as a stopover, but secretly I confess that I felt homesick. I missed my language and my culture. That stopover has lasted thirty-five years.”

  “What convinced you to stay here?”

  “Circumstances. When the Great War broke out, I couldn’t exactly go back to France. They did not look fondly on Germans.” He grinned. “I didn’t mind. All those poor young men being shipped off to Belgium. As an older gent, I was only too happy to offer solace and comfort to the hapless women left behind.” He winked. “I was very discreet and very good, which made me popular among those who desired my company.” He lit up a cigarette. “Ah, isn’t it nice to be freed from tobacco rations.”

  Berg nodded. “You’ve been in Munich for thirty-five years?”

  “I am ashamed to admit it, Herr Inspektor, but yes, I have been here for thirty-five years.” Another sip of tea, another puff on the cigarette. “My father is, no doubt, turning over in his grave. He was most certain that I would wind up in Paris as he did. Of course, Paris is glorious, beautiful, a city beyond compare. I love Paris!” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “It’s just the French I detest. Of course, one can hardly blame the French for hating the Germans . . . all the havoc we wreaked on their soil.”

  “Blame Schlieffen for that.”

  “Schlieffen created the plan, yes, but it took the German government to put it into action . . . thanks to those miserable Austrians for inveigling us into their domestic troubles. These times are especially disconcerting, since it appears that yet another Austrian is going to lead us into a big, black hole.”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  Krieger sighed, shaking his head. “I’ve lived a long time. I have a feeling about that man. Austria has always been the bane of our existence. Either their royalty is getting assassinated or they are exporting their maniacs to us. That’s why the Austrian Freud invented the inferiority complex—he was speaking from direct experience.” He regarded Berg. “You never did state why you are here.”

  “Have you lived in this apartment building for the last thirty-five years?”

  “I have.”

  “Then perhaps you remember a family—their surname was Schick. They lived in 3B.” When Krieger’s eyes remained flat, Berg said, “I realize that this was a long time ago. They had a little boy named Rupert—”

  “Ah, yes, yes, of course! Della, yes?”

  Berg could barely hide his excitement. “Yes, Della . . .”

  “A lovely woman.”

  When he turned silent, Berg said, “What else can you tell me about her?”

  Krieger appeared deep in thought. “A very sad woman, Inspektor. Like a caged bird, not at all fit for the confines of hearth and home.”

  “In what way?”

  The old man grew quiet, his eyes focusing on pictures taken long ago. “Well . . . I remember the little boy, yes? She’d often take him for a stroll in the buggy. Several times I would run into her at the park. There she was . . . sitting on a bench, weeping, her small shoulders heaving up and down. Of course, her crying caused the baby to cry. Often, she was so upset that she wouldn’t even pick up the infant to comfort him. The poor woman had no one to talk to. Every once in a while, I’d invite her in for tea, but she wouldn’t stay long. Her presence in my apartment would garner too much gossip. Not that the neighbors needed an excuse to dish out the dirt. They would never dare to confront her face-to-face with their accusations, but how they chirped behind her back.”

  “What did they say?”

  He waved his hand in the air. “That she was American and had loose moral
s.”

  “Was it true?”

  Krieger laughed. “Maybe yes, maybe no. It didn’t really matter. The women were very provincial. They thought that all American girls were schemers, with their short hair and their flapper skirts and their moonshine. Their purpose in life was to attract a rich man to marry them so they could push around servants and smoke their cigarettes.”

  “Libertine.”

  “Exactly the way I like them!” Again the old man let go with riotous laughter. “And Josephine Baker dancing around in banana skins didn’t dispel the image either. I saw her once . . . not here, of course. I went to Berlin. She had such lovely dark skin and such a beautiful big rear end. I do believe the German women were frightened of the Niggerlippen—as if a dusky complexion were catching. I wish it were so.”

  “Was Della a libertine?”

  “I wouldn’t know from direct experience. I was always the gentleman with her—no sense fouling your own nest. I will tell you this, Inspektor. She adored that little boy. He was very cute and very smart . . . with a head of tousled straw and quite tall.” Krieger cleared his throat. “His appearance was . . . at odds with his father, who was dark and short. Which caused tongues to wag even more than when she first moved in.”

  “I see,” Berg said.

  Krieger smiled impishly. “I must say Della kept those hens cackling. They used to whisper the word because they were too embarrassed to say it out loud.”

  “What word was that? That the child was a bastard?”

  “Worse than a bastard,” Krieger said. “Della was divorced.”

  Berg licked his lips, feeling his heart pound against his chest. “Della Weiss had been married before?”

  Another puff on the cigarette. Another smile. “Yes, she was a fallen woman.”

  “Do you know to whom?”

  “Some prig that looked like he had a walking stick jammed up his arse! Nobody liked him. The neighbors would clack . . . you know, say things like ‘Who could blame her for not wanting to live with him as husband and wife! But she didn’t have to go to such extremes and get divorced!’ And of course, when she remarried so quickly, it really started the rumors flying. Especially because the child was born only eight months after she married.”

  “Babies don’t always come out according to plan. It happens.”

  “Yes, but then the baby is usually not four kilograms.”

  “So . . . she was carrying on before she married a second time.”

  “It appeared that way. And then when the child looked neither like her first husband nor like the second one, it was very, very scandalous. You must remember the times weren’t quite so forgiving as they are now.”

  “I see.”

  “Despite it all, Herr Schick appeared to be very good to her—as best I can recall—and she was good to him. I think they had a good marriage. Rupert was a very cute little boy. I think he helped ease the pain of her first marriage. It was a terrible thing . . . what her ex-husband did.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He bribed the doctor to testify that she was an unfit mother. Which she wasn’t.”

  “Why would he care? Especially if the child wasn’t his?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Rupert he cared about. It was her other boy, her other son.”

  Berg felt his heartbeat quicken. “She had a son by her first husband?”

  “Yes . . . I believe he was around ten when she remarried. I saw him only once, when a nanny brought him to visit her. I’m sure her husband wasn’t aware of it. The child, like his mother, was such a sad little boy: a sad boy and a sad mother. What a pity.”

  “Do you remember the name of Della’s first husband?”

  The old man thought a moment. “No. Sorry.”

  Berg started with the least likely suspect. “Was it Leit? Or maybe Johannsen?”

  A shrug. “I don’t know if I ever knew her first husband’s name. But I do remember the name of the little boy. Della introduced us. He was such a serious little gentleman. He’s probably a stiff by now—like his father.”

  Berg tried to hide his nervousness. “What was his name, Herr Krieger?”

  “Ah, yes. His name, he announced to me, was Rolf.”

  “Rolf Schoennacht?”

  “Rolf Schoennacht? The art dealer?” Krieger appeared stunned. “Herrjemine, are you saying that the child was Rolf Schoennacht?”

  It was Berg’s turn to shrug.

  “That would be amazing. Schoennacht specializes in modern art, does he not?”

  “Yes, that is his concentration.”

  Krieger’s eyes were filled with amazement. “Who would have thought such a stiff and sad little boy would turn out to be so progressive in his tastes?”

  Berg smiled thinly. “His tastes may be progressive, Herr Krieger, but his thoughts are anything but. He’s a fan of the Austrian.”

  “That’s too bad, but not unexpected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Krieger shrugged. “That’s what happens when one’s denied maternal love. All of us men need that motherly tit. And when we don’t get it, woe to the world. Lack of tit, my friend, is what turns men into monsters.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Birth certificates were more easily accessible than address registries. Still, the wheels of bureaucracy ground slowly, requiring Berg to fill out another set of forms and wait for approval. It wasn’t until the following morning that the curvaceous redhead located the requested birth certificate.

  “How is your colleague?”

  “I haven’t stopped by the hospital this morning.”

  She studied his face. “Rough night?”

  Berg’s smile told her nothing. Sleep was a series of nightmares. After several hours of dealing with the devil, he finally gave up. Right now, coffee was stoking the engine. How long that would last was anyone’s guess. He put a thermos down on the wood-scarred table. “I have my tea. I’m fine.”

  “It is verboten to drink in here, Herr Inspektor. You might spill on the documents.”

  Berg held back a sigh. “All right.”

  “I’ll turn my back, Herr Inspektor.” The redhead raised an eyebrow. “Just make sure I don’t see anything.”

  After she left, Berg opened the folder. A single document stared back at his bleary eyes. Rolf Josef Schoennacht was born in March 1885, making him forty-five, consistent with the valet’s assessment. His father was listed as Gunnar Schoennacht; his mother was Della Weiss. Rolf was a full-term baby weighing just under four kilos and stretching over fifty centimeters. He came into existence at three-thirty in the afternoon.

  Gunnar was fifty-two at the time of his son’s entrance into the world; Della’s date of birth put her at eighteen.

  Berg stopped to reflect: fifty-two and eighteen.

  Naughty, naughty.

  Then he thought of Margot. Her death had been investigated and closed, the murder reported as a whore stealing from her pimp (the desk clerk) after stealing and murdering two of her customers (Hitler’s thugs). It was easy enough to snow officials because nobody gave a damn about the victims. He rarely thought about Margot when he was awake, but obviously he was thinking of her now: He knew because he had broken out in a ripe, cold sweat.

  If Della had been eighteen when the child was born, she was only seventeen when the boy was conceived. Oskar Krieger had described Gunnar Schoennacht as a stiff prig. Krieger had stated that even gossiping hens understood why Della Weiss couldn’t live with that man as husband and wife. How could any eighteen-year-old be attracted to a stuffed shirt old enough to be her grandfather?

  It was likely that the marriage had been arranged. Older men made good catches for young girls because they had prestige and money. Often the men were less demanding sexually. Sometimes they were widowers with children from a previous marriage. . . .

  Had there been another wife before Della?

  It took Berg a few minutes to locate the redhead. Her desk was at the end of the hallway. Her nameplate stated tha
t she was Ilse Reinholt. She looked up, half-glasses sliding down her sharp-edged nose. “Finished?”

  “I need more information, Fräulein Reinholt. Everything you have on a man named Gunnar Schoennacht, his birth certificate, marriage certificate or certificates—I think there may be more than one—and finally, his death certificate, if there is one.”

  She stood up. “I’ll get you the necessary papers to fill out for the request.” She started to leave but Berg held her arm.

  “Is there any way that we could . . .”—he cleared his throat—“just . . . disregard this little bit of bureaucracy . . . just this once?”

  Ilse was aghast. “That is impossible! The clerk will not give me what you ask for unless I have the proper forms.”

  Berg made a face. “Um . . . perhaps the clerk will go to lunch and you will have an opportunity to borrow the files?”

  “He eats at his desk. We all do. It’s very efficient.”

  “It is good to be efficient.” Berg was still holding her arm. Lightly, though. She could have broken away if she had so desired. He smiled, boyishly. “He must use the toilet, Fräulein Reinholt.”

  Again she stared at him.

  “This one time only, I swear. I can’t afford to lose another day waiting for some clerk to rubber-stamp the endless forms that we must fill out before we blow our noses.”

  “You weren’t born here, were you?”

  “I’m from Westphalia.”

  “I don’t mean Munich, I mean Germany. You weren’t born in Germany.”