Rosa (15 page)

Hoffner picked up the telephone and dialed the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. The KWI operator was infamous for misdirecting calls, and Hoffner spent a good ten minutes waiting for her to find the right extension. He was still adrift in static when a messenger appeared at his door, holding a small envelope. Hoffner ushered the boy into his office just as Kroll was picking up the line.

“Uwe Kroll here.”

Hoffner took the envelope, then motioned for the boy to wait. “Uwe, hello. Any news?” There was an unexpected silence on the other end. “It’s Nikolai.”

“Yes,” said Kroll. “I know who it is.” Again, Kroll seemed content to leave it at that.

“Is this a bad time?” Hoffner said skeptically.

“You’re calling about the material.”

Hoffner stated the obvious: “Yes.”

Kroll paused. “You’re going to need to come down to the Institute, Nikolai. All right?”

There was something odd in Kroll’s voice. Hoffner had been bringing him goops and oozes to analyze for years, and not one of them had ever provoked more than a playful curiosity. This, however, had the ring of seriousness to it. Hoffner considered pressing for more, but knew better. “All right,” he said. “An hour?”

“Fine,” said Kroll. “I’ll see you then.”

Hoffner hung up and he turned to the boy. “From the wire room?”

“No, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

“No? . . . Interesting.” Hoffner peered at his own name written across the front of the envelope. There was no return address, no office number, just the name. The boy started to go. “Wait,” said Hoffner. The boy planted himself by the door as Hoffner opened the envelope. The note was brief, and to the point. It read:

You should go back to the flat, Detective Inspector.

It was signed “K” and nothing else.

Hoffner flipped the card over and scanned it more closely. There was nothing distinctive to it: a card to be found in any stationers in Berlin. He rubbed his finger across the ink. Luxemburg’s flat, he thought. He felt the little ridges of raised cloth. Someone other than the landlady knew he had been there.

“How are you, Franz?” said Hoffner, his eyes still on the card.

The boy seemed genuinely pleased at the recognition. “Very well, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

Hoffner had always held a soft spot for these runners, the boy messengers who were as old a tradition at the Alex as any he could recall. The installation of telephones—along with the recent child labor laws—had helped to thin their numbers, but for boys with no hope of schooling beyond the age of nine or ten, this was one of the few chances they had to get themselves off the streets. There were even a few beds up in the attic where the most promising, and most desperate, spent their nights.

Hoffner gazed over. He knew this boy well; he had worked with him before: always the same placid stare. Hoffner imagined that Franz could have blended in to any background. The boy saw Hoffner staring at him; his expression remained unchanged. Hoffner found that rather impressive. Going on a year, guessed Hoffner, maybe longer. A few more months, and Franz might find himself assisting a junior clerk, or even in filing, if none of the syndicates had lured him away by then. “So, tell me, Franz—who received the note?”

“The security desk, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

“From whom?”

The boy was momentarily at a loss. “I don’t know, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
I could find out.”

“Yes, why don’t you do that.” Before the boy was through the door, Hoffner stopped him again. “Just to the security desk and back. And not too many questions. If they don’t remember who brought it in, they don’t remember. All right?”

“Yes, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

“Good.” Hoffner nodded him out and then sat back. He again turned to the note.

There was nothing aggressive in its tone, nothing leading, or mocking. It was a simple suggestion. Though neat, the handwriting was clearly that of a man. The
s
was too compressed, and the
K
too severe, to have come from a woman’s pen. More than that, the ink was thick, the point heavy, not like the delicate line produced by a woman’s narrower nib. There was also nothing of the pathological in the script. Hoffner had seen too many messages from maniacs not to be able to discern the subtle shadings in the angle and height of the letters. The language was also wrong for that. No, this had come from an educated man—no doubt a secretive one, from his method of delivery—but aside from that, Hoffner had little to go on. The phrase “Detective Inspector” struck him as odd. There might even have been something encouraging in that.

Hoffner stood and moved over to the map. He located Luxemburg’s flat and stared at the little street for nearly a minute. He then looked up at the area where his pins were sprouting: over six kilometers away. There was no connection. He was about to return to his desk when he realized that he had yet to put a pin into the spot along the Landwehr Canal where Luxemburg’s body had been discovered. He picked one up from the box on the shelf and held it in his fingers as he traced the canal’s winding path. It cut across most of the city: impossible, naturally, to determine where the body had gone in. What, then, was the point of marking where it had come out, he thought. He continued to stare. Maybe that was the point.

The boy reappeared, slightly out of breath. He stood waiting at the door until Hoffner motioned him in. “They think a man with a beard, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

“They think?”

“It was busy, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
The letter was dropped at the desk. The Sergeant thinks he saw a man with a beard around the time it came in.”

“Nothing else?” said Hoffner.

“No, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

Hoffner nodded slowly, then said, “All right, Franz. You can go.”

The boy bobbed his head in a quick bow, and was almost out the door, when Hoffner again stopped him. “Wait.” Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out a pfennig. He held it out to the boy. The men of the Kripo were strictly forbidden to give
taschgeld
to the boys, but Hoffner had never seen the harm in a little pocket money. Franz hesitated; he, too, knew the rules. Hoffner brought his finger up to his lips as if to say it would be their secret. Again the boy hesitated; he then took the coin and, just as quickly, was gone.

Hoffner turned back to the map and dropped the pin into its box. Another time, he thought. He checked his watch and, placing the card in his pocket, grabbed his coat and headed for the stairs.

T
his time, Kroll was in his office when Hoffner knocked. A quick “Come” ushered him in: Kroll looked up from behind his desk and immediately stood. From the abruptness of the movement, he seemed oddly tense. “Hello, Nikolai,” he said as he stepped out to extend a hand. It was all far more formal than Hoffner had expected. Not sure why, and not wanting to break the mood, Hoffner took his hand.

“Uwe.”

No less forced, Kroll said, “We saw your Alexander, Friday. Charming boy, Nikolai. Really. He’s grown into quite a young man.”

For a fleeting moment, Hoffner wondered if the tone on the telephone, and now here, had something to do with Sascha’s visit to the Krolls. Had something been said? Was there a reason for the two fathers to talk? That would be unpleasant. Worse than that, Hoffner couldn’t for the life of him remember Kroll’s boy’s name. There was no way to return the compliment and move on quickly. “Thank you,” said Hoffner. “Yes. Sascha couldn’t stop talking about the lovely evening he had.”

“Good, good. Johannes really enjoys the time they spend together.”

“Johannes,” said Hoffner, doing his best not to show his relief. “Yes. I haven’t seen him in years. Also a wonderful boy.”

“Yes . . . Thank you.”

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Finally, in a moment of sudden recollection, Hoffner blurted out, “The
Deutscher Rundflug.
The four of us went to the opening to see Knig fly. My old partner.”

“Yes,” said Kroll, remembering eagerly.

Hoffner had no inkling why they had slipped into this bizarre little scene. He had known Uwe for far too long. Nonetheless, he continued to watch as his friend nodded uncomfortably: it quickly became apparent that Kroll’s behavior had nothing to do with either of the boys. Finally, Hoffner said, “The material, Uwe. Is there something I should know?”

Kroll stopped nodding. “The material,” he repeated distractedly. “Yes.” He pointed to a chair and headed back behind his desk. “Why don’t you have a seat, Nikolai.”

Hoffner sat. Kroll sat, his mood more serious. “About the material. I ran a few tests.” He seemed unsure how to explain what he had found. “It’s military.”

This was the one thing Hoffner had hoped not to hear. “Military,” he repeated.

“Yes. Used during the war and, not surprisingly, developed here, at the Institute. There are files that are very”—Kroll tried to find the right word—“selective. I haven’t been able to look at all of them, but I’ve made an appointment for us to go up and see the
Direktor.
I’ve told him who you are, the work you do. He’s agreed to talk with us, but with the understanding that any information will remain strictly         .         .         .” Again Kroll had trouble finishing the thought.

“Selective,” said Hoffner.

“Yes. Exactly.” Kroll stood and motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

Hoffner hesitated. “You mean now?”

“Yes.” Kroll was already out from behind the desk. “He’s expecting us. Please.”

T
he glass on the fifth floor office had the word
DIREKTOR
stenciled across it: Kroll knocked, then stepped through to an anteroom fitted with desk, chairs, and several filing cabinets. A plump woman, with her hair pulled back in the tightest bun Hoffner had ever seen, was seated behind the desk: he was amazed that the skin had yet to tear on her forehead. She stood.

“Good afternoon, Frau Griebner,” said Kroll, with a quick click of the heels: his anxiety had mutated into a strict Germanic decorum.

“Good afternoon, Herr
Doktor
Kroll.” She offered an equally perfect nod: her manner was as efficient as her hair. She took no notice of Hoffner. “I will tell the Herr
Direktor
you are here.” She stepped out from behind her desk and disappeared through a second door. Almost immediately she returned. “The Herr
Direktor
will see you now, Herr
Doktor.
” Hoffner followed Kroll into the office.

The room was large and filled with lamps, though the light seemed inclined to shine on only a few select areas. The rest of the space lay in half-shadows, less the result of poor positioning than of an ominous afternoon sky that hovered outside the four vast windows. The gloom seemed to be drawing the light out through the glass: Hoffner wondered if closing the drapes might, in fact, have helped to brighten the place up.

The
Direktor
had done his best to construct a small preserve of light for himself across the room. He got to his feet. “Herr
Doktor
Kroll,” he said. “Hello, hello.” He came out into the shadows to greet them. The
Direktor
was much younger than Hoffner had expected, a man of perhaps forty with a somewhat unruly moustache beneath a wide nose and basset hound eyes. Even more unexpected was the remarkable smile that seemed so out of place in the impressive, though dour surroundings.

“Herr
Direktor,
” said Kroll. “Allow me to present Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar
Nikolai Hoffner. Herr Hoffner, this is Herr Professor
Doktor
Albert Einstein.”

Hoffner recalled Kroll having mentioned Einstein once or twice, over the years. The man had come up with some theory that Kroll had described as either ludicrous or genius. Hoffner couldn’t remember which. The three shook hands and retreated to the desk. Einstein did his best to expand the pocket of light; even so, Hoffner and Kroll were forced to lean in over the edge of the desk in order to escape the shadows.

Einstein reached down and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out a thin file with the word
RESTRICTED
in bold type across its front. There was also a long paragraph describing the penalties for disseminating the material, written in much smaller print below. “This is for a criminal case?” said Einstein.

“Yes, Herr
Direktor,
” said Hoffner.

Einstein nodded. “I’ve always been fascinated by criminal cases. They’re like little puzzles. Quite a bit like what we spend our time on.”

“Except no one ends up dead, Herr
Direktor.
”

Again Einstein nodded. “How little you know about science, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
” He paused, then added, “Anyway, you wanted to hear about something that was meant to be helpful on the battlefield.” He slid the dossier over to Hoffner. “It was called Ascomycete 4. One wonders what happened to numbers one through three.” Einstein was the only one to enjoy the joke.

Hoffner took the folder and opened it. Kroll quickly interrupted: “That’s all very technical stuff, Nikolai. Formulations and so on.” Kroll reached over and flipped to the last few pages. “The gist of the thing is at the back. This bit here.” Again, Hoffner began to read, and again Kroll cut in. “It was developed for trench fatalities,” said Kroll. “And, on occasion, no-man’s-land retrievals.”

Hoffner looked up. Evidently there would be no need for reading. “For men already dead,” said Hoffner, inviting more of the lesson.

“Yes,” said Kroll. “During the beginning of the war—and later on, during the worst of the fighting—it was impossible to transport the dead back to the field hospitals in order to prepare them for burial. Too many bodies were rotting on the front. Not only was contagion an issue, but morale, as well. Men needed to know that if they went down, at least an entire corpse would be returned to their families. The military decided that it needed something to keep the bodies as fresh as possible so that, during those periods of isolation, they could minimize the distraction and disease produced by the corpses, and also treat the dead with as much decency as possible. So they came to the Institute.”