Rosa

TWO

The wail of a siren reached up through the bathroom window and momentarily drowned out the street sounds of early morning. Hoffner tapped his cigarette into the basin, retrieved his razor, and set to work on the stubble just under his chin.

The fires were still burning out in Treptow, where, up until a few days ago, a “unit” of university students had been fighting with epic navet. The last of them had fallen on Tuesday to a roving band of Garde-Kavallerie-Schtzen-Division men who had pulled the three boys out into Weichsel Square and beaten them to death. On a whim, the right-wing thugs-only the uniforms made them soldiers-had then lit up the place. According to the papers, the fire brigades had thus far recovered the remains of two children who had been burned alive. Hoffner listened as the scream of the siren faded to nothing.

“And he still won’t admit it?” said Martha from the bedroom. “Even after all this time.”

Hoffner waited while another siren passed. “Of course not,” he said. For some reason he was having trouble with the angle this morning: his neck was sore. He did what he could, then unplugged the drain. He was wiping off the last of the shaving soap when Martha brushed by him with a pile of clean towels. She placed them in a cupboard by the tub. Hoffner tossed his into the hamper.

“You can use them more than once, you know,” said Martha.

Hoffner picked at a piece of raw skin on his cheek. “I thought I had.”

She retrieved the towel and hung it on a rack. “Did he mean it as a threat, do you think?”

Hoffner continued his examination. “He’s never been that clever.” He splashed some cold water on his face.

“Then why bring it up?”

“Make things right,” he said. “I don’t know. He’s an old man.” Hoffner dried off, put on his shirt, and started in on his tie as Martha knelt down to rub a damp cloth over the tub. He said, “You know, I think he was actually asking for my forgiveness.”

“For something he claims he never did?” She shook her head and pushed herself up. Hoffner said nothing. “You shouldn’t work with those people, Nicki. Especially now.”

“Not my choice.”

Nudging him to the side, she wrung out the cloth in the sink. “Sa-” She caught herself. “Alexander has a match this afternoon. Four o’clock.” She hung the cloth next to the towel. “You should be there.”

The morning had been progressing so nicely, thought Hoffner, talk of Weigland notwithstanding. Now he felt a knot in the pit of his stomach: why was it that she could never understand he would be the last person Sascha would want to see at a match?

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Try hard, Nicki.”

She moved past him and into the hall. Hoffner was left alone to sort out the mess he had made of his tie.

Hans Fichte was waiting for him outside his office when Hoffner got to headquarters. The boy’s face was bloated from last night’s alcohol, and his inhaler seemed to be doing double duty. Fichte was in the midst of a good suck when Hoffner walked up.

“Glad to see you’re here early,” said Hoffner, busying himself with his coat so as to give Fichte a moment to recover. He stepped into the office, tossed his hat onto the rack, and settled in behind the desk. “Come in, Hans. Close the door.” Fichte did as he was told. “You’re not a drinker, Hans. Try to remember that. Take a seat.”

Fichte moved a stack of papers from a chair. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” He sat.

“Your girl get home all right?”

“Yes. Thank you for asking, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Good.” Hoffner watched Fichte’s expression; the boy had no idea what he had signed on for with this Lina. Hoffner wondered if he had been any less thickheaded at Fichte’s age. He hoped not. With a smile, Hoffner leaned back against the wall, his elbows on the chair’s armrests, his hands clasped at his chest, and said easily, “So. What exactly do you think we learned last night?”

Fichte thought for a moment and then said, “That I shouldn’t bring Lina-”

“Yes,” Hoffner cut in impatiently. “We’ve been through all that. What about from upstairs?”

This took greater concentration. “That-this is a political case and we shouldn’t overstep our bounds?”

“Exactly right,” said Hoffner. Fichte’s surprise was instantaneous. “Something wrong?” said Hoffner coyly.

“Well”-Fichte showed a bit more fire-“I didn’t think you-we-would back down so easily.” He waited for a reaction. When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte added, “It is our case, after all.”

“It is, isn’t it.” Hoffner sat staring across at Fichte.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Fichte said, “I’m not sure I understand, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner sat forward. “You need to ask yourself, Hans: Is Luxemburg an element of our case?”

“Of course,” said Fichte.

“According to the Polpo?”

“I suppose not, no.”

The response provoked several quick taps of Hoffner’s fingers on the desk. “And so their focus will be-” He waited for Fichte to complete the thought.

“Luxemburg.”

“And ours?”

Fichte was anxious not to stumble, having come this far. “Everything else. .?” he said tentatively.

“Exactly. For the time being, we’re no longer concerned with Frau Luxemburg, with her forced, angular ruts, or with her second carver. You understand?”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. I do.”

“Good. Does this mean she’s no longer an element of the case?”

Without hesitation, Fichte said, “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar, it does not.”

“Excellent, Hans.” Again, Hoffner smiled. “Maybe a drink for you, now and then, isn’t such a bad idea. Full marks this morning.” Fichte looked pleased, if slightly embarrassed. “All right,” said Hoffner. “So what do we do now?”

“We-look at everything else.”

When nothing by way of detail followed, Hoffner explained, “The morgue, Hans. I need you to go down and retrieve that bottle of preserving grease. The one from yesterday’s victim. No one’s to see you leave with it, you understand? And then I want you to meet me outside in the square. Is all of that possible?”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Good.”

The Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical Chemistry and Electrochemistry sits on what was once the Prussian Royal Estate of Dahlem in the southwest section of town. It stretches over a thousand acres of prime riding land, and was the gift of one of those unremarkable Junker princes who, recognizing the need for “something useful in this city of ours,” ceded it to a growing Berlin. Naturally he had wanted a racecourse, or perhaps a garden “for young ladies to stroll about at their leisure,” but in the end prudence had won out. He had been happy enough to let someone else make the decision, especially when they had come to him for a little cash for the project. “Land is the greatest treasure,” he had said: it was up to the Prussian Ministry to come up with anything else. As it turned out, one member of the Ministry had voted for the racecourse; it happened to be the prince’s cousin. The rest had opted for a different kind of “useful.” The doors to the Institute had opened in October of 1912, and since then the place had been home to some of the more innovative breakthroughs in German chemical engineering and physics. Many attributed its success to the man at the top. The Direktor, however, took little credit. He had always enjoyed horse racing himself and sometimes wondered if they had all not somehow missed out on a wonderful opportunity.

Getting to the Institute from Alexanderplatz requires two transfers, first on the No. 3 to Potsdamer Platz, then on the Nord-End 51 to Shmargendorf Depot, and finally on the No. 22A, which stops directly in front of the university’s central library. Students who fall asleep on the bus after a late night slumming it “up east” find themselves out in Grunewald before they know it, at which point most of them have no choice but to spend the night in the park and curse fate for their misadventure. Hoffner and Fichte took a cab.

“I thought about university, at one point,” said Fichte as they moved across the plaza toward the Institute’s entrance. It was a massive building of five floors, with an ersatz Greek front of four thick columns and pediment tacked onto the faade; odder still was the circular tower that seemed to be standing sentry duty at its far right. Its roof resembled a vast Schutzi helmet-made of Thuringian slate-along with its very own imperial prong rising to the sky: an unflinching Teuton at the gates of the Temple Athena, thought Hoffner. So much for chemistry. “Not much of a student, though,” Fichte continued. “More what my father wanted me to do, I suppose. Luckily the war came along and, well, you know the rest.”

Hoffner nodded, not having been listening, and began to mount the steps. He had to remind himself that yammering enthusiasm was a part of the Fichte-away-from-the-office days. He watched as the boy raced by to open the door for him.

According to the wood-carved listing in the entry hall, Herr Professor Doktor Uwe Kroll was to be found on the third floor. Hoffner remembered roughly where Kroll’s office was; even so, it took them a good ten minutes to locate Kroll in the lab across from his office.

Kroll was wearing a white lab coat, and sat staring intently at a slide beneath his microscope when the two men stepped into the room. There was nothing at all to distinguish Kroll: he projected the perfect image of the scientist, except without the eyeglasses. Fichte had always associated myopia with science. He estimated Kroll to be in his late forties.

“That was quick, Nikolai,” said Kroll, still perched in concentration. “I didn’t expect you for another half-hour.”

“We took a cab.”

“Ah,” said Kroll, looking up. “The deep pockets of the Kriminalpolizei.”

Hoffner introduced Fichte.

Kroll said, “You should know, Herr Kriminal-Assistent, that your Detective Inspector would have made a pretty fair chemist himself. Didn’t like the symmetry, though, wasn’t that it, Nikolai? Too much coherence.” Kroll held out his hand. “All right, let’s have a look at it, this great mysterious goop of yours that’s too complex to be seen by my esteemed colleagues at police headquarters.”

Fichte produced the bottle and handed it to Kroll, who brought it up to the light and watched as the contents oozed slowly from side to side. Kroll then brought it to his lap, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed. “You said on the telephone that it was used to preserve flesh. Are you sure it wasn’t used as an inhibitor?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Hoffner.

“As something to keep the elements of decay-animals, moisture, that sort of thing-from getting to the skin. Rather than as an agent that works with the skin. You see what I’m saying?”

“A repellent,” said Hoffner.

“Exactly. That would make my work much easier. On the other hand, if it is something that actually interacts with the flesh and creates a reaction, then it becomes far more complicated.”

“And your guess is?”

Kroll looked over at Fichte with a grin. “And now you see where the two of us go our separate ways, Herr Kriminal-Assistent. No guesses, Nikolai. I can let you know in a few days.” When Hoffner nodded, Kroll placed the jar on his table and said, “And am I right in thinking you’ll be the one to get in touch with me?”

“Yes.”

“‘Yes,’” repeated Kroll knowingly. “Must be interesting times at Kripo headquarters, these days.”

Hoffner waited before answering. “Yes.”

“‘Yes,’” Kroll repeated again. “And should anyone come calling from the Alex, I know nothing about this little jar. Is that right?”

“Is that a guess, Uwe?” Without giving Kroll a chance to answer, Hoffner added, “You see, Hans? Even a chemist can show the makings of a pretty fair detective.”

Out on the plaza, the rain had returned as freezing drizzle; it slapped at the face like tiny pieces of glass, but did little to dampen Fichte’s enthusiasm.

“You saw what he did?” said Fichte eagerly. “When he opened the bottle?”

Reluctantly, Hoffner said, “Yes, Hans. I saw. He sniffed at it.” Hoffner pulled his collar up to his neck: how difficult was it to remember a scarf?

“You see,” said Fichte, his coat still unbuttoned. “I have an instinct for these things.”

“An instinct. That must be it. Then tell me, Nostradamus, where are we heading next?”

“KaDeWe’s.” Fichte spoke with absolute certainty. He brushed a bit of moisture from his nose. “To see about the gloves.” Hoffner nearly stopped in his tracks as Fichte continued, “I checked on the body this morning-number five, in the morgue. The gloves were missing. The Polpo doesn’t know about them, so I assumed you’d taken them. KaDeWe is the best place in town for lace.”

And just like that, thought Hoffner, Fichte was actually becoming a detective.

“A darker beige and a powdered blue,” said the man behind the counter. He stared across at the woman who looked to be incapable of making a decision. She pulled the glove snug onto her hand and gazed at it in the mirror. She flexed her fingers and then reangled her head. All the while, the man stood with a sliver of smile sewn onto his lips. After nearly half a minute he glanced furtively at Hoffner, who had edged closer to the glass. “Just another minute, mein Herr,” he said impatiently, but with no change in his expression. “Thank you, mein Herr.”

In his finely pressed suit, the man looked like the perfect twin of every other clerk on the floor, or perhaps the perfect “light” twin, as they seemed to come in three distinct shades: blond, brunette, and gray. The creases in his trousers were another nod to his perfection, as was the slip of blue handkerchief that peeped out from his breast pocket. The delicacy of his hands was also something remarkable, pale and soft as they graced the waves of satin.

“You will find none more exquisite in the city, Madame,” he said, equally transfixed by the gloves. “Feel them against your skin. Lovely.”

It was clear from Fichte’s expression that he had never been inside Kaufhaus des Westens, or KaDeWe, as it had come to be known: the high temple of capitalism, undaunted by threats from either socialists or shortages. Utterly self-assured, the place was alive with consumption, and Fichte seemed unable to take it all in fast enough. There was the endless sea of scarves and blouses, soaps and colognes, each department with its own distinct color and feel. Even the size of the clerks seemed to change from one area to the next: long, elegant men to clothe the customer, squatter ones to perfume her, thick-necked boys for her sporting equipment. And somewhere in the distant reaches, men’s ties and shirts filled the glass-topped rows; they, however, were lost behind a wall of ever-moving flesh. Above it all, the din from countless conversations crested in an orchestral echo that, to Fichte’s ear, sounded as if it were tuning. He had played the violin as a boy, poorly, but had always enjoyed that collective search for pitch.

Looking up, he followed a network of wires that crisscrossed the vaulted space; the lines were only a stepladder’s climb from him, but they seemed to soar high above as they rose to a squadron of desks on the mezzanine level: this was where all transactions were consummated; money was never kept at the counters. In a constant whir of tramlike efficiency, tiny boxes whizzed overhead, carrying receipts and payments back and forth. This had been the way at KaDeWe since its opening; modern mechanisms had yet to infiltrate. Fichte had to wonder if a pluck on one of the cables might produce a perfect A-flat.

“Oh, well,” said the woman as she removed the glove. “Not today.” She thanked the clerk and moved off. The man nodded politely, replaced the two sets of gloves beneath the glass, and then turned to Hoffner and Fichte. He needed only a glance to take stock of the two men: Fichte was still gazing upward. It was enough for the clerk to know that his frustrations would continue.

“And now, mein Herr,” he said to Hoffner with icy civility. “How can we be of assistance today?”

Hoffner pulled from his pocket a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. He opened it and placed the contents on the counter. “I’m wondering,” he said, “where I might get a pair like these for my wife.” The voice and attitude were unlike anything Fichte had ever seen or heard coming from Hoffner before. There was something almost apologetic, even puny, to him. It was an astonishing transformation. The wonder of KaDeWe instantly faded to the background.

“For your wife,” said the man, as he glanced indifferently at the muddied gloves. “Yes, mein Herr.”

“The dog got into the bureau,” said Hoffner sheepishly. “Made a complete mess of them. All my fault.”

“Yes,” repeated the man. He took in a long breath, then picked up one of the gloves. Almost at once his demeanor changed. He quickly brought the glove up to his face and began to examine it closely.

“Is there-something wrong?” said Hoffner.

The man looked across at him. “Oh, no, no, no, mein Herr,” he said, now the model of fawning servility. “It’s just-I couldn’t tell the remarkable quality, what with all the staining.”

“I see,” said Hoffner with a bland smile.

The clerk continued to pick his way through the lace. “Wonderful,” he said. “May I ask where mein Herr originally purchased them?”

“A gift,” said Hoffner. “From an aunt, I believe.”

“I see,” said the man. He placed the glove on the counter and pointed behind him to two large volumes. “May I?” he said.

Hoffner nodded his assent.

The man pulled the second of the books from the shelf and, placing it on the counter, began to leaf through. It was clear he knew exactly what he was looking for. “It’s an extremely intricate pattern, mein Herr,” he said as he continued to flip through the pages. “Quite rare. We don’t carry it ourselves, but we’d be happy to order it for you. Ah, yes,” he said, stopping on a page. “Here it is.” He flipped the book around so that Hoffner could see the drawing. “Mechlin Rseau de Bruges,” said the man as he watched Hoffner scan the page. The clerk then picked up the glove and began to illustrate for Fichte. “It’s like the Brussels mesh,” he said as he dusted off the palm. “But here you see the four threads are plaited only twice, instead of four times, on the two sides, while the two threads are twisted twice, instead of once, on the four sides.” The clerk stared at the glove with almost spiritual devotion; it was as if Hoffner and Fichte had disappeared. “Marvelous craftsmanship.”

Fichte had no idea what the man was saying; he nodded nonetheless.

“It’s Belgian?” said Hoffner, looking up from the book.

“Yes, mein Herr. And made only in Bruges. As I said, we can order it for you.”

“From this firm, here,” said Hoffner, pointing to a name on the page.

“Edgar Troimpel et Fils. Yes, mein Herr.”

“Do you make such orders quite often?” said Hoffner.

“All the time, mein Herr.”

“To this particular firm in Belgium?”

The man seemed momentarily confused. “Well-no, mein Herr, but our couriers are excellent.”

“No, of course,” said Hoffner. “I’m just wondering if you’ve placed an order with them in, say, the last few months?”

Again, the clerk seemed slightly put off. “Not that I recall, mein Herr. Not with the war. But that shouldn’t be a problem at all now. They know us quite well. Since before the war.”

Hoffner knew he had hit the point of retreat. Clerks like this wanted to be coddled, not prodded. Still, Hoffner needed a little more information. He smiled and took a final, harmless swipe. “Of course,” he said. “I imagine KaDeWe is the only store in Berlin they work with.”

As if on cue, the man’s face tightened. “No, mein Herr.” His words were now clipped. “I’m sure Wertheim’s or one of the lesser stores has contacts with the firm. I can’t address the quality of their service-”

“No, of course not,” said Hoffner with a penitent smile. “I was only inquiring.” He decided to throw the man a bone. “Rest assured that when I order them, I will order only from the best and most respected. KaDeWe.”

The man softened as he beamed. “That’s very kind of you, mein Herr, and may I say, I think a wise choice. Shall I get the order form?”

“I’ll need two pairs of the gloves.” Hoffner saw the Reichsmarks dancing in the man’s eyes. “The second for my sister. Unfortunately, I haven’t brought her size with me. I didn’t want to get her hopes up if I didn’t know I could find them. You understand.”

“Absolutely, mein Herr.”

“You are here until-”

“Six o’clock, mein Herr.”

“Then I will be back before then.” Hoffner retrieved the package.

“Excellent, mein Herr.”

“Come, Reiner,” Hoffner said to Fichte with sudden determination. “We mustn’t keep your bowel doctor waiting.”

Three minutes later, Hoffner ordered two coffees before making his way over to a table and Fichte, who had settled in by one of the caf’s outdoor heaters: the long, iron-encased lamp was working at full capacity to create a pocket of toasted air. Ten or so other lamps littered the space under the wide awning; even so, most of the clientele had opted for seats inside. Hoffner, on the other hand, liked being out on the street; he liked the occasional spray of rain that seemed to defy all logic by attacking from the side and not from above; most of all, he liked that Fichte was getting the brunt of it. Across the avenue, KaDeWe loomed like an enormous troll.

“All right,” said Fichte. “So, now that we’re sitting down, why the performance, riveting as it was, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?” For the first time, the title seemed to carry less than its usual reverence: Hoffner liked the change. He tossed his hat onto an empty chair.

“Riveting?” he said. “You’re too kind.”

“Yes. My bowels and I are great aficionados.”

Hoffner laughed a nice full laugh. “Your expression was priceless.”

Fichte bowed his head once submissively. “I’m glad we could be so amusing.”

“Very. Actually, Victor once had his-” Hoffner stopped himself. He saw the anticipation in Fichte’s eyes. There was nothing threatening in it; still, Hoffner felt a moment’s betrayal. He waited, then explained, “The Polpo, Hans.” Hoffner took a napkin and began to wipe off the mud that had splattered onto his pant leg. “If I bring out my badge, our clerk can tell anyone nosing about that two Kripomen have been in there asking about a pair of gloves. We don’t need that kind of attention.”

“But the Polpo wasn’t interested in the gloves. If they were, they would have taken them.”

“True.” Hoffner was struggling with a particularly resilient stain. “Except they weren’t interested because they didn’t know about them.” Hoffner finished with the napkin and tossed it next to his hat. “I’ve had the gloves with me since we brought the body in yesterday.”

“You’ve had the gloves?” This was new information to Fichte. “Why?”

“Last night wasn’t the first time someone’s gone through our evidence.” The coffees arrived. “Don’t look so surprised, Hans.” Hoffner took a sip; he had expected better from a place like this, especially in this part of town: he could taste the chicory. “It just happened to be the first time they were caught.”

Fichte waited for the waiter to move off. “And you knew it was the Polpo?”

“No. I thought maybe the KD was getting anxious. I even thought you might have been putting in some extra hours, bizarre as that might sound.” Fichte ignored the comment. “Either one would have been preferable.” Fichte let this all sink in as Hoffner suffered through a few more sips. “It means,” said Hoffner, “that you’ll have to be just as careful this afternoon.” Hoffner looked for a sugar bowl. There was none to be found.

“This afternoon? What are we doing this afternoon?”

“We aren’t doing anything.” Hoffner settled on a spoonful of cinnamon: for some reason, cinnamon was making it through to Berlin in truckloads. “You are hunting down all the places in town that do business with Monsieur Edgar Troimpel.”

“All?” said Fichte.

“Relax, Hans. There can’t be more than ten in the entire city that handle this kind of lace.” Hoffner tried another sip; the combination of cinnamon and chicory was truly dreadful. “And I don’t want any of them thinking that someone from the Kripo has been asking them questions. Comprends?”

Fichte sat slightly amazed. “You want me to do this on my own?” Before Hoffner could answer, Fichte said, “I mean, of course I can do it on my own. I just want to make sure that’s what you meant.”

“Surprised, Hans? I would have thought your instinct would have seen this coming a long way off.”

Again, Fichte let the comment pass. “And what exactly will the Herr Kriminal-Kommissar be doing while I’m racing around town?”

Hoffner stood and placed a few coins on the table. “Mechlin Rseau. Write it down, Reiner.” He then picked up his hat, ducked under the awning, and stepped out into the rain.

Her last known address was a matter of record; it took Hoffner less than two hours to find it. Even so, Luxemburg had spent too many years in and out of prison to make anything completely verifiable: five out of the last seven, from what he had read. There was the flat on Cranachstrasse that she had shared with a Leo Jogiches, but the lease there had run out in June of 1911. She had reappeared later that year in police postal records for the South End section of town, but, given the war and recent events, it was anybody’s guess how often she had called Number 2 on the tree-lined Lindenstrasse her home. Probably better that way: less chance that someone might be taking an interest in Hoffner’s unannounced visit.

The building was typical for this part of town, five or six stories, a flat on each floor, comfortable bourgeois living. Hoffner had imagined Red Rosa in something grittier. In fact, he remembered how he and Martha had thought about this part of town for themselves, but had found it too expensive. Maybe he had chosen the wrong profession, he thought. Hoffner mounted the steps and rang the porter’s bell.

Characteristically efficient, the man had wasted no time in attending to the nameplate for the top-floor flat. A lone L and u were all that remained of the torn strip of paper.

The door opened and an older woman appeared from the shadows. She was painfully thin, and the wisps of her gray, bunned hair seemed to create a small halo above her head. She looked gentle enough, though the last weeks had evidently taken their toll. “Yes?” she said tentatively.

“So sorry to trouble you, Madame, but I was hoping to take a look at the top-floor flat. You are the landlady?”

“My husband is the porter. That flat is not available.” She started to close the door, when Hoffner reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his badge. He kept it close to his body as he showed it to her. Her discomfort grew. She stared at the badge, then up at Hoffner. For some reason, she brought her hand up to her neck. It seemed to calm her. “My husband isn’t here,” she said. “He said you wouldn’t be back for another few days.”

Hoffner showed no sign of surprise. “Other policemen were here this morning?” he said as he returned the badge to his pocket.

The woman looked confused. “No. A few days ago. I told them Frau Luxemburg hasn’t been here in weeks. We-” She stopped. “May I see your badge again?”

Hoffner reached into his pocket. “Of course,” he said, and handed it to her. She examined it closely. “Would it be better if I came inside?” he said. “Out of the rain?”

She seemed torn between apprehension and decorum. She quickly found what she was looking for and handed the badge back to Hoffner. “Forgive me,” she said. “Of course. Please come in.”

The hall had a few touches to liven it up-a small table by the stairs, a lamp with a colored glass shade-but it remained a rather bleak introduction to the building. Behind her, the door to her own flat stood ajar.

“So you say Frau Luxemburg hasn’t been here in several weeks,” said Hoffner.

“She was living closer in to town-near to where her newspaper was published, I think.” The hand returned to her neck. “I don’t know. I don’t know the address.” Her discomfort grew. “I told this all to the other men.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner calmly. “But it’s always good to hear it again. Make sure you haven’t remembered something new in the meantime.” This seemed to make sense to her. “Did the men take a look upstairs?” Again she nodded. “I’ll need to do that, as well.”

Luxemburg’s flat was as large as his own, although the decor tended to stifle the space under a thick, middle-class charm: dark velvet curtains and oriental rugs followed him from room to room, as did endless rows of photographs and books that were placed along the shelves and bureaus; pillows of every size, color, and origin seemed to be lounging on whatever surface was available-twin settees, chairs, window seats, even by the fireplace; and the smell of dried wood hung in the air. This, thought Hoffner, had been a home for gatherings, a place of deep warmth. It emanated most vividly from the faces in the pictures, a few of which he recognized-Karl Liebknecht, Franz Mehring-but most told of a life unseen by the newspapers: laughter, a kiss, things incompatible with the iron stare of socialist zeal. He noticed, too, that Luxemburg had had a taste for things Japanese, a silk screen in her bedroom, a series of candid photos in kimono and jaunty parasol. Even so, it felt odd seeing her like this. Not that Hoffner was new to spending hours rummaging through the lives of any number of victims, but this was his first taste of one so public. It made even a cursory investigation seem somehow indiscreet.

He moved from dining room to parlor, then back to the bedroom, unsure what it was that he had come to see. He looked in her closet: he noticed that a suitcase’s worth of clothing was missing; the rest hung neatly in rows. He leafed through several stacks of papers and books on her desk-from what he could tell, the bound drafts of speeches she had never delivered-and then made his way to the kitchen. The cabinets were reasonably well stocked; a teacup sat in the sink. The decision to live closer into town had obviously been a last-minute one.

The porter’s wife remained by the front door, waiting nervously as Hoffner made his way from room to room. She said nothing; she could barely bring herself to look inside. As he passed by her for a second time, Hoffner thought that perhaps the prospect of entering the house of the dead-the newspapers had said as much-was too much for her. On closer examination, however, he saw it was something far less primal: this was where the end of her Germany had been plotted, where revolution and destruction and terror had first been conceived, and as much as she wanted to believe that Frau Luxemburg’s absence over the last weeks had mitigated her own responsibility, she could not. Hoffner sensed how much the flat’s untouched gentility served only to compound her guilt.

He was about to say something when he suddenly realized what it was that was out of place: nothing. The rooms were exactly as they had been the day Luxemburg had left them. And yet, if the Polpo had been here only a few days ago, there should have been some trace of their visit: at least the papers should have gone missing. Hoffner spoke as he walked toward her: “How long were the policemen here the other day?”

The sound of his voice momentarily startled the woman. She peered in through the doorway. “I don’t know. My husband-”

“Five minutes?” he cut in bluntly as he drew up to her. “Ten? An hour? You were here, weren’t you?”

The woman began to nod nervously. “Yes. Of course I was here, but my husband let them in.”

Hoffner kept at her: “Did he stay with the men while they were up here?”

“Of course.”

“To lock the door after them.”

“Yes.”

“Did they take anything?”

She looked confused. “The men?”

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “Did they take anything?”

The woman became more flustered. “I don’t-no. They took nothing.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, yes.” The nodding became more insistent. “I would have seen. My husband would have seen.”

“So how long was he up here?”

The nodding became a shaking of the head. “My husband? I don’t know. Five minutes?” Her eyes went wide. “Yes, five minutes. No more than that. Why is this of any importance?”

“And you haven’t been up to the rooms since?”

Once again she began to shake her head vigorously. Her answers became clipped. “No. Of course not. Why should I come-”

“And neither has your husband? To straighten up, remove anything?”

“No.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes. Of course. Why would he come up to this flat?” She had reached her limit; her words spilled out of their own accord. “We did what we were told to do. We took the name away. We’ve been to the post office and to the local precinct to tell them that she no longer lives here. Why would we come up to these rooms? We’re to wait until her family writes us about the furnishings, the clothing, everything else. Until then, we’re to touch nothing.”

The orders had been precise, thought Hoffner: the woman and her husband had followed them to the letter. Hoffner knew why, but he asked anyway. “You were told,” he said, his tone less strident.

“Yes.”

“Who told you?”

She hesitated. “The men who came.” There was a hint of defiance in her voice, as if their very mention exonerated her. “They told us.”

It was clear that even the name frightened her. Hoffner decided to make things easier. “The Polpo,” he said.

With a short, swift nod, the woman said, “Yes.”

“And they’ll be back in a few days.”

“Yes. A few days. I don’t know.”

Hoffner knew it was best to let it go. He could see the conversation still spinning in her eyes. He waited, then said quietly, “I see.” He then turned back into the flat and let his eyes wander from space to space.

Five minutes, he thought. What could they have wanted with only five minutes? And why days before her disappearance? That made no sense. And why nothing since then? More than that, why announce that they’d be back? Not like the Polpo, at all.

Hoffner felt suddenly ashamed of the way he had treated the woman. She had been hiding nothing, except perhaps her own fear, and even that had been too much for her. He considered an apology, but knew that would only embarrass her. Instead, he turned and, with a warm smile, slowly reached out for her hand. Uncertain for a moment, she let him take it; he cupped it in his own and said, “Thank you, Madame.” His tone was once again reassuring. “You’ve been very helpful.” Still uneasy, she nodded. “Extremely helpful.” There was a genuine tenderness in the way he spoke to her. “Especially given how difficult it is these days to know everything that goes on inside a building. Not like the old days.” Again she nodded. He said, “Who could expect you to know everything that goes on?”

The woman tried to find the words. “That’s right,” she said, convincing herself as much as agreeing with him. “I can’t know everything.”

“How could you?” Hoffner said kindly. “So I want to thank you for being so perceptive, even when it’s not your job to know everything that goes on inside these walls.” For the first time, she smiled. “Even before all of this, Madame,” he said with greater emphasis. “That wasn’t for you to know, either. Or for you to do anything about.” He paused and then squeezed her hand. “You understand?”

She stared up at him. For a moment it looked as if she might say something. Instead she pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket and turned her head away.

Downstairs, she insisted he stay for a cup of coffee-a real coffee, she said. Hoffner thanked her, but instead headed for the front door.

Twenty minutes on, the dense, sweet smell of adolescent exertion filtered through as Hoffner made his way along the corridors of Sascha’s school. The walls were dotted in a row of saluting wooden pegs, half of them buried under the hanging clumps of boys’ athletic gear. Hoffner had forgotten how quiet the place could be in the late afternoon; its stillness and scent walked with him like old friends. Even the memories of untold torments within its walls-those simple cruelties that all boys endure, yet which seem so uniquely pointed at the time-blurred into a larger sense of belonging. What was here remained fixed, his-for good or ill-and even Hoffner could take solace in that. Martha was convinced that they had sent Sascha here for the fine education, the family ties-even if it was out of the way-but Hoffner knew otherwise: survive this and survive anything. Already, Sascha was doing a far better job at it than his father ever had.

As he approached the Sports Halle doors, Hoffner heard the familiar clink of foil on foil, along with the occasional cheer and applause for a touch. He checked his watch: he was over forty minutes late. He had gone to Luxemburg’s flat because of its proximity to the school. He now knew that had been a mistake. What Hoffner was still debating was how conscious a mistake it had been.

One or two spectators-seated along the hall’s risers-peered over as the groan from the doors’ hinges announced his arrival. Hoffner ignored the stares and instead scanned the line of boys sitting in full gear off to the side; Sascha was the second one in. It was clear he had already fenced: his hair was matted in sweat, and his cheeks were flushed. He sat staring at the bout in progress. Even so, Hoffner could tell that his son had seen him come in: Sascha’s eyes were too intent on the action as Hoffner continued over to the stands. He found a seat in the front row, sat, and, for a few minutes, allowed himself to slip into the easy rhythm of the match.

It was the footwork he had always enjoyed most. The rest-mano di ferro, braccio di gomma (iron hand, rubber arm)-had never really been his strength. What had set him apart was his uncanny ability to keep just enough space between himself and his opponents: close enough for the quick touch; nimble enough to make that closeness disappear instantly. Over the years, Hoffner had often wondered how much of that talent he had taken with him beyond the fencing strip.

A hit. The boys on the bench stamped their feet; they shouted out for their teammate. Hoffner applauded politely with the rest of the crowd, one of whom was clapping loudly enough to draw his attention. Instinctively, Hoffner glanced over his shoulder. What he saw nearly made him blanch: there, staring directly down at him from three rows behind, sat Polpo Kommissar Ernst Tamshik. Neither man showed the least reaction. Tamshik stopped clapping. The two exchanged a cold nod, and Hoffner turned back to the match.

For the next several minutes, Hoffner did his best to follow the movements on the strip, but his mind was racing to images of Luxemburg’s flat, the porter’s wife-he was sure he had been careful there. He pieced through the details of last night’s conversation, anything that might have brought the Polpo to Sascha’s school. A message? Was Weigland’s little chat insufficient? And here: why?

Hoffner forced himself to refocus on the boys, both clearly too green to do much damage. As if divinely inspired, the smaller of the two suddenly tripped on the matting and unwittingly managed something resembling a hit. For a moment the director stood motionless, unsure what to do. Then, with a look of genuine relief, he raised the flag and awarded a point to the boy. It gave him the bout, and gave Sascha’s side the match. There was another chorus of foot-stamping-along with a mighty cheer and the requisite handshakes-before the two teams dispersed to the waiting crowd.

Hoffner decided to follow protocol: without a thought for Tamshik, he headed over to Sascha. The boy was packing up his gear when Hoffner approached. “The squad looks strong,” said Hoffner.

Sascha remained in a crouch; he was busy fitting his foil into its canvas bag. “Not really,” he said. “The other school was weak.”

“Still,” said Hoffner. “A victory’s a victory. Always worse to lose to the weak ones.”

Sascha pulled the bag together and stood. “I suppose.” He looked directly at his father. Up until this moment, Hoffner had never realized how tall Sascha had grown. They were standing nearly eye to eye.

“So,” said Hoffner. “You won your bout?”

“Yes. Fifteen to two.”

“Impressive.”

“I’m second on the team now, Father.”

“Yes. Your mother told me. Excellent.”

This only seemed to make things worse. Sascha said, “It means I fence second, Father.” Sascha knew his father already understood this. At fifteen, however, he was still impatient with the subtlety of his jabs. “That means early, Father,” he said. “Did Mother fail to tell you that?”

Sascha might still have believed that, with enough goading, he could provoke a response. Somewhere along the way, however, Hoffner had seen his son lose sight of that hope and instead settle for cruelty. Given the setting, it seemed only fitting; besides, Hoffner knew he deserved it. “She didn’t mention it, no.”

Sascha looked as if he had something else to say. Instead he brought the bag up to his shoulder and waited; father and son quickly slipped into silence, which Hoffner took as his cue to glance back for Tamshik: he saw him standing with a small boy, smaller even than the recent victor on the strip. Nodding over, Hoffner said, “Do you know that boy?”

Sascha looked over. “Why?” Hoffner repeated the question. “Krieger,” Sascha said grudgingly. “Reinhold Krieger. Hasn’t even made it into a junior match yet. Terrible. Why?”

“Let’s go over.”

Sascha let out a forced breath. “I have to get out of my gear, Father, and I’m meeting-”

“Come on, Alexander,” Hoffner said, and started to walk. “Let’s go say hello.” It might have been the surprise at hearing his full name, but Sascha gave in without another word. When they were within earshot, Hoffner called over, “Herr Tamshik?”

Tamshik looked up. He did what he could with a smile and said, “Herr Hoffner. What a coincidence.”

“Yes.” Neither man believed it. Hoffner motioned to Sascha. “This is my son Alexander. Second year.”

Sascha snapped his head with an efficient bow.

“An excellent fencer,” said Tamshik. “You must have been sorry to miss it.”

Hoffner wondered how long it took a man to develop so acute a sense of viciousness. Tamshik made it seem effortless; perhaps he had simply been born with it. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “I was.”

“You were a fencer, as well? As a boy?” said Tamshik.

Hoffner did his best to hide his surprise; Tamshik had evidently done his homework. “I was.”

“Easy to tell. Something like that gets passed on. The flair.” Tamshik nodded to the other boy. “This is my nephew. Reinhold Krieger. First year. My sister’s son.”

Hoffner could hardly have imagined a less likely duo. Tamshik’s physical power, apparent in his every gesture, seemed capable of crushing the boy simply by its proximity. Reinhold was tiny. He tried his best to mimic Sascha, but on one so small and awkward, the quick drop of the chin gave the impression of a marionette fighting against its twisted strings. Hoffner knew the boy would be hopeless as a fencer. He could only guess at whose insistence he had signed on for his imminent torture.

“Reinhold is small,” said Tamshik, staring down at the boy without the least thought for his feelings. “And quite weak. But he has an agile mind. I think the one can help the other, at least on the fencing strip. Isn’t that right, Reinhold?”

“Yes, Uncle.” To his credit, the boy seemed equally dedicated to the ideal of improvement.

“And a strong will,” said Tamshik. “Which the boy has.” He looked at Hoffner. “Something he shares with your Alexander.”

Hoffner nodded. He was not quite sure how to answer. “Alexander is very dedicated,” he said.

“That much is clear.” He turned to Sascha. “Your footwork is most impressive, young Hoffner.”

“Thank you, mein Herr.”

“Herr Kommissar,” Hoffner corrected.

“Herr Kommissar,” said Sascha.

“Not at all,” said Tamshik. “A pleasure to give such a compliment.”

Reinhold spoke up: “If I could watch or train with someone like you, Hoffner, I’m sure I would become much better.”

Hoffner senior wondered how many versions of the script Tamshik had worked on before coming up with this one. At least Reinhold was remembering his lines. That notwithstanding, the prospect of a direct link between his own son and a Polpo surrogate-no matter how junior-hardly sat well with Hoffner, especially after last night. He was about to make some excuse, when Sascha spoke up.

“All right,” said Sascha casually. “If you want. You can watch.”

The answer stunned Hoffner.

“You mean it?” said Reinhold, equally dumbfounded.

“Why not?” said Sascha. “Maybe you’ll pick up a thing or two. I don’t know.”

“Thank you, Hoffner,” said Reinhold eagerly. “Thank you, indeed. I’ll certainly try. I’ll give it my best effort.” He was back on script.

“That’s very good of you,” said Tamshik to Sascha. He turned to Hoffner. “You have a fine boy there.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner, still mystified by Sascha’s response. “I do.”

Almost at once, Tamshik found a reason to break up the little gathering: mission accomplished, Hoffner imagined. The good-byes were brief. Out in the corridor, as father and son headed for the changing rooms, Hoffner said quietly, “Do you mind telling me what that was all about?”

“What what was all about?”

“The sudden generosity of Herr Alexander Hoffner.”

“The what?” Sascha said coolly.

Hoffner spoke more deliberately: “Little Krieger? Your new training partner?”

“I said he could watch.”

“Yes, I heard. You don’t have five minutes for your own brother, who asks about it every day, but for Krieger, suddenly he could ‘pick up a thing or two’?”

“I said he could watch,” Sascha repeated.

Hoffner heard the first strain of irritation in his son’s voice. “You know what I’m saying.”

Sascha stopped as they reached the entryway. He looked at his father: the boy was well beyond irritation. “Are you joking?” he said defiantly. When Hoffner failed to answer, Sascha said, “I did it because I thought that’s what you wanted me to do, Father.”

It was the last thing Hoffner had expected to hear. “What I wanted you to do?”

“You are joking.” When Hoffner again said nothing, Sascha said, “What did you think, Father? That I actually cared about some first-year stmper? We went over so you could make good with your Kripo friend. I thought you’d be happy.”

Hoffner had no idea what to answer. He was trying to figure out which was worse: the fact that his son thought that he had been using him, or Sascha’s conviction that going along had been his only way to please his father. Neither left Hoffner with much to say. “He’s not Kripo,” said Hoffner. “He’s Polpo.”

The word seemed to spark an immediate interest. “The fellows who got rid of the Reds?”

“Among others. Yes.”

“And he’s a friend of yours?”

The sudden level of enthusiasm troubled Hoffner. “No. I just wanted to know what he was doing here.”

As quickly as it had come, Sascha’s fascination vanished. “And that’s the reason you came today?” he said with renewed venom.

It took Hoffner a moment to follow the boy’s train of thought. “No, of course not,” he said, trying to dismiss the absurdity. “I had no idea he’d be here.”

Sascha stared at his father. He then said, “I have to go.” He started for the door.

Hoffner moved to block his path. “I can wait. Take you home.” The silence returned. “If you like.”

Sascha’s eyes had gone cold. He said, “Today’s Friday, Father. There’s a concert. After that, I’m at Kroll’s house for the night. Mother knows all about it.”

Hoffner nodded as if he had just now remembered: he had never been told. “I saw his father today,” he said for some reason. When Sascha continued to stare at him blankly, Hoffner said almost apologetically, “You know you don’t have to help with that Krieger boy, now. No reason for you to waste your time on some stmper.” The word sounded so forced on his tongue.

In a strangely detached tone, Sascha said, “No, I think I’d like to, Father. Who knows? Could be fun.” He brought the bag back up to his shoulder. “But I really do have to go now. Kroll’s waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you for coming, Father.”

Before Hoffner could answer, Sascha had sidestepped his way to the door and was pushing his way through. Hoffner was left to face the corridor alone.

Idiot, he thought as he began to walk. Pushed him right into Tamshik’s hands, didn’t I? Sometimes Hoffner wondered if it might not have been better never to have met Martha at all.

It was Wednesday when he finally got back to headquarters. The weekend had disappeared into a Schwarzschild black hole of family commitments: Martha’s sisters on Saturday, his mother on Sunday. Sascha had been present for both events and had worn his potential Tamshik-connection like a light summer cardigan: casually draped over his shoulder in a posture of smug defiance. Hoffner had sat through the long afternoons hoping for a ring of the telephone. It had never come. Monday and Tuesday had found him at the Reichstadt Court giving expert testimony and presentation of evidence for three separate cases. By himself, Hoffner had sent two men to the gallows. The third, a minor trafficker in Pimm’s organization, had gotten off with a slap on the wrist. Evidently, Weigland enjoyed his sugar cubes more than he was letting on.

In the meantime, Fichte had found nothing among the various stores that dealt with Monsieur Edgar Troimpel et Fils; not that Hoffner had been expecting anything. The trade lines between the former Central and Entente powers were just now beginning to resurface: French cheese was finding its way to Salzburg, Umbrian wine to Cologne. Given that everyone’s focus was on Paris and the peace talks, the lace market remained slightly less pressing. On the helpful side, Hoffner’s fawning friend at KaDeWe-Herr Taubmann-had been kind enough to take a stab at when the gloves had been made: kind enough once Hoffner had ordered a single pair for himself. They had cost him nearly half a week’s salary. He would, of course, cancel the order in a few day’s time. Still, the money was out of pocket until then, but the information had been worth it.

Herr Taubmann had estimated that, given the lower-than-usual quality of the dye, the gloves had been produced in the last six months: the war had forced everyone to cut corners, which meant that the gloves had been purchased no earlier than the summer of 1918. The question of where was equally limited: before the war, Troimpel et Fils had sold in Berlin, Milan, London, and Paris, and, of course, Brussels and Bruges, but given Belgium’s fate during the first few weeks of the war, export to friend or foe had been out of the question. A pair or two might have been brought back to Berlin by a soldier on leave, but the chances of an officer’s gift-and a rather pricey one at that-ending up on the hands of, at best, a middle-class girl were beyond remote.

The gloves had been purchased in Belgium, that much was clear. And, given the girl’s unique characteristics when compared with those of the other victims-her age, her clothes, the preserving grease-Hoffner was guessing that she, too, had originated elsewhere. He had sent out a wire to both the Brussels and Bruges police on Monday before leaving for the courts.

On the unlikely chance that he was wrong, however, Hoffner had sent Fichte out this morning to the Missing and Displaced Persons Office in Hessiche Strasse. For some reason, the powers that be had decided to set up the bureau directly across the street from the morgue: someone’s idea of efficiency, no doubt. There was still the possibility that a photo or description of the girl had come in sometime in the last six weeks: a slim one, thought Hoffner, but at least it was giving Fichte a chance to familiarize himself with one of the more depressing offices in town, and one of the busiest since the revolution.

Hoffner picked up the telephone and dialed the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. The KWI operator was infamous for misdirecting calls, and Hoffner spent a good ten minutes waiting for her to find the right extension. He was still adrift in static when a messenger appeared at his door, holding a small envelope. Hoffner ushered the boy into his office just as Kroll was picking up the line.

“Uwe Kroll here.”

Hoffner took the envelope, then motioned for the boy to wait. “Uwe, hello. Any news?” There was an unexpected silence on the other end. “It’s Nikolai.”

“Yes,” said Kroll. “I know who it is.” Again, Kroll seemed content to leave it at that.

“Is this a bad time?” Hoffner said skeptically.

“You’re calling about the material.”

Hoffner stated the obvious: “Yes.”

Kroll paused. “You’re going to need to come down to the Institute, Nikolai. All right?”

There was something odd in Kroll’s voice. Hoffner had been bringing him goops and oozes to analyze for years, and not one of them had ever provoked more than a playful curiosity. This, however, had the ring of seriousness to it. Hoffner considered pressing for more, but knew better. “All right,” he said. “An hour?”

“Fine,” said Kroll. “I’ll see you then.”

Hoffner hung up and he turned to the boy. “From the wire room?”

“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“No?. . Interesting.” Hoffner peered at his own name written across the front of the envelope. There was no return address, no office number, just the name. The boy started to go. “Wait,” said Hoffner. The boy planted himself by the door as Hoffner opened the envelope. The note was brief, and to the point. It read: You should go back to the flat, Detective Inspector.

It was signed “K” and nothing else.

Hoffner flipped the card over and scanned it more closely. There was nothing distinctive to it: a card to be found in any stationers in Berlin. He rubbed his finger across the ink. Luxemburg’s flat, he thought. He felt the little ridges of raised cloth. Someone other than the landlady knew he had been there.

“How are you, Franz?” said Hoffner, his eyes still on the card.

The boy seemed genuinely pleased at the recognition. “Very well, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner had always held a soft spot for these runners, the boy messengers who were as old a tradition at the Alex as any he could recall. The installation of telephones-along with the recent child labor laws-had helped to thin their numbers, but for boys with no hope of schooling beyond the age of nine or ten, this was one of the few chances they had to get themselves off the streets. There were even a few beds up in the attic where the most promising, and most desperate, spent their nights.

Hoffner gazed over. He knew this boy well; he had worked with him before: always the same placid stare. Hoffner imagined that Franz could have blended in to any background. The boy saw Hoffner staring at him; his expression remained unchanged. Hoffner found that rather impressive. Going on a year, guessed Hoffner, maybe longer. A few more months, and Franz might find himself assisting a junior clerk, or even in filing, if none of the syndicates had lured him away by then. “So, tell me, Franz-who received the note?”

“The security desk, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“From whom?”

The boy was momentarily at a loss. “I don’t know, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. I could find out.”

“Yes, why don’t you do that.” Before the boy was through the door, Hoffner stopped him again. “Just to the security desk and back. And not too many questions. If they don’t remember who brought it in, they don’t remember. All right?”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Good.” Hoffner nodded him out and then sat back. He again turned to the note.

There was nothing aggressive in its tone, nothing leading, or mocking. It was a simple suggestion. Though neat, the handwriting was clearly that of a man. The s was too compressed, and the K too severe, to have come from a woman’s pen. More than that, the ink was thick, the point heavy, not like the delicate line produced by a woman’s narrower nib. There was also nothing of the pathological in the script. Hoffner had seen too many messages from maniacs not to be able to discern the subtle shadings in the angle and height of the letters. The language was also wrong for that. No, this had come from an educated man-no doubt a secretive one, from his method of delivery-but aside from that, Hoffner had little to go on. The phrase “Detective Inspector” struck him as odd. There might even have been something encouraging in that.

Hoffner stood and moved over to the map. He located Luxemburg’s flat and stared at the little street for nearly a minute. He then looked up at the area where his pins were sprouting: over six kilometers away. There was no connection. He was about to return to his desk when he realized that he had yet to put a pin into the spot along the Landwehr Canal where Luxemburg’s body had been discovered. He picked one up from the box on the shelf and held it in his fingers as he traced the canal’s winding path. It cut across most of the city: impossible, naturally, to determine where the body had gone in. What, then, was the point of marking where it had come out, he thought. He continued to stare. Maybe that was the point.

The boy reappeared, slightly out of breath. He stood waiting at the door until Hoffner motioned him in. “They think a man with a beard, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“They think?”

“It was busy, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. The letter was dropped at the desk. The Sergeant thinks he saw a man with a beard around the time it came in.”

“Nothing else?” said Hoffner.

“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner nodded slowly, then said, “All right, Franz. You can go.”

The boy bobbed his head in a quick bow, and was almost out the door, when Hoffner again stopped him. “Wait.” Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out a pfennig. He held it out to the boy. The men of the Kripo were strictly forbidden to give taschgeld to the boys, but Hoffner had never seen the harm in a little pocket money. Franz hesitated; he, too, knew the rules. Hoffner brought his finger up to his lips as if to say it would be their secret. Again the boy hesitated; he then took the coin and, just as quickly, was gone.

Hoffner turned back to the map and dropped the pin into its box. Another time, he thought. He checked his watch and, placing the card in his pocket, grabbed his coat and headed for the stairs.

This time, Kroll was in his office when Hoffner knocked. A quick “Come” ushered him in: Kroll looked up from behind his desk and immediately stood. From the abruptness of the movement, he seemed oddly tense. “Hello, Nikolai,” he said as he stepped out to extend a hand. It was all far more formal than Hoffner had expected. Not sure why, and not wanting to break the mood, Hoffner took his hand.

“Uwe.”

No less forced, Kroll said, “We saw your Alexander, Friday. Charming boy, Nikolai. Really. He’s grown into quite a young man.”

For a fleeting moment, Hoffner wondered if the tone on the telephone, and now here, had something to do with Sascha’s visit to the Krolls. Had something been said? Was there a reason for the two fathers to talk? That would be unpleasant. Worse than that, Hoffner couldn’t for the life of him remember Kroll’s boy’s name. There was no way to return the compliment and move on quickly. “Thank you,” said Hoffner. “Yes. Sascha couldn’t stop talking about the lovely evening he had.”

“Good, good. Johannes really enjoys the time they spend together.”

“Johannes,” said Hoffner, doing his best not to show his relief. “Yes. I haven’t seen him in years. Also a wonderful boy.”

“Yes. . Thank you.”

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Finally, in a moment of sudden recollection, Hoffner blurted out, “The Deutscher Rundflug. The four of us went to the opening to see Knig fly. My old partner.”

“Yes,” said Kroll, remembering eagerly.

Hoffner had no inkling why they had slipped into this bizarre little scene. He had known Uwe for far too long. Nonetheless, he continued to watch as his friend nodded uncomfortably: it quickly became apparent that Kroll’s behavior had nothing to do with either of the boys. Finally, Hoffner said, “The material, Uwe. Is there something I should know?”

Kroll stopped nodding. “The material,” he repeated distractedly. “Yes.” He pointed to a chair and headed back behind his desk. “Why don’t you have a seat, Nikolai.”

Hoffner sat. Kroll sat, his mood more serious. “About the material. I ran a few tests.” He seemed unsure how to explain what he had found. “It’s military.”

This was the one thing Hoffner had hoped not to hear. “Military,” he repeated.

“Yes. Used during the war and, not surprisingly, developed here, at the Institute. There are files that are very”-Kroll tried to find the right word-“selective. I haven’t been able to look at all of them, but I’ve made an appointment for us to go up and see the Direktor. I’ve told him who you are, the work you do. He’s agreed to talk with us, but with the understanding that any information will remain strictly. .” Again Kroll had trouble finishing the thought.

“Selective,” said Hoffner.

“Yes. Exactly.” Kroll stood and motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

Hoffner hesitated. “You mean now?”

“Yes.” Kroll was already out from behind the desk. “He’s expecting us. Please.”

The glass on the fifth floor office had the word DIREKTOR stenciled across it: Kroll knocked, then stepped through to an anteroom fitted with desk, chairs, and several filing cabinets. A plump woman, with her hair pulled back in the tightest bun Hoffner had ever seen, was seated behind the desk: he was amazed that the skin had yet to tear on her forehead. She stood.

“Good afternoon, Frau Griebner,” said Kroll, with a quick click of the heels: his anxiety had mutated into a strict Germanic decorum.

“Good afternoon, Herr Doktor Kroll.” She offered an equally perfect nod: her manner was as efficient as her hair. She took no notice of Hoffner. “I will tell the Herr Direktor you are here.” She stepped out from behind her desk and disappeared through a second door. Almost immediately she returned. “The Herr Direktor will see you now, Herr Doktor.” Hoffner followed Kroll into the office.

The room was large and filled with lamps, though the light seemed inclined to shine on only a few select areas. The rest of the space lay in half-shadows, less the result of poor positioning than of an ominous afternoon sky that hovered outside the four vast windows. The gloom seemed to be drawing the light out through the glass: Hoffner wondered if closing the drapes might, in fact, have helped to brighten the place up.

The Direktor had done his best to construct a small preserve of light for himself across the room. He got to his feet. “Herr Doktor Kroll,” he said. “Hello, hello.” He came out into the shadows to greet them. The Direktor was much younger than Hoffner had expected, a man of perhaps forty with a somewhat unruly moustache beneath a wide nose and basset hound eyes. Even more unexpected was the remarkable smile that seemed so out of place in the impressive, though dour surroundings.

“Herr Direktor,” said Kroll. “Allow me to present Herr Kriminal-Kommissar Nikolai Hoffner. Herr Hoffner, this is Herr Professor Doktor Albert Einstein.”

Hoffner recalled Kroll having mentioned Einstein once or twice, over the years. The man had come up with some theory that Kroll had described as either ludicrous or genius. Hoffner couldn’t remember which. The three shook hands and retreated to the desk. Einstein did his best to expand the pocket of light; even so, Hoffner and Kroll were forced to lean in over the edge of the desk in order to escape the shadows.

Einstein reached down and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out a thin file with the word RESTRICTED in bold type across its front. There was also a long paragraph describing the penalties for disseminating the material, written in much smaller print below. “This is for a criminal case?” said Einstein.

“Yes, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner.

Einstein nodded. “I’ve always been fascinated by criminal cases. They’re like little puzzles. Quite a bit like what we spend our time on.”

“Except no one ends up dead, Herr Direktor.”

Again Einstein nodded. “How little you know about science, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” He paused, then added, “Anyway, you wanted to hear about something that was meant to be helpful on the battlefield.” He slid the dossier over to Hoffner. “It was called Ascomycete 4. One wonders what happened to numbers one through three.” Einstein was the only one to enjoy the joke.

Hoffner took the folder and opened it. Kroll quickly interrupted: “That’s all very technical stuff, Nikolai. Formulations and so on.” Kroll reached over and flipped to the last few pages. “The gist of the thing is at the back. This bit here.” Again, Hoffner began to read, and again Kroll cut in. “It was developed for trench fatalities,” said Kroll. “And, on occasion, no-man’s-land retrievals.”

Hoffner looked up. Evidently there would be no need for reading. “For men already dead,” said Hoffner, inviting more of the lesson.

“Yes,” said Kroll. “During the beginning of the war-and later on, during the worst of the fighting-it was impossible to transport the dead back to the field hospitals in order to prepare them for burial. Too many bodies were rotting on the front. Not only was contagion an issue, but morale, as well. Men needed to know that if they went down, at least an entire corpse would be returned to their families. The military decided that it needed something to keep the bodies as fresh as possible so that, during those periods of isolation, they could minimize the distraction and disease produced by the corpses, and also treat the dead with as much decency as possible. So they came to the Institute.”

“And”-Hoffner scanned the front page-“to Doktors Meinhof and Klingman.”

“Two very capable chemists,” said Kroll. “They came up with the solution. Meinhof is now in Vienna, at the Bielefeld Institute. Klingman passed away about a year ago.”

“So how did you know it was this”-again Hoffner read-“Ascomycete 4 from the sample I gave you?”

“Actually,” said Kroll, “it didn’t take me that long. Once I separated out the components, there were trace elements of an unguent I’d seen only once before. It was in a sample that I’d been asked to analyze during the war.”

“A military request?” said Hoffner.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“You made the connection and it brought you to the restricted files.”

Now Einstein was impressed. “You’re very good at this, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“No, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner, “just impatient.” He turned to Kroll. “And the components were the same?”

“Identical.”

Hoffner flipped to the back of the file; he scanned a few of the paragraphs. Kroll had been right to give him the condensed version. “And this compound,” said Hoffner. “It’s now available outside the military?”

“That’s where the difficulty lies,” said Kroll. “All of this is still under lock and key here at the Institute. More than that, the research was discontinued in the middle of 1917. They stopped producing it. I won’t ask you where you got your sample.”

“Stopped?” said Hoffner. “Why?”

“Because they discovered that too much of it, if inhaled, acted as a very potent hallucinatory stimulant.”

This seemed to perk Einstein up a bit. “Not a bad little side effect, eh, Kriminal-Kommissar?”

Kroll continued: “Once the men on the line discovered its other use-well, how can you blame them, really? The General Staff did its best to restrict access-select doctors were the only ones who could get hold of the stuff-but then it no longer served the purpose for which it had been designed.”

“For a time,” added Einstein, “it actually became more popular than morphine. You can only imagine the embarrassment Meinhof and Klingman went through.”

“I’m sure,” said Hoffner as he tried to digest all of the information.

Einstein said to Kroll, “You know, it just now occurs to me that that was probably the same problem you were looking into when they gave you the original unguent to analyze. The hallucinogenic side effects.”

Kroll nodded, considering it for the first time himself. “That’s probably true, Herr Direktor. I never thought of that.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner, interrupting the riveting sidebar. “But would they have destroyed the stock they still had?”

Einstein said, “Oh, I doubt that. Too much potential as a weapon, don’t you think? The chance to develop it into a hallucinatory gas, that sort of thing.”

Unfortunately, Hoffner knew Einstein was right. “And would one slathering keep a body fresh indefinitely?”

“That was another problem,” said Kroll. “It had to be reapplied quite frequently. Hence the large quantities and the hallucinations.”

“How frequently?” said Hoffner.

“Very frequently,” said Kroll. “At least two or three times a day.”

“So, how much of the stuff would one need to keep a body fresh for, say, six weeks?”

“Six weeks?” Kroll said incredulously. “Not possible. You’re talking liters and liters. Vast amounts.”

Hoffner was pleased to hear it. “So nothing your average officer would have been able to ferret away?”

“Impossible,” said Kroll with complete certainty. “It was designed to insulate the flesh for two, maybe three days, and that with constant supervision. And even that became impractical. Too many bodies to manage. The whole thing proved to be a disaster.”

Hoffner sat back and again let the information settle. At least the lone army psychopath was no longer a possibility, not that the alternative was all that much more appealing. “And you’re sure that what I gave you is this same compound?”

“Absolutely. The chemical makeup is unique. It’s like a signature. Meinhof and Klingman might just as well have attached their thumbprints to it. It’s Ascomycete 4, Nikolai. No question.”

The three men sat in silence for nearly half a minute. Hoffner could tell that Einstein wanted to ask a few questions of his own, but was choosing not to venture out of his own realm. Maybe the positioning of the light was more than just bad happenstance. Insulation could be so very comforting.

Hoffner spoke to Einstein: “I could demand all the relevant files, Herr Direktor. This is, after all, a Kripo investigation.”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar, you could, but then I would have to get in touch with the Office of the General Staff-” Einstein stopped himself. “There is still an Office of the General Staff, isn’t there?”

“Yes, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner.

“Good,” said Einstein, mildly relieved. “One doesn’t always know these days, what with the revolution. Anyway, given the peculiarity of this case, I’m not sure you’d want them to hear that you’re looking into it, just yet.” The knowing smile returned. “I could be wrong, but that’s up to you, of course.”

Hoffner nodded. “Point well taken, Herr Direktor.”

Again, the room grew quiet. Einstein said, “I imagine this only complicates your case, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Yes, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner. “It does.”

Einstein nodded coyly. “That’s not always such a bad thing.”

“I know, Herr Direktor. But right now it doesn’t make things any easier.”

The air outside was pleasantly dry as Hoffner lit a cigarette and stepped onto the plaza. It made the cold all the more piercing and gave the smoke a certain crispness as it raced down into his lungs.

Kroll had been nice enough to run through the remaining files with him, but there had really been nothing more to see. The names of the officers on the General Staff had been omitted, as had any firms that had been used to transport or produce the compound in any large quantities. It was all just science, and that, as Kroll had pointed out, was probably of little use to the Kripo.

“Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner turned around. To his complete surprise, he saw Hans Fichte heading toward him. Hoffner tried to remember if he had left a note for Fichte back at the Alex. He knew he hadn’t, which made Fichte’s appearance all the more puzzling.

Fichte was eating something out of a brown bag. He tossed both it and the bag into a dustbin, and quickly made his way over. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he repeated.

“Hans. What are you doing here?”

“They told me you were with the Direktor. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Or interrupt your lunch.”

“That, too.”

Hoffner stared at Fichte. “So. . Are you going to explain how you found me here, or do I have to guess?”

Fichte’s face brightened. “A wire came in for you back at the Alex. It was marked ‘urgent.’ On the off chance, I checked the switchboard logs to see if you had made any telephone calls today. There was the one to Herr Doktor Kroll late this morning, so. .” Fichte left it at that.

Hoffner reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his cigarettes, and offered one to Fichte. “Nicely done, Hans.” Fichte took the cigarette; Hoffner used his own to light it, and they began to walk. “So what’s so urgent?”

Fichte coughed several times, unaccustomed to the quality of the tobacco. “Two things. First, a wire came in from Bruges. They’re putting through a call to you at one o’clock this afternoon. I didn’t want you to miss it.”

The Belgians were also full of surprises, thought Hoffner: he had been hoping to hear from them by next Monday at the earliest. “So, nothing at Missing Persons?” The two continued across the plaza.

“Pleasant little spot,” said Fichte. “They actually laughed when I mentioned Brussels. They’re dealing with close to twelve hundred Berliners who’ve gone missing since November. I had no idea.”

“Then let’s hope our girl isn’t from Berlin.” Fichte nodded and Hoffner continued, “You said two things.”

There was a hesitation as Fichte reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper. “I trust you haven’t seen this.” He handed the paper to Hoffner. “This afternoon’s edition.”

It was a copy of the BZ. Hoffner took it and scanned the front page.

“Page four, at the bottom,” said Fichte.

Hoffner flipped it open. It took him no time to find it. When he did, he stopped and stared in disbelief. Fichte could see the anger rising in his eyes. “That son of a bitch,” was all Hoffner could get out.

It took them forty minutes to get back to the Alex, enough time for Hoffner to cool off. Even so, he headed straight for the KD’s office as Fichte trailed behind.

Without knocking, Hoffner pushed open the door. Luckily, Prager was alone: he looked up calmly as Hoffner bore down on him. “Something I can do for you, Nikolai?”

Hoffner planted the article in front of him. “Have you seen this, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”

Prager continued to look up at Hoffner; he then slowly picked up the paper and began to read. The telltale chewing of the inner cheek told Hoffner that he had not.

After nearly a minute, Prager said, “I love how they say ‘sources in the Kripo.’ That always gives it such a nice ring of truth.”

“And we have no idea how this got out,” said Hoffner.

Prager shook his head as he reread several of the passages. “It’s obviously from someone who knows something about the case,” he said, still scanning. “At least two victims. A vague reference to something on the back, though no mention of a knife.” He looked up at Hoffner. “This reads more like a teaser. I’m guessing they’ve got more information than they’re letting on.”

“Agreed,” said Hoffner. “You know we had a nice little chat with Weigland last week.”

“Yes,” said Prager, with just a hint of reproach. “Kriminal-Oberkommissar Braun stopped in to ask me to make sure you understood the parameters of the case.” With mock sincerity, Prager said, “You do understand the parameters of the case, don’t you, Nikolai?”

“It’s just Oberkommissar now,” said Hoffner. “That’s the way they like it upstairs.”

“Well, we’re not upstairs, are we?” Prager handed the paper back to Hoffner. “The Polpo likes its turf, Nikolai, but there’s no reason they would do this. Just consider yourself lucky there wasn’t any mention of Luxemburg.”

“Yes, I’m feeling very lucky.” Hoffner knew Prager was right: the Polpo had nothing to gain by it. No one wanted the hysteria this might produce. Still, Hoffner had his doubts. “They’ve got Luxemburg,” he said. “Of course she wouldn’t be mentioned.”

Prager disagreed. “This isn’t the way they’d go about it. Also, there are too many other possibilities-a family member of one of the victims, someone downstairs. Any one of them could have let this out. It’s the BZ, Nikolai. This story didn’t come cheap.” Prager turned to Fichte. “So, Herr Kriminal-Assistent, what do you think? Is this the Polpo?”

Fichte stood motionless. The KD had never asked his opinion on anything. “Well,” Fichte said with as much certainty as he could find, “any leak might lead back to Luxemburg, Herr Kriminaldirektor. I don’t think they’d want that.”

Prager smiled and turned to Hoffner. “That’s a very good point, Herr Kriminal-Assistent. Don’t you think, Nikolai?”

Hoffner said, “You know I’m going to look into this personally, Edmund. And I’m going to want a note sent out to every Kripo office. A general reminder on discretion.”

Prager knew there would be no fighting Hoffner on this one. “Fine. Just don’t let it get in the way.”

“It won’t.”

Fichte cut in. “The telephone call, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. We should get back to the office.”

Hoffner turned to Fichte. He tried not to sound too cavalier. “Have you been paying attention, Hans? We’re not going back to the office.”

The switchboard operator stared defiantly at Hoffner, who stood hovering above her. This, he knew, was the surest way to keep the lines of communication as restricted as possible. Fichte agreed: Thursday’s late-night encounter had opened him up to an entirely new world at the Alex. And while Fichte had been strangely intrigued by it at the outset, Hoffner had quickly set him straight: these were uncharted men, the source of speculation and derision from a distance, but far more treacherous up close. Whatever arguments there were to the contrary, Hoffner made it clear that the Polpo never merited the benefit of the doubt. Fichte now understood that.

Electricity had come back to the Alex sometime on Monday. The lights from perhaps ten unattended calls flashed in frantic patterns across the board; Hoffner continued to keep the woman from answering them: she was doing little to hide her disapproval. Fichte stood by the door.

“This is highly unusual, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” she said as the board begged for attention. “I really need to take care of these. I can easily forward the call to your office when it comes in.”

Hoffner nodded. “Yes, I know, Frulein. I just feel more comfortable receiving it here.”

“The international line is no difficulty, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Well, I don’t want to tie up any more of your wires than are necessary, Frulein.”

The woman insisted, “You wouldn’t be tying up-”

“Let’s just wait for the call, shall we?” Hoffner checked his watch. It was coming up on one o’clock. At eight seconds to, the international line began to flash. Hoffner nodded and the operator made the connection. She confirmed the caller and then handed the earpiece to Hoffner. Without any hesitation, she retrieved a second earpiece and sat back.

“Could you wait outside, Frulein?” said Hoffner.

The woman looked up in disbelief “Excuse me, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?”

“This won’t take more than a few minutes, Frulein.”

The woman spoke as if to a child. “I can’t leave my post, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. All of these calls-”

“Can wait.” Hoffner’s tone made sure she understood. “Time for a coffee break, wouldn’t you say, Frulein?” Hoffner nodded to Fichte to open the door. The woman’s gaze grew more hostile until, with a practiced civility, she slowly stood, nodded to both men, and headed for the door.

At the door, she turned back to Hoffner bitterly. “This will be reflected in my report to the Kriminaldirektor, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will, Frulein Telephonistin.”

Fichte shut the door, and Hoffner brought the receiver up to his ear. “Detective Inspector Nikolai Hoffner here,” he said in French.

“One moment, Monsieur.” Hoffner waited through the silence. He nodded to Fichte to stay by the door.

“Inspector Hoffner?” The voice was distant but audible. “This is Chief Inspector van Acker, Bruges police.”

“Chief Inspector. I appreciate the speed of your response.”

“Not at all,” said van Acker. “I do need to ask, is this the same Inspector Hoffner who published a piece titled “The Odor of Death” in Die Polizei, eight, maybe nine years ago?”

For a moment, Hoffner thought he had misheard; he had a hard time believing that anyone still remembered the article, less so that it’s “fame” had ever extended beyond a five-block radius of the Alex. “Yes,” said Hoffner, not quite convinced. “You know it?”

“Of course,” said van Acker. “Pretty standard reading here, Inspector. In Brussels, as well.”

“Really?”

“Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have set up the telephone call except, well, I thought it might be my only chance to talk with you in person.”

“Really, I’m-flattered,” said Hoffner. Fichte looked over. Hoffner shook him off.

“Nice little feather in my cap,” said van Acker. “Anyway, about your wire, Inspector. I’m not sure how helpful we can be, but we might have a little something.”

“You’ve got a missing girl, then?”

“Your description was a bit vague, but the time frame is about right for a case we’ve been looking into. May I ask how you knew to contact us?”

Hoffner told him about the gloves.

“It might also be Brussels,” said van Acker.

“Yes. I’ve got a call in.”

“Of course. The problem is, I’m not sure the girl we’ve got in mind could have afforded a pair of Troimpel gloves.”

“And why is that?”

“She was an attendant at one of the area hospitals. A scrub girl.”

That seemed a poor excuse. “And Belgian scrub girls aren’t capable of saving their money, Chief Inspector? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, not for gloves, no. And especially not for these gloves, Inspector.”

“And no well-off boyfriends?” said Hoffner.

“Not this girl,” said van Acker. “There’s something of a stigma attached to-” He stopped. “Look, to be honest, it’s more of an asylum than a hospital. These are girls who can’t get work elsewhere. They also don’t usually spend much time away from home, for rather obvious reasons. And this girl had no family. You understand.”

Sadly, Hoffner did. Insanity as infection, he thought, with its equally despicable maxim: that only the most pitiful, vile, and unprepossessing would be willing to risk contamination by cleaning up the filth produced by a group of lunatics. Berlin’s own Herzberge Asylum was proof that such idiocy was still thriving well beyond the narrow minds of the provinces. Hoffner had often walked along its dingy halls not sure which of the two groups-the patients or the menial staff-deserved to be under lock and key, although with the latter, he did recognize that malice, and not madness, was more often the dominant pathology.

“I see,” said Hoffner. “Then perhaps this isn’t the girl.”

“Not to be blunt, but did she have the look of a-” At least van Acker was trying to be delicate. “-well, of one of these types.”

“Hard to tell, Chief Inspector. The face was. . gnawed away at.”

“Of course,” said van Acker. “To be expected, I suppose. Any other distinguishing features?” He was doing his best to go through the motions, making sure to touch on everything. “Your wire didn’t specify anything beyond height, weight, coloring. We do have a description of a marking on the left leg and another on the back. Anything there?”

The mention of the leg gave Hoffner a moment’s hope. “Where on the leg?” he said.

“Mid-shin, according to her application file. A scar from childhood.”

Somehow, Hoffner had known it would be too low. “There wasn’t enough of it left to check.”

“Naturally,” said van Acker, moving on. “And nothing on the upper back? There’s supposed to be a very recognizable birthmark there. A strawberry-colored splatter, as if someone threw a bit of paint at her. You’d have seen it immediately.”

Van Acker was picking all the most interesting spots. “The back is more problematic,” said Hoffner. “It’s been”-he did his best to find the least troubling word-“disfigured. The entire area between the shoulder blades. It’s impossible to tell what would have been there.”

Hoffner expected to hear a summary “oh well” and then an equally quick wrap-up to the conversation, but the line remained strangely quiet. When van Acker did speak, his tone was far more pointed: “Disfigured?” he said. “What kind of disfigurement?”

The change in tone momentarily threw Hoffner: for the first time in the conversation, van Acker sounded as if he was actually investigating something. Hoffner chose his words carefully. “Just some knife work, Chief Inspector. We’re dealing with something of an artist here.”

Van Acker continued to press. “How do you mean?”

Hoffner remained cautious. “We didn’t find a birthmark.”

When van Acker next spoke, the hesitation in his voice was undeniable: “It’s-not a pattern, is it?”

The word jumped at Hoffner. He took his time in answering. “Yes,” he said. “A pattern.”

Van Acker was now fully committed. “Could you describe it, Inspector?”

Again Hoffner waited. He gazed over at Fichte. These were rare moments: the possibility of a piece falling into place, no matter how disturbing its implications. And, as always, Hoffner forced himself not to look beyond it. He also knew not to give anything away. The information had to come to him. “A few lines, Chief Inspector,” he said. “Not much more.” When the line remained quiet, Hoffner continued, “Suffice it to say someone decided to make a pretty nice mess of it.”

“I see.” Van Acker’s voice was strangely cold; what he said next was no less chilling. “These wouldn’t be ruts, would they, Inspector, with a central strip running down the middle? That’s not the pattern you’re describing, is it?”

Fichte moved closer in when he saw the sudden reaction on Hoffner’s face. Hoffner shook his head as he put up a hand to stop him. With great reserve, Hoffner said, “And why do you ask that, Chief Inspector?”

There was a long silence before van Acker answered: “You wouldn’t need to ask if you’d seen them.”

Fichte was having trouble keeping up as the two men mounted the stairs back to Hoffner’s office: he had yet to hear a word about the conversation with the man from Bruges. Instead he had been told to stand by the door for nearly ten minutes while Hoffner had sat at the switchboard taking notes and asking questions.

Once inside his office, Hoffner told Fichte to shut the door and take a seat. Hoffner began flipping through the pages he had just written, matching them against a second notebook that he now took from inside his desk drawer. Still scanning, Hoffner said, “According to van Acker, the man we’ve been looking for is a Paul Wouters.”

Fichte tried to minimize his reaction. “This Wouters left the same trail in Bruges?”

“He did,” said Hoffner as he jotted down a few words in the first notebook.

“He won’t be easy to trace.”

“Oh, I think he will.” Hoffner looked up from the pages. “He’s been in the Sint-Walburga Insane Asylum, just outside of Bruges, for the past two years.”

Fichte needed a moment. “When did he escape?”

“He didn’t. He’s still there.”

Once again, Fichte was at a loss. “I don’t understand.”

Hoffner nodded and went back to the pages. He began to cross-reference every detail van Acker had been able to give him, most of it from memory: texture of the ruts, quality of the blade, intervals between the killings. As it turned out, van Acker had been the lead inspector on the case, and his recall was remarkable. It was why he had taken such an interest in the girl’s case, and why he had been eager to follow up even the most obscure requests from as far away as Berlin.

The girl had been one of Wouters’s night attendants. There had been rumors of something more than mopping up and scrubbing between them, but nothing had ever been found. In fact, the doctors who had petitioned and won to keep Wouters from the gallows-a lab rat for them to study-had insisted that such intimacy might be an indication of a positive response to the treatment. The intimacy, they reasoned, would have amounted to little more than adolescent groping-about right for the mental age of both-and so they saw no harm in it: as long as offspring could be avoided, or terminated prior to development, the doctors felt it would be beneficial to Wouters’s eventual recovery. Van Acker, of course, had been the sole voice of reason-he had wanted Wouters dead from the moment they had taken him-but science had prevailed. The fact that Wouters had been brutally killing women prior to having received this extraordinary treatment seemed an inconsequential detail to everyone but van Acker. The doctors reminded him that those women-Wouters’s victims-had been older. “Much older, Monsieur Le Chef Inspecteur. That was his purpose in the killings. His desire. The age. Because of his history. This girl poses no such threat.” Somehow, van Acker had been unable to locate pimping in the Hippocratic oath. Having done nothing to stop them, however, he alone now felt responsible for her fate.

The one aspect of the case about which van Acker had been hazy was the placement of the bodies. The Bruges police had caught Wouters in mid-etching, kneeling over his third victim; they had failed to look for a pattern in the discoveries because there had never been enough of a body count to create one.

“At least now we have a name for the girl,” said Hoffner as he continued to flip through the pages. “She was called Mary Koop. She worked at Sint-Walburga. She disappeared about two months ago.”

Fichte said, “So, if Wouters is still in the asylum, what are we dealing with here?”

Hoffner nodded as he scanned his scrawl. “That was the first question I asked myself.”

Fichte decided to take a stab. “Maybe it was someone who read about the case? Someone who was imitating him? Like that fellow who took up where Chertonski left off.”

Hoffner looked up. “Chertonski?” he said in mild disbelief. “You can’t be serious. That was knocking over old women’s flats, Hans, not killing them, and certainly not leaving them with pieces of artwork chiseled into their backs.”

Fichte seemed to shrink ever so slightly into his coat. “No-of course not. You’re right, Herr Kriminal-”

Hoffner put up a hand to stop him. “Whatever it is, Hans, I was trying to say it’s the wrong question.” Hoffner was about to explain, when he stopped. His hand became a single finger as he listened intently; he glanced over at the door and then motioned Fichte over. Fichte stood and, with a nod from Hoffner, quickly opened the door.

There, poised in a knocking position, stood Detective Sergeant Ludwig Groener.

“Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” said Hoffner. “Can we help you with something?” On instinct, Fichte took a step back.

Groener stood motionless. He held a stack of papers in his hand as he peered at Fichte, then Hoffner. He remained outside the office. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said. “You received a telephone call from abroad. There was no entry in the log.”

Hoffner nodded in agreement. “If there was no entry, how do you know I received it?”

Groener had no answer. Instead he took aim at Fichte. “As his Assistent, Herr Fichte, it’s your job to fill in all appropriate logs. You know this, of course.”

“Of course, Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” said Fichte. “When the Herr Kriminal-Kommissar receives a call. Absolutely. I’ll make a note of that.”

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Realizing that Fichte was going to be of no help, Groener again turned to Hoffner. “It’s my job to know when calls come in, and the like, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“And to listen at the doors of detective inspectors’ offices?” said Hoffner. “Do you find that equally exciting?”

For an instant Groener looked as if he had gotten a whiff of his own breath. Then, just as quickly, he resumed the taut stare of bureaucratic efficiency. “The telephone call from Belgium, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Have your man make a note of it in the log at the switchboard.” Groener turned and started to go.

Hoffner stopped him by saying, “Would you like me to give him a detailed account of what was said, Herr Groener? Or is the notation of information you already have sufficient?”

Groener kept his back to Hoffner. He turned his head slightly and said, “What was discussed is your business, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. It’s your case.”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” Hoffner said coldly. “It is.”

Groener offered a clipped nod and then retreated down the hall.

Fichte waited until Groener had moved out of sight before turning back to Hoffner. “God, he makes the place stink.”

“Close the door, Hans.” With a plaintive look from Fichte, Hoffner said, “All right, wave it out a few times.” Fichte opened and closed the door with gusto, and then shut it before returning to his seat. Hoffner said, “So, who else knew about the wire?”

“It was on your desk when I got back from Missing Persons. I assume just one of the boys and the wire operator. That’s it.”

“Evidently not.” Hoffner sat, thinking to himself: Why would anyone else have been looking for it in the first place?

“Why the wrong question?” said Fichte, resuming their previous conversation.

It took Hoffner a moment to refocus; he looked over at Fichte. “Because right now it doesn’t matter who’s doing the killing, or why. What matters is how he got to Berlin.”

Fichte’s all-too-predictable “I don’t understand” was out before Hoffner could explain.

“Look at what we have.” Hoffner settled back in his chair as he spoke: “You’d think the piece out of place would be Wouters-everything in the Bruges case is the same, everything points to him, except he’s locked away in an asylum seven hundred kilometers from here, a fact that is both frightening and astounding-but it’s not. That’s not the piece that doesn’t fit. Imitator or not-it doesn’t matter which-the killings are taking place here by someone who knows the Bruges case. By someone who must have been in Bruges. But not because he can make a few markings on a woman’s back. No, the reason he must have been in Bruges is that, unless he was there, how else would he have been able to bring the girl from Bruges to Berlin? Given her mental state, she clearly couldn’t have made it on her own. So how did anyone get from Bruges to Berlin over two months ago? The only transports would have been military. No one else could have crossed the lines, even after the armistice. How? And how does he bring a girl with him?”

Fichte needed a moment to absorb the information. “So the fact that it’s not Wouters doesn’t trouble you.”

“Of course it troubles me, Hans.” Hoffner’s tone was thick with frustration. “It horrifies me. But right now, it’s not the most inconsistent piece of information we have.”

“It’s a shame Kroll didn’t have anything for us on the grease. That might have been helpful.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. He had decided to keep this recent discovery from Fichte: until he knew what it all meant-and now, with the information from Bruges, he had no idea when that might be-Hoffner needed to keep everything as focused as possible. As much as he wanted to trust Fichte with it, he knew that would be unwise: the appearance of the Polpo had made that abundantly clear, not to mention the leak. The less Fichte knew, the safer it would be for everyone involved. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “We’ll have to wait on that.”

Fichte tried another tack: “Was the Wouters case well reported in Belgium? I mean, during the war, would they have spent a lot of time with it in the newspapers? That could be of use.”

Hoffner had been thinking the same thing. “Excellent question, Hans. You’ll have to ask the Chief Inspector when you see him.”

Fichte’s confusion returned, and Hoffner explained: “We need to know what they have in Bruges, and we need it quickly. More than that, we need to hear what Mr. Wouters has to say, and whom he might have said it to.” Fichte remained silent. Hoffner tried to lead him. “There is another way to get from Bruges to Berlin, Hans, also controlled by the military, although a bit quicker than a train.” When Fichte continued to stare back at him, Hoffner said, “You’ve never been in an aeroplane, have you, Hans?” Hoffner watched as the blood drained from Fichte’s face. “Not so bad, really. Just remember to turn your head away from the wind.” Hoffner smiled at Fichte’s blank stare. “Trust me,” he said. “You’ll know when.”

Victor Knig, Hoffner’s onetime partner, had spent the last hour of his life circling over a vast stretch of lake hidden beneath fog in the autumn of 1915. Knig had not realized it, but had he flown just another twenty kilometers east, he would have seen the lights of a village and been able to land his Fokker E-I in any number of open fields. At the time, the “Eindecker” had been a relatively new aeroplane, renowned for its synchronous Spandau machine gun-that clever little gear which allowed it to stop firing when the propeller blade was moving directly in front of it-but Knig had been flying in empty sky: what he had needed was light, not a miracle gun. With his fuel dangerously low, and the sun dipping out of the horizon, Knig had chanced a drop dive into the cloud cover. Thinking he was coasting just above the water, and only a few hundred meters from open land, he had hit the lake head-on at full speed. The impact had left nothing of the aeroplane to recover, let alone any traces of Captain Victor Knig of the German Second Aircraft Battalion.

It was an odd mistake for so experienced a flyer to have made. Knig had been flying since 1909, and had placed third in the Rundflug in both 1912 and 1913. It was why the Air Corps had overlooked his rather advanced age of thirty-eight on the application: a sky pilot with five years of flying under his belt was prime material. It was for those reasons that his squadron had assumed he had been hit somewhere over France. None of them had even considered the possibility of those final tormenting minutes that Knig had had to endure. Far from enemy fire, alone and blind, he had been done in by nothing more than the dark. It was probably better that no one had known. Victor had been a terribly proud man.

Next to Hoffner, Tobias Mueller had been struck hardest by Knig’s death. Mueller had been a brash twenty-four-year-old with a genius for flight, and Knig’s closest comrade in the squadron. Hoffner had met him once during one of their leaves: they had liked each other instantly.

Mueller had been something of a celebrity during the war. He had brought down eighteen French fighters in just over two years before being sent home in 1917: it had not been his decision. He had lost part of his right foot, along with a few fingers, in a crash landing, and now walked with a considerable limp. He had insisted he could still fight; the Air Corps, however, had seen it otherwise. Even so, Mueller had been too good with a stick to let go: he had been flying supplies in and out of Berlin for the past two years. True to form, it had taken Mueller no time to discover that a good deal of money could be made by a pilot willing to fly any number of other items in and out of Germany. He had been caught only once, luckily by the civilian police, and since the black market was Kripo jurisdiction, his case had landed on the third floor at the Alex. Hoffner had been the one to make it all go away, and Mueller had never forgotten him for that. The monthly supply of cigars and cigarettes was a particularly welcome treat.

For now, Mueller was favoring the aerodrome at Tempelhof as his base of operations. It was little more than four or five buildings scattered across a stretch of wide-open grassland, and was still considered second-rate when compared to the airfields at Johannisthal-the site from which the Rundflug fliers had set off and returned during those wild, prewar days of summer-but it did have the advantage of being closer in to town. It was the preferred stop of the supply runners for that reason, more so because no one really paid it much attention. Planes could come and go as they pleased. On occasion, a little something for the station guard was advised, but aside from that, sky pilots had the run of the place. It also meant that Tempelhof was always in need of a good overhaul.

Hoffner and Fichte were finding that out for themselves firsthand as they slogged their way across a field that was more like a mass of dense pudding than a runway. It was clear why boots were a staple of the aviator outfit.

Hoffner was the first into the hangar. It would have been difficult to call the domed tent a building, as it was nothing more than a tarp hung over several very long poles. Ten or so aeroplanes of every color and design stood in a row along the side wall, half of them stripped for parts in aid of the other five. Mueller was pilfering something from one of the stray engines when he looked around at the sound of footsteps. He was wearing a pair of coveralls, streaked in oil and grease from collar to foot. His boots, however, were immaculate. He started toward them.

Still far enough away not to be heard, Fichte said quietly, “I’m getting into an aeroplane with a cripple? Wonderful.”

Under his breath, Hoffner answered, “I won’t tell him about your lungs, and you don’t mention the limp. Fair enough?”

Mueller drew up to them, and, wiping the grease onto a cloth from his remaining fingers, he extended his hand. Without hesitation, Hoffner took it. “Hello, Toby,” he said.

“Nikolai,” said Mueller. “Nice to see you.”

“This is Hans Fichte. Your passenger.”

Mueller extended his hand to Fichte, who tried a smile and took Mueller’s hand. Fichte squeezed gently and felt the gaps in the grip. “It’s an odd sensation,” said Mueller, “but you get used to it.” Fichte nodded awkwardly. Mueller smiled. “I was talking about flying. You never get used to the hand.” Mueller laughed. Again Fichte nodded, as he pulled his hand away.

“How soon until you can go?” said Hoffner.

“The sky’s clear enough, for now. Up to you. Everything’s ready on my end.” Mueller nodded over to a biplane along the row, one with a tapered undercarriage and a high skid under the back fin. From the little Hoffner recalled, it could have been anything from a Siemens-Schuckert D-IV to an English Sopwith Snipe. Hoffner was putting nothing past Mueller, these days. Mueller had been talking about getting his hands on a Bentley engine for weeks: the 230-horsepower B.R.2, if memory served. It was a bit tougher to handle, but the power was unmatched, over 300 kph in a dive, according to Mueller. Hoffner had trouble even conceiving of those speeds. The chances, however, of one having “fallen” into Mueller’s lap during his travels was just too good. Hoffner knew Georgi would have been able to spot it instantly.

Mueller turned to Fichte. “We can fly above the rain, but you’ll need something warmer than what you’ve got on. There are some things back in the office you can try.” Fichte nodded.

“So I can leave him with you, Toby?” said Hoffner. “I need you there for a day, two at the most. You can work that?”

Mueller said, “Bruges is as good a place as any to find castor oil.”

Seeing Fichte’s expression, Hoffner said, “To grease the cylinders, Hans. An old sky pilot’s trick.”

Mueller headed for the office as Hoffner lagged behind with Fichte so as to give the boy some last-minute instructions. “Get what you can and wire me, Hans.” Not that Hoffner was thrilled to be sending Fichte off like this-there had been only time enough for Fichte to throw an extra pair of socks and some shaving equipment into a satchel-but given the leak, Hoffner had no interest in having the Bruges story come out before getting the information firsthand. Fichte would have to make do. “And mark the wire ‘restricted.’ I’ll have a boy waiting at the desk, day and night. Send it whenever you can.”

Fichte said, “You don’t think it would be better for both of us to go?”

Hoffner had explained this twice on the ride over. He tried to be encouraging. “Of course it would, Hans, but then who’s going to find that leak?” Hoffner paused. “You’re from the big city. Use it to your advantage.”

Mueller had reached the office. He turned back. “All right, boys, we’ve got about three and a half hours of light left. We need to be in the air in ten minutes if we’re going to get as far as Kln by tonight, and I want to get as far as Kln by tonight.” He stepped into the office and headed for a locker. “Now,” he said to himself in a loud voice, “let’s see if we’ve got anything big enough for Herr Kripo in here.”

Hoffner patted Fichte on the shoulder and started for the field. “Safe trip, Hans.” Almost at the opening flap, he added, “And try not to fall out.” Hoffner was gone by the time Fichte turned around to answer.

The Ullstein Building is the site from which most of Berlin’s popular news is processed and packaged for daily consumption. Having stood its ground for the past forty years, the building had survived relatively unscathed during the weeks of revolution. In the distant past, its editors had made it through Bismarck’s right-wing barrages, and later the left’s equally vicious attacks for the paper’s support of the war. The men of Ullstein had even found ways to defuse the ever-recurring anti-Semitic assaults. Leopold Ullstein, the publisher and founder-along with his five sons-had done a remarkable thing for Berlin by giving her workingmen newspapers written just for them; Ullstein senior had even sat on the city council in thanks for his services. But Jews were Jews, and there was always something so threatening in that, and so, whenever things got a bit slow, the Ullstein papers were the inevitable target. According to the current editors, however, if they had managed to weather those storms, a few shots from some disgruntled soldiers weren’t going to stall the presses.

Since November the real intrigue had been taking place elsewhere-at the offices of the Social Democrats’ Vorwrts a few blocks away, and at the ever-relocating rooms of Die Rote Fahne, Luxemburg’s “authentic” rag of the people. Ullstein’s Die Berliner Zeitung am Mittag (the BZ) and its Morgenpost, on the other hand, had chugged along quite nicely, and had left the rabble-rousing, and all its attendant mayhem, to the less stable publications. The Morgenpost had continued to report on the life of Berlin in full detail; the BZ had offered her up in little vignettes.

For fifteen years now, the BZ had been the city’s boulevard paper-to be picked up, read, and discarded-with stories that had just enough meat on them to keep the reader hooked for a tram ride or a morning coffee. It gave a snapshot of the city: eclectic, pulsating, and immediate. The only in-depth reporting the BZ ever did was the Monday sports section-horse races, motorcycle rallies, sailing, boxing, football, handball: the pages were always thick with the sweat of the middle class. It also liked to titillate and shock-murder was its biggest seller-which was why most of the men of the Kripo were familiar with its offices.

Hoffner pushed his way through the swinging doors and into the BZ’s editorial department. The sound of typewriter keys striking metal cylinders, and the constant clatter of the newswire machines, gave the impression that the fourth floor was under attack from a legion of angry, pellet-throwing elves. Even the ringing of the telephones took on a sirenlike wail, as if a miniature ambulance corps were shuttling unseen from one side of the room to the other. The BZ staff seemed oblivious to the noise; they remained focused on the news. The one or two who did look over as Hoffner made his way through knew exactly where he was heading. When the Kripo came, they came looking for Gottlob Kvatsch. It was probably why Kvatsch insisted that his desk remain on the back wall: he liked the view it presented. He also liked to keep his distance. Ullstein was beginning to hire too many of its own kind. Kvatsch might not have been able to avoid working for Jews; he just had no desire to work side by side with them. He had moved his desk three times during the last year. None of his co-workers had shown the least concern.

Kvatsch saw Hoffner long before Hoffner had made his way past the “cooking tips” and “affordable fashions” desks. Kvatsch quickly began to fold up the few notebooks that were spread out in front of him, and was placing the last of them inside a drawer when Hoffner pulled up. Keeping his gaze on the desk, Kvatsch found something to busy himself with: he began to rearrange the pens on his blotter. Hoffner stood quietly for a few moments and enjoyed the performance.

Kvatsch was wearing a weathered suit, the kind found on any of those Saturday wagons in the Rosenthaler Platz or near the Hackescher-Markt. The tie was also secondhand. The shirt, however, was crisp and white: Kvatsch chose his creature comforts carefully. To the men of the Kripo, he had always reminded them of a slightly bedraggled detective sergeant, one whose time had never come, yet who continued to wear the once-impressive suit in the hopes of being noticed. There was the story that Kvatsch had actually applied to the Kripo and been dismissed years ago, but Hoffner guessed it was more of a cautionary tale for young recruits than the reason for Kvatsch’s persistent choice in attire. Even so, they all knew what Kvatsch liked to be called around the BZ: he was “the Detective.” Maybe, then, the clothes were a deliberate choice, thought Hoffner, even as the word “pathetic” ran through his mind.

“Hello, Kvatsch.” Hoffner spoke with just the right tinge of contempt.

“Herr Detective Inspector.” Kvatsch was still intent on his pens. “What a surprise.”

“‘Sources in the Kripo.’ That’s very impressive. I’d like to know which ones.”

Kvatsch looked up. His face always had a nice sheen to it, as if his wide pores were the source of the oil used to comb back his hair. And he was always pursing his thick lips, afraid, perhaps, that his teeth might slip out without constant supervision. Kvatsch reached into his jacket pocket and produced a pack of very expensive cigarettes: he was making clear his own connections. He took one and laid the pack on the desk. “I’d offer you one, Herr Inspector, but I know you don’t smoke.” Kvatsch lit up and settled back comfortably into his chair. His lips continued to purse around the butt of the cigarette.

“Let’s save ourselves some time, Kvatsch. Just tell me where you got it.”

“Please, Inspector. Have a seat.” He indicated a space in front of his desk, then took in a long drag. There was no chair in front of his desk. “Are you confirming the story?”

Hoffner smiled. “I’m just trying to find out who’s been passing false information on to our friends in the press.”

“False information?” echoed Kvatsch. “Is that why you’re here? It worries you that much that someone might be misleading me?”

Hoffner kept his smile. “The name, Kvatsch. I’d hate to have to bring you down to the Alex.”

Kvatsch nodded slowly, as if he were about to submit. His eyes, however, had the look of a little boy’s with a secret. “Haven’t you heard, Inspector? The socialists have introduced something quite wonderful. It’s called “freedom of the press.” The Americans have been doing it for years.”

“Really?” Hoffner gently moved the pens out of the way so that he could take a seat on the lip of the desk. His proximity seemed to straighten Kvatsch up in his chair. “They also have libel laws. Little things like that. We don’t, so we get to use other methods.” Without the least bit of threat, Hoffner reached over and pulled a cigarette from Kvatsch’s pack. He took Kvatsch’s cigarette and lit his own.

Kvatsch showed no reaction. “Would you like a cigarette, Detective Inspector?”

“No thanks.” Hoffner took a drag on his own, and then crushed out Kvatsch’s in the ashtray. “You know, Kvatsch, I don’t think the socialists had you in mind when they started parading out all of these freedoms.”

“Must be up to four or five by now, if you’re this keen for my source, Inspector. And here I thought it was just your run-of-the-mill little murder. Not even front-page material. Tell me, is it true about the knife markings? I think that’s the part that’s going to sell the most papers.”

“We both know it’s going to take me no time to find this out. You can either do yourself a favor, or you can do what you always do. End up a few steps behind, kicking yourself for having been so stupid.” Hoffner enjoyed the momentary flash in Kvatsch’s eyes. “These socialists are an unpredictable bunch. It’s another week before the Assembly votes get tabulated. Who knows where we might be then? Between you and me, Kvatsch, I don’t think this is the time not to have a friend in the Kripo, do you?” Hoffner stood. He crushed out his cigarette. “Just something to think about.”

“I’ll do that,” Kvatsch said icily.

“Good.” Hoffner reached over and took the pack from the desk. He was turning to go when he stopped and said, “Oh, by the way. Nice suit. Just your style, Detective.” Hoffner pocketed the cigarettes and headed for the door.

Fichte had vomited twice, once during a barrel roll, the other just after they had touched down in a field on the outskirts of Kln. To be fair, that last one had been due more to relief than to motion; still, it had brought Fichte in under the limit. Mueller had been banking on at least three such episodes, but Fichte had survived the nosedive and the spinout without so much as a burp. Mueller had been duly impressed. Tonight the drinks were on him.

“You see,” said Mueller as he watched Fichte dry-heave a last string of saliva onto the ground. “I told you you’d get used to it.” He rapped him on the back. “We just need to get you something to settle that stomach.”

Fichte nodded as he stared, hunched over, into his own spew. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. Oddly enough, he had never felt more exhilarated. He spat, stood, and peered up into the dusking sky.

It was all so unreal, he thought. Thirty kilometers out of Berlin, and the clouds had lifted; the sky had opened, and Fichte had known what it was to be in flight. Mueller had tried explaining it to him over the din of the engine and wind, but Fichte had heard only pieces-nondimensional coefficients, lift-drag ratios-none of which had made even the slightest bit of sense to him. For Fichte, flight was a matter of faith, and with it had come a feeling of such profound solitude-stripped of any hint of loneliness-as to make it completely serene. He could still feel the wind slapping at his face, his hand as he had held it out, its enormity stretching out over houses and fields and rivers, all of them cradled in the thickness of his fingers and palm. There was a vastness to the world at those speeds and at that height, a totality that could easily have provoked a feeling of utter insignificance, but Fichte had felt no less vast. Up there, he had known why Mueller had continued to take to the sky: not for the thrill or for the ego, but for the connection with that totality, a sensation of perfect wholeness only imagined from the ground looking up. At two thousand feet-in an open box made of metal and wood-it was forever in his grasp.

Fichte spat again and placed the handkerchief in his pocket. “A couple of shots of whiskey should do it,” he said.

Mueller laughed. “Oh, I think that can be arranged.”

Mueller knew most of the best spots in and around Kln. In fact, Mueller knew most of the best spots anywhere west of Berlin. He was also not averse to using his disabilities to his advantage. The girls in Kln were known to drop their prices, and various other bits, for a cripple, now and then. Mueller told Fichte he would see what they could do for a cripple’s friend. Fichte thought about mentioning his lungs, but he reckoned the trade-off wasn’t worth the few marks he would save: better to have Mueller thinking him a robust young detective than the jackass who had sucked in on the gas at the wrong time. Of course, it never occurred to Fichte that Mueller might already be wondering why his passenger had managed to miss out on all the fun at the trenches. Mueller was praying that Fichte’s quick departure from the Kaiser’s service had had nothing to do with a certain very delicate area: that was a wound no one liked to talk about. Fichte’s hesitation over the girls had gotten Mueller thinking that maybe the prices were not going to be the real problem tonight.

All such concerns, however, were quickly put to rest five hours later, when Mueller, Fichte, and two willing young ladies stepped into the attic loft that Mueller had found for them over one of the seedier bars in town. It was one room, but Fichte hardly seemed to mind. He had been sustaining a very nice drunk since his third beer, and immediately pulled down his pants the moment the four of them were alone. Mueller laughed at the sudden appearance of Fichte’s shortish but exceptionally thick erection. Mueller tossed his own girl onto the room’s one bed and dove in after her. He then turned to Fichte as the bedded girl began to pull off his clothes.

“What is it with you cops and instant nudity?” said Mueller, slapping at the girl’s hands as she tried to undress him. “Pants down. Service, please. Where’s the romance?” Mueller howled with laughter as the girl found what she had been searching for.

Fichte stood there, chortling quietly to himself as his girl took hold of her prize.

Mueller said, “Nikolai’s the same way, you know. No shame, no patience.”

Hoffner’s name seemed to slap some life into Fichte. He turned to Mueller as he pushed the girl’s face from his crotch. “The Kriminal-Kommissar?” said Fichte, tripping over the last few syllables. He immediately snapped his head back at the girl, who was trying to reacquire her target. “Hey there!” he said. “Hold on a bit.” She laughed and continued to probe. Fichte shrugged and looked back at Mueller. “Herr Hoffner?”

Mueller was having his own trouble concentrating on the conversation. “I could tell you stories,” he said in a throaty tone.

“Really?” said Fichte, teetering as he spoke. “Like what?”

The girl had mounted Mueller and was now riding him with vigor. When he spoke, his words issued in a tom-tom cadence. “Ask him about the pact.”

“About the what?” said Fichte. Fichte’s girl pushed him down onto a chair. She took his hands and strapped them onto her thighs. She, too, began to drive down onto him.

“The pact,” said Mueller, becoming winded. “Just ask.”

The girl on top of Fichte grabbed his face, focused it on her own, and said, “You want to talk, or you want to fuck?”

It took Fichte a moment to find her eyes. She was really quite pretty, he thought. And she had nice big tits. Bigger than Lina’s.

“Fuck, please,” he said.

She grabbed his head and thrust it into her chest. She then began to ride him with even greater abandon. Fichte was glad he had brought his inhaler. He would need a few good sucks before round two.

Hoffner had lain awake for most of the night. He was a periodic insomniac, and, except for the fact that he actually enjoyed the long hours of intense thought, he might have attributed it to some sort of cosmic payback for a waking life of chosen isolation. For some reason, though, dead-of-night focus on a case always left him feeling refreshed in the morning. It was dreaming that exhausted him.

He had come to the conclusion-sometime around 4:00 a.m.-that the note from K might be the only piece of recent information that could lead him forward. Everything else seemed to be generating lateral movement: the grease had introduced the possibility of a military connection; the gloves had raised a whole series of problems-the girl’s transport, the girl herself, and the fact that Wouters was in a different country. Hoffner had considered the “second carver” theory-the smooth versus the jagged and angular strokes-but that hardly explained who the first carver might be, what with Wouters safely locked away in Sint-Walburga. And, of course, there was Luxemburg, which had brought in the Polpo and which, to Hoffner’s way of thinking, was somehow linked to the leak.

That left him with the note from K, which, on the surface, seemed equally cloudy. The small hours, however, did more than just concentrate Hoffner’s mind; they allowed his instincts to come to the fore: by the time Martha had begun to show signs of life at five-thirty, Hoffner knew with absolute certainty that the note was unrelated to everything else. He just had no notion why.

Finding out, however, would have to wait. He slipped out of bed, dressed, and grabbed a quick breakfast-yesterday’s cold potatoes and coffee-and was out the door before the rest of the house knew he had been home. At this hour, cabs were easy pickings and Hoffner was at the Alex by half past six.

Little Franz was standing over a washbasin in one of the attic alcoves when Hoffner pulled up next to him. It was now a quarter to seven, and the light had just begun to creep through the porthole window directly above them. Hoffner had ducked his way under the beams and past the three beds-two of which were still occupied-all without drawing attention. He now waited for Franz to turn off the tap.

“Up nice and early,” said Hoffner when the splashing finally stopped.

The boy nearly jumped. He stood there as water dripped down his cheeks and onto the floor. He had that same concave, pale little chest that Georgi had, but his biceps were already beginning to show genuine muscle: this was a boy who had learned to survive. Hoffner knew that any comparison with his own son was strictly of his own making. Hoffner reached over for the paper-thin towel hanging from a hook, and held it out to him.

Franz took the towel. “Yes. Good morning, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” He continued to stare at Hoffner.

“Don’t let yourself catch cold, Franz.” Immediately the boy went to work on his hair and face. “I’ve a favor to ask you.” Franz nodded from under the towel and continued with the fury that was a ten-year-old boy drying himself. “You might want to leave a little skin on your face,” said Hoffner.

Franz looked up. His hair was shooting off in all directions, but his face had that lovely pink-and-white hue. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner placed the towel on its hook as Franz began to do what he could with a hairbrush. “You remember Herr Kvatsch? At the BZ?” The boy had tailed Kvatsch during a case last year; he had proved himself exceptionally good at getting the names of the people Kvatsch saw during the day.

Franz nodded. “The one with the teeth,” he said. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Franz had managed something of a part; he placed the brush by the basin.

“Good. I’m going to need you to find out who he’s been talking to.” Hoffner knew Kvatsch was lazy: the man would eventually contact his source. Hoffner only hoped it would be quicker than the last time: then, Franz had spent the better part of a week in Kvatsch’s shadows. “It’s five pfennigs a name,” said Hoffner. The boy’s eyes lit up: it had been two, the last go-round. As then, Hoffner had no reason to worry that Franz might pad the list in order to make a few extra coins; the boy took too much pride in his work. It was why Hoffner had known Franz would be at his washbasin at a quarter to seven in the morning.

Franz reached over for his shirt. He slipped his arms through and began to button it. “Today, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?”

“Today.” Hoffner watched as Franz crammed his shirttail into his pants. Once again Hoffner had to remind himself that this was no ordinary ten-year-old, the boy’s gawkiness notwithstanding: no doubt Franz was already proficient with a blackjack, maybe even a knife. “One other thing,” said Hoffner. He nodded back over his shoulder to the two sleeping boys. “Which one of them do you trust?”

Franz peered past Hoffner and pointed toward the boy in the far bed. “Sascha. He’s all right.”

Hoffner turned to the sleeping boy. From this angle, he might have been his own Sascha, a few years removed. Again, it was best not to think about it. “I need him by the wire room, all day and all night, if necessary. Anything comes in for me, he’s to hold it and find me. Can he do that?” Franz nodded. “Good. Tell him I’ll telephone the switchboard at eleven to see if anything’s come in.” Hoffner waited for another nod; he then headed for the door. He was figuring that Fichte and Toby would be landing in Bruges sometime around ten if they could manage to get themselves out of bed in the next hour. Then again, Hoffner had spent his own weekend with Victor and Toby, that trip to the Tyrol, most of which he now recalled as a smoke-filled, boozy blur. Hoffner stopped and turned back to Franz. “Better make it noon.”

The morning commuters were long gone by the time Hoffner arrived in the South End: Lindenstrasse was virtually empty. Even so, he stood on the corner for perhaps ten minutes, gazing from his newspaper to the few passersby, none of whom seemed the least interested in Luxemburg’s building. Satisfied, Hoffner tossed the paper into a trash bin and headed for Number 2.

This time the landlady let him in without so much as a question. Breakfast was in the offing, but Hoffner politely refused and asked if anyone else had come to the flat since his own visit: the woman recalled no one.

Luxemburg’s rooms were untouched, except for a few very subtle changes: the teacup had been rinsed and returned to its shelf; several of the pictures had been straightened on the wall; and the smell of dried wood had been aired out, although the windows were once again shut tight. K, as it turned out, was more than just a secretive man; he was a neat one. Hoffner found that in keeping with the tone of the note.

The purpose for the return visit, however, was a bit more difficult to pinpoint. In fact, it took Hoffner nearly twenty minutes to find what K had sent him back for. When Hoffner did find it, he realized it was in the most obvious, and therefore least likely, place to have been searched. Sitting atop her desk-and side by side with the unread speeches-was a stack of books and papers held together by a rough piece of cord. K had been clever: the stack had been placed in such a way as to seem a part of the speeches. Hoffner now saw it otherwise. He stepped over, sat in Rosa’s chair, and began to loosen the knot.

Within half a minute he was flipping through one of her private diaries, February through May 1914. The other volumes chronicled her life in equally short and arbitrary installments: July 1911 through January 1912; November 1915 through July 1916; and an entire book devoted to August 1914. The beginning of the war had marked the end of the International; with German workers voting to fight against their French and English brothers, Luxemburg’s dream of a Universal Socialism had come crashing down. It had been the great disaster of her life-”workers of the world” choosing country over one another-and had thus inspired pages and pages of grief-stricken prose, all with the requisite hair-pulling of a Greek tragedy. Hoffner quickly moved through them.

The more startling discovery was the collection of loose letters slotted into each of the books. Hoffner estimated several hundred from a first glance-through: it was clear that they had been hastily included, the addressees and dates even more haphazard. There were more than thirty names, with dates reaching as far back as 1894, the most recent from only a few months ago. The one constant was the writer. They were all from Rosa.

How, then, thought Hoffner, had K amassed nearly two hundred of Rosa’s private letters in just over a week? The answer-and K’s identity-obviously lay with the recipients, but Hoffner knew any attempt to contact Luxemburg’s coterie would elicit only blank stares and denials: the remaining Spartacists-her band of left left-wingers-would never give up one of their own to the Kripo.

He also knew there would be nothing in the stack to tell him who K was; even so, Hoffner needed to make sure. He went to work on the names.

Of those who had received letters, only three had a K in either initial. The first was Karl Liebknecht, and unless he had risen from the dead, it was highly unlikely that he had been the one to show up at the Alex last week. Hoffner eliminated Liebknecht.

The second was a Konstantin Zetkin-Kostia, in the letters-a boy fifteen years her junior, the son of Luxemburg’s good friend Clara, and, from what Hoffner could make out, Rosa’s lover for a short period of time. That, however, hardly distinguished him from any number of the other correspondents: Paul Levi, her lawyer; Leo Jogiches, her mentor; and Hans Diefenbach, her doctor-who had actually married Rosa during her last stint in prison, but who had died at the Russian front before reaping the benefits-had all kept in contact with her both before and after the affairs; all, of course, except for Diefenbach, although there were a few diary entries in which Luxemburg had carried on some lively conversations with him postmortem.

What made it clear that she would never have allowed Zetkin to compile her letters was the fact that the boy simply didn’t have the smarts to do it. Zetkin was a classic Luftmensch, all air and no substance, and although Rosa had tried to mold him into something artistic, the journals made it clear that he had been a lost cause. Hoffner quickly recognized that Kostia Zetkin was not his K.

That left Karl Kautsky. Most of the letters were addressed to his wife, Luise, but even Hoffner had heard of the very public falling-out between Luxemburg and her onetime comrade. It was generally agreed that squabbles among socialists made for the most entertaining reading in town: vitriol and sarcasm never had quite the same shrillness elsewhere, and the newspapers knew it, even if most of their readers never understood the finer points. In fact, no one understood the finer points; they were meaningless, anyway. The comedy was in the personal swipes, and Luxemburg had given Berlin a tour de thtre with her dismantling of Kautsky. Suffice it to say Kautsky had not been the one to lead Hoffner to the flat.

K had left nothing in the letters that could be tied to himself; he was too clever for that. He had signed the note for a reason, but for now, his identity would have to wait.

Hoffner sat back. He noticed a decanter of brandy on a nearby shelf, and, reaching over, brought it to the desk. There was a glass among the papers, and he poured himself a drink. He imagined that K had brought him here to see the real Luxemburg-stripped of the caricature of fanaticism-and while the pages did paint a more flesh-and-blood picture, Rosa remained distant. There were moments of raw emotion, but they came across too self-consciously: pain was never simply pain-it was acute, or frantic, or unbearable-beauty never less than triumphant. There was a morality to socialism that seeped into everything. It was as if she had been unable to separate herself from the woman who shouted down to the crowds, even when writing for herself. A few lines would hint at more, but then, just as quickly, the exclamation points would return-the heightened sense of purpose-and the other Rosa would slip quietly away.

Hoffner refilled his glass and realized that the room had been cast in much the same way. During his first visit he had seen it as a place for gatherings, warmth: now that seemed contrived, as well. The pillows and photographs were placed too perfectly to be inviting. There was an earnestness to the intimacy, which made it all the more suspect.

Glass in hand, Hoffner stood and moved across to one of the bookshelves. He scanned the titles and pulled out a volume of Pushkin: maybe he would find more of her in how she read than in how she wrote? But here, too, her marginalia lived in the extremes: Pushkin was either a genius or a fool. The same held true for Marx and Korolenko, a special diatribe reserved for a collection of essays by a man named Plekhanov. No matter where, her words, like herself, were intended for display. There seemed to be no private Rosa in any of it.

Hoffner finished his drink and began to squeeze the book back into place. He was having trouble getting it in when he heard the sound of something falling behind the row. He peered in through the gap, but it was too dark. Pulling a handful of books from the shelf, he found a thin volume lying flat on its back: it was little more than a pamphlet. He placed the stack on the desk and retrieved the book.

At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. It had been years since he had seen it, a standard edition of Mrike’s poetry. Not that it was so momentous a find: every first-year university student could recite a few passages from memory. But it seemed odd to find it here, in and among the weighty tomes. Then again, it really hadn’t been with them, tucked safely behind. Hoffner pulled over a chair and opened the leather cover.

The pages were almost clean-a mark here and there, or a word-but nothing like the constant commentary he had seen elsewhere. And yet it was clear from the ragged corners that Rosa had spent a good deal of time with the book. Hoffner leafed through, allowing the pages to lead him. They came to a stop on a poem called “Seclusion.” He needed to read only the first line to understand why:

Oh, world, let me be.

The rest was equally telling:

Tempt me not with gifts of love.Let this solitary heart haveYour delight, your pain.

What I grieve, I know not.It is an unknown ache;Forever through tears shall I seeThe sun’s love-light.

Often, I am barely consciousAnd the bright pleasures breakThrough the depths, thus pressingBlissfully into my breast.

Oh, world, let me be.Tempt me not with gifts of love.Let this solitary heart haveYour delight, your pain.

The one place where she had made a mark was next to the word “conscious”-no exclamation point, nothing to explain, just a simple dash to draw her eye each time she turned to the page. She had been fully aware of her own isolation and had kept it hidden away. Evidently, even K had not been privy to it.

There was something powerfully real about this single page. It gave no greater insight to the source of her solitude, but it made her far more human. Perhaps better than most, Hoffner understood her plea.

He caught sight of his watch, and nearly blanched when he saw the time. It was quarter to two. He had been with her for over five hours and had let the time slip by. K had brought him back for her theories and ramblings, but it was only here at the end that Hoffner had found something he could understand. This Rosa was far more compelling than he had imagined.

Nonetheless, she would have to wait: he needed to get in touch with the wire room. Looking around for something to hold the papers, Hoffner spotted a bag that was tucked in between the chair and desk. Evidently K had thought of everything. Hoffner shuffled the diaries and papers into a single stack and slid them in. He repositioned the chair and picked up the Mrike. He was about to place it back behind the row when he stopped. He stared at the weathered cover.

Oh, world, let me be, he thought.

He slipped the book into his pocket and headed for the door.

Downstairs, a strident “Yes” greeted his knocking. Hoffner spoke up and the door opened instantly: the woman’s smile seemed to grow broader with each subsequent unveiling.

“Madame,” said Hoffner. “I was hoping I might use your telephone.”

At once, she stepped back. “Of course, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Please.”

The woman brought him into her sitting room, which was the same layout as upstairs, although Rosa had shown better taste when it had come to the furnishings. This was a mishmash of styles. Hoffner wondered how many departing tenants had arrived at their new homes only to discover a missing chair or table. No doubt a few of Rosa’s things would soon be relocating a few flights south.

Hoffner put in the call; the woman retreated through a swinging door to give him his privacy.

The wire room had received nothing. According to the new boy, little Franz had not been back since this morning. Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Groener, on the other hand, had passed by several times to ask Sascha what he was waiting for. Hoffner told the boy to ignore Groener and to remain by his post.

Hoffner hung up just as the woman was returning with a tray of food. Hoffner said, “Very kind of you, Madame, but I really must. .” The look of disappointment on her face bordered on the tragic. “Well, maybe just a sausage.”

She brightened up at once and placed the tray on a nearby table. She then sat and waited for Hoffner to join her: evidently, this was going to be a formal sitting. Hoffner obliged, and she started to spoon out three short, wrinkled pieces of meat from a can and onto a plate for him. When she was done, she poured out a glass of something pale yellow. Hoffner thought it better not to ask.

He took a spoonful and slid the first of the pieces into his mouth. It was army surplus, probably two months old, and had a leathery texture that tasted liked dried tobacco. Hoffner smiled and swallowed. The woman beamed. She was very proud of her husband’s scavenging, and probably had no idea that she was feeding contraband to a police officer. “You knew Frau Luxemburg well?” he said.

The woman watched him with a mother’s joy as he ate. “As well as any of the tenants.”

“You knew her friends?”

Her lips puckered at the thought of them. “No. I didn’t know any of those people.” The word “those” carried a particularly sneering tone.

“Gentleman friends?” He shoveled a second piece of the meat into his mouth, and did his best to swallow it whole. “One reads the papers, hears things.”

The woman gave a tight smile. “I don’t interest myself in such things.”

Really, thought Hoffner. He had noticed several of the more notorious papers-the popular rags-in a rack by the sofa when he had been on the phone. He now looked over again and scanned them for their dates: all late December. It had been about that time that most of the papers had begun to chronicle the seedier side of Rosa’s life, all of it, no doubt, with lies meant to discredit her: “Judah is reaching out for the crown!” “We are ruled by Levi and the devil Luxemburg!” had been the most popular slogans around town. Hoffner knew there was only one reason his hostess would have saved them.

The woman saw where he was looking. For a moment she looked as if she had been caught. Then, just as quickly, the tight smile returned. “I don’t read them. They’re-my husband’s. As I said, I don’t look at such trash.”

Hoffner smiled with her. “Even if you might have been the one to give them the information for their stories.”

The woman’s face went white. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar! I would never-”

Hoffner raised a pacifying hand. “I don’t really care, Madame. I hope they paid you well. But I would hate to flip through one of those rags and find the mention of one of Frau Luxemburg’s special friends. Say, a bearded man who might have had keys to the flat?” The woman’s eyes went wide as she listened. Her entire body stiffened as she tried to find a response. “So there was someone?” said Hoffner. He turned his attention to the last piece of meat; he was trying to scoop it up, but was having trouble getting it onto his spoon. The woman’s eyes darted nervously as she followed his progress. When Hoffner finally landed it, he looked back at her. “There was someone?” he repeated. She stared at him; she nodded once. “Did he have a name?” said Hoffner. He popped the meat into his mouth.

The woman’s hand seemed eager for her neck, but she managed to keep it in her lap. “Most of them had beards.” A light desperation had crept into her voice. “They always had beards. Filthy people. They would stream in and out. I never knew which was which.” She suddenly remembered something. “There was an umbrella,” she said. “Yes. An umbrella. The man-her special one-he always carried an umbrella with him.”

An umbrella, thought Hoffner. Very helpful. That simply meant K was no idiot; after all, he was living in Berlin in the winter. “But no name.” She tried to find it, but shook her head. Hoffner nodded and stood. “Well, if you think of it.”

As before, she suddenly brightened up. “He was a Jew,” she said, as if she had just recalled the crucial piece in the puzzle.

The comment should not have surprised Hoffner, but it did. Nonetheless, he showed no reaction. “A Jew,” he said.

“Oh yes.” She was so pleased for remembering. “You can always tell Jews. This man was definitely one of them.”

“I see.” There were any number of things Hoffner thought to say, but he said none of them. Instead he stood quietly until he knew he had no choice but to speak: “Well. I have work to get back to. Thank you for the luncheon, Madame.”

She stood. “Not at all, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. If I can be of any further help.”

Hoffner tried to match her smile. He didn’t really try all that hard.

At first sight, Sint-Walburga was not nearly as chilling as Fichte had thought it would be. Van Acker had taken the scenic route, which, on a clear, sunlit day, gave the asylum the look of a country villa, if only through half-squinting, hungover eyes: Fichte had yet to put anything solid in his stomach-Mueller, of course, had had a full breakfast before taking off-and, except for several tall glasses of water, Fichte had done his best not to stir things up. For some reason, this morning’s flight from Kln had helped to relieve his anguish. The ups and downs and turns of the road out to the asylum, however, were beginning to take their toll: there was a distinct sloshing feeling. Fichte kept his head facing out the window.

Walburga was three stories high, set atop a small hill, and with enough surrounding woods to make it seem almost cozy. Closer in, however, the illusion vanished. The iron bars across each window and doorway came into view as the automobile made its final turn out of the trees. Chips pockmarked the thick walls, and water damage veined the stones in thin green streaks, as if a spider, infected by the disease within, had let loose with its own demented weaving.

Van Acker pulled the car up to the main gate. He beeped his horn once and waited for a guard to saunter across the gravel courtyard. The man fit perfectly into his surroundings: his face was scarred, and his uniform had the same weathered look as the walls. The sight of the gun in his belt was little comfort. He reached the gate and spoke to van Acker through the bars. “No one said you’d be coming up today, Chief Inspector.” His voice was a perfect monotone.

Van Acker nodded dismissively. “No one’s been answering your telephone. I’ve been trying since noon.”

It was difficult to know whether the guard had understood; his expression and posture remained unchanged. Had the eyes not been open, Fichte might have thought the man asleep on his feet.

With a sudden jerk, the guard reached for the lock on the gate. “Yuh,” he said in the same lifeless tone. “Telephone’s out.” He released the chain and slowly walked the gate open. Fichte expected van Acker to pull up by the main door, but he continued around to a small archway off to the right. At some point it might have been the delivery entrance; now it was Walburga’s only access. Fichte noticed several automobiles parked behind the building.

“How’s your French, Detective?” said van Acker in German as the two men stepped up to the doorway. He pulled the cord for the bell.

Hoffner had omitted Fichte’s “in training” status when he told the Belgian who was coming. In fact, he had even given Fichte a promotion, figuring Fichte could use all the help he could get. Back in Bruges, van Acker had been duly impressed by so young a detective inspector. Per Hoffner’s instructions-and given his head this morning-Fichte had kept as quiet as possible during the ride up from town. “It’s all right,” said Fichte without much conviction.

They heard footsteps through the door. Van Acker said, “I’ll translate. Make sure there’s no confusion.”

A second guard opened the door and ushered them into a tiny vestibule. It was lit by a single bulb and was in no better state of repair than the outside walls. A large iron door waited directly across from them. Van Acker was forced to suffer through a repeat performance of the conversation at the gate before being permitted to sign the registry. “Everyone who comes in or goes out,” he said as he handed the pen to Fichte. “Staff and visitors alike.” Fichte finished signing just as the guard was unlocking the iron door that led into the asylum proper. “Don’t be fooled by the surroundings,” said van Acker. “They take this all very seriously.”

The scrape of the bolt in the lock behind them was enough to tell Fichte how seriously Sint-Walburga took its inmates. Van Acker led them down a narrow corridor and into an open hall. It might have been any country house entrance hall-vaulted ceiling, fireplace, chairs and sofas-except that its windows had all been bricked over, leaving it devoid of any natural light. What light there was came from a collection of overworked lamps, placed at odd intervals along the walls, that did little more than create a stark, yellow pall within the space. That, however, was not the hall’s most disconcerting feature. The grand staircase, which still sported remnants of a once-magnificent carpet, was encased in a cage of thick bars that ran along the banisters and up to the second floor. There was barely enough room to squeeze an arm through; even so, they had taken every precaution: a second iron door stood at the bottom of the steps where the banisters met. Shadows from the bars spilled out into the hall and seemed to trap the single guard on duty in his own phantom cage. He gave a perfunctory nod to the two men; he knew they were not heading up.

For Fichte, however, the sounds coming from above made the rest seem almost inviting. At first he thought it was the mewling of dogs; he quickly realized, however, that these were human voices. Some murmured in whispers, others in incoherent wails. The one constant was an unrelenting desperation. One voice suddenly broke through, its anguish enough to prompt Fichte’s own sense of despair. Almost at once, a door bolted shut, and the voice again retreated into the amorphous mass of sound.

“The patients are on the top two floors,” said van Acker, as if relegating them to the upper reaches could in any way mitigate their presence throughout the building. Fichte did his best to nod. “The Superintendent keeps himself down here.”

All but one of the doors off the hall had been barred over. Van Acker led them over to it and knocked once before letting himself in. He told Fichte to wait outside. Fichte agreed, glad to have put some distance between himself and the stairs. He watched as van Acker made his way across the office and began to speak quickly in French to the man seated behind the far desk.

Fichte had lied. He barely understood a word. He could pick out the mannerisms of a greeting, or small talk, but he was completely at sea until he heard van Acker mention the name Wouters. Fichte did, however, recognize the look of confusion on van Acker’s face the moment the Superintendent began to reply. Confusion turned to shock. Fichte needed no French to know that something was wrong.

When the man finished speaking, van Acker slowly turned back to the door. He hesitated and then motioned for Fichte to join them. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said. “Could you join us?”

It took Fichte a moment to remember his “promotion.” He stepped into the office. It was clear that van Acker was on edge: the introductions were brief.

The room fell silent as van Acker seemed unsure what he wanted to say. Finally he turned to Fichte and, almost under his breath, said, “Wouters is dead.” He did nothing to hide his own disbelief and regret. “It seems he hung himself two nights ago.”

Fichte remained surprisingly calm; he let the information settle. He then said, “I’ll need to send a wire.”

Hoffner got lucky. At this hour, most of the city’s cabs were already back in central Berlin, picking their spots for the rush hour. The sky had opened up, and, had it not been for the sudden appearance of a black Tonneau Mercedes dropping off a fare-and his own quick sprint to flag it down-Hoffner would have been left to slog his way through the downpour to the nearest bus stop. Even so, he received a nice dousing of his pants for his efforts. It was an acceptable trade-off: his shoes would have gotten soaked through, anyway. Once safely inside, he thought about a nap, but that was not to be. He was having trouble shaking Luxemburg.

On the edge of downtown, he told the driver to head up toward Friedrichstrasse. The man disagreed. “You want to avoid die Mitte this time of day, mein Herr. Faster if we hook over south of the Hallesches Gate.”

“Just try Friedrichstrasse,” Hoffner said. “All right?”

The man shrugged. “Your time, your money.”

As promised, the traffic slowed once they hit the middle of town. The spray from the wheels of the cars rapped mercilessly at the cab’s windows and repeatedly dissolved the outside world into a swirl of melting pictures. Hoffner rolled down his window when they hit Friedrichstrasse, so as to minimize the distortion. He checked his watch; it was about time for tea. Positioning himself back on the seat so as to avoid the splatter, he peered out.

He spotted her at Schuckert’s, just beyond Leipziger Strasse. She had ducked in under the awning, and was waiting for the worst of it to pass. Her coat was too thin for the weather, and she held her arms across her chest for added warmth.

“Pull over!” shouted Hoffner over the patter of the rain.

The driver turned abruptly for the curb. Several horn squawks accompanied the maneuver. “I told you it would be bad.”

Hoffner paid and hopped out. He placed the papers under his coat and darted over to the restaurant. It was not until he had removed his hat that Lina recognized him. She tried to hide her pleasure in a look of surprise, but her face was not yet sophisticated enough to carry it off. Hoffner shook out his hat as he approached. “I thought it might be you,” he said, deciding to play out the charade.

“Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” said Lina. “What a nice surprise.”

“You look absolutely frozen, Frulein Lina. Let me buy you a coffee.”

She hesitated before answering: “I can’t bring them inside unless I’m selling.” She glanced down at her basket of flowers, then back at Hoffner. “And the tea hour is my best time, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Not in this weather, it isn’t,” he said, before she could find another excuse. He looked over and saw the lone waiter who had been stationed for the outside seating. The man was holding his tray across his chest and staring out at the rain. Heated lamps or not, no one would be stupid enough to sit out today. “Herr Ober,” said Hoffner, calling the man over. Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. Well trained, the man showed no reaction as Hoffner continued: “This young lady is going to leave her basket out here while we go inside for a coffee. You’ll be good enough to see that nothing happens to it, yes?”

The man gave a swift nod. “Of course, mein Herr.”

“Good.” Hoffner turned to Lina, and motioned her to the door. “Shall we, Frulein?”

Schuckert’s was known for its sweets. The place smelled of raisins and honey, and everything was immaculately white: napkins, tablecloths, even the waiters’ coats. In a lovely old-world touch, the tea silverware was marvelously ornate and heavy, and seemed to overwhelm the small marble tables, each of which was surrounded by a quartet of straight-backed wrought-iron chairs. From the far corner, a violinist played something soothing. Hoffner thought it might have been Mozart, but he could have been wrong.

A plump matre d’ was chatting up one of his customers when he saw Hoffner and Lina come through the door. The man gave an overly gracious bow to the table, and then headed over. It was clear that he recognized Lina; he was kind enough, though, not to mention it. He smiled and extended his hand to the room. “Mein Herr,” he said. “A table for two?”

Hoffner knew that he and Lina were not Schuckert’s usual clientele. Grandmothers and granddaughters sat over hot chocolates and scones; elderly bankers shared a plate of figs-Schuckert’s had just the right sort of connections to keep its pantries full, no matter what the rest of Berlin might be suffering through; and young women, whose husbands would one day be eating those figs, sat with each other and their packages from KaDeWe or Tietz, or wherever else they had spent the day. One or two were tactless enough to stare at Lina as she passed by, but the rest took no notice. It had never occurred to Hoffner: people could think what they liked. But if Lina was bothered by their looks, she showed none of it. She walked past them with an air of seamless ease. Hoffner felt mildly foolish for having put her through it.

They reached the table and sat. Hoffner helped her out of her coat, and she let the collar fall back across the chair. He noticed that the rain had gotten through to her dress. The wet fabric clung tightly to her thighs. They were long and wonderfully slim, and the cloth was nestling deep within the perfect triangle between them. Without acknowledging his stare, Lina aired out the skirt of her dress and then placed her napkin on her lap. Hoffner looked up to see her peering over at him with a knowing smile. He liked the feeling of having been caught. “Let’s find a waiter,” he said, and turned to the room.

A man approached from the other direction; Hoffner failed to see him.

“Et voil,” said Lina. Hoffner turned to see a waiter holding out two menus. Lina was not one to wait. She said ecstatically, “I’m going to have a hot chocolate.”

Hoffner declined his menu, as well. “Coffee for me.”

The man was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Lina leaned in closer and spoke in a soft, low whisper. “He’s asked me to the cinema twice. Must be strange to take my order, don’t you think?”

Hoffner felt the excitement in her breath, as if telling him had somehow made her more attractive: it had, of course. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. “Must be.” It was Kvatsch’s pack, a nice impressive brand. Hoffner lit one up. “Well, this was lucky,” he said.

“Yes. It was.” She continued to stare at him.

There was something thrilling in not knowing if he was being overmatched. Hoffner said, “I was meaning to send you a note about Hans, but I didn’t have your address.”

“No. You wouldn’t have.”

“Just in case you were wondering where he might have gotten to.”

“Just in case.”

Hoffner looked at the girl. He liked the way her eyes widened almost imperceptibly each time she spoke. He liked the slenderness of her shoulders, and the smallness of her breasts. Most of all, he liked how she continued to bait him. “He’s out of the country for a day or two,” he said. “On an investigation.”

“How very exciting for him.”

Hoffner took a drag on his cigarette; he was enjoying this more than she knew, or, perhaps, as much as she was permitting. He had yet to figure out which.

“In Bruges,” she said. “Yes. Hans managed to get a note to my flat before he left. But thank you for thinking of me, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Not at all, Frulein.” The drinks arrived.

Lina spooned up a dollop of the cream with her little finger and slipped it into her mouth. There was nothing sexual in it; she was simply too impatient to reach for her spoon. Her eyes slowly closed. “Heaven,” she said with delight. The waiter was gone by the time she opened them, and she peered over at Hoffner. He marveled at how her smile gave nothing away. She slid the cup toward him. “Have some. Please.”

Hoffner took his spoon and sampled the cream. He nodded. “Very nice.”

She took her own spoon and, leaning toward the cup, delicately dug through for some of the chocolate. Hoffner watched as she deftly tried to bring the liquid up along the side of the cup so as not to disturb the cream. She seemed so intent on the task. It was then that he noticed the half-blackened nail on her right hand; she had bruised it somehow, most likely from a slamming door, or a fall on the ice. She had done nothing to hide it. Hoffner kept his eyes on the nail as she raised the spoon to her lips. She blew gently, then sipped it down. Wincing a moment at the heat, she quickly recovered and went in for a second spoonful.

Hoffner said, “It’s best if you mix it with the cream. Less bitter.”

Lina kept her eyes on the spoon and cup. “I like it this way,” she said. “At least at the start.” Hoffner took a sip of the coffee. It was the first good cup he had had in weeks. Lina looked over at him and said, “Would you like my address?”

It was rare for Hoffner to be caught out like this, but here it was. He felt something sharp run through his chest. It moved up to his throat and made his mouth suddenly dry. He hadn’t felt it in years. It was anticipation. He slowly placed his coffee back on the table. Out of necessity, he said, “Is that such a good idea, Frulein?”

She spoke with certainty: “You came to find me. Didn’t you?”

When he had no choice but to answer, Hoffner said, “I’ve been wondering if you make enough to survive, selling flowers and matches.”

For the first time, he saw the smallest slip in her otherwise perfect stare. Just as quickly, she recovered. “Have you?” She placed the spoon in the cup and began to fold the cream into the chocolate. “I do all right. I’ve started modeling. For an artist.”

Hoffner watched as the liquid became silky brown. Lina was merciless with even the smallest floating fleck of cream. She seemed to take a wicked pleasure in drowning each of them to oblivion.

“How very exciting for you,” he said. He retrieved his cigarette, took a few puffs, and crushed it out. Digging the last of the butt into the ashtray, he said, “Yes.” He let go of the cigarette and looked at her. “I did.”

Again, her cheeks flushed, although she was too good to let it take hold. She stopped mixing and placed the spoon to the side. “I’m glad.” Taking her cup in both hands, she brought it up to her lips. She was about to take a sip, when she stopped and peered over at him. “I wouldn’t want anything to change with me and Hans,” she said. “A chance to leave my basket behind. You understand that.” She took the sip.

Hoffner suddenly remembered how young she really was. He doubted Lina realized it, but in that moment she had shown herself at her most vulnerable. She might just as well have said, “I’m not expecting anything, so don’t feel you have to give anything.” Or, perhaps, it was just what he had wanted to hear.

Hoffner watched as she placed the cup on the table. He slowly reached over for her hand. It might have been an awkward movement, but the two came together too easily, and he ran his thumb gently over her palm. Just as easily, he let go. “Thank you for the lovely time, Frulein Lina.” He picked up the pack of cigarettes and placed them in his pocket.

“Yes,” she said warmly. She then said, “Kremmener Strasse. Number five.”

Hoffner waited a moment. He nodded and, somewhere, he thought he heard Victor Knig laughing. He found a few coins in his pocket and placed them on the table. He then took his hat and stood. “A pleasure, Frulein.”

“As always, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner tipped his brow and headed for the door.

Back at the Alex, the security desk was under frontal assault from a group of irate Hausfrauen when Hoffner walked in: something to do with a pickpocket, from what he could make out. Hoffner decided to avoid the commotion and instead started for the wire room, when the duty officer put up a hand and shouted over:

“Kriminal-Kommissar.” Hoffner stopped. “Your Sascha’s been looking for you.”

Hoffner was momentarily confused. Why would his son have come to the Alex? “Sascha’s been by?” he said. Hoffner immediately thought of Georgi.

The man had no time for games. “Yes. Sascha. He’s asked for you twice.” Before Hoffner could answer, the women were once again on the attack.

Only then did Hoffner realize which Sascha the man had been referring to: “Sascha the runner,” Hoffner said aloud to no one in particular. He shook his head. He needed to concentrate, no matter what might, or might not, be happening later tonight: Knig’s laughter seemed to be growing louder by the minute. Hoffner stepped through to the courtyard.

Kripo Sascha was sitting on the ground, reading outside the wire room, when Hoffner pushed through and into the corridor. At once the boy stood. He took a folded sheet from inside the book and held it out to Hoffner.

Hoffner took the note and said, “So, when did it come in?”

“Just over an hour ago, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” The boy spoke with great precision.

“And no one else has seen it?”

Sascha looked almost hurt by the question. “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. No one.”

“Good.” Hoffner crooked his head to the side so as to take a look at the book in the boy’s hand. The Count of Monte Cristo. Hoffner was liking this boy more and more. “Planning an escape,” Hoffner said with a smile.

For the first time, Sascha let his shoulders drop. He smiled, and shook his head. “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner pulled a coin from his pocket and, taking Sascha’s hand, placed it in the boy’s open palm. “Our secret.” Before Sascha could say a word, Hoffner was nodding him down the corridor.

Hoffner’s mood changed the moment he started reading: WOUTERS DEAD STOP HANGED HIMSELF TWO DAYS AGO STOP STRANGE BEHAVIOR AS OF FIVE MONTHS AGO STOP NO BATHING CUTTING HAIR STOP PUT IN ISOLATION THREE MONTHS AGO STOP AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS STOP

Hoffner read the note several times to make sure he had missed nothing. “No bathing, cutting hair.” He stepped into the wire room.

The man behind the desk was just finishing off a wire. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said without looking up. “You’ve something for me to send?”

“A reply,” said Hoffner; he handed the original to the man.

The man examined it. “To Bruges?”

“Yes.”

The man took out a pen and paper. “Go ahead.”

“Two words,” said Hoffner. “‘Shave him.’”