Fichte offered a quick nod.
“Oh, yes,” said Taubmann. “I trust your doctor’s visit was a success?”
Naturally, Taubmann would have remembered that. Fichte nodded again, with a forced smile.
“Very good,” said Taubmann. He was slightly less efficient out of his perfect suit. He seemed aware of it himself as he motioned for Hoffner to take a seat. Hoffner did so, and pulled out the pages from van Acker’s files.
“If you can,” said Hoffner, “I’d like to know what these are.”
Still not sure what was going on, Taubmann took the sheets. “All right,” he said tentatively. He brought the pages up to his face. As with the gloves, his expression changed instantly. His head began to dart from row to row as he studied the sketches with great intensity. After nearly two minutes he said, “This is marvelous work. Really. Not another aunt, is it,
mein Herr
?”
“Another . . . ?” Hoffner remembered his first lie. “No. Not another aunt.”
Taubmann nodded, his eyes still fixed on the sketches. “No, I wouldn’t imagine something this unusual as a gift.”
“Unusual?” said Hoffner.
Taubmann looked up. “A
point tude.
It’s exceptionally rare. It applies to only a handful of meshes.”
“I see,” said Hoffner.
Gazing at the drawings again, Taubmann said, “Am I right in guessing that you want to know if we can make pieces from them?”
Hoffner found it oddly charming how everything for Herr Taubmann revolved around the sale of lace. A detective had just invaded his changing room, with mysterious sheets of paper, and all Taubmann saw was an order for unusual gloves. The man was perfect. Hoffner could ask him anything without wondering if Taubmann might see beyond the question. It made it all very safe.
“Once again,” said Hoffner, “you’ve guessed correctly.”
Taubmann’s smile was only slightly self-congratulatory. “Thank you,
mein Herr,
but I’m not quite clear why it’s so . . . pressing.” He was doing his best to be accommodating. “After all, I will be in tomorrow morning.”
“Yes.”
“Not that I’m not keen on the sale,” Taubmann said eagerly. “But . . . you understand.”
“Of course,” said Hoffner, easing himself back into character. “It’s just that I came across it—this . . .
point tude,
as you say—quite by accident, and I’m simply fascinated by it.” Hoffner decided to lead the man. “Much the way you are, I suspect?” He saw Taubmann begin to waver. “Just two minutes, Herr Taubmann. You’ll allow me that brief imposition, won’t you?”
Taubmann stared uncertainly until, with a long exhalation, he nodded.
“Wonderful,” said Hoffner. “Is it some kind of blueprint for different meshes?”
“Some kind of—oh, I see what you mean. Well, yes and no. I suppose one could call them blueprints, but they’re more variations on each design.”
“Variations?” Hoffner had figured that out for himself back at the Alex. “But each row looks identical. I thought it might be some sort of exercise?”
Taubmann’s smile returned. “To the untrained eye, perhaps,
mein Herr.
But a
point tude
is not meant for the untrained eye. It comes from the French. ‘Point study.’ Of course, the term is inaccurate. A better way to describe it would be ‘flow study,’ or perhaps ‘path study.’ Even those don’t capture the art one finds in these.”
Hoffner had been right. It was the way in which Wouters had drawn them that differentiated each sketch. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Taubmann invited Hoffner to bend over the page more closely. “Identical in design, yes, but not in the way they are drawn.” Taubmann leaned in to illustrate as he spoke. “Each of these drawings begins at a different point on the mesh. The needle, or in this case the pen, then follows the path of the design using very specific directional markers that tell the artist when to loop back, when to bring the thread under or over, so forth and so on. Those shifts in movement occur at the
picots,
or knots, throughout the design.” Taubmann sat up. “The point of origin determines the movement of the needle throughout the entire mesh. Change the point of origin, and the design—even though seemingly identical—is nonetheless subtly and significantly altered.”
Hoffner nodded. He had been listening with only half an ear since Taubmann had mentioned the words “directional markers.” It suddenly struck him how close he had been to unmasking the design, all along. He had always understood it best through movement, in the ebb and flow of the city, and here it was, that very movement reflected in the twists and turns of the needle. It was not enough to take the little pins in his map and search for the pattern. One had to understand the flow of the design. That was the key to the placement.
More than that, the design itself told the “artist” where to go, which meant that the design, in some way, knew where its next crucial change in direction would be. In other words, all Hoffner needed to do was to find the point of origin for the diameter-cut design, and he would be able to follow its flow to Wouters’s next dumping site. At least that was the theory.
“So, if you have the point of origin,” said Hoffner, “you know which direction the needle will always move, and which major knots along the way it will hit.”
“Precisely,” said Taubmann. He was now enjoying himself. “But it gets even better. Most lacemakers believe that these kinds of rare designs also have an optimal point of origin—that is, a singular point of entry that will create the ideal mesh.” Taubmann once again had Hoffner’s full attention. “That’s why there are so many versions of the same design in each row. The artist is looking for the ideal mesh. Or, rather, he is waiting for the ideal mesh to reveal itself. In a way, the
point tude
turns a mesh into a living, breathing thing, with the key to its own perfection hidden within it. Remarkable, wouldn’t you say? That’s why they spend so much time on these
points tudes.
Or at least why they used to. These days, machines churn out the designs with no care for optimal mesh. Shame, really.”
An ideal mesh, thought Hoffner. Living and breathing. Of course. He remembered van Acker’s first interview with Wouters:
It took time to find the ideal.
It
was
perfect. In Wouters’s twisted mind, the diameter-cut—originated at its optimal point—was actually breathing life into his victims.
Taubmann picked up the pages. “In this particular study, the artist achieves the ideal mesh always on the seventh sketch. That’s a bit odd, I suppose, but it does make for a very nice symmetry.” He extended one of the pages to Hoffner. “I’m sure you can see the difference in the last ones in each of the rows. They’re slightly more—well, perfect.”
“Yes,” said Hoffner, not really looking. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another single sheet. He held it out to Taubmann. It was Hoffner’s rendering of the diameter-cut design. “And is this one of these rare designs?”
Taubmann hesitated. It was clear from his expression that he was done with the lesson.
“Please, Herr Taubmann,” Hoffner said kindly. “This is the last, I promise.”
Taubmann stared a moment longer, then took the page. His brow furrowed as he studied it. “It’s very rudimentary. You’re sure this is a lace design?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Herr Taubmann.”
Taubmann continued to scan the page as he spoke: “It might be.” He suddenly looked up. “This isn’t about buying lace, is it, Herr Inspector?”
Taubmann’s frankness was wholly unexpected. Hoffner had never understood why people asked such questions. Surely they knew there could be no answers. “The drawing, Herr Taubmann. Is it one of these designs?”
Taubmann’s discomfort grew. “I’m not really an expert, Herr Inspector.”
“You’re being modest.”
“No,” said Taubmann more forcefully. “I’m really not.”
Hoffner saw the uneasiness in Taubmann’s eyes. This was not something he readily admitted. “Then who is?” asked Hoffner.
The answer came without hesitation. “Emil Kepner. He’s the best in the city. In fact, I’m studying with him.” Taubmann did his best with a smile. “You see, I hope to have my own shop one day. When I’ve put enough money away.”
“Where can I find this Kepner?”
Fichte answered: “Kleiststrasse.” Both men turned to him. Fichte explained: “He owns one of the places I tried last week. Very high-end.”
Hoffner turned to Taubmann. “So Herr Kepner would know about my drawing?”
“Absolutely,” said Taubmann. “No one in Berlin knows lace like Emil.”
“You have the address?”
“He’ll be home, by now,
mein Herr.
” Again, Taubmann tried a smile. “You can see why I want my own shop.”
Hoffner was growing impatient. “Then his address there. You have that?”
Taubmann’s confusion returned. “It’s Friday evening,
mein Herr.
It’s the man’s home.”
“I’m aware of that, Herr Taubmann.” Hoffner was no longer the genial customer. “I’m also a Kripo detective. Do you have the address?”
Taubmann’s face paled. Six minutes later, Hoffner and Fichte were outside, heading for Charlottenburg.
T
he street names are what give everything away: Goethe, Schiller, Herder, Kant. If the brighter glow from the lampposts, or the whiter shine on the pavements, fails to tip off an errant wanderer that he has strayed too far, then the signs above are a final warning to turn back, now. Charlottenburg had never been satisfied merely to hold tightly to the city’s purse strings; it had to stake a claim to her genius, as well. The fact that Goethe and Herder had spent most of their productive years in Weimar, Schiller in Jena and then Weimar, and Kant forever in Knigsberg, had never deterred the privileged few from assuming their rightful lineage. Hoffner and Fichte were now in the land of the divine. They were meant to tread carefully.
Among friends, Herr Kepner was always heard to say that he lived in Weimar: after all, his house was on the corner where Schiller and Herder met. Very few ever got the joke, but they laughed anyway. Kepner was that sort of man: always a few steps ahead, but on a road no one else seemed all that eager to follow.
It was a road, however, that had served him well. Kepner’s house was three stories high, set off from the street, and with a pleasant garden out front. Aside from the Tiergarten, Hoffner had forgotten the last time he had seen this much grass in one place. He released the latch on the fence and followed the path of stones to the front porch. Fichte followed behind. Hoffner knocked at the door.
After several more attempts, the door finally opened and a man, younger than Hoffner had expected, stepped from the shadows. It was unusually dark inside the house; even so, Hoffner could tell that the man was not in a servant’s uniform. The man seemed puzzled by the appearance of someone on his stoop.
“Yes?” he said warily.
“Forgive the intrusion,
mein Herr.
I am Detective Inspector Hoffner, with the Kripo. I’m looking for Herr Emil Kepner.”
The man grew more reticent. He looked over at Fichte, then back at Hoffner. “I am Herr Kepner’s son-in-law, Herr Brenner. Can I help you?”
“Ah,” said Hoffner. “Herr Brenner. Is Herr Kepner available?”
Brenner spoke as if to a child. “It’s Friday night,
mein Herr.
”
“Yes. Again, I apologize, but this is Kripo business. Herr Kepner will, I’m sure, understand.”
The man seemed to take offense at the suggestion. Hoffner was about to start in again, when a man’s voice called out from behind Brenner: “Is something the matter, Josef? Just tell them we are not seeing anyone tonight.”
Brenner turned back to the voice. “I have. It’s an inspector from the Kripo.”
There was a rustling of chairs and a low rumble of voices. Brenner moved out of the way as a man, perhaps in his early sixties, stepped through to the doorway. He was agitated. “Herr Inspector. Has something happened with the shop?” Brenner remained just behind him.
“Herr Kepner?” said Hoffner.
“Yes.” Kepner was small, but well fed. “Has something happened?”
“Nothing to do with your shop,
mein Herr,
but if I might have a word with you inside?”
For a moment Kepner seemed torn by the simple request. Hoffner was losing his patience: were the burghers of Charlottenburg beyond the sway of a Kripo badge? Finally Kepner nodded. He extended a hand and welcomed the two men into the house. “This way, gentlemen, please.” He led them along a hallway. A few paces on, he turned to his right, through an arch, and into a sitting room. Hoffner was following when he glanced to his left. Directly across the way was a second arch which led into the dining room. A table was set, with perhaps ten people seated around it. Each of the faces stared back blankly at him. Hoffner noticed the two candelabra standing on the sideboard. He saw the skullcaps on each of the men’s heads. He turned to Fichte. “Wait here, Hans.”
Fichte did as he was told. Brenner remained with him.
Kepner was by the fireplace when Hoffner stepped into the sitting room. “Another apology,
mein Herr,
” said Hoffner. “The Sabbath. I didn’t think to ask.”
Kepner nodded curtly. “Yes.” He motioned to two chairs. “Please.” The men sat. “You will understand, then, if I wish to keep this as brief as possible.” Hoffner nodded. “So what is it that I can do for the
Kriminalpolizei,
Herr Inspector?”
Hoffner felt foolish now asking about the lace. He had been looking forward to interrupting a nice Charlottenburg dinner party with his request—the rich needed to be kept on their toes—but this was something entirely different. Police and Jews were never a good mix. Jews saw only the threat, never the protection. Sadly, they probably had little reason to see it any other way. The irony of his career choice had never been lost on Hoffner.
He chose candor out of some skewed sense of penance for having reminded the man’s family of just how tenuous its position remained. “We’re in the midst of an investigation,
mein Herr,
” he began. “We believe you may be able to shed some light on a piece of evidence we’ve recently uncovered.”