The room was pitch black and much colder than the hallway, but it was the odor of formaldehyde that told him he had found her. Fichte shut the door and flicked on the light, and a dull yellow filled the white-tiled space. The windows had been bricked in and, although it was a good deal smaller, the place had the same look and feel of the morgue rooms in the basement: an examining table, shelves for instruments and bottles. The only additions were a woman’s apparel—skirt, bodice, shoes—that hung on various hooks across the room, and a single metal tank that stood against the far wall, underneath one of the absent windows. It was there that Fichte turned his attention.
Resembling an enormous pressure cooker, the tank sported several circular valves on its lid. As Fichte turned the last of them, the hiss of a releasing vacuum—along with an ungodly smell that struck him as rotting cabbage—seeped from the tank. Bringing the tail of his jacket up to his nose and mouth, Fichte pushed open the lid and saw a naked Rosa lying on several planks of wood, which were in turn set atop a bed of ice. Her skin was still remarkably intact and, save for a few tiny decayed bits on her thigh, she looked as if she had been dead for three days at most, not the seven weeks Fichte knew to be the case. Her entire body was covered in a thick layer of grease; even her hair was matted down in the stuff.
It was only then that Fichte thought to examine more closely the contents of the shelves across the room. Almost at once he noticed the collection of jars filled with what he knew to be the same grease. He stepped over and took one. It was labeled
ASCOMYCETE
4, and had the eagle crest of the army medical corps stamped above it. A few days ago he might have been surprised, even overwhelmed, to find it here; the greater shock would have been the link to the military corps, but Fichte was beyond such reactions. Instead he opened the jar and sniffed at its contents. It was the same as they had found on Mary Koop, except that this batch had a bit more bite to it: it was in its pure form, having yet to be applied to the skin. Fichte thought of taking a jar for Hoffner, but he knew that would be too dangerous. He closed the lid, placed the jar back on the shelf, and then wrote the name in his notebook, making sure to copy it letter for letter. He then sketched the medical corps insignia and wrote down the number of bottles. Hoffner would be pleased with the work.
Fichte stepped again to the tank. There was really nothing to examine: Rosa was pale and slick and seemed peaceful enough. Fichte closed the lid and resealed the valves. He then took one final look at the room and realized that the label on the jar that he had taken was out of line with the rest. He stepped over and adjusted it. Another nice touch, he thought. Half a minute later he was pulling the door shut as he checked the area around the latch: only someone looking for them would have noticed the hairline scratches. Even so, Fichte licked his thumb—the faint stink of the grease on it—and rubbed a bit of saliva over the wood.
He was feeling quite good about himself as he headed down the corridor: no heroics or missteps, and he had uncovered the name of the grease along with a connection to the army corps. Maybe there was a way out of this, after all?
Any sense of redemption, however, was short-lived, as Herr
Oberkommissar
Braun appeared at the top of the stairs, coming up from the third floor. Fichte did what he could with a casual nod.
“Herr
Bezirkssekretr,
” said Braun, with a tight-lipped smile. “Were you looking for me?”
Fichte waited a moment too long to sound convincing. “Yes . . . Yes, I was, Herr
Oberkommissar.
” Braun waited for more. Fichte said, “I was hoping to go over the second-carver theory again—”
Braun cut him off with a frustrated hand. “We’ve been through all of this, Herr
Bezirkssekretr.
As I said, when that information is necessary you will be told.”
Fichte had no interest in lingering. “Certainly, Herr
Oberkommissar,
” he said. “I won’t trouble you with it again.”
“And this was the only reason you came up to see me?”
“Yes, Herr
Oberkommissar.
”
Braun was about to answer when it seemed as if something had just occurred to him—a wince for something he couldn’t quite place—but he dismissed it quickly. “Fine. Any word from Herr Hoffner?”
“No, Herr
Oberkommissar.
Nothing.”
“And you’ll tell me when he contacts you?”
“Of course, Herr
Oberkommissar.
”
“Good.” Braun nodded. Fichte offered a clipped bow and headed down the stairs.
It was only when Braun was halfway down the corridor that he realized what it was that had struck him: he had recognized the smell.
A
t just after eleven, Lina stepped onto the platform. She had done as Hoffner had asked: the train was due to leave in another eight minutes.
Hoffner had been standing in shadow for the past twenty-five—the corridor to the men’s toilet offering an ideal vantage point—when he saw her. She was holding two small valises and was again wearing the blue hat. A porter took her bags and then helped her up. At the top step, she glanced around once, perhaps hoping to see him, and then stepped into the car.
Safe, he thought: he had needed to see it.
Hoffner began to move off when he saw another familiar figure on the platform.
Kriminaldirektor
Gerhard Weigland had been trailing after her and was now making his way to the train.
Hoffner’s first reaction was to run out and stop him, but Weigland seemed less interested in Lina than in the surrounding crowds. Hoffner pressed farther back into the shadow as Weigland glanced nervously along the platform. It was obvious whom he was looking for; what was less clear was why he had come alone: Hoffner could see no one who looked even remotely like a Polpo detective anywhere on the platform.
Weigland now entered the front car of the train. Again, Hoffner stayed where he was: if Weigland had been interested in taking her, he would have done so already. More likely he was scanning the seats to see if Hoffner had been waiting for her on board. Weigland made quick work of it and emerged from the last of the cars just as the stationmaster was signaling the train’s departure. Weigland looked disappointed. It was an odd reaction, thought Hoffner. Frustration, perhaps, but why disappointment? The train began to make its way out of the station and both men stared after it.
For nearly a minute, neither moved. Finally, Weigland made one more sweep of the platform and then began to head off. Hoffner followed.
One behind the other, they moved through to the main atrium and over to the station entrance. The place was thick with people, and Hoffner had to struggle to narrow the gap between them. When Weigland was almost to the doors, Hoffner drew to within half a meter of him and, pressing up to his side, discreetly took his arm and twisted it back. It was a pleasure to see the momentary wince in the old, bearded face.
Hoffner continued to propel them forward. “Hello,
Kriminal-direktor.
”
Remarkably, Weigland showed no surprise: in fact, he seemed only too happy to submit. “I was hoping you’d put in an appearance, Nikolai,” he said calmly as he let himself be moved along. “You know this is really quite unnecessary.”
“No one outside these doors, is there, Herr
Kriminaldirektor
?”
“I came alone, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good.” Hoffner took them out into the morning sun. He needed an isolated spot. Most everyone was heading across the plaza and away from the river. Hoffner instead moved Weigland along the side of the station and toward the water. There were a few odd looks from passersby, but everyone was in too much of a hurry to take more than a cursory interest. Thirty meters on, Hoffner directed Weigland off the pavement and into the snow: they headed for the embankment. Weigland slipped once or twice for lack of balance, but Hoffner kept him upright as they moved down the slope. At the bottom, and with no one else in sight, Hoffner tossed the contents of Weigland’s pockets and released him. He had expected to find a pistol. There was none.
The air was much colder here, directly off the water: Hoffner felt it at once on his face. A low wall stood as a barrier against the current, but it was little obstacle for anyone interested in throwing someone in. Both men kept well back of it. Weigland was stretching out his shoulder when he said, “You enjoyed that, did you?”
“How did you find her?”
“A man at her flat.”
“She wasn’t at her flat.”
“Not for the last week, no, but she was there this morning. Six a.m.”
Hoffner recalled the money he had given her: rent for Elise. Lina had been foolish. “Why?” he said.
Weigland looked momentarily puzzled. “So we could have this little chat. Why do you think?”
“The head of the Polpo trails a girl to find a Kripo detective? Why not just have one of your thugs pick me up?”
Again, Weigland seemed surprised by the question. “Because,
a,
I didn’t know where you were, and
b,
I don’t trust many of them. Is that the answer you were looking for?” Hoffner said nothing; he had never heard this tone from Weigland. “Now give me a cigarette. It’s damned cold out here.” Hoffner picked up Weigland’s pack and flung it over. “And a light,” said Weigland. Hoffner dug out his own matches and tossed the box over. “I told you to let this go,” said Weigland as he lit up. He shook his head in frustration. “I told you to solve the case and move on. Why couldn’t you do that?”
“Because the case wasn’t over.”
“Yes, yes it was,” said Weigland more emphatically. “Your case was over the moment that little Belgian got shot. Why is it that you always have to know better?”
“The little Belgian wasn’t working alone and we both know that. He was brought here for a reason. He also killed only six women. Someone else killed Luxemburg and the prostitute at the zoo. The same someone who’s killed two more women in the last week.” Hoffner paused. “The same person who killed my wife.” Hoffner waited for Weigland to look directly at him. “The case wasn’t over.”
Weigland’s frustrations came to a boil. “It was for you. And your wife would still be alive if you had understood that.”
Hoffner lashed back. “So why didn’t the great Herr Polpo
Direktor
do anything to stop it?”
“Because,” Weigland barked, “we needed to find out who was funding all of this activity under our noses.” Weigland realized his voice was carrying: he spoke in a sharp whisper. “You don’t think Braun and his cronies would have willingly volunteered that information, do you? It wasn’t enough to have scum like this in my department. No. They were being told what to do by someone, or some group, that we had yet to find. This isn’t a little criminal case, Nikolai. This isn’t something that ties up neatly and gets folded away in a map when it’s done.”
Hoffner now realized how far he had underestimated Weigland all along. “When?”
“When what?” snapped Weigland.
“When did you know about Braun?”
“Christ, Nikolai. Months ago. Before your case ever began.”
“And Munich?”
Weigland seemed reluctant to say. He took a long pull on his cigarette and glanced out over the river.
Hoffner waited through the silence. “It wouldn’t have been when I made the trip, would it?”
Weigland hesitated before turning to Hoffner. “We were getting close. We would have found it eventually.”
“And in the meantime, a few more bodies pile up?”
“Don’t lecture me, Nikolai. Yes. You did some very clever work. Remarkable even. But you can see where it’s gotten you.”
“You were the one who had the Commissioner remove me from the case, weren’t you? Once, of course, you had the information you needed.” Weigland said nothing. Hoffner added, “Another Hoffner career ambushed at your hands. Well done.”
Weigland snapped back, “Is that what you think?” Weigland waited before unleashing his final volley: “Your father also liked maps, Nikolai, but he wasn’t as clever with them as you are—a great deal of ambition but not a lot of talent, cheap little medals notwithstanding. So, when it was clear that he wasn’t going to make it into the Polpo, it was
his
idea to leak your mother’s background. He knew what it would do. Let that take the blame instead of the truth.” Weigland paused: he seemed to be lost in a string of long-forgotten arguments. “The trouble was, over the years, he began to believe it himself.” Anger drained out of him. “He was a good friend,” Weigland said absently. “I suppose I let myself believe it, as well.”
Hoffner stared across at Weigland. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. All those years listening to his father rail against the injustice—the betrayal when he had chosen the Kripo over the Polpo, his mother standing meekly by, condemning him with her silence—all of it meaningless. And Weigland had been there, trying to shield him from it all along. Hoffner felt a sudden, distant rage.
All those years.
He had trouble masking his anger as he spoke: “So why the need to find me? Another trinket you’ve been keeping for me?”
Weigland spoke plainly: “Get yourself out of the city, Nikolai. Until this is done. I won’t be able to protect you anymore.”
“Protect me? You can’t even control your own men.” Before Weigland could answer, Hoffner said, “It ends tonight. Just keep yourself away from the Alex.” Without so much as a nod, Hoffner turned to go.
Weigland called after him. “Why? What happens tonight?”
Hoffner stopped and looked back. “Tonight I relieve you of your burden, Herr
Direktor.
” He then turned and headed up the embankment.
F
ichte was busy with a plate of noodles and sausage—the first time in a week he had found his appetite—when Hoffner stepped into the bar. Only the barkeep seemed to take any notice. The man reached for a bottle of brandy and a glass, but Hoffner shook him off and headed over to Fichte’s table.