The Sleepwalkers (21 page)

Willi cut her off. “No, no . . .
ma chérie
.”

The place appeared to have been decorated by the set designers of
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.
The walls and ceilings were painted black, emblazoned with phosphorescent symbols of the occult. Spotlights cast weird shadows over everything. Gustave’s triangular office was studded with semiprecious stones and crystals, his desk, the size of the Reichs chancellor’s, all glass.

Willi pushed him into the gold swivel chair behind it and pulled out a pistol.

“Herr Spanknoebel—if that’s even your real name. Open your safe. And no funny business.”

“Listen, Kraus. You’ve got me all wrong. I’m no criminal. I know how to use the powers of suggestion. I can put myself into a trance, see things others can’t. But there aren’t any tricks. No magic to it. I don’t want to fool anyone. Least of all—”

“Open the safe.” Willi cocked the pistol.

Gustave removed an oil portrait of himself from the wall, revealing a safe.

“My powers are a great gift, Inspektor. I use them to help people. I can use them to help you—”

Willi had to laugh.

So, the man who’d made untold millions from his clairvoyance, charmed Vienna and Berlin, given lessons to Hitler on crowd psychology, and sailed the Havel like a Babylonian king was now angling for a horse deal.

Willi pointed the pistol at Gustave’s head. “Open the goddamn safe.”

The documents inside proved fascinating, but did not have the names and addresses Willi needed. Hermann Göring, twenty thousand . . . Josef Goebbels, twenty-five . . . Rudolf Hess . . .

“Gott im Himmel—
is there a Nazi in Germany who doesn’t owe you a fortune?”

“Is it a crime now to lend one’s friends money?”

“It depends, Spanknoebel.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Inspektor. They’re gambling debts mainly. A few home-improvement loans. Göring needed to make a down payment on Karinhall. These National Socialists have had it tough the last few years.”

Willi knew every second he wasted here was another Paula remained a prisoner.

“To the Alex with him. Let’s see if a forestaste of life behind bars won’t convince him it’d be wiser to cooperate.”

“What about her?” Gunther pointed to the wide-eyed maid.

“She comes. No one’s to know the Great Gustave has vanished.”

“Some of those Nazis might be glad,” Gunther noted. “With what they owe him.”

All the way downtown Gustave kept insisting they had it all wrong. He started getting really agitated when they led him to the dark, empty cell deep in the dungeons of the Alex. “You’re making a big mistake. Once they realize I’m missing, they’ll come after you, Kraus. But I’ll make you a deal—”

“You’re forgetting the pictures I have, Gustave. Most unsavory.”

“Are you kidding? Don’t you think half of them—”

Willi slammed the cell door in his face.

“Kraus! God damn you . . . I’ll get you for this!”

Willi looked at his watch. It was after midnight. He had to sleep. But he couldn’t.

There was far too much to—

In the morning he awoke to find himself still at the Police Presidium, tucked in on the couch in his office, a blanket thrown over him. Gunther snoring on the floor.

Ruta was boiling a kettle on the little gas stove.

“Quite the New Year’s bender you two had, huh? Good thing
you keep an extra suit around here,” she grumbled, grinding the coffee beans. “Just look at those trousers, Herr Inspektor. The least you could have done is slept it off in your Skivvies.”

Willi was glad he had an extra suit, too, although he could have used a shower.

Changing, he went directly to Gustave’s cell, not waiting for coffee. No doubt a night in isolation had left the King of Mystics perturbed. Forlorn, Willi guessed as he spied through the cell door.

Now maybe he’d get somewhere with him.

Hearing the door, Gustave’s eyes turned up with relief.

“Finally.” He rose, reaching for his cape and walking stick. “I told you this was all a mistake.” He smiled affably. “Who interceded for me? Göring? Hess? Not the Führer!”

“Keep your pants on, Gustave. None of them even knows you’re missing.”

A shadow crossed his face. “You’re lying.”

It was Willi’s turn to smile. “Believe as you wish.”

“Why are you doing this to me? What do you want, Kraus?”

“Tell me what happened to the girls. Cooperate and things will go easier for you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What girls?”

“You said it yourself, Willi,”
he recalled Paula saying.
“Gustave’s just a pimp. What if you nab him and he doesn’t talk?”

Gustave’s plain brown eyes filled with a look of innocence.

Willi had to strain to keep from strangling him.

“What if he really doesn’t know?”
he remembered Fritz pointing out.
“Maybe he just sends victims to some prearranged locale.”

“He’s still got to arrange it. Speak to someone.”

“Maybe they keep him in the dark.”

“But why?”

“Because,”
Paula had guessed.
“Maybe he’s not really doing this voluntarily. Maybe . . . they’ve got something on him.”

Willi thought again about Gustave’s yacht. His publishing empire. The millions this guy was worth. Could he really have
done what he did for more money? Could anyone be that greedy? Or might these Nazis in fact have something on him?

Willi had no patience to find out.

No time for a battle.

“Spanknoebel . . . one last chance to cooperate. If you’re worried about your safety, I’m prepared to offer you protection.”

Gustave looked at him as if bewildered.

All at once he broke out laughing.

“Offer me—” His laughter grew. “I know my fate better than anyone. It’s written in the stars! Nothing you can do could alter it in the—”

Willi walked out, slamming the door again. All the way down the hall, he could hear Gustave screaming, “Get me out of here!” But if compromising photos and a night behind bars weren’t enough to crack the master’s resistance, it was time to shift gears.

Obviously Willi was dealing with a pro here. What he needed was another pro. He stormed upstairs to use the phone, but with a sudden shudder remembered the date: January 2. Kurt had said he was leaving on the second. Never mind the phone, Willi darted out to Dircksen Strasse with no coat. Where the hell had he parked his car?

His cousin lived in a fine old Wilhelmian building on Budepester Strasse, with winged dragons holding up the entrance. How well Willi remembered it as a kid, the long, winding flights of stairs that echoed like the Alps, the wonderful smells of cooking and laughter during the holidays. A strange echo reached his ears now as he rang the apartment bell. An anxious eye appeared through the peephole. Kurt’s wife opened up and threw her arms around him, breaking into tears.

“Willi. For God’s sakes I was afraid we’d miss you.” Kathe’s dark eyes were red with tension. “Come in. I can’t offer you much. We leave for the station in a few hours. I called a dozen
times so the kids could say good-bye, but Kurt told me the boys were in Paris and, well, you can’t imagine what a week it’s been.”

Willi got a shock to see the big apartment. A few months ago he’d been here with Erich and Stefan to celebrate the Jewish New Year. The walls were covered with so many books and paintings. The floors snug with Persian rugs and Chinese jardinieres brimming with African violets. A baby grand gleamed in the corner. Now it was empty, as if all the belongings had been sucked into a giant vacuum cleaner.

The past swept away.

The future, too. Where would he take the boys next holidays?

His cousin and the three kids were seated about the floor on crates, breakfast plates balanced on their laps. Kurt jumped up in his shirtsleeves and suspenders.

“Well, look who’s come to say good-bye.”

Helmut, Stefan’s age, started to bawl. “I don’t want to go!”

Gregor, Erich’s buddy, disappeared and returned with a giant model of the Fokker triplane the Red Baron had flown.

“Can you give this to Erich, Uncle Willi?” He held it aloft, trembling. “There’s no one else I can think of who’ll take proper care of it.”

“Yes, of course, Gregor. Erich will be thrilled.”

Willi’s heart pulled in a dozen directions. He wanted to tell them not to go. That they were overreacting. That they were tearing up all their roots for nothing. The Nazis would never rule Germany. And yet . . . how glad he was his boys were in Paris.

“Kurt, could I speak to you a moment.”

They stepped into one of the bedrooms. It took more than a moment, of course.

Kathe got impatient. “Is everything all right in there? Kurt . . . we haven’t any time to waste.”

“Hold on a minute, dear. It’s important.”

Behind their spectacles Kurt’s eyes were wide with incredulity. “You know, Willi, as a psychiatrist I’ve heard my share of horror stories over the years . . . but I genuinely find this hard to believe. The entire fibula you say, transplanted in the opposite leg?”

“I’ll show you the autopsy reports if you want.”

“I want to help of course . . . but you heard Kathe. Our train leaves at two.”

“You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a matter of life or death. God knows how many people they’re holding out there. What they’re doing to them.”

“But what exactly can I do?”

“Hypnotize the son of a bitch. Get him to talk.”

A smile drew across Kurt’s lips. “There’s nothing I’d love more than to get that charlatan under my spell.”

“You’d have to do it against his will. He definitely won’t cooperate.”

“I could hypnotize Hitler against his will.”

“Could you? Really? Then you’ll do it?”

Kurt rubbed his glasses clean. Sighing, he put them back on.

Kathe clutched her scalp as if this were really the last straw.

“How could you leave at a moment like this? Everything in the balance? Our whole lives—”

“Listen, Kathe . . . some things are more important even than your own family. I’ve got to do this. Willi’s promised to have me at the station by two. You’re perfectly capable of getting the children there by taxi. Everything else is taken care of. Now . . . if for some reason I miss the train—”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“If I do . . . I will catch a later one and meet up with you in Bremerhaven.”

“Willi Kraus”—Kathe eyed him vengefully—“I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

When Kurt climbed into the BMW clutching his son’s red model airplane, he turned to Willi with a grin. “You know,
Cousin—I’m forever in your debt. It may have come at an awkward moment, but this is a chance I’ve been waiting a lifetime for.”

Yeah, well, it better work, Willi thought, tearing down the street.

“
He’s
your interrogator?” The Great Gustave sneered at the bald, bespectacled man in his cell. “Berlin police must be more desperate than I realized.”

Willi forced a smile. “Why—not brutal-looking enough? Come now, Herr Spanknoebel. You don’t suppose we intend to abuse you?”

Gustave shrank on the bed, clutching his cape.

Kurt leaned forward, eyeing him. “As long as we have to work together, you and I,” he said in a kind yet emphatic way, “why don’t we just relax? After all, this may take some time.” He rose, patting Gustave’s shoulder. “Don’t you think it’d be a lot more sensible, more pleasant, if we both just . . . relaxed?”

“I don’t want to relax. I want to get out of here.”

“Naturally.” Kurt took off his eyeglasses and cleaned them. “Who wants to stay in jail, Gustave? I may call you that, can’t I?”
He put the glasses back on. “Of course, since there’s no chance of your getting out before we get our information”—he put one foot on the bed frame, boxing Gustave in, leaning forward again and peering right into his eyes—“I’m quite sure you’ll see the wisdom of accepting the inevitable. Look around. Where do you think you are? Deep inside the Police Presidium.” Kurt’s voice grew softer. “There’s no escape. Not this time. This time you’ll never be free again. Unless”—he was practically whispering now—“unless you accept the fact you’re no longer in control. And surrender, Gustave. Surrender . . .”

Kurt leaned back ever so slightly, his voice the gentlest whisper. “No one wants to hurt you. Out there, maybe. But not here. We want you to feel safe, comfortable. In fact, let’s get you out of this dark, smelly cell. Inspektor, may we go to your office?”

Kurt continued his patter all the way up on the elevator.

“The Inspektor’s got such a comfortable couch. Really, one could easily fall asleep on it. So much more relaxing and comfortable than that terrible cell.”

In the car ride over, Willi had worried a master hypnotist such as Gustave would not so easily succumb to having the tables turned on him.

Kurt disagreed. “All I have to do is soothe him, Willi. Soothe and lull him. He’s a prisoner. Whatever brave front he puts on, deep down he’s frightened as a boy. A hypnotist can use fear, like a dictator. Offer relief. Once he captures your attention, your
inner
attention, the induction begins. In a trance you’re under his control, like it or not. It isn’t magic. And it isn’t science. It’s an art. And I’m every bit as practiced in it as Gustave. Trust me.”

They reached Willi’s office.

“I’ll just draw the curtains, if I might. That morning light is so bright. Herr Gustave, have a seat. Now what did I tell you about that couch? You could just fall right asleep on it, am I right? You might as well relax. Undo your tie. Take off your jacket. Go on, Gustave . . . relax. Just . . . relax.”

Repetition, Kurt had explained, was what lulled the subconscious into a trance state, like lullabies with babies. Over and over, slowly but surely, the hypnotist placed suggestions into the subconscious. “You are getting sleepy . . . very very sleepy.” Until gradually—“Lullaby . . . and good night”—the subconscious accepted them.

“The unconscious is primitive, Willi. Irrational. Intuitive. Which is why even raving psychotics can succeed. Look at Hitler. A master hypnotist. The man forgoes all logic and short-circuits directly to the unconscious. He doesn’t make the least sense. Doesn’t need to.”