Rosa (11 page)

And, like a slap to the face, Hoffner understood. It required every ounce of restraint to answer calmly. “And what mistake was that, Herr
Direktor
?”

There was nothing comforting in Weigland’s tone: “Understand the situation, Nikolai. Luxemburg, a Jew. Your mother, a Jew. And a Russian, to boot. Times haven’t changed all that much.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. He thought to correct Weigland: Luxemburg had been a Pole. Instead, he pushed his cup across the table and stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Herr
Direktor.
”

Weigland reached out and grabbed Hoffner’s forearm; the grip was as impressive as Hoffner had imagined it would be. “People make mistakes, Nikolai, and the rest of their lives are filled searching for penance.” Weigland continued to squeeze Hoffner’s arm. “Understand that, and do what I’m asking you to do.”

Hoffner felt the blood pulsing in his hand. He twisted his arm slightly and Weigland released it. “Technically, Herr
Direktor,
I’m not sure I’m in a position to give or receive absolution.” Not waiting for a response, Hoffner turned and walked back down the hall. He opened the door to the office and poked his head in. “We’re done here, Hans.” He turned to the rest of the room. “Gentlemen.” None of the three said a word.

Unsure for a moment, Fichte stood and moved across to the door. He then turned back with a little bow. “
Oberkommissar,
Kommissare.
”

Hoffner pulled the door shut behind him, and the two headed back down the stairs. They walked in silence until they reached the courtyard, where Fichte finally managed to get something out. “I’m—sorry for all that, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” said Hoffner.

“I shouldn’t have been trying to impress Lina.”

“No. That was stupid. Don’t do that again.” Hoffner began to button his coat. “As for the rest, you were fine, Hans. You handled yourself very well.”

Fichte’s concern gave way to genuine appreciation. “Thank you, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

They passed through the door to the atrium. FliegFlieg was dozing; Hoffner didn’t bother to sign out. Out in the drizzle, the soldiers barely gave them a second glance.

When they had moved out of earshot, Hoffner said, “You didn’t mention anything about today’s discovery, did you?” They continued to walk. “Nothing about the woman in the Rosenthaler station?”

“No, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
” Fichte was doing his best to keep up. “Absolutely not. Nothing.”

“Good.” They reached the middle of the square. Hoffner stopped and turned to Fichte. “Go home, Hans. Take a cold bath. We start in at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
” Fichte was about to head off when he said, “The PKD, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
You know him well, don’t you?”

Hoffner stared at his young
Assistent.
“Good night, Hans.”

Five minutes later, Hoffner watched as the Peace Column flew past his window, the cab racing him south to Kreuzberg.

The scarf, he thought. I forgot the damn scarf.

TWO

MECHLIN RSEAU

T
he wail of a siren reached up through the bathroom window and momentarily drowned out the street sounds of early morning. Hoffner tapped his cigarette into the basin, retrieved his razor, and set to work on the stubble just under his chin.

The fires were still burning out in Treptow, where, up until a few days ago, a “unit” of university students had been fighting with epic navet. The last of them had fallen on Tuesday to a roving band of
Garde-Kavallerie-Schtzen-Division
men who had pulled the three boys out into Weichsel Square and beaten them to death. On a whim, the right-wing thugs—only the uniforms made them soldiers—had then lit up the place. According to the papers, the fire brigades had thus far recovered the remains of two children who had been burned alive. Hoffner listened as the scream of the siren faded to nothing.

“And he still won’t admit it?” said Martha from the bedroom. “Even after all this time.”

Hoffner waited while another siren passed. “Of course not,” he said. For some reason he was having trouble with the angle this morning: his neck was sore. He did what he could, then unplugged the drain. He was wiping off the last of the shaving soap when Martha brushed by him with a pile of clean towels. She placed them in a cupboard by the tub. Hoffner tossed his into the hamper.

“You can use them more than once, you know,” said Martha.

Hoffner picked at a piece of raw skin on his cheek. “I thought I had.”

She retrieved the towel and hung it on a rack. “Did he mean it as a threat, do you think?”

Hoffner continued his examination. “He’s never been that clever.” He splashed some cold water on his face.

“Then why bring it up?”

“Make things right,” he said. “I don’t know. He’s an old man.” Hoffner dried off, put on his shirt, and started in on his tie as Martha knelt down to rub a damp cloth over the tub. He said, “You know, I think he was actually asking for my forgiveness.”

“For something he claims he never did?” She shook her head and pushed herself up. Hoffner said nothing. “You shouldn’t work with those people, Nicki. Especially now.”

“Not my choice.”

Nudging him to the side, she wrung out the cloth in the sink. “Sa—” She caught herself. “Alexander has a match this afternoon. Four o’clock.” She hung the cloth next to the towel. “You should be there.”

The morning had been progressing so nicely, thought Hoffner, talk of Weigland notwithstanding. Now he felt a knot in the pit of his stomach: why was it that she could never understand he would be the last person Sascha would want to see at a match?

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Try hard, Nicki.”

She moved past him and into the hall. Hoffner was left alone to sort out the mess he had made of his tie.

H
ans Fichte was waiting for him outside his office when Hoffner got to headquarters. The boy’s face was bloated from last night’s alcohol, and his inhaler seemed to be doing double duty. Fichte was in the midst of a good suck when Hoffner walked up.

“Glad to see you’re here early,” said Hoffner, busying himself with his coat so as to give Fichte a moment to recover. He stepped into the office, tossed his hat onto the rack, and settled in behind the desk. “Come in, Hans. Close the door.” Fichte did as he was told. “You’re not a drinker, Hans. Try to remember that. Take a seat.”

Fichte moved a stack of papers from a chair. “Yes, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
” He sat.

“Your girl get home all right?”

“Yes. Thank you for asking, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

“Good.” Hoffner watched Fichte’s expression; the boy had no idea what he had signed on for with this Lina. Hoffner wondered if he had been any less thickheaded at Fichte’s age. He hoped not. With a smile, Hoffner leaned back against the wall, his elbows on the chair’s armrests, his hands clasped at his chest, and said easily, “So. What exactly do you think we learned last night?”

Fichte thought for a moment and then said, “That I shouldn’t bring Lina—”

“Yes,” Hoffner cut in impatiently. “We’ve been through all that. What about from upstairs?”

This took greater concentration. “That—this is a political case and we shouldn’t overstep our bounds?”

“Exactly right,” said Hoffner. Fichte’s surprise was instantaneous. “Something wrong?” said Hoffner coyly.

“Well”—Fichte showed a bit more fire—“I didn’t think you—we—would back down so easily.” He waited for a reaction. When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte added, “It is our case, after all.”

“It is, isn’t it.” Hoffner sat staring across at Fichte.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Fichte said, “I’m not sure I understand, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

Hoffner sat forward. “You need to ask yourself, Hans: Is Luxemburg an element of our case?”

“Of course,” said Fichte.

“According to the Polpo?”

“I suppose not, no.”

The response provoked several quick taps of Hoffner’s fingers on the desk. “And so their focus will be—” He waited for Fichte to complete the thought.

“Luxemburg.”

“And ours?”

Fichte was anxious not to stumble, having come this far. “Everything else . . . ?” he said tentatively.

“Exactly. For the time being, we’re no longer concerned with Frau Luxemburg, with her forced, angular ruts, or with her second carver. You understand?”

“Yes, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
I do.”

“Good. Does this mean she’s no longer an element of the case?”

Without hesitation, Fichte said, “No, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar,
it does not.”

“Excellent, Hans.” Again, Hoffner smiled. “Maybe a drink for you, now and then, isn’t such a bad idea. Full marks this morning.” Fichte looked pleased, if slightly embarrassed. “All right,” said Hoffner. “So what do we do now?”

“We—look at everything else.”

When nothing by way of detail followed, Hoffner explained, “The morgue, Hans. I need you to go down and retrieve that bottle of preserving grease. The one from yesterday’s victim. No one’s to see you leave with it, you understand? And then I want you to meet me outside in the square. Is all of that possible?”

“Yes, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

“Good.”

T
he Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical Chemistry and Electrochemistry sits on what was once the Prussian Royal Estate of Dahlem in the southwest section of town. It stretches over a thousand acres of prime riding land, and was the gift of one of those unremarkable Junker princes who, recognizing the need for “something useful in this city of ours,” ceded it to a growing Berlin. Naturally he had wanted a racecourse, or perhaps a garden “for young ladies to stroll about at their leisure,” but in the end prudence had won out. He had been happy enough to let someone else make the decision, especially when they had come to him for a little cash for the project. “Land is the greatest treasure,” he had said: it was up to the Prussian Ministry to come up with anything else. As it turned out, one member of the Ministry had voted for the racecourse; it happened to be the prince’s cousin. The rest had opted for a different kind of “useful.” The doors to the Institute had opened in October of 1912, and since then the place had been home to some of the more innovative breakthroughs in German chemical engineering and physics. Many attributed its success to the man at the top. The
Direktor,
however, took little credit. He had always enjoyed horse racing himself and sometimes wondered if they had all not somehow missed out on a wonderful opportunity.

Getting to the Institute from Alexanderplatz requires two transfers, first on the No. 3 to Potsdamer Platz, then on the Nord-End 51 to Shmargendorf Depot, and finally on the No. 22A, which stops directly in front of the university’s central library. Students who fall asleep on the bus after a late night slumming it “up east” find themselves out in Grunewald before they know it, at which point most of them have no choice but to spend the night in the park and curse fate for their misadventure. Hoffner and Fichte took a cab.

“I thought about university, at one point,” said Fichte as they moved across the plaza toward the Institute’s entrance. It was a massive building of five floors, with an ersatz Greek front of four thick columns and pediment tacked onto the faade; odder still was the circular tower that seemed to be standing sentry duty at its far right. Its roof resembled a vast Schutzi helmet—made of Thuringian slate—along with its very own imperial prong rising to the sky: an unflinching Teuton at the gates of the Temple Athena, thought Hoffner. So much for chemistry. “Not much of a student, though,” Fichte continued. “More what my father wanted me to do, I suppose. Luckily the war came along and, well, you know the rest.”

Hoffner nodded, not having been listening, and began to mount the steps. He had to remind himself that yammering enthusiasm was a part of the Fichte-away-from-the-office days. He watched as the boy raced by to open the door for him.

According to the wood-carved listing in the entry hall, Herr Professor
Doktor
Uwe Kroll was to be found on the third floor. Hoffner remembered roughly where Kroll’s office was; even so, it took them a good ten minutes to locate Kroll in the lab across from his office.

Kroll was wearing a white lab coat, and sat staring intently at a slide beneath his microscope when the two men stepped into the room. There was nothing at all to distinguish Kroll: he projected the perfect image of the scientist, except without the eyeglasses. Fichte had always associated myopia with science. He estimated Kroll to be in his late forties.

“That was quick, Nikolai,” said Kroll, still perched in concentration. “I didn’t expect you for another half-hour.”

“We took a cab.”

“Ah,” said Kroll, looking up. “The deep pockets of the
Kriminalpolizei.
”

Hoffner introduced Fichte.

Kroll said, “You should know, Herr
Kriminal-Assistent,
that your Detective Inspector would have made a pretty fair chemist himself. Didn’t like the symmetry, though, wasn’t that it, Nikolai? Too much coherence.” Kroll held out his hand. “All right, let’s have a look at it, this great mysterious goop of yours that’s too complex to be seen by my esteemed colleagues at police headquarters.”

Fichte produced the bottle and handed it to Kroll, who brought it up to the light and watched as the contents oozed slowly from side to side. Kroll then brought it to his lap, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed. “You said on the telephone that it was used to preserve flesh. Are you sure it wasn’t used as an inhibitor?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Hoffner.

“As something to keep the elements of decay—animals, moisture, that sort of thing—from getting to the skin. Rather than as an agent that works
with
the skin. You see what I’m saying?”

“A repellent,” said Hoffner.

“Exactly. That would make my work much easier. On the other hand, if it is something that actually interacts with the flesh and creates a reaction, then it becomes far more complicated.”

“And your guess is?”

Kroll looked over at Fichte with a grin. “And now you see where the two of us go our separate ways, Herr
Kriminal-Assistent.
No guesses, Nikolai. I can let you know in a few days.” When Hoffner nodded, Kroll placed the jar on his table and said, “And am I right in thinking you’ll be the one to get in touch with me?”

“Yes.”

“‘Yes,’” repeated Kroll knowingly. “Must be interesting times at Kripo headquarters, these days.”

Hoffner waited before answering. “Yes.”

“‘Yes,’” Kroll repeated again. “And should anyone come calling from the Alex, I know nothing about this little jar. Is that right?”

“Is that a guess, Uwe?” Without giving Kroll a chance to answer, Hoffner added, “You see, Hans? Even a chemist can show the makings of a pretty fair detective.”

O
ut on the plaza, the rain had returned as freezing drizzle; it slapped at the face like tiny pieces of glass, but did little to dampen Fichte’s enthusiasm.