Garden of Beasts (36 page)

“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?”

“Käthe 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 would 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.

Carrying the tray downstairs, he said good-bye to Gertrud then left. Hitler had insisted that guards be stationed outside his house, at least until the assassin was caught. Ernst had no objection to this but he now asked that they remain out of sight so as not to alarm his family. He also acquiesced to the Leader’s demand that he not drive himself in his open Mercedes, as he preferred, but be driven in a closed auto by an armed SS bodyguard.

They drove first to Columbia House, at Tempelhof. The driver climbed out and looked around to make sure the entry area was safe. He walked to the other two guards, stationed in front of the door, spoke with them and they looked around too, though Ernst couldn’t imagine anyone being so foolish as to attempt an assassination in front of an SS detention center. After a moment they waved and Ernst climbed out of the car. He stepped through the front door and was led down the stairs, through several locked doors, and then into the cell area.

Walking down the long hallway again, hot and dank, stinking of urine and shit. What a disgusting way to treat people, he thought. The British, American and French soldiers he’d captured during the War had been treated with respect. Ernst had saluted the officers, chatted with the enlisted men, made sure they were warm and dry and fed. He now felt a burst of contempt for the brown-uniformed jailer who accompanied him down the corridor, softly whistling the “Horst Wessel Song” and occasionally banging on bars with his truncheon, simply to frighten the prisoners.

When they came to a cell three-quarters of the way down the corridor Ernst stopped, looked inside, his skin itching in the heat.

The two Fischer brothers were drenched with sweat. They were frightened, of course—
everyone
was frightened in this terrible place—but he saw something else in their eyes: youthful defiance.

Ernst was disappointed. The look told him they were going to reject his offer: They’d chosen a spell in Oranienburg? He’d thought for certain that Kurt and Hans would agree to participate in the Waltham Study. They would have been perfect.

“Good afternoon.”

The older one nodded. Ernst felt a strange chill. The boy resembled his own son. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Perhaps it was the self-confidence and the serenity that hadn’t been there this morning. Perhaps it was just the lingering aftermath of the look in young Rudy’s eyes earlier. In any case, the similarity unnerved him.

“I need your answer now regarding your participation in our study.”

The brothers looked at each other. Kurt began to speak but it was the younger one who said, “We will do it.”

So, he’d been wrong. Ernst smiled and nodded, genuinely pleased.

The older brother then added, “Provided you let us send a letter to England.”

“A letter?”

“We wish to communicate with our parents.”

“That is not allowed, I’m afraid.”

“But you’re a colonel, right? Aren’t you someone who can decide what’s allowed and what isn’t?” Hans asked.

Ernst cocked his head and examined the boy. But his attention returned to the older brother. The resemblance to Mark was indeed uncanny. He hesitated then said, “One letter. But you must send it in the next two days, while you’re under my supervision. Your training sergeants won’t permit it, not a letter to London. They are definitely
not
someone who can decide what’s allowed and what isn’t.”

Another glance passed between the boys. Kurt nodded. The colonel did too. And then he saluted them—just as he’d said good-bye to his son. Not with a fascist extended arm but in a traditional gesture, lifting his flat palm to his forehead, which the SA guard pretended not to notice.

“Welcome to the new Germany,” Ernst said in a voice that was close to a whisper and belied the crisp salute.

They turned the corner and headed for Lützow Plaza, putting as much distance between them and the boardinghouse as possible before they found a taxi, Paul looking back often to make sure they weren’t being followed.

“We aren’t staying at the Metropol,” he said, gazing up and down the street. “I’ll find someplace safe. My friend Otto can do that. I’m sorry. But you’ll have to just leave everything back there. You can’t go back again.”

On the busy street corner they stopped. Absently his arm slipped around Käthe’s waist as he looked into traffic. But he felt her stiffen. Then she pulled away.

He glanced down at her, frowning.

“I
am
going back, Paul.” She spoke in a voice that was devoid of emotion.

“Käthe, what’s wrong?”

“I was telling the truth to the Kripo inspector.”

“You…”

“I
was
outside the door, looking in.
You
were the one who lied. You murdered that man in the room. There was no fight. He didn’t have a gun. He was standing there helpless, and you hit him and killed him. It was horrible. I haven’t seen anything so horrible since… since…”

The fourth square from the grass…

Paul was silent.

An open truck drove past. A half dozen Stormtroopers were in the back. They shouted out something to a group of people on the street, laughing. Some of the pedestrians waved back. The truck disappeared fast around a corner.

Paul led Käthe to a bench in a small park but she wouldn’t sit. “No,” she whispered. Arms folded across her chest, she stared at him coldly.

“It’s not as simple as you think,” he whispered.

“Simple?”

“There’s more to me, to why I’m here, yes. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be involved.”

Now, at last, raw anger exploded. “Oh,
there’s
an excuse for lying! You didn’t want to get me involved. You asked me to come to America, Paul. How much more involved could I be?”

“I mean involved with my old life. This trip will be the end of that.”

“Old life? Are you a soldier?”

“In a way.” Then he hesitated. “No. That’s not true. I was a criminal in America. I came here to stop them.”

“Them?”

“Your enemies.” He nodded at one of the hundreds of red-white-and-black flags that stirred nearby in the breeze. “I was supposed to kill someone in the government here to stop him from starting another war. But afterwards, that part of my life will be over with. I’d have a clean record. I’d—”

“And when were you going to tell me this little secret of yours, Paul? When we got to London? To New York?”

“Believe me. It’s over with.”

“You used me.”

“I never—”

“Last night—that wonderful night—you had me show you Wilhelm Street. You were using me as cover, weren’t you? You wished to find a place where you could murder this man.”

He looked up at one of the stark, flapping banners and said nothing.

“And what if in America I did something that angered you? Would you hit
me?
Would you kill
me?”

“Käthe! Of course not.”

“Ach, you say that. But you’ve lied before.” Käthe pulled a handkerchief from her purse. The smell of lilac touched him momentarily and his heart cried, as if it were the smell of incense at a loved one’s wake. She wiped her eyes and stuffed the cloth away. “Tell me one thing, Paul. How are you different from them? Tell me. How?… No, no, you
are
different. You’re crueller. Do you know why?” Choking on tears. “You gave me hope and then you took it away. With them, with the beasts in the garden, there is
never
any hope. At least they’re not deceitful like you. No, Paul. Fly back to your perfect country. I’ll stay here. I’ll stay until the knock on the door. And then I’ll be gone. Like my Michael.”

“Käthe, I haven’t been honest with you, no. But you have to leave with me…. Please.”

“Do you know what our philosopher Nietzsche wrote? He said, ‘He who fights monsters must take care that he does not become a monster himself.’ Oh, how true that is, Paul. How true.”

“Please, come with me.” He took her by the shoulders, gripping her hard.

But Käthe Richter was strong too. She pulled his hands off and stepped back. Her eyes fixed on his and she whispered ruthlessly, “I’d rather share my country with ten thousand killers than my bed with
one.
”

And turning on her heels, she hesitated for a moment then walked away quickly, drawing the glances of passersby, who wondered what might have caused such a fierce lovers’ spat.