Rosa (40 page)

Braun gave him no time to backtrack: “And what did you expect?”

Fichte was suddenly on the spot. “Well, you know,” he said, trying to buy some time. “What people imagine goes on inside the Polpo.”

“
Un
informed people,” said Braun.

“Yes. Exactly,” said Fichte, trying not to show his relief. “The common misconceptions.”

Braun raised his glass and with a knowing look—one that only confused Fichte—downed his whiskey in one swallow. He then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Why don’t you two girls have a spin at the roulette wheel? Give Herr Fichte—”

“Hans,” corrected Fichte enthusiastically.

“—Hans and me a chance to talk.” Braun pulled a five-mark bill from his wallet.

Frulein Raubal looked relieved, as if she had been waiting for the suggestion all along; Frulein Dimp simply marveled at the amount of money.

Braun was on his feet. The women slid over, and Frau Raubal placed a nice kiss on Braun’s cheek as she took the bill.

“You talk as long as you want,” said Frulein Dimp as she reached across the table for her drink. She made sure to give Fichte a nice view of her cleavage. “We’ll be just fine, Hans, darling. Don’t you worry about us.”

And like that, the girls were gone. Braun settled back into his seat and managed to wave down a passing waiter. He ordered two whiskeys. He said, “Nice-looking girl, Hans. Very enthusiastic.”

Fichte tried his best to keep up. “I certainly hope so.” He laughed a bit too loudly, but Braun let it pass.

“I imagine you’ve been on quite a tear since the Wouters case broke.”

“I can’t complain.”

Braun offered him a cigarette. “You enjoy that kind of work, do you? Murders and the like.” The two men lit up.

“I don’t know if I’d say ‘enjoy,’ but it is interesting.”

“Of course. Interesting in a limited sort of way.” He saw Fichte’s confusion. “I only mean that the cases have fixed parameters.” This didn’t seem to help. Braun spoke more slowly. “You catch the killer and the case is closed. That sort of thing. They don’t really lead anywhere else.”

“Oh, I see what you mean. Well . . . yes and no. There are some cases that lead elsewhere.”

“And you like those?”

Fichte tried to find the right words. “Well, I haven’t had the chance yet to work on one that’s led beyond the . . . you know, beyond the case. But I’ve certainly read about the ones that have.”

Braun nodded amiably. “Of course.” He took a drag. “Pretty much all we do in the Polpo. Nothing ever seems to find an end up on the fourth floor. Always leading from one thing to the next to the next.” He picked at a piece of stray tobacco on his tongue. He examined it as he said, “From what I’ve seen, you look like you might have a talent for that sort of thing.” He flicked the tobacco away and looked across at Fichte warmly. “We were all very impressed with your work on the Wouters case.”

Fichte tried an awkward pull on his cigarette and began to nod his head quickly. “No. Of course. That’s the sort of thing I do best.”

“Have you ever considered the Polpo?”

The suggestion caught Fichte completely by surprise. “Considered the Polpo?”

Braun was still unnervingly relaxed. “It’s just something I wonder about when I see work of that caliber, that’s all. A bit of healthy competition, you understand. Wanting the best that the Kripo has to offer.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t listen to me, Hans. I’m just a jealous detective who’d like to filch from the boys on the third floor. You’ll be getting quite a bit of that in your career, I imagine.” The waiter arrived. Braun said, “Shall I order two more while we have him here?”

Fichte fumbled with a nod.

Braun waited until they were alone before continuing: “I’ve made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. You’re a Kripo man, through and through.” He raised his glass. “To fine work on whichever floor it happens to be coming from.” The two men drank.

Fichte sat with his glass in hand. He was feeling a bit light-headed, although he was doing his best to keep himself under control. Not that he had ever thought of the Polpo. They were safe in deep water, shoals closer in, or something like that: he could never remember the exact words Hoffner had used. But that seemed so far from the truth, given tonight, more so given his recent encounters with Hermannsohn. Still, Fichte knew to be wary. “I need a bit more under my belt before I start thinking about any of that.” He took a sip.

Braun nodded. “That’s your
Kommissar
Hoffner speaking now.” Braun corrected himself. “Your
Oberkommissar.
Pardon me. How can we forget the great promotion ceremony at the Royal Palace? Quite a show they put on.”

The word “show” pricked at Fichte. It reminded him who was sitting across the table. “Yes,” he said. “The Kripo spares no expense.”

Braun seemed surprised by the answer. He smiled. “I’ve offended you again. My apologies.” He took a slow pull on his cigarette. “I’d like to say it’s the whiskey, but we both know it’s that jealousy rearing its ugly head. Ignore it, Hans. I do.”

This time Braun’s mea culpa seemed more contrived. Fichte returned a bland smile and took another sip.

Braun said, “You’re quite devoted to your Herr Hoffner, aren’t you?”

The tone of the conversation had shifted, and Fichte was strangely aware of it. He knew that Braun was hinting at something. Even so, Fichte took his time. He placed his glass on the table and said, “He was my
Kriminal-Kommissar,
and he remains my partner. I’ve learned a great deal working with him.” He looked across at Braun. “He also happens to be a brilliant detective.”

“Your loyalty is admirable.”

“Thank you.”

“If a bit nave.”

This time the word more than pricked. Fichte was not terribly good at hiding his resentment, especially with a few drinks in him. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, Herr
Oberkommissar.
”

Braun was more direct. “We don’t like letting the good ones get away, Hans. And we’re very persistent.”

Fichte waited. “Why nave?”

“Herr Hoffner is an excellent detective. No question about that.”

“And yet you don’t let the good ones get away.”

“We don’t. But you have to understand that it’s more than just detective work up on the fourth floor. It’s a man’s character, his past. Herr Hoffner . . . well, he comes up a bit short on both counts.”

Fichte was amazed at Braun’s candor. “We’re talking about my partner, Herr Braun.”

“Yes,” said Braun unapologetically. “I know.”

Fichte felt suddenly ashamed for having let it get this far. There was something decidedly petty in Braun’s style. Fichte reached for his glass and downed the whiskey. It was a mistake. He instantly felt the effects. “It’s been a pleasure, Herr Braun. Thank you for the drinks.” He started to get up.

Braun said calmly, “He’s fucking your girl, Hans. Not much character in that.”

Fichte stared across the table. He was certain he had misheard. “Excuse me?”

“Your girl,” said Braun no less directly. “Lina. Herr Hoffner’s been screwing her ever since your little trip to Belgium, or didn’t you know that? There’s your Kripo, Hans. There’s your loyalty.”

Fichte felt his legs begin to slip out from under him; luckily, he was still only a few centimeters above the banquette. It did nothing to help the sudden throbbing in the back of his head. Fichte wanted to answer, make a joke, but he was swimming in booze, drowning under the image of Hoffner with Lina. He felt his neck constrict, his lungs tighten, and he began to gasp for breath. He thought Braun was saying something, reaching out a hand, but he could hardly see him. Fichte fumbled in his pocket for his inhaler. He took in a long, deep suck and his lungs began to open; he could breathe again. He felt himself standing. Not sure what was coming out, he said, “Thank you for the drinks, Herr
Oberkommissar.
” He tried to regain his focus. “You’ll excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, Fichte made his way for the front doors. His head was clearing, but his face felt as if it were on fire. He needed cold air, anything to be away from this noise and the crush of bodies. He began to push his way through the crowd, when he saw little Elise, Lina’s roommate, standing alone inside the coat-check room. The sight of her was like another crack to his skull. Fichte barreled his way over.

Her expression soured the instant she saw him. “Ticket, sir,” she said sharply,

Fichte steadied himself on the counter. “Is she fucking someone?” he said loudly.

Elise looked past him, afraid that someone might have heard. “Keep your voice down, Hans.”

Fichte was no less insistent in a whisper. “Is she fucking my partner?”

It was clear that Elise had been waiting weeks to hear the question. She now took her time in answering. “What do you care?” she said in a hushed, nasty tone. “You’ve been screwing everything that walks through that door in the last month. Serves you right.”

Fichte held himself rigidly at the counter. He wanted to reach over and slap her to the ground. With a sudden jab, he thrust his hand into his pocket. He saw her flinch, and he laughed sloppily. He then pulled out his ticket and tossed it on the counter. His words were growing more slurred. “My coat, you fucking bitch.”

Elise had shown all the fight she had. She backed away slowly and turned to the rack. She laid the coat on the counter and again stepped away.

Fichte teetered momentarily. He tasted a dry sourness in his throat. “Bitch,” he said. He then grabbed his coat and headed for the doors.

AS BRITTLE AS PAPER

Sometimes you need a bit of good fortune, and today it was Hoffner’s turn.

A cable had arrived in the morning from Belgium: van Acker had come up with a name for the substitute Wouters. He was a Konrad Urlicher, a German from Bonn. Strangely enough, it was Urlicher’s anatomy that had been the key to his identity. During the autopsy of the body, the doctors had discovered that Urlicher had suffered from a rare bone disease. This discovery might have meant nothing had there not also been indications that Urlicher had been treated for the disease using somewhat innovative if experimental techniques: something to do with marrow extracts. The upshot was that only a handful of clinics in Europe had been using the new techniques. Photographs of the man had been sent out to each of them. Within a week, Urlicher’s name had come back.

What was more startling was that Urlicher had not been insane. He had simply been dying. Who better, then, thought Hoffner, to take the place of a madman? Van Acker had sent along as much information as he could on Urlicher—and his stay at Bonn’s Fritsch Clinic—including background, family, and recent past. He had also included the names of those who had visited Urlicher while he had been hospitalized, and it was there that Hoffner had turned up gold.

Two names appeared on both the Sint-Walburga and clinic sheets: a Joachim Manstein and an Erich Oster. Both men had visited Urlicher one week before his disappearance from the Bonn clinic in October of 1918, and again two days before he had killed himself at Sint-Walburga in January of 1919. Hoffner had also discovered that Manstein had made a solo trip to the asylum in June of 1918, some six months before the suicide, and it was the tracking of that first visit that had brought the picture into focus.

Whatever these men had had in mind, their plan had been initiated as of June 1918. It was at that time, according to the doctors at Sint-Walburga, that the real Wouters had begun to let himself go: no bathing, no cutting of the hair. It was clear now that the purpose of Manstein’s first visit in June had been to prepare Wouters for the switch to come in October. By then Wouters would be unrecognizable, allowing for a reasonable facsimile—long hair, etc.—to take his place. The visit to the Bonn clinic in October had been to alert Urlicher that the switch was coming. And the last visit to Sint-Walburga in January had been to give Urlicher his final orders. That he had wrapped a rope around his neck was proof enough that Urlicher had been willing to follow them to the letter.

The precision of the operation—and it was an operation, in Hoffner’s mind—led him to conclude that the military connection extended beyond the Ascomycete 4. That Manstein and Oster had been able to cross into Belgium on two separate occasions during the war—one to prepare Wouters, the other to make the switch—could have been possible only with military credentials. A single man without papers might have been able to slip across the border. Three men—one of them looking like a raving lunatic—would not.