Wouters was making them wait.
Three days camped outside the
Ochsenhof
had taken its toll. Fichte complained of everything—cramp, filth, exhaustion; Hoffner was feeling it in his lower back and legs. He said nothing. He knew that Mulackstrasse was never kind. At best, it only goaded the rain. Tonight the wind was whipping up. Even the most secure nooks and alleyways had fallen prey to the biting damp and chill.
Three a.m., and they were holed up in a recessed stairwell directly across from the tenement. Six or so of its entrances were in clear sight. Hoffner had found a bit of a muslin tarp that, along with a flask of brandy, was helping to keep them warm. It was a relative term. And, of course, there was the price to pay for the added heat: three minutes each morning at a nearby washbasin and toilet were doing little to dull the stink. Fichte was a large man. He was giving off as good as he got.
Stench and cold aside, Hoffner was grateful to be out on the streets: it meant that he was away from the Alex. The last few days had brought the “chisel murders” to a fever pitch. Any reason to avoid those unending requests for interviews and the like suited him just fine: Sunday, the Tiergarten body had graced the front pages, although Weigland’s pull had managed to keep any mention of Ganz-Neurath, or U-Bahn 2, from the public; Monday, Berlin had met the Rosenthaler Platz victim, though she remained unidentified, as Hoffner and Fichte were the only ones, thus far, to have given Mary Koop a name; and today, the list of the remaining victims—dating all the way back to the very first, in Mnz Strasse—had appeared in Kvatsch’s
BZ
afternoon article.
The Kripo leak had been working double time to make sure that any momentum lost to the revolution was now being paid back, and with interest. Anxiety over a pair of murders that had occurred in the last ten days was gaining a kind of retrospective boost of panic: the murders stretched back over months, and Berliners felt compelled to make up for lost time. The first accusations of Kripo incompetence were beginning to surface.
Hoffner stretched his neck. “I’m going to check on the boys.”
Hoffner had known from the start that the tenement was too large to manage from one lookout point, and so he had turned to little Franz. There was no one else at the Alex he could trust: word would get out, and Wouters would slip through their hands. Hoffner had told Präger that he was getting close; Präger might have been feeling the pressure himself, but he was smart enough to know that Hoffner worked best on his own terms.
Franz had recruited a group of teenaged
Schlgers,
street thugs who blended in perfectly with their surroundings: probably one full set of teeth among them. They needed the money; Hoffner needed the manpower. He had shown each of them the photograph of Wouters—the one he had pulled from van Acker’s file—although a description of Wouters’s diminutive size, and the fact that he would be dragging a trunk, had been far more helpful.
The nights had been easiest for Hoffner. Fichte preferred the days, what with the chance to stretch his legs, move through the crowds, get something hot to eat. All that changed after dark. In the silence, Fichte would drift off and leave Hoffner alone to piece together the strands that lay beyond Wouters: the second carver, the military connection to the Ascomycete 4, the “additions” to the Rosenthaler station, even the choice of the Tiergarten site as a threat to the city’s tenuous social order. They all led him back to one name: Luxemburg. Naturally, the
why
still eluded him. In a strange way, it was Wouters who now seemed more and more out of place. Rosa, however, remained suspended above it all, the world unwilling to “let her be,” even in death. Hoffner had kept the little book with him. He had read through it from time to time as Fichte slept. It held no answers, but there was something quieting in it.
He pulled back the tarp. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said. The sudden slap of chilled air forced a muted grunt from Fichte. Hoffner stood. “Try to stay awake this time.”
Cramp in his leg forced Hoffner to take the steps one at a time. Keeping to the shadows, he peered out in both directions. The street was empty; even the prostitutes were staying in. Hoffner pulled down the brim of his hat and headed out into the lamplight.
He played the drunk during his rounds. The shuffling feet, the bobbing head, the single hand held out along the shop fronts for balance, were not an uncommon sight this time of night on Mulackstrasse. In fact, on his last circuit, Hoffner had nearly bumped into the genuine article: a weaving body had appeared from a side street, doing its best against the rain and wind and its own inebriation. One of the boys had actually mistaken him for Hoffner and popped out. The boy had been too late to see his mistake. Caught, he had done what any boy in his position would have done: he had tossed the man for everything he was worth. Hoffner had pretended to retch during the performance. The man, to his credit, had suffered it all with a drunk’s affability. He had even managed a pat on Hoffner’s back—“It’ll pass, my friend, it’ll pass”—as he continued down the street. This time, Hoffner walked alone.
Halfway down the block, he propped himself up against a wall as if he were catching his breath. “Anything?” he said quietly.
The boy had learned his lesson; he remained within the shadows. “Not a peep, Eminence.”
This one had a sense of humor. “No one to clean out this time?”
“Not my cock-up.”
“No choice, was it?”
“That’s right.”
Hoffner bent over as if he were about to retch. “But you’ll be splitting the proceeds with your mates, yes?”
“Splitting the what?”
“Just make sure Franz gets his cut.”
There was a silence. “Yeah. All right.”
Hoffner spat a few times, then moved off. He turned the corner.
The western side of the building was no less desolate. Another six or so entrances waited silently under the lamplight. Hoffner knew that they had been lucky thus far. Lamps had a tendency to burn out at the oddest of times in this part of town. Mulackstrasse in shadow was one thing; in total darkness it was suicide.
He checked in with the other boys, two more lookouts with nothing to report. He dropped a pack of cigarettes in the shadows at each of the posts: something to keep the boys awake. He then headed back, the sound of his own footfalls a solitary echo on the street. He was tired and wet. Maybe he could take a nap, let Hans earn his pay? Not much chance of that.
It was only when he reached the stairwell that Hoffner heard the scurrying of feet from behind him. He turned to see little Franz running up. The boy’s expression told him everything.
With newfound energy, Hoffner whispered into the shadows. “We’ve got him, Hans.” He waited to hear the tarp being pulled back before running out to meet the boy. Hoffner no longer felt the damp.
“Where?” he said as the two met in the middle of the street.
Franz spoke through gasps. “Just now.” He motioned back to the corner. “The fourth entryway.”
“Alone?”
The boy nodded.
“With a trunk?”
Again, the boy nodded.
Hoffner had heard nothing, no scraping of metal on cobblestone. How had Wouters maneuvered the trunk? There was no time to worry about that now. Without another word, Hoffner raced off. He was at the corner—Fichte and Franz chasing after him—when he saw five or six of the boys gathered at one of the far entryways, each of them pressed up against the door. Hoffner ran up to them.
“He’s gone down to the pit rooms,” whispered one of the boys. “Heard him go down. We can take him, if you want.”
Hoffner pulled his Mauser one-four-eight from his belt and tried to catch his breath. The pistol had been with him since 1912. He had fired it twice in the last seven years, once to test the action on the trigger, the other to salute Knig in a drunken farewell on some Tyrolean hillside. The lettering on the gripstrap marking—
KripoDZ. 148
—still shone like new.
At the sight of the gun, the boys edged back. Even Fichte was momentarily unnerved. Hoffner said, “No one takes him.” His breathing was still heavy. “You see him leave the building, you start shouting. You don’t go near him, you keep him in sight. Understood?” Fichte nodded along with the boys. “Get out your pistol, Hans.” Fichte did as he was told. Hoffner then pulled open the door and headed in.
The short corridor was lit like an interrogation room: stark light bounced off cracked walls and tile, and the smell of cabbage filled the air, a sourness seasoned with urine. At the stairs, Hoffner stopped. Somewhere above, someone was taking a nice beating; higher still, an old woman laughed or cried: even at this hour, the sounds of muted desperation trickled down. Hoffner put up a hand. Fichte stayed where he was, and Hoffner took two steps down to listen.
He heard it almost at once, its incongruity drawing him farther down the steps: a faint if high-pitched squeal was repeating in perfect intervals as it grew more distant. It was too even, too precise, and therefore completely out of place inside these walls. Hoffner suddenly realized what it was. He was following the rotation of a rusted wheel. An image popped into his head. The trunk was being moved on a porter’s wheel, the sort to be found at any train station. The marks at the sites had not been formed by the dragging of a trunk, but by a wheel pressing down into the mud. The weight of the bodies had simply flattened and thus widened its imprint.
Hoffner continued to listen. This was the sound of Wouters transporting his final victim. With a quick wave for Fichte, Hoffner started down.
The lower reaches of the tenement spread out in a warren of narrow corridors, bare bulbs dotting the walls, only here they were placed too far apart to create continuous light. Checkerboard patches led off in all directions. The infamous pit rooms—where pipes and coal stoves bristled with heat, and where only the most wretched took refuge—appeared at equally disjointed intervals. Half of the doors had gone missing for firewood. The rest clung to rotting hinges, or leaned out menacingly into the corridors, but they did nothing to keep the swelter from infiltrating. The air here was oppressive. Hoffner felt the perspiration forming in the creases of his neck as he heard Fichte begin to labor for breath.
The squeal called to them from one of the corridors, and Hoffner, his pistol held chest-high, moved toward it at an even pace, following the twists and turns, just fast enough to draw them closer to their man. He could feel Wouters’s presence, the sound of his footsteps slowly growing more distinct. Wouters was moving rhythmically, easily, uninterrupted—no idea that he was being followed. For the second time in a matter of days, Hoffner felt the sharp pull of anticipation.
And then, without warning, Fichte let go with a choked gasp. Dumbstruck, Hoffner turned to silence him, but it was too late. Fichte was doing all he could to stifle the seizing in his lungs. It was as if his throat had collapsed in on itself.
Hoffner turned back to the empty corridor. The squeal had stopped. Silence, and then a sudden crash and the sound of darting feet. Hoffner looked back at Fichte. The boy was on his knee, sucking desperately on his inhaler.
Hoffner ran, forcing himself to move faster, his hand sliding along the chipped walls as he propelled himself forward. Wouters’s steps were faint, but they were there. Taking a turn, Hoffner nearly fell over the abandoned trunk. It lay on its side and was blocking most of the corridor. For an instant he imagined what lay inside; putting it from his mind, he clambered over the wood and metal—still slick from the rain—and continued after Wouters.
Whether it was the nights out in the cold, or the sudden heat, or simply his own incapacity, Hoffner felt himself giving way. He strained for breath. He felt the stress in his legs and chest, his throat ready to explode, and still he pushed himself on. Wouters was disappearing into the endless corridors. He was slipping out of Hoffner’s hands, and all Hoffner felt was his own desperate failure. All of this would start again.
All of it.
And there would be nothing he could do to stop it.
A single shot rang out, and Hoffner froze. He planted his hand against the wall for support, and tried to quiet his breathing long enough to locate its origin. A second shot was fired, and Hoffner began to move. The echo hung in the air and led him first left, then along a corridor until he saw a shadow move beyond the open door of one of the pit rooms. He tightened his grip on his pistol, drew up to the door and, bracing himself, shouldered his way in.
What he saw was mind-numbing. A small body lay perfectly still in the half-light. Hoffner recognized it at once. It was Wouters. He was dead. A single bullet had entered his left thigh. Another had cut deep into his chest. He looked remarkably peaceful.
A board moved from across the room and, no less dazed, Hoffner looked over to see
Kommissar
Ernst Tamshik crouched down, rummaging through scrap wood.
“No body,” said Tamshik as he got to his feet.
Hoffner was still catching his breath as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “What are you doing here?” he said in a near whisper.
“He’s not much to look at, is he?” This was a different Tamshik, one intent on police work. The bullying and sneers were nowhere in sight. “All this trouble for so little a man. Remarkable.”
Hoffner finally caught his breath. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.
Tamshik continued to scan the room. “Looking for a body,
Kommissar.
”
Hoffner tried to focus. Instinctively he pointed back to the corridor, toward the trunk, but stopped himself. “How did you know he would be coming down here?”
Tamshik peered over at Hoffner. “You didn’t think you’d be the only one to find a way inside his head, did you
Kommissar
?” The smirk returned. “Typical Kripo arrogance.”
Hoffner’s mind was spinning. A minute ago, he had thought he had lost Wouters. Now he had the man’s carcass in front of him, compliments of the Polpo. Hoffner was hard-pressed to say which was making him feel worse.