Rosa (39 page)

“He has to be. There’s a great deal at stake now.”

And there it was, thought Hoffner. The catchphrase. There was always “a great deal at stake” for men like Jogiches: grand causes tended to subordinate every motivation to a singular truth. Only action mattered, which, as Hoffner now thought about it, made Jogiches’s approach not all that different from his own. The one distinction was in how each of them saw the confluence of events. For Jogiches, the details came together like pieces in a boundless jigsaw whose cover had gone missing, so that the final picture, though dimly imagined, remained forever a mystery: completion was always just another few days off, which made the eternal search all the more compelling. For Hoffner, the pieces produced a finite picture, smaller, of course, and without a sense of the greater totality, but no less coherent: the final product might have been only a tiny segment of the larger puzzle, but it brought resolution, and that, in the end, was all that mattered. There was either truth and causes and sacrifice, or there was practicality and cases and death. Hoffner had never questioned which took precedence.

He said, “So I have an ally inside the Alex?”

From his expression, Jogiches had never thought of it that way. Truth to tell—until this moment—neither had Hoffner. “I suppose you do,” said Jogiches.

Hoffner waited as a lifetime of mistrust stared back at him. Luckily, the dead are quick to realize that they have nothing to lose.

“Groener,” Jogiches finally said. “Detective Sergeant Ludwig Groener.”

J
ogiches enjoyed the moment immensely. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, Inspector. Why do you think he never won promotion? Bit of an embarrassment to his uncle the General, I suspect, but then maybe that’s the reason he became one of us in the first place. I never asked. Groener’s far more than you ever imagined.”

In fact, Hoffner had never even conceived of it, not that he had heard much beyond the name. It had come at him like a wave of gibberish, a word in a child’s game with syllables and cadence but no meaning.
Groener?
The name was, at this moment, completely incomprehensible.

It was the perfect lead-in to the garbled singing that suddenly erupted from one of the tables by the front door. A drunk had taken to his feet and was already at full throttle:

“When lovely eyes begin to wink, when full glasses gleam and clink, there comes once more the call to drink, to drink, to drink, to drink!”

Everyone at the table laughed. It was loud enough to draw half the caf’s attention, Hoffner with them. When he turned back, Jogiches was on his feet. “We’ll do this again, Inspector,” he said as he reached for his hat. “There’s another door through the kitchen. They won’t have anyone there.”

“You still haven’t told me how you know about Munich.”

Jogiches placed his hat on his head. “And you, Herr Inspector, have to leave me some secrets.” Jogiches grabbed his umbrella and, without another word, headed for the back of the café.

It was only then that Hoffner remembered where he had seen Jogiches before. Rcker’s bar, the day they had found Mary Koop, the professor with the umbrella. It was a startling image. Hoffner wondered: Had Jogiches been watching him even then?

The front doors opened and a Polpo detective appeared; the man was too obvious to be anything else. Hoffner watched as the singing drunk suddenly maneuvered himself out into the aisle and clumsily blocked the detective’s path. Jogiches had picked his lookout well: the man showed a tremendous dedication to his task.

Taking advantage of the commotion, Hoffner stood and quietly made his way back toward the kitchen.

M
artha was asleep by the time he stumbled in. As always, she had left a light on for him.

Hoffner was still mulling over his first encounter with Jogiches as he tossed his clothes in a pile and turned out the light: had Munich been a consideration back in January? Had Jogiches stayed in the shadows and allowed three more women to be killed rather than expose what he knew? Had Groener done worse? Hoffner quietly slipped into bed. His head was still thick from the brandy as he lay back, closed his eyes, and tried to piece it all together.

“Late night.” Martha’s voice filled the darkness.

It had been a long time since she had waited up for him. “You’re awake, then,” he said. He listened for movement; when none came, he added, “Not that late. Go back to sleep.”

There was the hope that she would give in, but they both knew better. She spoke quietly and without any hint of judgment. “Nothing you want to tell me, is there, Nicki?” She kept her back to him.

It always came here, he thought, with no distractions, nothing to run to for a moment of relief: a newspaper lying about, a package recently delivered, a boy passing by the door. Only darkness and conversation and the unbearable weight of the two.

“Tell you what?”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

She had always had the good sense to wait until things had sputtered out before posing the question. It was safe by then, each of them aware of what he had done and how he had chosen not to let it drag on. There was a kind of victory in that for them both. Now, however, it was four years on since his last slip, and her timing had gone off.

“The Wouters case,” he said. “Loose ends.” He did his best to wrap it in the truth, which, of course, only made it more cruel: anything other than his confession signaled her miscalculation.

“Oh,” she said vaguely. She was trying not to sound betrayed.

“Yes. I might have to take a few days in Munich.”

“Munich?” she repeated with false blandness.

The stupidity of what he had just said struck him at once. A few days in Munich? Could anything have been more obvious? The truth had snuck in and was now lashing away. He said, “Two days, at the most. I’m not even sure how the trains are running.” He would have given anything for an outburst of anger or despair or loathing, but Martha always let her strength work its magic.

She said, “Sascha’s friend is coming up at the weekend.” Hoffner had no idea what she was talking about. “Kroll’s niece. The girl from Frankfurt. It’s all planned. So I’m sure the trains are running fine.”

Hoffner wondered if, perhaps, they had moved past the worst of it. Unpleasantness loomed somewhere, but he chose to ignore it. “Geli,” he said: the name came to him like an unexpected gift. Sascha had met the girl on his last summer holiday: she was bright and pretty and thirteen and equally taken with the boy. Hoffner recalled something being said around the table last week. It was all very hazy.

“He’s in such a nice mood about it,” said Martha. She rolled toward him. “And you’ve been very good, Nicki. A boy needs that sort of thing.”

The air was clearing. They were well beyond it now. “He’s a good boy,” said Hoffner. Not that he knew his son well enough to say it, but he knew Martha needed to hear it.

“I saw the Mrike,” she said. It took Hoffner a moment to follow. “I found it in your jacket. You haven’t read him in years.”

Again, he needed a moment. “No. I—just came across it.”

“You were always so fond of him.”

“Yes.”

She continued to stare up at him. “You don’t love her, do you?”

And there it was, the banality of the question so much more painful than its answer. It might have been comical had Martha known the book’s source, but then again, he had chosen to keep it. Perhaps the question wasn’t as absurd as he thought. “No,” he said with quiet certainty. “I don’t.” Hoffner waited, wondering if she might drag them back into it; instead, she rolled away and onto her side.

She said, “I saw the gloves. They’re lovely. Thank you, Nicki.”

He had left them for her this morning with a little note on her pillow. “With warm affection,” or some such thing. It would have been too much on poor Herr Taubmann to return them now.

“
D
oes everyone have a partner!”

Tamako—he might have been Japanese, but it was anybody’s guess—called out from high above on his catwalk to the throng of dancers below. As always, he was immaculately togged in silk tuxedo and vest, and stood shouting into his now-infamous white megaphone, which he had named “Trubo.” Tonight, Tamako was keeping his dyed ginger-blond hair greased back to show his inordinately high forehead, which, for some reason, was powdered in white.

“You!” he said, leaning over the railing and pointing an accusatory finger at no one in particular. “Higher knees! Herr Trrrrrubo wants higher knees!”

A woman at the edge of the floor began to lift her legs with greater abandon. Her dress flew up and she laughed as the men around her helped to hike it up farther each time she kicked.

“I see knickers!” shouted Tamako. “Black and gold knickers! Oh, those lovely knickers! Three cheers for the lady in blue!”

The dance floor erupted, and the orchestra took it as its cue to raise the decibel level. Everything grew more feverish, while Fichte, seated at the bar with a vodka and orange, watched in delight.

He enjoyed the view from the bar. More than that, he enjoyed how he could be viewed from the bar. Hardly a quarter-hour passed without a handshake or a drink for the young detective. The girls had grown less attractive over the weeks—after all, who could keep a Haller Girl interested for more than a few days?—but some of the middling ones were still coming by. Tonight a buxom counter girl from one of the stores along the Kurfrstendamm was on his arm: she had a flat of her own; she had made that very clear early on in the evening. She was drinking champagne, but Fichte was figuring it would be worth the extras.

She pulled away from him and showed a bit of thigh as she flapped her skirt. “I want to dance, Hans. Let’s dance.”

Fichte imagined the treats in store for him. He placed his drink on the bar and followed her out as a photographer flashed a shot. It was a slow night. Who knew? Fichte might even make it back into the morning papers.

The girl was all thrusts and kicks, and she liked it when Fichte kept his hand clamped around her buttocks. He bent closer in and placed his cheek on hers, and little beads of sweat started where their skin touched. She smelled of talc and matted hair as Fichte reached up and stole a squeeze of her breast. She slapped at him playfully, and the cloth clung momentarily to his palm as he pulled it away.

Back at the bar he bought her another champagne. He was handing it over when a familiar voice from behind broke through the crowd.

“Something of a madhouse tonight, isn’t it?” said the voice.

Fichte turned to see Polpo
Oberkommissar
Gustav Braun reaching out for two glasses of his own. Fichte took a moment to process the image. Smiling, and with his hair mussed at the front, Braun looked almost human.

Fichte’s girl was growing impatient. “Hans—my drink?”

Fichte recovered and handed her the champagne. Braun, however, remained no less perplexing. With a false camaraderie, Fichte said, “Herr
Oberkommissar.
What a surprise.”

Braun was handing one of the drinks to a lady friend of his own. “We’re not at the Alex now. It’s Gustav, please. Allow me to present Frulein Tilde Raubal. Frulein Raubal, Herr Fichte. This is the young detective I’ve been telling you so much about.” The woman extended her hand.

Fichte took it and brought it to his lips. “A pleasure,” he said. “This is—” He had forgotten the girl’s name. There were several moments of uncomfortable silence before the girl said with an unflattering tartness, “Frulein Dimp. Vicki Dimp.” She extended her hand, though not with quite the same grace as her counterpart.

Suffering through the girl’s sweaty little hand, Braun said, “You must come and join us. Wouldn’t want to drag you away from the cameras, but we do have a table away from the noise, unless you prefer the bar.”

Fichte answered instantly. “Wonderful.” He motioned for Braun to lead the way. Frulein Dimp, though less than enthusiastic, followed Frulein Raubal into the crowd.

The air was slightly less steamy away from the bar, which made squeezing into the half-moon booth more pleasant than it might have been. Even so, the women were forced to sit shoulder to shoulder, while Fichte kept most of his heft teetering on the edge of the banquette: he placed a hand on the side of the table for balance. He smiled awkwardly at Frau Raubal, who seemed expertly bored.

“He might be a she,” said Braun, gazing up at the catwalk and a strutting Tamako. “There are rumors.” Fichte peered up with him. “Then again,” said Braun, “he might just be a diseased homosexual.”

Fichte found Braun’s chumminess thrilling. If only for a few moments, he was being invited into the inner circle. Fichte had guessed at Tamako’s darker secrets. Now here was a man who could more than merely speculate. Fichte said eagerly, “If only Herr Trubo could speak.”

Braun was momentarily confused by the response—seeing that Herr Trubo was, in fact, a megaphone whose sole purpose
was
to speak—but he nodded anyway and raised his glass. “To the times ahead,” he said.

The four toasted, and Fichte turned to his girl. “Herr Braun”—he corrected himself—“Gustav is very high up with the Polpo. They handle the more complex cases at the Alex.”

Frulein Dimp needed no coaching “I know what the Polpo does, Hans. I read the papers, too.”

Braun said genially, “We don’t spend a lot of time in the papers, Frulein.” He was becoming more human by the minute. “We leave that to heroes like Hans, here.”

Fichte would have blushed, but his face was too busy sweating.

“What we do,” continued Braun, “is always less interesting to the public.”

Fichte perked up. “Not true at all. You manage what’s most interesting to them without their even knowing it. The Polpo keeps a different kind of peace.”

Braun said, “You’ve been talking with Walther Hermannsohn, from the sound of it. Good man, Hermannsohn. Knows his business.”

Fichte had in fact spent more than a little time chatting with the young
Kommissar
over the last few weeks: a few chance meetings at a lunch spot around the corner from the Alex. Hermannsohn was, as Braun said, quite a good fellow. Fichte said, “Yes, not what one expects, really.”