“Yes?” said Hoffner.
“Mother wants to know if everything’s all right.”
Hoffner could see the total indifference in the boy’s eyes. “I need to go out to the Tiergarten,” he said. Sascha nodded and started to go. “You can come with me, if you want.” Hoffner momentarily allowed himself to forget what it was that he was going to see out at the zoo. The boy turned back. He said nothing. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer locking horns with Auntie Gee all afternoon?” Hoffner thought he saw the hint of a smile. Sascha, however, managed to keep it in check.
“All right,” said the boy.
“Good. Get our coats. I’ll tell your mother.”
T
he first streetcar took them out west, the second up north. It was a pleasant little ride, the pockmarks of Kreuzberg—those nice thick chips gouged out by stray bullets—giving way to the smooth porcelain-white complexion of affluent Berlin. Even the advertising posters here loomed more gently: docile pinks and yellows infused the tight skirts of the ladies’ dresses and men’s handkerchiefs. There was a joy in the painted faces that belonged only in the west.
Sascha peered out with contempt. “They got by without so much as a scratch, didn’t they?”
Hoffner hardly noticed; he had been watching Sascha for the last half hour. The boy’s gaze reminded him of another face, smaller, pressed closer in to the tram window, those distant Sundays when father and son had headed up to Potsdamer or Alexanderplatz to choose a line—a new one each time—before settling in for an afternoon’s expedition: twenty pfennigs, and the city had been theirs. He remembered how intently Sascha had listened to all of his stories about the bridges and statues and monuments, Berlin brought to life in a child’s gaze; how he had always insisted that they get out—somewhere in the city’s remote corners—to sample a chocolate or a cake at some unknown café, only to stash most of it away in a pocket for Martha; and how those remnants had always arrived back at the flat, more lint than chocolate, to Martha’s absolute delight.
Hoffner had no reason to blame Sascha for his contempt. Like the boy, that city no longer existed.
“They’re going to be governed by socialists now,” said Hoffner. “Far worse than any bullets could have done to them.” He saw a momentary slip in Sascha’s otherwise grim expression. “You like that, do you?” The tram came to a stop, and Sascha gave a shrug. The two stepped off and into the freezing rain. “So do I.”
The group outside the Gardens was far larger than Hoffner had expected. He had been anticipating a few shopkeepers, maybe a building porter or two: a body in daylight always brought out the true devotees, no matter what the weather. This, however, was actually a crowd. Moving closer in, Hoffner noticed a small unit of patrolmen. They had set up an improvised barrier and were trying to keep order. Braun’s promised hysteria had begun.
With Sascha in tow, Hoffner pushed his way through and up to the nearest of the Schutzi officers. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked as he pulled out his badge.
The patrolman recognized the name at once; he, too, had seen this morning’s papers. “
Kriminal-Kommissar
Hoffner!” he said in a loud, enthusiastic voice.
Everyone within earshot turned at the mention of the name: evidently, no one had missed today’s news. “The man in charge,” Hoffner repeated as he ignored the stares. “Obviously that’s not you.”
The man snapped to attention. “No, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
Right away, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
” Still keeping the crowd back, the patrolman tried to locate his sergeant.
Hoffner peered past him. Set against the growing herd, the plaza looked desolate. The few who were wandering outside the gate to the zoo had turned up their collars against the wind; fists were pressed deep inside pockets, some in uniform, some not. Hoffner recognized several of the faces from yesterday’s briefing: the press had managed to get through. He was about to say something to the patrolman, when he noticed Polpo
Kommissar
Walther Hermannsohn among them. Hoffner wondered if he was meant to be surprised by Hermannsohn’s presence. The man was taller than he remembered—no Tamshik, this time, to dwarf him. Truth to tell, Hoffner would have preferred Tamshik. At least there he knew what to expect. Here, even within the small gathering, Hermannsohn seemed to stand alone. “Never mind,” said Hoffner as he stepped over the barrier and out into the plaza. “I see who I need.”
With a surge of authority, the patrolman reached over and grabbed Sascha by the shoulder. “Not so fast, my young friend.”
Hoffner turned back. Again, Sascha’s size startled him: the boy was as big as the man clutching him. “He’s with me, Patrolman,” said Hoffner. His impatience had little effect. “You’ve never seen a junior detective, is that it?” The man’s conceit gave way to confusion. Hoffner spoke with greater precision. “Any chance I can get my detective back?”
Confusion turned to helplessness. The man suddenly snapped to attention and released Sascha. “Yes, of course, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”
“Don’t let the age fool you, Patrolman. The good ones always start young. At least in the Kripo.”
“Of course, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
My apologies.” He turned nervously to Sascha. “My apologies, Herr
Kriminal-Assistent.
”
Hoffner was about to answer when Sascha said, “Just don’t let it happen again, Patrolman.” There was a surprising weight to Sascha’s tone. Hoffner bit down on his tongue to keep from smiling.
The man offered an efficient nod. “No, Herr
Kriminal-Assistent.
”
Without acknowledging his father, Sascha pulled up his collar and headed out into the plaza. Hoffner gave the man a reproachful nod, then followed Sascha out. “A little hard on him, weren’t you?” he said when they were side by side.
“He’ll get over it,” said Sascha.
Had
Kommissar
Hermannsohn not turned at that moment, Hoffner might have placed an arm across Sascha’s back and taken him out into the city for the day. To hell with all of this, he thought. But Hermannsohn did turn, along with every newspaperman by the gate. As one, they started in toward their prey. Hoffner was about to raise a hand to ward them off when he saw Hermannsohn bark out something to three Schutzi officers who were standing nearby. To Hoffner’s complete amazement, the patrolmen moved over and held the pressmen back. Hoffner moved past the buzz of questions and over to Hermannsohn.
“My thanks, Herr
Kommissar,
” said Hoffner.
Hermannsohn nodded quietly. “I imagine that’s the sort of thing you can do without, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
” Hoffner realized that this was the first time he had heard the man speak. Hermannsohn’s tone was oddly nonthreatening, although there was nothing inviting to it, either. “Ah, and young Hoffner, as well.” His familiarity was equally disconcerting. “I hear he’s quite the swordsman.”
Hoffner now regretted having brought Sascha along. “Yes.”
“And this is the source of his resolve on the strip, is it?”
Hoffner had no idea what Hermannsohn was referring to. “Excuse me,
Kommissar
?”
“A boy at a murder site. I imagine we each build character in our own way.” When Hoffner said nothing, Hermannsohn added, “A joke,
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”
Hoffner waited, then said, “I imagine it was.”
Hermannsohn smiled quietly and then motioned to the gate. “The body is this way.”
Hoffner was about to follow when he saw the uncertainty in Sascha’s eyes: there had been no mention of a murder or a body during the tram ride out. How could there have been? The complete absurdity of this moment only now came clear to Hoffner. What had he been thinking? “I can’t take you inside, Alexander.”
Sascha showed an instant of relief before nodding in disappointment. “Well, then, I’ll wait here, Father.”
The boy acted with such poise, thought Hoffner. “Good man,” he said. For just a moment, Hoffner placed a hand on Sascha’s arm. Somehow, neither seemed to mind it. He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small flask. He opened it and handed it to Sascha. “Should keep you warm for a while.” Sascha hesitated. “Go on. She doesn’t have to know.” Sascha took a quick sip, and coughed as he handed it back. Hoffner smiled. Just a boy, he thought. What had been so frightening in that? Hoffner then held the flask out to Hermannsohn.
“Kommissar?”
Hermannsohn politely refused. “No, I didn’t think so.” Without taking a drink, Hoffner pocketed the flask and followed Hermannsohn out into the Gardens.
There was something so depressing about the zoo in rain. The little buildings—some Frenchman’s notion of international kinship—were each designed in the style of the countries from which the animals had come. Laden with ice and damp, they looked less like invitations to foreign climes than sodden gingerbread houses. A merry skip past them became a somber slog: not much fun in knowing what dreary looked like in China or India or darkest Africa.
Hoffner said, “Nice when the Polpo puts in an appearance on a criminal case. Or did I miss the
Oberkommissar
’s point yesterday?”
Hermannsohn ignored the question; he seemed the type to ignore anything he found unpleasant. He took them past the elephant house—Hoffner wondered how many elephants actually roamed the Taj Mahal—and into the more remote regions of the Gardens. “You were planning on bringing the boy to the site,” said Hermannsohn. “I find that most interesting.”
“Do you?” Hoffner could change the subject just as easily. “As interesting as I find having the
Tageblatt
and the
Morgenpost
on hand?”
“Ah, yes,” said Hermannsohn. “You really never can trust these Schutzi patrolmen, can you?” He led Hoffner away from the animal houses and down a path that wound its way past a public toilet and beyond a small utility shed. The trees grew thicker as they walked.
They came to a link chain that hung across the path. A small sign dangled from it that read,
DURCHGANG VERBOTEN.
Two exclamation points hammered home the message:
Passage Forbidden
!! Hoffner knew his Berliners. This would have been enough to keep a small band of revolutionaries at bay. Hermannsohn stepped over the chain. Hoffner did the same. Half a minute later, they came to a clearing.
Hoffner was genuinely surprised by what they found: at the clearing’s center was the all-too-familiar fencing, scaffolding, and power engine that had come to define Berlin under construction. Two Schutzi patrolmen stood at either end of the small opening to the pit. Beyond them was a wider gap in the trees, an avenue for a single wagon to make its way through with supplies. More interesting were the three black Daimler convertible saloons that were parked at its edge; their chauffeurs were each enjoying a nice smoke.
“At least your man is consistent,” said Hermannsohn, as he led Hoffner toward the ladder.
Hoffner kept his eyes on the automobiles. The chauffeurs’ coats were not yet soaked through: they had not been here long. “I had no idea they were building this far out,” he said.
“They’re not,” said Hermannsohn. He reached the ladder and started down. Hoffner followed.
Had Hoffner been looking for consistency, the excavation site would have served perfectly. The climb down brought him into a cavern that seemed almost identical to the one he had seen two nights ago in Senefelderplatz, police lamps and all. Even the group of four men standing at the far end of the tunnel felt eerily familiar. That, however, was where the similarities ended.
It was clear from their clothes which of the four belonged to the Daimlers above. Like their automobiles, three of the men were long and sleek: Russian fur lined their coat collars; English wool creased the cuffs of their trousers; and their boots had the shine of Italian leather. War had done nothing to compromise their politically impudent tastes. For Hoffner, though, it was the fingernails—even at this distance and in this light—that made plain the stratum from which these men had descended: flat and pink, and never once having been cut by the men themselves. Hoffner knew exactly who they were: Prussian businessmen, and a far more dangerous breed than their military counterparts. War never thinned their numbers; inflexibility never stifled their success. They spoke to one another in hushed tones, a language that required fewer words, though greater subtlety of gesture, than the patter that flowed from the jaws of common Berlin. These were men who survived—and survived well—no matter who might be wielding the reins of government.
The fourth among them was Polpo
Direktor
Gerhard Weigland, in all his roundness. He looked completely out of place, nodding continuously while the others spoke. When he caught sight of Hoffner, he clumsily cleared his throat. The others turned.
“At last,” said Weigland with no small amount of relief. “Gentlemen, this is the Kripo detective I’ve been telling you about.” Hermannsohn remained in the shadows as Hoffner drew closer. “
Kommissar
Nikolai Hoffner, may I present the Directors of
Firma
Ganz-Neurath. Herren Trger, Schumpert, and Biberkopf”—Weigland motioned with his arm—“
Kommissar
Hoffner.”
Hoffner had never been the recipient of three such crisp bows of the head.
“Meine Herren,”
he said, with a lazy nod of his own.
“Herr
Kommissar.
” Trger spoke for all three.
Hoffner cut right to it. “I’m guessing this would be one of your sites, Herr
Direktor
?”
“Along with those in the Senefelder and Rosenthaler Platz, yes, Herr
Kommissar.
I believe you’re familiar with them?”
“The projected U-Bahn stations,” said Hoffner. “And dead women keep cropping up inside of them.”
Trger appreciated Hoffner’s bluntness. “Yes. They do.”
“You’re aware,
mein Herr
”—Hoffner spoke as if neither Polpo man was present—“that Herr
Direktor
Weigland and Herr
Kommissar
Hermannsohn are not with the Kripo?” He was enjoying seeing Weigland stand silently by.