Hoffner stopped scanning the page. Was he missing the obvious? Had he just uncovered his K, he wondered.
The telephone rang and he picked it up as he jotted down a note to look into Herr Jogiches’s past a bit more closely. “Yes,” he said.
“You’re in for a busy night, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
” It was the duty sergeant from the front desk.
“And why is that?” Hoffner continued to write.
“A Schutzi corporal just found another one of your bodies. Markings and all.” Everyone, evidently, was now aware of the case.
Hoffner was on his feet and reaching for his coat when he asked, “Where?”
“Senefelderplatz,” said the man. “In the subway excavations.”
Only once in the courtyard did Hoffner remember Sascha and the wire room. He quickly stopped by the duty desk and asked the Sergeant to get a note to the boy: should anything come in, he was to bring it up to the site. The man understood. Hoffner also told him to telephone the porter at his own building in Kreuzberg; a direct call to Martha at this hour would only frighten her. Still, she liked to know when he would be late. No reason. Just that he would be late.
Hoffner decided to walk. It took him less than twenty minutes to make his way to the square; this time, however, Wouters’s pattern eluded him. These were not the wide avenues around the Unter den Linden; here the streets and alleys were too narrow, and the turns too clipped and sporadic, to give Hoffner the precision and line that he needed to enter the design. Even the people and cabs were too few to bring the buildings to life. Hoffner knew better than to expect anything from this part of town. He was skirting the edge of Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin’s underbelly, a place of stifled quiet after dark. If nothing else, the pattern demanded movement, and there was none to be found here.
More than that, Wouters and his pattern were no longer abstractions. Hoffner had no need to conjure them, and that made them somehow less his own.
He turned in to the empty square and followed the echo of a barking dog across the cobblestones and over to the site. A glowing red ember, perhaps two meters wide, stared like an angry sun from a poster painted onto the brick of one of the building walls. It was an advertisement for men’s shirts. The cigarette drooped from a mouth that was beyond the reach of the lamplight. A sharp chin in profile balanced the dark blue of the starched collar, and yet, even cut off at the lips, the
Henzeiger Mann
remained the picture of elegance. According to the print, he was also now stain-resistant.
A lone Schutzi patrolman had leashed the dog to a lamppost and was doing all he could to calm the animal with his boot. The mutt was big, and his white teeth glistened in the light each time he chopped his head forward in another snarl. The patrolman was young and having his fun as he slapped at the dog’s head before each quick kick to the gut. The dog, however, seemed undeterred by the taunting: his eyes peered menacingly at the darkened entry to the excavations as ribbons of hot steam poured from his nostrils. Hoffner approached and pulled out his badge.
“Enjoying yourself, patrolman?” he said, the reprimand clear enough in his tone.
At once the boy stood upright. The sight of Hoffner’s badge produced a wonderful blend of confusion and embarrassment. “Herr Detective,” he said. “No. I’m just—” He offered the only excuse he had. “He’s got to be put down. He’s had the taste of blood.” The patrolman actually seemed to believe his own justification. “It’s in his eyes, Herr Detective,” he added. “Nothing we can do. Just waiting for the wagon, that’s all.” The growling continued unabated.
Hoffner might have conceded the point: the dog’s eyes had, in fact, glazed over. That, however, did not make this patrolman any less contemptible. Hoffner said, “The dog found the body?”
The question caused a moment’s confusion. Evidently the boy had never been included on an investigation. Hoffner guessed that he was the halfwit who was always told to stand outside, or wait downstairs, or sit in the hall so as to keep any interested passersby at bay. Tonight he had been given the dog. Even that had overtaxed his resources.
“Yes, Herr Detective,” he finally said. “About an hour ago. Someone heard the howling. They called my sergeant. He’s—”
Hoffner cut him off. “And they’re down in the site?” The patrolman nodded. Hoffner waited for more, then pressed, “Is there a ladder, a ramp?”
Instantly the patrolman understood. “Oh yes,” he said eagerly. “This way, Herr Detective.” He led Hoffner across a series of wooden planks and through the entryway. Lamps along the scaffolding lit their way down and into the pit. At the base of the ramp, the patrolman pointed to the top of a ladder another ten meters on, which disappeared into the depths of the excavation.
“So, a ramp and a ladder,” said Hoffner with mock enthusiasm. The patrolman stared for a moment and then nodded slowly. “Never mind,” said Hoffner. He was about to head for the opening when he said, “And no more business with the dog. We’re clear on that?” The patrolman nodded sheepishly. “Good. Now get back to your post.”
The patrolman was already up the ramp and gone by the time Hoffner reached the ladder. Bending over for the first rung, Hoffner heard a movement off to his side, and immediately spun toward it, as a figure emerged from the darkness.
It took him a moment to recognize little Franz. The boy had been leaning up against a mound of cleared earth. “I thought it was you, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar,
” Franz said as he approached.
Hoffner stood there, waiting for his heart to slow. He stepped away from the ladder. “You startled me, Franz.”
The boy looked genuinely surprised. “Did I? Then I wish I’d brought a towel for you.”
Hoffner remembered this morning’s episode at the washbasin. “Fair enough.” He noticed how threadbare the boy’s coat had become, and how exposed his little neck was without a scarf. Franz, however, was showing no signs of the cold. Tough little man, thought Hoffner. “What are you doing here, Franz?”
“What you told me, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
Following Herr Kvatsch.”
Hoffner understood at once. He peered over at the ladder, then back at the boy. “When did he get here?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
“He received a telephone call?”
Franz had grown accustomed to the accuracy of Hoffner’s guesses. “Yes, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”
“Where?”
“Reese’s Restaurant.”
“With anyone?”
“No, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”
Hoffner nodded. Kvatsch’s star was rising: he was being permitted a firsthand account this time round. Someone wanted the story on the front page, not the fourth. That, however, was not the boy’s concern. “So,” said Hoffner, switching gears as he pulled out his cigarettes. “Any interesting names on the list?” He lit one up and watched as Franz stared eagerly at the ember. The boy continued to gaze as Hoffner exhaled a wide plume of smoke. “All right,” said Hoffner reluctantly. He reached into his pocket and offered one to Franz. The boy took two. “You’d do better to get yourself a scarf, Franz,” said Hoffner as he watched the boy slip the extra one into his pocket. Franz nodded curtly, then placed the cigarette in his mouth. He waited while Hoffner lit it.
“
Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr
Groener,” said Franz. “Over lunch.” Smoke streamed from his small nose. “They were together maybe five minutes. I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying.”
A little obvious, thought Hoffner, but why not? The question remained, Was Groener clever enough to have had a reason to leak the story? Spite hardly seemed a sufficient motive. Hoffner said, “The next time they meet, you come and get me. All right?” The boy nodded. “Good. Now get yourself back to the Alex. You can leave the list on my desk.” Hoffner would have liked to have had Franz wait around and trail after Kvatsch for the rest of the night, but the boy had been out in the cold long enough for one day. Then again, from the way Franz was working the cigarette, Hoffner might just have been underestimating him; Fichte could have taken lessons. “And stay at the Alex,” Hoffner added with a bit more grit. “No slipping out tonight, all right?” For a moment Franz looked as if he might play the innocent; instead, he nodded.
Hoffner walked back with him until they were halfway up the ramp. He had a sudden impulse to pat the boy on the shoulder, but the gesture seemed wrong. Luckily, Franz gave him no time to consider it; with a strangely knowing nod, the boy darted up the remaining few meters and out through the entryway.
Hoffner watched him go. The patrolman was busy elsewhere and took no notice; the dog kept his gaze on the site. Its barking, however, had become hoarser. Hoffner could almost hear a desperation in its throaty growls, as if the dog knew that the measure of its time was spent the moment its last salvo came to an end: it was holding on for as long as it could. Hoffner continued to watch as Franz—once more a ten-year-old boy—crept up to within a few meters of the dog and let go with a howl of his own. The dog responded with a sudden and renewed vigor; Franz howled again and raced off. The patrolman spun around and shouted after Franz, but the boy was already lost to the shadows. The dog, however, had regained full pitch. Franz had given him new life. Hoffner turned and headed back into the pit.
The climb down was shorter than he expected. The Rosenthaler Platz site had been a good twenty meters deep; here it was, at best, ten to twelve, which made the air less thick, though the smell of decaying flesh was no less present. It was also a less complex layout than before. There were no spokes or distant caverns to navigate, just a long tunnel, dimly lit by a series of string lights hung from above. Various air pumps with ventilation hoses sat silent along the dirt floor, but it was clear that this station was still under construction: the wood slats along the walls were freshly cut, the steel beams still had a shine to them, and the piles of shovels and picks were placed for easy retrieval. From the cigarette butts strewn about, Hoffner was guessing that a crew had been here as recently as yesterday afternoon, maybe even this morning. The supply lines were back up and running.
A sudden flash of light drew his attention to the far end of the tunnel. He began to make his way toward it as the din of conversation grew more distinct.
“. . . completely in the buff,” came a voice. “I’m telling you. And she wasn’t shy, either.”
The men laughed. One of them caught sight of Hoffner and his expression hardened at once.
“Gentlemen,” said Hoffner as he drew up with his badge held at eye level. “Quite a little gathering.” There were four of them: a Schutzi sergeant, his patrolman lackey, a man with a camera, and, of course, Herr “Detective” Kvatsch. They were standing to the side of a woman’s dead body. Hoffner returned the badge to his coat pocket. “I see we’ve already started in on the group photos.”
There was a stiffness to the quartet now that Hoffner had arrived. The sergeant was unsure how to respond. He went with what he knew best. “We found her about an hour ago, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar
—”
“Yes,” Hoffner cut in. “Your man upstairs filled me in on the details.” It was clear from the sergeant’s expression that the man upstairs had been told to give more than just the details when the Kripo arrived: a little warning would have been nice. Another botched job from the halfwit, Hoffner imagined. “How fortunate that our friends from the
BZ
arrived so quickly to keep you company.”
Kvatsch said, “As always, one step ahead of the Kripo, Herr Detective.”
“Or one phone call,” said Hoffner. He waited a moment, then added, “I hear the bean soup was particularly nice at Reese’s tonight.” Hoffner watched as Kvatsch’s lips shifted into double time. Hoffner then turned to the sergeant. “I’m assuming you’ve got my cut, Herr
Wachtmeister.
” The sergeant looked almost relieved. He began to reach into his tunic; Hoffner’s gaze soured instantly. “Greedy
and
stupid, eh, Sergeant?” Again, the man was at a loss. “That’s a dangerous combination, don’t you think?” Without waiting for an answer, Hoffner reached over and took the camera from the fourth member of the party. He opened the back cover and removed the film.
“Excuse me, Detective,” said Kvatsch, now with an edge to his voice, “but I paid for that,” as if anything he said mattered down here.
Hoffner said, “Well, then, that was a bad investment, wasn’t it, Herr Kvatsch?” Hoffner crumpled the film in his fist and handed the camera back to the man. The photographer seemed wholly indifferent; Kvatsch had evidently already paid him for his services. “Who made the call?” said Hoffner.
Kvatsch said, “I thought you’d have that figured out by now, Detective. Wasn’t that the promise?”
Hoffner smiled stiffly. “Someone’s leading you around by the nose, and you don’t even realize it, do you?”
“We’ll see who’s leading whom.”
Hoffner nodded. “I thought newspapermen were supposed to track down stories, Kvatsch, not have them spoon-fed to them.”
Kvatsch was not biting. He answered coolly, “You want a name. I need a photograph. That seems a fair trade.”
“Does it?” said Hoffner.
Kvatsch actually thought he was gaining the upper hand. “You know, it’s so much nicer dealing with you than with your old partner. Knig never understood the art of negotiation. Always too quick with the rough stuff.”
Hoffner started to laugh to himself until, without warning, he grabbed the scruff of Kvatsch’s coat and shoved him against the planks on the near wall. The other men immediately stepped off. Slowly, Hoffner brought his face to within a few centimeters of Kvatsch’s. He held him there and spoke in an inviting tone: “That’s just what this city needs, isn’t it, Kvatsch? Something else to set it off in a panic.” Kvatsch was doing his best to maintain some semblance of calm. He swallowed loudly. Hoffner continued: “Revolution, war, starvation—they’re not enough for you, are they? You know, if you had half a brain, you’d realize that that’s exactly what your ‘Kripo sources’ want.” Hoffner smiled quizzically. “Why is it that you always have to be such an obvious rube?”