Rosa (52 page)

Hoffner paid for both himself and Jogiches and, after a quick stop at the locker stalls, emerged to the common lounge decked out in slippers and a Turkish towel; Jogiches had opted for the full robe and hood: he looked like a slightly bedraggled Druid.

It was an impressive place, two stories high, with a colonnade of black and white marble columns under an open balcony that ran the perimeter of the four walls. A few of the denizens were peering down, catching a breath before returning to their self-imposed swelter boxes. Others sat below in thick leather chairs, reading papers or talking casually to one another. A series of Persian rugs dotted the floor. One might have guessed that this was the setting for an afternoon tea, had each of the men not been in various states of undress. The fattest invariably sat au naturel. Hoffner wondered if it was a lack of towel girth or simply pride that had prompted the choices.

He led Jogiches up the stairs and toward the last of the rooms on the right. A large, powerfully built man stood at the door in nothing but white socks: he had little to be ashamed of. He held a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and was showing extreme care each time he removed it to flick away the ash.

“Private room,” he said through a cloud of smoke.

“Tell him Nikolai Hoffner wants to see him.”

The man glanced over at Jogiches. “And?”

“Just tell him Hoffner.”

The man sized them up again, and then knocked once over his shoulder. A moment later a plume of steam billowed from the half-opened door to reveal a second, equally impressive titan, who was drenched in sweat. “Nikolai Hoffner,” said the first man. The door closed and the three stood staring at each other while they waited. “Drop the robe and the towel,” said the man. “And the slippers. Nothing goes in.” Jogiches and Hoffner did as they were told: they were now three naked silent men.

The knock came and the man nodded them through.

The sting of hot, moist air was instantaneous, as was the hiss of gushing steam. As far as Hoffner could make out, the room was all white tile, including the floor: he had to steady himself against the wall to keep from slipping. His skin had gone instantly slick, and the puffed air made it impossible to see more than a half-meter in front of him.

“Watch yourself there, Inspector,” came a voice from across the room. “Let’s see that you make it across alive.” It was joined by a small chorus of laughter. “Turn it down, Zenlo,” said the voice. Hoffner heard the squeal of a valve being spun. Instantly the hiss choked off and the steam began its slow descent to the floor. As the air cleared, Hoffner saw the six or seven men who were seated across the room on two step-levels. They might have passed for a klatch of well-fed businessmen if not for the collection of odd scars and discolorations on their cheeks, arms, and chests. Marks of the trade, thought Hoffner. No wonder they liked the baths: a nightly chance to wash away their sins.

On the topmost step, and in the far corner, sat an equally naked Alby Pimm.

Pimm was small and pale by comparison to the rest, with a shock of curly jet-black hair that made him look almost boyish. His face, however, said otherwise. It had that weathered look of forty-odd years living off the streets, time spent climbing to the top ranks of the
Immertreu,
one of Berlin’s more notorious syndicates. Just now Pimm was enjoying a rather charmed relationship with the Kripo. He had proved himself useful during the war—keeping an eye on undesirables and foreigners—and had thus earned himself something of a free hand when it came to his less-violent enterprises: black-market trade, a little extortion—these passed without too much interference. Anything more serious, however, was still fair game.

Pimm said with a smile, “Not with us in an official capacity, are you, Inspector?” The men laughed again, and Hoffner pointed to a spot on the lower step. “Be my guest,” said Pimm. “And this is         .         .         .” Pimm needed another moment to find the name. “Herr Jogiches, isn’t it?” Jogiches said nothing as the two men sat. “Odd little pairing.” More laughter.

Hoffner said, “I need to talk to you.”

“You are talking to me.”

“Alone.”

“Ah.” Pimm was enjoying this. He took a drink from a small wooden box that sat at his side. “A bull and a Red,” he said. “What times we live in.” He took a second drink and then bobbed his head toward the door: the men began to take their towels and file out. The last in line was a long, lanky fellow with the most angular face Hoffner had ever seen: there looked to be just enough skin on the cheeks and nose to cover the bone, although the eye sockets seemed to be wanting a bit more. “Zenlo,” Pimm said. The man turned. “Stay by the door.” The man nodded and stepped outside.

Hoffner was now dripping with sweat. He pulled his hand across his face to clear his eyes. Pimm slid the box across the tile toward him and said, “That’s how the Japanese drink their water. The wood keeps it cool. Clever little people.”

“I could do with something a bit stronger,” said Hoffner.

“Not in here you couldn’t. That’s what you’re pissing out. Trust me, take the water.” Pimm watched as Hoffner reached up for the box and drank; he then said, “I don’t know who’s doing all the killing, if that’s why you’re here. Bad for business all around. I thought you’d finished it with the Belgian.”

Hoffner slid the box back. “Bad for more than business.”

Pimm nodded slowly. “Yah.” He picked up a bowl of water and, leaning forward, tipped it over his head. “I was sorry to hear about that.” He remained stooped over. “That revolution of yours didn’t do me much good, either, Herr Spartakus.”

Jogiches was feeling the heat in his beard. He dabbed a bit of water onto his cheeks. “My apologies,” he said.

Pimm laughed to himself and spat. He tipped a second bowl over himself and sat up. “So, what is it you gentlemen want?”

Hoffner had propped his elbows on his knees. He felt the sweat drip from his chin, and watched as it splattered on the tile between his feet. “I want you to break into the fourth floor of the Alex and steal a body.” Hoffner took a bowl of his own and tipped it over his head.

Again Pimm laughed. “You want what?” Hoffner remained bent over in silence. It took Pimm another few seconds to realize that Hoffner was serious. The laughter stopped. “And why would I do that?”

Hoffner continued to gaze at the floor. “Because it would be good for business.”

F
ive minutes later Pimm was no more convinced. “No one’s going to believe that,” he said.

Hoffner agreed. “You’re probably right.”

“
I
don’t believe it.” Pimm was picking at something on his chest. “You’ve been spending too much time with your friend here.” Pimm looked over at Jogiches. “You don’t say much, do you, Herr Spartakus?”

Jogiches returned the stare.

Pimm said, “You know, I’ve always wondered—why are so many of you Reds Jews? Why make people hate you twice?”

Jogiches answered without hesitation: “Persistence.”

Pimm smiled and flicked something onto the floor. He said, “Trust me, I want to see Weigland hanging by his balls as much as anyone—”

Hoffner cut in. “I never said it was Weigland.”

Pimm nodded. “No. You never did.” He stood and moved over to the valve. He turned it twice and the steam hissed back into action. “You cramp up without it,” he said. “The Japanese have girls who rub your legs while you sit. Keeps the blood moving. We tried it, but German girls sweat too much and stink up the place. Plus they thought it was for sex. They didn’t understand the aesthetic.” He was back at his towel. “And you’re sure it’s her? Our little Rosa?” Hoffner nodded. Pimm tugged at his ear. “And this helps me how, again?”

“How much sugar are you planning to move with the
Freikorps
breathing down your neck?” said Hoffner. “Ebert makes things a good deal easier.”

“Order makes things easier,” Pimm said bluntly. The steam was already beginning to rise; he waved a cloud from his face. “That’s something your second-story safecracker doesn’t follow. A little anarchy works just fine for him; the bulls are occupied elsewhere and he makes a killing. But an organization—that needs routine. That needs people settled, safe. Right, left—makes no difference to me.”

“Then why chance another bump in the road when things are moving so smoothly now?”

Pimm bobbed his head as if conceding the point. He then took a towel and wiped his face. When he spoke, it was with a focus that was wholly unexpected: “The reason so many of you Reds are Jews, Herr Spartakus, is that a Jew is told to create heaven on earth. The next world, messiahs, fear of hell—never really been the point, has it? The Jew is meant to do it here, now. And the ones who get tired of waiting become Reds because for them, socialism
is
heaven on earth. The perfect world, and with no God telling them what to do this time. Everyone just as good as the rest. Everyone looking out for the rest. The Red can’t tell you how you’re supposed to get there—in fact, all he can tell you is what you’re
not
supposed to do and what
won’t
be there—but, still, he thinks he can build it. Sound familiar, does it?” Pimm paused. “Your Red never loses what makes him a Jew; he simply shifts his focus.” Pimm held Jogiches’s gaze and then turned to Hoffner. “You get my help, Inspector, not because it’s good for business, or because the devil I know is better than the devil I don’t, but because, even if nothing else of what you’re saying is true, I have no interest in having one more lunatic tell me that my elimination is part of his grand plan.” He shouted to the door. “Zenlo.” The man appeared instantly. “We’re going east. Tell the boys.”

P
imm a Jew, and a political one at that, thought Hoffner: the world was full of surprises. At least this one was working in their favor.

Back at Pimm’s offices—two large rooms above a repair garage, furniture, a telephone—Pimm produced a series of remarkably accurate layouts of the Alex’s third and fourth floors. He had had enough boys inside for a night or two, he explained. Someone was bound to remember something.

Equally remarkable was the ease with which Pimm and Jogiches got down to the planning of the thing. For Hoffner, it was like listening to a book being read in reverse: they were beginning where he always ended—with the inception of a crime—and they were leading to the moment that was his first. Hoffner was too tired to reconfigure his mind. He found a couch, sat back, and let it all pass in front of him.

The sun was just coming up, and a stream of men began to make their way up the stairs and into the offices. They were an odd collection of shapes and sizes—swindlers and thieves—and each with something to show for a night’s work. Most carried a battered cigar box, the telltale appendage of Berlin’s underbelly. Not that any of these men could have afforded the fine Dutch tobacco advertised on the top flaps. No, these boxes were filled with “jimmies” and “little aldermen”—always arranged in order of size—and, most important, a few S-hooks. After all, even housebreakers’ tools deserved their nicknames: a jimmy your crowbar, a little alderman your picklock. An S-hook needed no such distinction. It was what it was, and could have you through a door in close to ten seconds if you knew what you were doing. For the less adept, a “ripper”—that ancient drilling tool—would get you in, but it was never as elegant. Those who worked for Pimm were S-hook men: they walked with a certain swagger.

Odder still was the businesslike efficiency with which everything was managed: one of the titans from the steam baths was behind a desk writing out slips for money and goods received, the men patiently waiting in line, all with a deferential nod for Pimm, who was too busy with Jogiches across the room to take any notice. The titan passed on the slips to a man who was tallying them up, who then passed them to a third who was writing feverishly into a ledger. No doubt those who were missing this morning’s accounting would be visited later, but for now the process seemed far removed from the world that these men usually inhabited. Hoffner recognized a face here and there: it was nice to see that the men had found steady work.

Jogiches called over: “Which room on the floor?” Hoffner realized the question was for him, and he pushed himself up and stepped over to the table that was already thick with sheets of paper filled with diagrams and notes: they might just as well have been in Chinese for all that Hoffner could make of them. Jogiches pulled over one of the layouts and repeated the question.

“I don’t know,” said Hoffner.

Pimm and Jogiches exchanged a glance. Pimm said, “That’s something we have to know.”

Hoffner understood.

Jogiches said, “You can’t go back in yourself, you know.”

Hoffner nodded. Even he had known that from the start.

K
riminaldirektor
Gerhard Weigland kept himself buttoned up         to the neck as he peered out from the rear seat of his Daimler sedan. The automobile was an older model—a gift to himself on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding—but it was still in excellent condition. Weigland had made sure to hire a good man to see to its upkeep: a former mechanic with the Kripo. A man to be trusted. That man was now seated behind the wheel and in full chauffeur’s attire, awaiting instructions.

“You’re sure you saw her go in?” said Weigland. He had arrived by cab five minutes ago after getting the call.

The man had been very clear on the telephone. He was no less certain now. “Yes,
mein Herr.
”

“And she hasn’t come out?”

“No,
mein Herr.
”

The car was parked at the edge of a narrow alleyway. Weigland’s eyes were fixed on the side mirror, which had been reangled so as to keep the building behind them in its sites. “Maybe we turn the motor on to get a bit of heat, don’t you think?”

The man in the front seat pressed the starter and the car came to life.

“Much better,” said Weigland.

“Yes,
mein Herr.
”