Schumann cooperated and the young man printed him then wiped the ink off his fingers with the astringent cleaner that was included in the kit. Janssen placed the gun and the two printed cards on a table for his boss's inspection. "Sir?"
Kohl pulled out his monocle. He examined the weapon and the men's prints closely. He was no expert but his opinion was that the only prints on the pistol were Taggert's.
Janssen's eyes narrowed and he nodded to the floor.
Kohl followed the glance. A battered leather bag there. Ah, the telltale satchel! Kohl walked over and opened the clasp. He leafed through the contents--deciphering the English as best he could. There were many notes about Berlin, sports, the Olympics, a press pass in the name of Paul Schumann, dozens of innocuous clippings from American newspapers.
So, the inspector thought, he's been lying. The bag placed him at the murder scene.
But as Kohl examined it carefully he noted that, while it was old, yes, the leather was supple, not flaking.
Then he glanced at the body in front of them. Kohl set the case down and crouched over the dead man's shoes. They were brown, worn, and shedding bits of leather. The color and shine were just like the ones they'd found on the cobblestones of Dresden Alley and on the floor of the Summer Garden restaurant. Schumann's shoes were not shedding such flakes. The inspector's face twisted in irritation at himself. Another erroneous assumption. Schumann had been telling the truth. Perhaps.
"Search him now, Janssen," Kohl said, rising. A nod toward the body.
The inspector candidate dropped to his knees and began examining the corpse carefully.
Kohl lifted an eyebrow at Janssen, who continued the search. He found money, a penknife, a packet of cigarettes. A pocket watch on a heavy gold chain. Then the young man frowned. "Look, sir." He handed the inspector some silk clothing labels, undoubtedly cut from the garments Reginald Morgan had worn in Dresden Alley. They bore the names of German clothing manufacturers or stores.
"I'll tell you what happened," Schumann said.
"Yes, yes, you may talk in a minute. Janssen, contact headquarters. Have someone there get in touch with the American embassy. Ask about this Robert Taggert. Tell them he's in possession of a diplomatic identity card. Say nothing about his death at this time."
"Yes, sir." Janssen located the phone, which Kohl noted was disconnected from the wall, a common sight nowadays. The Olympic flag on the building, unaccompanied by the National Socialist banner, told him the place was owned or managed by a Jew or someone else in disfavor; the phones might be tapped. "Call from the wireless in the DKW, Janssen."
The inspector candidate nodded and left the room again.
"Now, sir, you may enlighten me. And please spare me no details."
Schumann said in German, "I came over here with the Olympic team. I'm a sportswriter. A freelance journalist. Do you--?"
"Yes, yes, I am familiar with the term."
"I was supposed to meet Reggie Morgan and he'd introduce me to some people for the stories. I wanted what we call 'color.' Information about the livelier parts of the city, gamblers, hustlers, boxing clubs."
"And this Reggie Morgan did what? As a profession, I mean."
"He was just an American businessman I'd heard about. He'd lived here for a few years and knew the place pretty well."
Kohl pointed out, "You came over with the Olympic team and yet theyseemed unwilling to tell me anything about you. That's curious, don't you think?"
Schumann laughed bitterly. "You live in this country and you ask me why anyone would be reluctant to answer a policeman's questions?"
It is a matter of state security....
Willi Kohl allowed no expression to cross his face but he was momentarily embarrassed at the truth of this comment. He regarded Schumann closely. The American appeared at ease. Kohl could detect no signs of fabrication, which was one of the inspector's particular talents.
"Continue."
"I was to meet with Morgan yesterday."
"That would have been when? And where?"
"Around noon. Outside a beer hall on Spener Street."
Right next to Dresden Alley, Kohl reflected. And around the time of the shooting. Surely, if he had something to hide, he would not place himself near the scene of the killing. Or would he? The National Socialist criminals were by and large stupid and obvious. Kohl sensed he was in the presence of a very smart man, though whether he was a criminal or not, the inspector could not tell. "But, as you contend, the real Reginald Morgan did not show up. It was this Taggert."
"That's right. Though I didn't know it at the time. He claimed he was Morgan."
"And what happened at this meeting?"
"It was very brief. He was agitated. He pulled me into this alley, said something had come up and I was supposed to meet him later. At a restaurant--"
"The name?"
"The Summer Garden."
"Where the wheat beer was not to your liking."
Schumann blinked, then replied, "Is it to anyone's liking?"
Kohl refrained from smiling. "And you met Taggert again, as planned, at the Summer Garden?"
"That's right. A friend of his joined us there. I don't recall his name."
Ah, the laborer.
"He whispered something to Taggert, who looked worried and said we ought to beat it." A frown at the literal German translation of what would be an English idiom. "I mean, leave quickly. This friend thought there were some Gestapo or something around, and Taggert agreed. We slipped out the side door. I should've guessed then that something wasn't right. But it was kind of an adventure, you know. That's just what I was looking for, for my stories."
"Local color," Kohl said slowly, reflecting that it is so much easier to make a big lie believable when the liar feeds you small truths. "And did you meet this Taggert at any other times?" A nod toward the body. "Other than today, of course?" Kohl wondered if the man would admit going to November 1923 Square.
"Yes," Schumann said. "Some square later that day. A bad neighborhood. Near Oranienburger Station. By a big statue of Hitler. We were going to meet some other contact. But that guy never showed up."
"And you 'beat it' from there as well."
"That's right. Taggert got spooked again. It was clear something was off. That's when I decided I better cut things off with the guy."
"What happened," Kohl asked quickly, "to your Stetson hat?"
A concerned look. "Well, I'll be honest, Detective Kohl. I was walking down the street and saw some young..." A hesitation as he sought a word. "Beasts... toughs?"
"Yes, yes, thugs."
"In brown uniforms."
"Stormtroopers."
"Thugs," Schumann said with some disgust. "They were beating up a bookseller and his wife. I thought these men were going to kill them. I stopped them. The next thing I knew there were a dozen of them after me. I threw some clothes away, down the sewer, so they wouldn't recognize me."
This is a wiry man, Kohl thought. And clever.
"Are you going to arrest me for beating up some of your Nazi thugs?"
"That doesn't interest me, Mr. Schumann. But what does very much interest me is the purpose of this whole masquerade orchestrated by Mr. Taggert."
"He was trying to fix some of the Olympic events."
"Fix?"
The American thought for a moment. "To have a player lose intentionally. That's what he'd been doing here over the past several months, putting together gambling pools in Berlin. Taggert's colleagues were going to place bets against some of the American favorites. I have a press pass and can get close to the athletes. I was supposed to bribe them to lose on purpose. That's why he was so nervous for the past couple days, I guess. He owed some of your gang rings, he called them, a lot of money."
"Morgan was killed because this Taggert wished to impersonate him?"
"That's right."
"Quite an elaborate plot," Kohl observed.
"Quite a lot of money was involved. Hundreds of thousan
ds of dollars."
Another glance at the limp body on the floor. "I noted that you said you decided to end your relationship with Mr. Taggert as of yesterday. And yet here he is. How did this tragic 'fight,' as you call it, transpire?"
"He wouldn't take no for an answer. He was desperate for the money-- he'd borrowed a lot to place the bets. He came here today to threaten me. He said they were going to make it look like I killed Morgan."
"To extort you into helping them."
"That's right. But I said I didn't care. I was going to turn him in anyway. He pulled that gun on me. We struggled and he fell. It seems he broke his neck."
Kohl's mind instinctively applied the information Schumann had provided against the facts and the inspector's awareness of human nature. Some details fit; some were jarring. Willi Kohl always reminded himself to keep an open mind at crime scenes, refrain from reaching conclusions too quickly. Now, this process happened automatically; his thoughts were deadlocked. It was as if a punch card had jammed in one of the DeHoMag sorting machines.
"You fought to save yourself and he died in a fall."
A woman's voice said, "Yes, that is exactly what happened."
Kohl turned to the figure in the doorway. She was about forty, slim and attractive, though her face was tired, troubled.
"Please, your name?"
"Kathe Richter." She automatically handed her card to him. "I manage this building in the owner's absence."
Her papers confirmed her identity and he returned the ID. "And you were a witness to this event?"
"I was here. In the hallway. I heard some disturbance from inside and opened the door partway. I saw the whole thing."
"And yet you were gone when we arrived."
"I was afraid. I saw your car pull up. I didn't want to get involved."
So she was on a Gestapo or SD list. "And yet here you are."
"I debated for some moments. I took the chance that there are still some policemen in this city who are interested in the truth." She said this defiantly.
Janssen stepped inside. He eyed the woman but Kohl said nothing about her. "Yes?" the inspector asked.
"Sir, the American embassy said they have no knowledge of a Robert Taggert."
Kohl nodded as he continued to ponder the information. He stepped closer to Taggert's body and said, "Quite a fortuitous fall. Fortuitous from your perspective, of course. And you, Miss Richter, I'll ask you again--you saw the struggle firsthand? You must be honest with me."
"Yes, yes. That man had a gun. He was going to kill Mr. Schumann."
"Do you know the victim?"
"No, I don't. I've never seen him."
Kohl glanced again at the body then tucked his thumb into his vest watch pocket. "It's a curious business, being a detective, Mr. Schumann. We try to read the clues and follow where they lead. And in this case the clues put me on your trail--indeed they led me here, directly to you--and now it seems those very same clues suggest that it was actually this other man I have been seeking all along."
"Life's funny sometimes."
The phrase made no sense in German. Kohl assumed it was a translation of an American idiom but he deduced the meaning.
Which he certainly could not dispute.
He took his pipe from his pocket and, without lighting it, slipped it into his mouth and chewed on the stem for a moment. "Well, Mr. Schumann, I have decided not to detain you, not at this moment. I will let you leave, though I will retain your passport while I look into these matters in more depth. Do not leave Berlin. As you have probably seen, our various authorities are quite adept at locating people in our country. Now, I'm afraid, you will have to quit the boardinghouse. It's a crime scene. Do you have another place to stay where I can contact you?"
Schumann thought for a moment. "I'll get a room at the Hotel Metropol."
Kohl wrote this down in his notebook and pocketed the man's passport. "Very well, sir. Now, is there anything else you wish to tell me?"
"Not a thing, Inspector. I'll cooperate however I can."
"You may leave now. Take only your necessities. Uncuff him, Janssen."
The inspector candidate did so. Schumann walked to his suitcase. As Kohl watched carefully, he packed a shaving kit with a razor, shaving soap, toothbrush and dental cream. The inspector handed him back his cigarettes, matches, money and comb.
Schumann glanced at the woman. "Can you walk me to the tram stop?"
"Yes, of course."
Kohl asked, "Miss Richter, you live here in the building?"
"The back apartment on this floor, yes."
"Very well. I'll be in touch with you, as well."
Together, they walked out the door.
After they had gone Janssen frowned and said, "Sir, how can you let him go? Did you believe his story?"
"Some of it. Enough to allow me to release him temporarily." Kohl explained to the inspector candidate his concerns: He believed that the killing here had been in self-defense. And it did indeed appear that Taggert was the killer of Reginald Morgan. But there remained unanswered questions. If they had been in any other country, Kohl would have detained Schumann until he verified everything. But he knew that if he now ordered the man held while he investigated further, the Gestapo would peremptorily declare the American to be the guilty "foreigner" Himmler wanted and he'd be in Moabit Prison or Oranienburg camp by nightfall.
"Not only would a man die for a crime he probably did not commit but the case will be declared closed and we'll never find the complete truth-- which is, of course, the whole point of our job."
"But shouldn't I at least follow him?"
Kohl sighed. "Janssen, how many criminals have we ever apprehended by following them? What do they say in the American crime shockers? 'Shadowing'?"
"Well, none, I would guess, but--"
"So we will leave that to fictional detectives. We know where we can find him."
"But the Metropol is a huge hotel with many exits. He could escape from us easily there."
"That does not interest us, Janssen. We'll continue to look into Mr. Schumann's role in this drama shortly. Our priority now, though, is to examine the room here carefully.... Ach, congratulations, Inspector Candidate."
"Why is that, sir?"
"You have solved the Dresden Alley murder." He nodded toward the body. "And, what's more, the perpetrator is dead; we need not be inconvenienced by a trial."
Chapter Thirty
Accompanied by an SS bodyguard, Colonel Reinhard Ernst had taken Rudy back home to Charlottenburg. He was grateful for the boy's young age; the child hadn't completely understood the peril at the stadium. The grim faces of the men, the urgency in the pressroom and the fast drive away from the complex had been troubling to him, but he could not fathom the significance of the events. All he knew was that his Opa had fallen and hurt himself slightly, even though his grandfather had made light of the "adventure," as he called it.
The highlights of the afternoon for the boy, in fact, had not been the magnificent stadium, nor meeting some of the most powerful men in the world, nor the alarm over the assassin. It had been the dogs; Rudy now wanted one himself, preferably two. He talked endlessly about the animals.
"Construction everywhere," Ernst muttered to Gertrud. "I've ruined my suit."
True, she wasn't pleased but she was more troubled that he'd taken a fall. She examined his head closely. "You have a bump. You must be more careful, Reinie. I'll bring you ice for it."
He hated to be less than honest with her. But he simply would not tell her that he'd been the target of an assassin. If she'd learned that, she would implore him to stay home, no, insist. And he would have to refuse, as he rarely did with his wife. Hitler may have buried himself beneath corpses during the November '23 rebellion to remain out of harm's way, but Ernst would never avoid an enemy when his duty required otherwise.
Under different circumstances, yes, he might have remained home for a day or two until the assassin was found, which surely he wo
uld be, now that the great mechanism of the Gestapo, SD and SS was in motion. But Ernst had a vital matter to attend to today: conducting the tests at the college with Doctor-professor Keitel and preparing the memo about the Waltham Study for the Leader.
He now asked to have the housekeeper bring him some coffee, bread and sausage in the den.
"But Reinie," Gertrud said, exasperated, "it's Sunday. The goose..."
Afternoon meals on the day of rest were a long tradition in the Ernst household, not to be broken if at all possible.
"I'm sorry, my dear. I have no choice. Next week I will spend the entire weekend with you and the family."
He walked into the den and sat at his desk, then began jotting notes.
Ten minutes later Gertrud herself appeared, carrying a large tray.
"I won't have you eating a coarse meal," she said, lifting the cloth off the tray.
He smiled and looked over the huge plate of roast goose with orange marmalade, cabbage, boiled potatoes and green beans with cardamon. He rose and kissed her on the cheek. She left him and, as he ate, without much appetite, he began to peck out a draft of the memo on his typewriter.
HIGHEST CONFIDENTIALITY
Adolf Hitler,
Leader, State Chancellor and President of the German
Nation and Commander of the Armed Forces
Field Marshal Werner von Blomberg,
State Minister of Defense
My Leader and my Minister:
You have asked for details of the Waltham Study being conducted by myself and Doctor-Professor Ludwig Keitel of Waltham Military College. I am pleased to describe the nature of the study and the results so far.
This study arises out of my instructions from you to make ready the German armed forces and to help them achieve most expeditiously the goals of our great nation, as you have set forth.
He paused and organized his thoughts. What to share and what not to share?
A half hour later he finished the page-and-a-half document, made a few penciled corrections. This draft would do for now. He would have Keitel read the document as well and make corrections, then Ernst would retype the final version tonight and personally deliver it to the Leader tomorrow. He wrote a note to Keitel asking for his comments and clipped it to the draft.
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