Fichte shrugged with a nod, opened the door, and moved inside. Hoffner watched him go as he tongued the end of his cigarette, lit it, and stepped over to the window, just out of reach of the lights. Taking in a long draw, he peered in from the shadows.
He saw her almost at once, even before Fichte did, impossible to miss her by the side wall. She was seated alone, with a small glass of beer perched at the edge of her table. She could have been any number of girls—a younger version of this morning’s encounter, perhaps—but Hoffner knew better. This one had a long way to go before stepping up to those ranks, her reputation clearly still her own. Even so, it was a plain face that gazed out, small nose, full mouth, with a curling of brown-blond hair pulled back and parted at the side. Her shoulders, slouching forward just enough, gave her slight bosom some depth, and, with her coat draped over the back of her chair, her slender arms lay bare as they disappeared into her lap. She sat, neither charmed nor daunted by the affectation all around her. Fichte had chosen well: maybe he would be the one to save her? From the look of her, she might even save herself.
She took a sip of beer, licked her lower lip—the tongue lingering just an instant too long—and sat back. She caught sight of Fichte and raised an arm, and Hoffner realized that perhaps he had underestimated her. The face transformed with a smile. Her eyes, unremarkable to this moment, sparked at the sight of Fichte, not with an adolescent excitement, but with something far more self-possessed. It gave her entire face a brightness. It would have been difficult to call it beauty, but it was no less riveting. Hoffner watched as Fichte maneuvered his way through the tables, as he leaned down to kiss her cheek, and sat beside her. She offered him her beer. He looked around for a waiter. When none could be found, Fichte coyly accepted the glass and began to speak between sips.
There was something fascinating in the way she watched Fichte talk, something Hoffner had not expected: she was leaning back. There was no need to perch forward, no attempt to show her undying interest, no sudden laughter, no distractions to sate her vanity. That scene was playing itself out at too many of the other tables. Here, she was actually listening. When she finally spoke, it was with a genuine conviction that, to Hoffner, was as out of place as it was compelling. He found himself drawn in, watching her speak, her every word, closer and closer to the glass, until, with a start, he saw her staring back at him. He stood there, suddenly aware of the shadows no longer around him.
A piece of ash dropped from his cigarette: it glanced off his hand and he flicked it away. It was only then that he noticed Fichte signaling for him to join them. Hoffner wondered which of the two had spotted him first.
Hoffner took a last drag, then tossed the cigarette to the ground. It fizzed in the puddled pavement as he stepped over to the door and pushed his way through.
The din of chatter rose up at once as if personally welcoming him, an imagined “Nikolai!” drawing his attention to a swarm of bodies off to his right. Hoffner turned back and pointed his way past the matre d’ as he made his way over to the table and Fichte, who was standing. Hoffner waited for Fichte to present her, and then offered a short bow. “Frulein.” Before Lina could respond, Hoffner had lassoed a waiter and was ordering three glasses of Engelhardt’s. Fichte moved around to the other side of the table and allowed Hoffner to take his chair. The two men sat. “I’m sure your girl can do with a glass of her own,” said Hoffner. He placed his hat on the empty seat across from her.
Lina said, “You didn’t have to smoke outside, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
” Her voice was low and inviting, and just as self-assured as Hoffner had imagined. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
“No,” said Hoffner, reaching in his pocket and retrieving the pack, “I don’t think you would have, Frulein.” He took a cigarette for himself, then offered one to Fichte. “The rain’s let up. I thought I’d take advantage of it.” He saw Fichte’s hesitation. “Come on, Hans. Better than that
mll
you’ve been smoking. Do us all some good.” Fichte looked at Lina, smiled sheepishly, and took the cigarette. “Can’t understand why he smokes them,” said Hoffner, striking a match and lighting Fichte’s. Not giving her time to answer, Hoffner said, “Must have some reason, eh, Frulein?” He lit his own and tossed the match into the ashtray.
Fichte cut in quickly. “I don’t usually smoke around Lina.”
“That’s a noble fellow,” said Hoffner. He picked at a piece of stray tobacco on his tongue.
“She says she doesn’t mind,” said Fichte. “Naturally, I can do what I like.”
“Well,” said Hoffner, “that’s very open-minded of you, Frulein.”
“Thank you, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar,
” she said. “Hans tells me your case is getting more and more interesting. That must be exciting.”
The word “exciting” had never sounded so raw. Hoffner smiled. “Nikolai. Please. For such a close friend of Hans.”
Fichte perked up. “Thank you, Herr
Krim . . . 0A0;
Hoff . . . 0A0; Nikolai.”
“And you must call me Lina,” she said, her eyes fixed on him.
Hoffner felt her gaze as he tapped out a head of ash into the tray. “That’s very kind, Frulein Lina.”
“Not at all, Nikolai.”
Again, he peered at her. Hoffner wondered if Fichte knew what he was dealing with here.
The beers arrived. Fichte tossed back what remained of his first glass and handed the empty to the waiter. He then picked up his new glass and proposed a toast. “To . . .” It was as much as he had prepared.
“To new friends,” said Lina.
“Yes,” said Fichte enthusiastically. “New friends.”
Hoffner raised his glass, then took a sip. He placed his glass back on the table and said, “So, you’ve never told me how the two of you met.”
It was all the prompting Fichte needed; with an occasional “Really, Hans—an ice-skating rink?” Hoffner had bought himself another few minutes to study Lina.
He now realized that the view from the window had not come close to doing the girl justice. Not that she was all that much more attractive. True, there were a pair of rather nice legs that had been lost under the table—her dress had risen to just above the knee and hinted at an even greater loveliness higher up the thigh—but it was nothing so mundane as a physical reappraisal that intrigued Hoffner. Lina had an energy, instantly perceptible, that told of a past and a future filled with daring and, above all, conquest, none of it garish or cheap, but intensely real, like the eyes that stared across at Hans and his stories of their recent present. The only mystery for Hoffner was why she had lighted upon his assistant, his well-meaning, young, very young, Hans as her escort.
“Hans exaggerates that part,” said Lina as she took his hand. “It was a little jump, and I almost fell.”
“She was magnificent, Nikolai,” said Fichte. “Truly.”
It was the first time Hoffner had heard Fichte sound comfortable using his name: remarkable thing, the touching of hands.
Hoffner took a long swig of beer. He stopped for breath, finished off the glass, and then placed it on the table. “It all sounds very romantic,” he said as he patted at his pockets for some coins. “Sadly . . .”
“Oh, no,” said Fichte. “You’re not going yet. And you’re certainly not paying when you do.” It was clear Fichte was already feeling the effects of the alcohol. Before Hoffner could stop him, Fichte was on his feet. “We have to find you some company. We can’t share Lina, you know, if we’re going dancing.”
Fichte was lost to the melee of tables and waiters before Hoffner could put out a hand to stop him. Even so, Hoffner swatted at the air before sitting back.
“He knows you won’t stay,” said Lina. “But he wants to make the effort.”
Hoffner started looking for a waiter. “Another mouth to feed.”
“You don’t have to do that, Nikolai.”
The mention of his name stopped Hoffner. The sound of it now felt wrong, not that hearing it had ever stopped him in the past. A waiter appeared. “Four more glasses,” said Hoffner.
“Three,” said Lina.
“Three,” said Hoffner, “and a dish of ice cream, vanilla, for the lady.” He turned to her. “Do you like nuts?”
“We have no nuts,
mein Herr,
” said the waiter.
Hoffner continued to stare at Lina. “Then we don’t want any.” Lina smiled. Hoffner tried not to enjoy it as much as he did.
The man seemed confused. “But we don’t—”
Hoffner turned back to the waiter. “Just the ice cream, then,” he said, relieving the man of any further mental anguish. When the waiter had gone, Hoffner turned again to Lina. “Ah,” he said, and shook his head. “I should have asked for chocolate sauce. You do like chocolate sauce?”
“Yes. They wouldn’t have had any.”
Hoffner retrieved his cigarette from the ashtray. “No,” he said as he watched the line of smoke peel upward. “I’m surprised they had the ice cream.” He took a long pull on the cigarette. “You’re nineteen. Give or take.”
“Give or take.”
“Funny, you don’t seem nineteen.”
“No. I don’t.” She waited, then brought her wrist up toward him. “Hans gave me this. For my birthday.”
Hoffner leaned over and admired the cheap little bracelet, a thin silver plate chain. He made sure to keep his eyes on the trinket. He could feel her eyes on him. “Very handsome.” He sat back, took another pull, then crushed out the remaining cigarette. “He’ll make a good detective,” said Hoffner, continuing to play with the stub. He had no idea why he had volunteered the information when he didn’t believe it himself.
“He’ll like to hear that,” said Lina.
“Then you mustn’t tell him.”
She laughed: there was nothing coy or timid about it. Hoffner wanted to laugh, as well. Instead, he released the cigarette and brushed off his hands. “And it seems you’re fascinated with police investigations.”
“I wouldn’t say fascinated.”
“Excited, then.”
“Not really. Hans wanted me to ask you.”
Hoffner nodded slowly. “I see.” She had given in too quickly. “Clever boy, our Hans.” He took a sip of beer. Lina did the same.
“He thinks a great deal of you, you know,” she said.
“Of course he does.” Hoffner placed the glass back on the table. “I’m his detective inspector.”
“No. I mean a great deal.”
“He’ll get over it.” Hoffner felt something fast approaching from behind him. His sense of relief was equally palpable. “Aha,” he said. “What’s she look like?”
Lina immediately peered past him. Her eyes widened as she gave in to a grin and spoke under her breath. “You don’t want to know.”
“Then I’m sorry for you. You’ll have a tough time getting rid of her once I’m gone.”
Lina’s eyes told him that Fichte was almost upon them. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll get rid of her.” Hoffner had no doubt of it.
“Look who I’ve found,” came Fichte’s too-loud voice from behind as he drew up.
Hoffner turned. A short redhead, dyed almost to the roots, had an arm around Fichte’s waist; her other was reaching out for Hoffner. She was, by conservative estimates, a good 120 kilos, something of a miracle given the food situation in Berlin. And she was clearly proud of her heft. Her age was anybody’s guess.
“Fat Gerda!” barked the woman as she managed to slap a paw onto Hoffner’s shoulder. “That’s who he’s found for you, you lucky boy!”
The smell of alcohol was equally aggressive, a bit much even for the pre-eight-o’clock crowd. “Just my type,” said Hoffner as he stood.
“I knew it,” said Fichte, a lilt to his voice that told them he had had another pop at the bar during his search. Hoffner recalled the first time he had gone out drinking with the boy, the night after he had introduced Fichte to the “cattle yard” and his first abandoned baby. The stench had been enough to lead them directly to the flat; they had both needed a drink after that. By the third beer, Fichte had been singing, a remarkably quick drunk for such a big man. Hoffner had pinned it on the lungs. Better to think that everything stemmed from that one defect than to consider the larger Fichte picture.
“I’ve seen your wife, Nikolai,” said Fichte. “This one’s perfect!” He laughed loudly and Gerda joined in. Lina did her best to enjoy them from a distance.
“Can’t argue with that, now can I?” said Hoffner as he retrieved his hat and stood. His own Martha may not have been as trim as little Lina, but she was still a few fighting classes removed from Gerda. “That’s inductive reasoning at its finest, Hans,” he said. “You’re really showing me something here, tonight. Very impressive.”
Fichte flopped down onto the chair across from Lina. He looked more than dazed. “Hello, Lina,” he said.
“Hello, Hans,” she answered.
“Mine’s old,” said Gerda. Hoffner was praying she was referring to him. She was trying to find a seat for herself but was having trouble squeezing in behind Fichte. “I don’t like this Lina person,” she said to no one in particular. Gerda suddenly burst out laughing and bumped Fichte into the table. Forcing her way through, she lowered herself onto the chair: seated, she virtually lunged across at Lina. “I didn’t mean it,” said Gerda, her words as undulating as the thick flesh on her arms. “You know I didn’t mean it. You’re such a sweet little pretty thing for your young man. Even if he came to find me.” She did her best to shake out her hair, her massive chest jiggling with the movement. It was an odd blend of the coy and the vulgar. “He’s yours, you know,” she added. “Not mine. Yours.” She peered up at Hoffner, then took a playful swipe at him across the table. “That’s mine.”
Lina smacked Gerda across the face, a lithe, swift movement. A nail scraped and Gerda’s cheek bled.
For several seconds, Gerda remained motionless. Only when she sat back did she bring her hand to her face. She looked at her fingers, saw the blood, and her disbelief turned to rage. Again she lunged.
Almost without effort, Hoffner caught her wrist, twisted, and pinned her to the table. It was remarkable to see that much size incapable of movement. “Don’t,” was all he said.
Through it all, Lina didn’t so much as flinch. Fichte tried to follow the proceedings, but it was too much for him. No one at the surrounding tables showed the least bit of interest. In a calm, quiet voice, Hoffner said, “You might want to move over by Hans, Frulein.” Lina got up and stepped to Fichte’s side.