The Pale House (43 page)

It was not the fortified entrance that gave him pause. That had gone up yesterday, with the first fighting around the ring of the city's edge. It was the squad of Feldgendarmerie mingled with the soldiers on duty, the way their sergeant took a hard look at his armband, then asked for his
soldbuch
, comparing it to a handwritten list he held. His eyes froze, fixed Reinhardt where he stood, and he called over another of the Feldgendarmes.

“Hey. I think this is the one you're after.”

The other Feldgendarme, also a sergeant, compared
soldbuch
and list, nodded, and with a motion of his wrist Reinhardt was bracketed by two more of them.

“What's the meaning of this, Sergeant?” Reinhardt's tongue stole toward that gap in his teeth.

“Orders, sir.”

“Orders for what?”

“Can't say, sir.”

“You will say more than that, Sergeant,” said Reinhardt, planting his feet. There was a creak of accoutrements, the iron slide of weapons all around, as the Feldgendarmes backed away from him.

“Don't be foolish, sir,” said the sergeant.

Reinhardt held the man's eyes, then nodded and followed him over to a Horch, where he climbed as ordered into the backseat. The car rumbled out of the barracks, back down
Street, and pulled to a stop in front of the State House. There was a mob of soldiers on the building's front steps loading boxes of documents into waiting trucks. The sergeant escorted him inside, their footsteps clattering counterpoint to the jangling beat of Reinhardt's heart. He pushed his knee up the stairs to the offices he had visited only a few hours ago, the steps covered in pieces and scraps of paper, an overturned box piled into the angle of a landing, a spill of white documents across the floor the way a dealer might spread a deck of cards across the baize of a playing table. There were more men up here, Feldgendarmes, a few orderlies or clerks, and someone incongruous in a pair of striped pajamas, a hush that deepened into a flat silence as Reinhardt walked past, Feldgendarmes fore and aft. A Feldjaeger sergeant met them at the door to the judges' offices, he and the Feldgendarme sizing each other up like cats. “We'll take him from here,” he said.

“All yours,” said the Feldgendarme, turning and motioning his men out.

“Captain, sir,” said the sergeant, quietly. “I'll need to take that.”

“What's going on, Sergeant?” asked Reinhardt, equally quietly, as he handed over his StG 44.

“Colonel'll tell you, sir. Right away.”

The sergeant led Reinhardt across the room, past desks and shelves empty of books and papers, boxes piled up against the walls, past probing eyes on heads that swiveled to watch him pass. A cold sweat broke out across his back. The sergeant knocked at Dreyer's door, cracked it open, and put his head inside. He ducked out after a moment, holding the door wide for Reinhardt.

Dreyer sat splayed in a chair, the left side of his head a matted and bloody ruin. One arm dangled down to the ground, a pistol on the floor under his right hand. His left arm was curled into his lap, the fist closed. He was in his shirt, the white fabric soaked with blood where his head lolled against his shoulder.

There were five men in the room staring at him. Scheller and Lainer stood at Dreyer's desk. Judge Erdmann was the third. The fourth man was Neuffer, from the Feldgendarmerie, looking—rather surprisingly—desperately uncomfortable. The fifth man was Herzog, short and stocky and glowering at him from beneath lowered brows like the belligerent bulldog he so resembled.

“This is Reinhardt?” the general grunted.

“This is Captain Reinhardt,” answered Scheller. His face was very grave, and Reinhardt's worry grew. “Captain, you remember General Herzog, commander of the Feldgendarmerie in Sarajevo.”

Reinhardt came to attention in front of Herzog's pugnacious stare, banishing Dreyer's body to a blur of white and red in the corner of his eye. “Where have you been these last few hours?”

“Sir?”

“Answer the question, Captain,” said Scheller, firmly.

“I was on a . . . I was . . .” he reddened. He knew he would have to explain it sometime, but the words would not come. “I had a private engagement, sir,” he managed.

“A woman?” Herzog snapped. “Convenient.”

“Convenient for what, sir?” asked Reinhardt, now confused as well as worried.

“
This
, Captain,” snorted Herzog, flicking a dismissive hand at Dreyer's body. “What the hell else?” The blood drained from Reinhardt's face, and he felt the ground tilt beneath him. “Nothing to say for yourself?” Herzog demanded.

Reinhardt's mouth moved, but nothing worked, his tongue stroking the gap in his teeth. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lainer step next to him, and lean in and sniff.

“Well, he smells like he's been rolling about with a tart, that's for sure.”

Reinhardt flushed, a prickling sweat breaking out all over him. Herzog sneered a chuckle while Lainer and Scheller remained expressionless. At least Erdmann and Neuffer had the grace to look embarrassed, but Lainer's throwaway comment had suddenly fixed Reinhardt, as if he had been rooted to the spot, and everything became clear, sharp, focused.

“Sir, am I under suspicion for the judge's death?” he asked, addressing the general, but also looking at Scheller.

“I don't know, Reinhardt,” said Herzog. “You'll be relieved to hear, no doubt, that Dreyer topped himself. At least, that's the way it looks. Right, Neuffer?”

“Yes, sir,” murmured the Feldgendarme. “Suicide. There's a note.”

“There's a note,” Herzog repeated, eyes fixed on Reinhardt.

Neuffer held out a piece of paper.

“‘I am sorry. I cannot go on. Forgive me.'
” Reinhardt looked up and around at the general, at the rest of them, and at the scrum of people at the door. “Potent stuff.”

“A comedian, Reinhardt? I hadn't been told you were a comedian.”

“Who found him?” Reinhardt asked. Neuffer blinked, and his eyes flickered to Erdmann. “
You
found him? When?”

“I'll be asking the questions, Reinhardt,” Herzog interrupted, the judge's mouth closing on whatever he had been about to say. “You say you were with a woman—good for you, and I hope you gave her a good time so she remembers what you looked like—but from what I've been hearing, you and our judge here have been causing more than your fair share of trouble.”

“Sir, I don't know what—”

“Quiet, Reinhardt,” Herzog grated. “Speak when asked to. It's bad enough Dreyer was down here on his War Crimes Bureau business, stirring up trouble and discord with our allies, but then the pair of you had to go chasing shadows and besmirching the work and reputation of a man like Major Jansky.”

“General, if I may,” interjected Scheller, his face smooth. “Captain Reinhardt was acting under my orders. I am sure he meant no disrespect or meant to cause any confusion.”

“Admirable, Scheller, to stand up for your man. It's more than that, though.” Lainer's eyes were flat as the big Feldjaeger stared at Reinhardt, but two red spots on his cheeks betrayed his anger. “I should like to explain one or two things to our captain, here. Him and his judge and their fairy tales. Thanks to him, I had to put down a bloody insurrection in the fortress tonight. Any idea what that might have been about, Reinhardt?”

“None, sir,” he replied, although he had a sick feeling he did.

“On the contrary, I think you bloody well do. I don't know who the hell told you, or why the hell you thought it was a good idea to go poking around in a penal battalion under the command of one of my officers—an officer who, by the way, has my utmost confidence. But consider this a good old-fashioned bollocking, Reinhardt. You fucked things up. Royally. Smearing the name of a good officer and wasting his time. Getting up the collective nose of the UstaÅ¡e, who are the only thing holding this place together and are our trusted allies. Spreading rumors and dissension in the ranks. Yes, your little forays into the penal battalion upset a lot of people, and put some funny ideas into the heads of the wrong ones, to the point I had to put a dozen men against a wall and execute them tonight for attempted desertion and robbery. I lost two good men dead and six more wounded before I had the rebellion put down. Know what that's about, Captain?”

“No idea, sir.”

“You're a fucking lousy liar, Reinhardt. You know damn well what it's about. Your Greeks attempted to abscond, tonight, with the best part of half a ton of gold. You wouldn't have put that idea in their minds, now, would you, because I don't think they've had an original thought among themselves since their mothers took them off the tit.” Over Herzog's shoulder, Erdmann's face twisted slightly, as if in distaste, and the judge's eyes met Reinhardt's, an elegant shrug in them as if to say none of this was his doing. “I know you met them, Reinhardt. If I had the time, and if I were sorry enough about having had them shot, I'd drag you in front of a court-martial and rip the truth out of you. As it is, count yourselves lucky the Partisans are making that difficult, but if I hear one more bloody peep out of you, if your shadow so much as crosses mine, I'll ruin you, you see if I don't. Is that clear, Captain? Colonel? Clear to you? Control your officer, or have it done for you.”

“Clear, sir,” said Reinhardt and Scheller at the same time.

“Let's make a few more things clear, gentlemen,” Herzog continued, a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he looked between Scheller and Reinhardt. “First, Major Jansky has my full confidence, as he does the confidence of Judge Erdmann, here. I will not have him bothered anymore by this sham of an investigation. He is a tough man, I know, but these are tough times, and it is a tough, tough job he has been given, to run that collection of crooks and pimps and misfits and make it a fighting unit, or at least a unit that serves a purpose.

“Second, I don't know why this man killed himself,” he said, pointing a dismissive finger at Dreyer's body. “Personally, I don't give a toss. He was too weak for the times. That's no crime, I suppose, and I suppose he's relieved us the burden of having to carry his weak and sorry backside any further. But if there is an investigation—which there won't be—it will be the Feldgendarmerie taking care of it. There is nothing here for the Feldjaegerkorps,” he finished, giving the last word an acid spin as he spat it from his mouth. “Is all of that clear? Let me hear that chorus of yeses, gentlemen,” he said, with a smirk.

“General, I think that's quite enough,” challenged Scheller.

“Fuck what you think's enough, Colonel.” Herzog sneered, his eyes aglitter.

“I remind you, sir . . .”

“Don't even bother reminding me of your supposed authority, Colonel. Try to exercise it here, and I'll shove it right back up your arse. This is my town, these are my men, and these are my fucking times. Is that
clear
?”

“Clear, sir,” said Reinhardt, loudly, hoping by volume to cover for Scheller, and distract him away from any confrontation with Herzog. The colonel's eyes, flat, dark pits, swiveled once to Reinhardt, then away again.

“Music to my fucking ears,” chuckled Herzog, coarsely, staring at Scheller. Then his face changed, and he straightened up. “You will forgive my crudeness, gentlemen, I hope. It is just that sometimes I find it is the best way to make a point, and to have it stick. Understand me when I say these are desperate times and the last thing we need is division within our ranks. We are all very much in this together. If today is a ruin, tomorrow may be different, and we owe it to ourselves, and to the Führer, to pull through this. And not only that,” he said, his bulldog stance tense, “but to plan for the future. When our enemies least expect it. Plan
now
. Here. Always remember, gentlemen, the Führer has a plan. He may not reveal all of it to all of us, but he has one. And it is beholden on us to try to think like him, act like he would, act like he would
want
us to.” His glittering eyes stabbed at each of them, and Reinhardt wondered if it was madness he saw in them, or true belief, and wondered if the two were different. “Our enemies do not always do as we think, and so must we.

“With that, gentlemen, this is over. You have, I believe, your orders, Colonel Scheller. Pull out tomorrow for Visoko. And you, Reinhardt,” Herzog said, thrusting himself up close to Reinhardt. “You stay away from Major Jansky, and stay away from his unit. If I hear of your involvement anywhere near him again, I'll have you stripped of your rank and assigned to his battalion.” He guffawed as if he had just thought of it. “Wouldn't that be fucking poetic justice?”

H
erzog strutted out, still laughing, Feldgendarmes pulled along in his wake. Erdmann slipped his spectacles on and walked quietly up to Reinhardt. “I am so terribly sorry for your loss, Captain,” he said, extending his hand, placing the other on Reinhardt's shoulder. As before, his handshake was firm, the hand on the shoulder avuncular, his eyes intense.

Reinhardt's breathing suddenly came high and thick.

“Thank you, sir,” he managed.

“I warned you, did I not, about all this? About getting involved with Dreyer's obsessions. About giving him hope. And now look. One of my best judges has taken his own life.”

“Sir, if you don't mind, a question.”

Erdmann's mouth straightened, and a little of the light in his eyes dimmed, but his hands remained firm on Reinhardt. “Ask, then.”

“No,” said Scheller. “No more questions. Enough's enough.” He pointed out the door. “Back to barracks.”

“Very well, sir. But if you would, I would appreciate a moment alone,” he said to the question he saw in Scheller's face. “I would like a moment to say good-bye. He was my friend.”

“Five minutes, Reinhardt,” Scheller sighed. “No more.”

Erdmann's hand tightened on Reinhardt's shoulder, a gesture of support, but it felt like an unwelcome weight. Reinhardt's shoulder shifted slightly, down and away, and something went across Erdmann's face, slithered away into his eyes. A last pat on the shoulder, and he followed Scheller and Lainer out of the room.

As Reinhardt knelt in front of Dreyer's body, he shook, suddenly, quivering off the edge upon which he realized he had been holding himself, where he had been holding off his grief. Reinhardt let his head drop, his hands gentle on Dreyer's forearms.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, although he could not really have said what he was sorry for.

Swallowing hard, not wanting to do it, he gently lifted Dreyer's head, one hand atop it, the other beneath his chin. Dreyer's jaw was soft, fleshy, folds of skin straightening and tautening as he moved the head, looking at the exit wound. He let the head down, then lifted Dreyer's hand, the one on his lap. Reinhardt peeled Dreyer's fingers open, revealing something that glittered in the light. It was a piece of jewelry, he saw, a brooch in the shape of an insect. A dragonfly, beautifully enameled in gold and green and blue, its wings slightly warped and bent where Dreyer's fist had closed around them. Pushing back the sleeve of his shirt, Reinhardt saw red welts at the level of Dreyer's elbow, stark against the pale skin. The other arm was the same.

He used a handkerchief to pick up the pistol, not stopping to consider the absurdity of trying not to contaminate what was not considered a crime scene, and sniffed the barrel. The weapon had certainly been fired, but there was no way of knowing if Dreyer had been the one to fire it. He ejected the magazine. One round was missing.

Dreyer's bed was rumpled, the blankets mounded in sharp creases, and the sheet hanging to the floor. He looked down at Dreyer's feet. He was in his socks, the fabric worn tissue thin at the toes and heels.

There was a scuff of cloth behind him. Reinhardt started, a jolt of cold going right through him, thinking he had been alone. Neuffer stood forgotten in the corner, screwing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Reinhardt frowned at the man dislaying such a gesture of weakness in front of someone Neuffer hardly knew. Neuffer's hands came down, his eyes red and wet, saw Reinhardt looking.

“This wasn't suicide, was it?”

Reinhardt froze, looked hard back at the Feldgendarme. “What makes you say that?”

“The fact that you're still poking around.” Neuffer's lower lip curled into his mouth. “What have you found?”

“
Found?
Is this some kind of test, Neuffer?” The Feldgendarme said nothing, and Reinhardt pushed himself to his feet, irked at the thought that he was performing, but he walked over to the gramophone. The needle was lying in the center of the record, that “dreadful recording by Hans Pfitzner” as Dreyer had called it, and his eyes stole a glance at the case where the jazz records were. On the table, Dreyer's flask gleamed silver next to the ashtray. In the ashtray, stacked one atop the other, were Dreyer's cigarette case and matching lighter.

“Erdmann found him?” Reinhardt asked, frowning down at the brooch that shone in the palm of Dreyer's hand. Neuffer nodded. “Where had he been?”

“Dining with General Kathner at his HQ.”

“‘Dining'?”
Reinhardt frowned. “With all that's going on . . . ? What does he think this is, a day at the races?”

“He said he came back, saw Dreyer, and called us in.”

“Did he touch anything?”

“I don't know.”

“What time did he say he came back?”

“Maybe around one o'clock in the morning.”

Reinhardt had had
body curled against his at that time, and it already felt like a lifetime ago.

“What is it with those two men, Herzog and Erdmann, and Jansky?” Reinhardt darted the question at Neuffer, taking a chance on the obvious tension the man was under.

Neuffer blinked, pulled his eyes back from Dreyer's body. “Jansky? I mean, he works for them. With them.”

“What does that mean?” asked Reinhardt, his pulse quickening.

“Herzog's his commander. And Erdmann's the one who reviews all the . . . all the disciplinary proceedings, confirms the transfers to the penal battalion. This wasn't suicide, was it?”

“It wasn't suicide, Neuffer.”

“I mean . . . yes. No. I mean, how can you tell?”

Reinhardt looked at the Feldgendarme anew, wishing for some opening to push on with those questions about Jansky. Neuffer was clearly struggling with something, a far cry from the formulaic, obsequious behavior he had seen him display before.

“I saw Dreyer just yesterday, late last night, and he was fine,” Reinhardt said. “In fact, he was happy. Or happier than he had been in a long time. He had something to look forward to. I know he talked of suicide, but he was too scared to do it. And he would've put the pistol to his heart if he could've. There are marks on his arms, indicating someone held him in the chair for someone else to shoot him.”

He spoke calmly, interested to hear the academic lilt to what he was saying, as if he lectured a probationary officer or cadet back on the police force.
See, here, how the body lies, indicating the blow was struck from this angle . . .
He walked to the table, picking up the flask, a measure of something tilting around inside it. He noted how the light flowed across it in different ways, running blurred and heavy across the matte finish of its body, but glittering bright along the floral tracery that swept delicately across and around it. It was a beautiful piece. He slipped it into his pocket, his skin heating a moment as he felt Neuffer's eyes on him, and not knowing why he did it other than, perhaps, to lift it in Dreyer's honor one day.

“I've worked a few suicides in my time, and I never heard of one that got out of bed to do himself in. And he would never have gone out to that music.” Reinhardt left it at that, letting Neuffer draw what conclusion he would.

“But, if there was nothing, no music, how would they have masked the gunshot?”

“Gunshots are not exactly a rarity at this time,” Reinhardt said, dryly. Neuffer flushed. “Witnesses?”

“No one saw anyone. I mean . . . no one saw anyone . . .”

“Untoward?” Reinhardt finished. Neuffer looked miserable, like a wet cat with his slicked-back hair. “What does that tell you, Neuffer? It just tells you the killer was probably one of us.”

“This was murder. Oh, God,” Neuffer said, his eyes wrinkling themselves shut tight. “It's all going to hell, again.”

“What do you mean, ‘again'?”

Neuffer stared at the ceiling. “Nothing. It's nothing.” His voice rasped, as if he feared being overheard. Reinhardt was again struck by the resemblance to the Kaiser. The way he had always seemed so unsure around his fighting men, the ones who had labored and fought and died for him in the trenches in the first war.

“It's something,” said Reinhardt, making his voice softer despite the edge he wanted to put in it. “Tell me.”

“You're a policeman. A proper one. I'm just a . . . stuffed shirt, compared to you. This,” Neuffer said, pointing at Dreyer, “it's just like the other one.”

“What other one?”

“Colonel Wedel.”

Reinhardt kept his face blank as his mind raced over Neuffer's words. “The officer in charge of the stolen defense plans,” he remembered, thinking back to the briefing, on the first day here.

“Yes.” The Feldgendarme nodded. “Colonel Wedel. He killed himself, too.”

“Tell me, Neuffer,” said Reinhardt.

“We found Wedel dead in his quarters. He had shot himself in the head. There was a note as well. This was a couple of days after we had questioned everyone who had anything to do with the plans. We found nothing. No one and nothing out of place. It was like the thieves had just appeared and disappeared. No traces. Nothing. After all that, I thought then . . . I thought then that Wedel was the one. You know. When you have eliminated everything . . . whatever remains must be the truth.”

Reinhardt nodded, reappraising his view of this man he had dismissed as a nobody, a flunky. “You said nothing?”

“I . . . tried. I suppose. But there was no proof and no one really cared. I mean, the theft of those plans turned everything upside down. And why? Why would he have done it? I talked to him, you see. The day he killed himself. I asked him if he had had anything to do with it. With the theft. I felt I could, you see. We knew each other, after a fashion. I asked him if there was anything wrong. Anything he wanted to tell me.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Wedel just seemed to fade away as I spoke. Then, when he killed himself, I thought . . . I feared . . . I thought maybe I was the one who pushed him to kill himself. That if I had left him alone . . .”

“You blame yourself. You shouldn't. Maybe Wedel didn't do it,” Reinhardt said, pointing at Dreyer. “
He
didn't. I'm sure of it. And if Wedel did do it, maybe . . . maybe he thought it was the only way out for him.”

“What do you mean?” Neuffer whispered.

“Tell me something first,” said Reinhardt, planting himself squarely in front of Neuffer. “What role does Erdmann play in getting men sent to the penal battalion?”

“A soldier must commit a breach of discipline to be court-martialed. These days, that can be over in a matter of minutes, and the sentence can be transfer to a penal battalion. The courts-martial have a presiding judge, assisted by two officers. The sentences are then supposedly reviewed by a senior officer who confirms or rejects them, and is sometimes advised by another judge.”

“Erdmann is that judge?”

“And Herzog is usually that officer. They both have reputations . . . Discipline. Sacrifice. Washing one's sins away in the service of the Fatherland,” Neuffer said, holding Reinhardt's eyes, with an acid spin to the words.

“They're believers?”

“Isn't it obvious? Them and God only knows who else, still. They all believe. They've always believed. And they'll never stop. Please. What did you mean? About Wedel.”

“Maybe he
was
the one who took his own plans. But maybe someone forced him to and he couldn't live with it. Or he became a liability to whoever coerced him. Because I'll tell you what I think happened here, Neuffer. There were at least two men, possibly three. They just walked in here. Two of them held Dreyer down, in that chair, while the third put a gun to my friend's head and killed him. They didn't take anything. They didn't ask anything. They just killed him. Then they walked out. That means they were German.”