Straight into Darkness Read online

  “Before I go . . .” Berg cringed. “Before I arrest our vagrant, I’d like to at least try to identify the mystery man in the drawing. I was planning to show the sketch to patrons of the Russian teahouses in Schwabing. The afternoon papers don’t hit until three, so I have several hours before the citizens learn of another body.”

  Volker slowly warmed to the idea. “If you find a man worthy of arrest before the afternoon papers come out, I will be thrilled.”

  “So we have the same objective. All that differs is the time frame.”

  “What do you have in mind, Berg?”

  “Before I make any arrests, I’d like to confer with Müller and with Ulrich, who is out trying to identify our mystery woman. If you’d just allow me another day or two, I think I could find out crucial things.”

  “I’m not interested in things,” Volker said; “I need names!”

  Berg said, “Kommissar, suppose we arrest someone and another murder happens right away. It is going to be obvious that we messed up.”

  “Then we’ll haul in another vagrant and say the first one had a partner. If nothing else, we’ll clean up the streets.”

  “Sir?”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll give you a day.” Volker shook his head. “Perhaps I can stave off the hyenas for that long.”

  Berg smiled. “Your superiors, sir?”

  Volker did not smile back. “In rank only.”

  • • •

  THE RUSSIAN EATERIES in the northeast area of the city were small storefronts with wooden shutters and hand-painted Cyrillic lettering on the doors. As Berg walked down Kaiser Strasse, glancing at the numerous establishments, he knew his job would be made easier if the Russians wore uniforms like everyone else in Germany. Because they didn’t, he had to figure out which tavern belonged to what party in order to ask the proper questions. Within this sizable ethnic group, there was lots of discord and constant infighting.

  Munich, with its charm, beauty, and accessibility, had been a natural magnet for Russian expatriates. The first wave of immigration began after Gregory Gapon led a march to Winter Palace Square in Saint Petersburg that terminated in a riot known as Bloody Sunday. The ensuing demonstrations and strikes forced the Czar to establish the Duma, a somewhat democratic parliament. Though the coup was unsuccessful, its aftermath left Russia’s central government disorganized and feeble. Still reeling from economic woes brought on by the Great War, Trotsky and then Lenin saw an unparalleled opportunity for seizure of central power in 1917.

  The brutal murders of the Czar and his entire family sent a flood of royalist Russians across the border where they found sympathy with the Bavarian monarchy. For hundreds of years, the Wittelsbacher had reigned without dispute, levying taxes, maintaining their own armies, and building numerous castles in the Alps.

  By 1918, it was all gone. The Germans had taken their lead from their Russian brethren, and Bavaria was a baby step away from joining the Soviet Union. German Kommunist Kurt Eisner, a thin, bearded Jew, led a revolt, his party eventually forcing the Wittelsbacher into exile. Elected Prime Minister of the Bavarian republic, Eisner promised a government that would serve all citizens. A year later, Eisner’s utopian dream was cut short by an assassin’s bullet, which threw the region into upheaval and culminated in the Great Inflation of 1923. It was not so long ago that a wheelbarrow’s worth of paper money was needed to purchase a single egg.

  Russia’s Kommunist postwar economy, like those of all of Europe, suffered. When Stalin usurped control, his wrath brought yet another mass exile of Russians streaming into Munich in the mid-twenties: This time it was the Bolsheviks.

  Each Russian faction set up its own teahouses, taverns, chess parlors, and dance halls. The Kabaretts were identical in menu, smell, and language. The people looked the same, dressed the same, and drank the same. Once in a while, a teahouse or tavern would try to assert its identity by waving a royal flag or the hammer and sickle or even a poster of Trotsky. Within days, opposition had ripped the offending object down. Although Berg didn’t come to Soviet Schwabing to talk politics, casual conversation always seemed to go in that direction.

  It was lunchtime. Cooking smells wafting from the open shutters were pungent: a workingman’s meal of onions, cabbage, turnips, and potatoes—and a little meat if the price was right. The evening menus were more varied, offering Russian delicacies such as blinis or gravlax cured in vodka. These tasty morsels were served along with German specialties like Spätzle and Maultaschen. Meals were washed down with locally brewed beer or vodka: The more the alcohol flowed, the rosier the atmosphere.

  A chess tournament was taking place. Dozens of card tables were set out on the sidewalk, the benches occupied by men of all ages clothed in thick work shirts, patched pants, tattered jackets, and wool caps. The players sipped beer and smoked heavily, pondering the boards, then punching the timer after each completed move. The competition was due to end soon. Berg’s plan was to pass around Anna’s picture and the sketch of her unknown escort after the games broke up.

  In the meantime, he found a small tavern that looked inviting and sat on a stool at the empty bar. He held out a finger to the barkeeper.

  “Löwenbräu, bitte.”

  The German out of Berg’s mouth made the barkeeper suspicious. Even so, he poured the beer from the tap until foam rushed over the glass. He gave it to Berg along with a plate of nuts and broken pieces of pretzel.

  “Danke. Work here long?”

  The tapster’s eyes turned hostile with a touch of fear. “Why you ask?”

  Berg showed him the sketch. “Do you know this man? I think he may be Russian.”

  The barkeeper gave the picture some attention. “Nyet.” A shake of the head. “I don’t know him.”

  “Do you know a man named Robert Schick?”

  “No. Who is he, please?”

  The tapster’s accent was thick, but his German was decent. He’d been in the country for a while. Berg finished his pint and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He took out Anna Gross’s photograph. “What about this woman?”

  A shrug. “No.”

  “She doesn’t look familiar?”

  “No.”

  “She was murdered yesterday. The story was in all the papers.”

  “I don’t read German papers.”

  “I’m sure it was in the Russian papers as well.”

  “I don’t read any papers.”

  “Her name is Anna Gross. She might go by the name of Anna Haaf.”

  “I know none of these people. You ask many questions. You are police?”

  Berg shoved a handful of pretzel pieces into his mouth and shrugged.

  The barkeeper said, “All my papers are ordered.”

  “I’m not interested in your papers.”

  “Then you are interested in what?”

  “In answers. Think again. Do you know Robert Schick?”

  “Nyet!” A firm shake of the head. “I don’t know him. And I don’t know man in drawing. Bother someone else.”

  Berg took several coins out of his pocket to pay, but the barkeeper stopped him. “I give you beer. You say you never ask me questions. German police in here is no good, verstanden?”

  “Yes, I understand.” Berg wrote his name and the phone number of the police station on a piece of paper. “I’ll leave now.” He slid the paper across the countertop to the barkeeper. “But if you find something out, you’ll do your local duty and tell me. Verstanden?”

  “Da, da . . .”

  Berg stared at him.

  “I tell you. I tell you. I am good man.”

  “I know. All your papers are ordered.”

  • • •

  BERG LEFT just as the tournament was breaking up. He took out the drawing and the photograph of Anna and began to show them to the chess players.

  Nein.

  Nein.

  Nyet.

  Nein.

  Nyet.

  Nyet.

  Nyet.

  A gnome w
earing a cap asked if the man in the sketch was a Kommunist. When Berg said he might be, the man stiffened and announced he was a royalist.

  Berg asked where he would find the Kommunisten.

  The gnome replied that with any luck, he’d find them in a mass grave.

  The name Robert Schick drew blank stares as well.

  The only thing left to do was to visit each individual establishment. He took out his notebook and started at one end of the block.

  When he entered his seventh teahouse—a tiny space of tables and chairs and the ubiquitous bronze samovar—he realized he was hungry. He waited ten minutes for an empty chair, and for the price of a mark, he had a lunch of smoked fish, a beet and celery-root salad, a roll, and all the hot, dark tea he could drink. Expensive but satisfying.

  A youth of sixteen or seventeen in a vest and cap was playing music on a balalaika. Berg liked the ethnic music, but his favorite was American jazz. He was disappointed when Joachim seemed more interested in classical guitar music after they had seen Andrés Segovia in concert.

  The place was thick with people and conversations, but since Russian was spoken, Berg was lost. Sipping tea, he realized that he was taking up desired space. Just as the balalaika player took a break, he got up, realizing this was an opportune moment.

  He followed the youth outside.

  The kid had a smooth, white face and not much in the way of a beard. His eyes were brown, and his hair was the color of rust. The musician leaned against the wall and took out a cigarette. Berg was there with a light. The young man stared at him, but took the proffered match. There was suspicion in his eyes. “Spasibo.”

  “I’m not Russian, I’m German,” Berg answered. “I liked your playing.”

  The suspicion hardened. The teen’s eyes darted from side to side. But he nodded at the compliment, puffing on his cigarette.

  Berg said, “Do you play at other cafés?”

  “I play where anyone will pay me. You have café?”

  “Maybe. What’s your name?”

  “My name?”

  Berg smiled. To prevent the musician from leaving, he leaned over, arm extended with his hand against the wall, blocking his escape. “Yes, your name.”

  “You are not café owner,” the player pronounced.

  “No, I am a policeman. What’s your name?”

  The musician froze. Berg took the cigarette from the player’s lips. “You want to stay in Munich, no?”

  “My papers are good.”

  “I’m sure they are. Your name?”

  The player tapped his toe. “Sergei.”

  Surely a false name but Berg didn’t pursue it. “I bet you’ve played at many cafés, Sergei. I bet you’ve met many people.”

  The young man said nothing.

  Berg showed him the sketch of the man and the picture of Anna. “Do you know either of these people?”

  Sergei stared at the pencil rendition, then at the photograph. His eyes gave nothing away. “Why you ask?”

  “Yes or no. Do you recognize either or both of them?”

  “The woman, no.” He pointed to the sketch. “Maybe I see him.”

  Berg tried to hide his excitement. “Maybe?”

  “It’s like you say. I see many people.” Sergei squirmed, but had nowhere to go. Instead he reached for his cigarette still in Berg’s hand. “He has name . . . this man?”

  “I’m sure he does, but I don’t know it. Describe him for me.”

  “Why I describe? You have picture.”

  “Short, tall—”

  “Tall.”

  “Hair color?”

  “It is brown, I think.”

  “Eyes?”

  “I don’t remember eyes. But he wore monocle like he was important man.”

  Berg nodded, trying not to show emotion. “Important in what way?”

  “Like he was big-shot royalty.” The young man spat on the ground.

  “Aristocracy?”

  “Maybe. But there are many here that act like important peoples.”

  “A Schlawiner?”

  “Maybe he is impostor, but a good one. He is always with the ladies.”

  “With this woman?” Berg showed him Anna’s photograph again.

  “I tell you I don’t know her.” He flicked ashes on the ground. “She is beautiful. He knows many beautiful women.”

  “Do you know a man named Robert Schick?”

  “He is this man?” Sergei asked.

  “You tell me.”

  Sergei shrugged. “Robert Schick is not Russian name.”

  “I know that. If he was Schlawiner, maybe he was using more than one name.” As soon as Sergei finished his cigarette, Berg offered him another. “Have you ever heard someone call him any name?”

  “Maybe I hear someone call him Ro.”

  Berg lit Sergei’s cigarette. “Ro? What kind of a name is that?”

  “You say his name is Robert. Maybe Ro is Robert.”

  Berg smiled. Inadvertently, he had fed him the answer he wanted to hear. “Could Ro be a Russian name?”

  “Possible. Maybe Roman, maybe Rodion, maybe Rostislav, maybe even last name like Czar . . . Romanov.” A wry smile. “So maybe he is big-shot royalty. These days only God knows friend from enemy.”

  “But you’re sure he’s Russian.”

  “I hear him speak Russian. But where he’s born . . .” The musician shrugged.

  “If you see him again, you contact me.” Berg gave the youth his card. “Bitte . . . or should I say Potzhalusta?”

  Sergei lifted his eyebrows. “You know Russian?”

  “I know ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’” Berg answered. “My mother raised me with manners.”

  SIXTEEN

  Anders Johannsen sat on a damask sofa. A white, fluffy thing with a gold necklace and a pink bow was curled up in his lap; at his feet was something live, large, and ominous. “It was so horrible! I knew something was amiss because Otto kept pulling at the leash, but I never expected . . .”

  His iridescent blue eyes were moist and a little wild. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, and was tall and thin. He flailed his arms as he spoke, nearly knocking the little critter off his lap. The thick, brooding beast on the floor picked up its head, pendulous maws dripping with saliva. Otto stared at nothing for a moment, then tucked his head into his bent legs and went back to sleep.

  “Otto picked up the smell.” As the man petted his lapdog, white fur flew into the air like snow. He sneezed.

  “Gesundheit,” Müller said.

  “Danke.”

  “This one . . .” Johannsen framed the doggy’s face with his long, tapered fingers. “She went right to the spot.”

  The man’s hair was almost as light as the little dog’s white fur. He was no doubt from the north. Müller said, “Dogs have good noses.”

  “Very good noses,” Johannsen concurred.

  Squirming on a dark purple settee, Georg Müller sat opposite Johannsen, his feet tucked underneath his seat to prevent his toes from nudging the brute’s ribs. His notepad in his lap, his sharpened pencil poised, he was ready to write down anything crucial to the case. But so far, all he had done was listen to an unseemly display of emotion.

  Johannsen’s apartment was simple but fastidiously clean: sparkling white plastered walls, polished wood floors, and big windows letting in whatever light Munich had in the late winter. Hanging on the walls were several Cubist paintings—square torsos in bright colors without arms and legs and heads—a set of primitive drawings that could have come from African caves, and another group of drawings with very few lines.

  Back to business. “Did you touch anything at the scene of the crime?”

  “You mean the body?” Johannsen shuddered. “Good heavens, no! Otto was licking her face . . . trying to wake her up, I think. At first, I thought she might be a drunk. But then it was obvious. I was in total shock!”

  “It must have been quite upsetting.”

  “Very upsetting.” He
shuddered again. “I must say that as a citizen here, I do hold the police accountable. So forgive my presumption if I ask what is going on.”

  “It is . . . puzzling.”

  “Were the murders political in nature?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because everything in Germany is political.”

  “You say Germany and not Munich, Herr Johannsen. Were you born here?”

  “No. Up north.”

  “Hamburg?”

  “Farther. Neumünster.”

  Müller said, “What brought you to Munich?”

  Johannsen flipped his hair off his forehead. He had thin features, a protruding forehead, and a sharp nose. He looked like Beethoven’s blond twin. He sighed deeply. “I came before the Great War because of what the city used to be—so alive and full of ideas.”

  “I’ve always found the Bavarians a conservative lot,” Müller answered.

  “The county of Munich yes, but the city . . . it was different. At the turn of the century, we were the true bohemians, not the silly Parisians. We were the Blaue Reiter.”

  “You are a painter, Herr Johannsen?”

  “No. I talk metaphorically.” He waved his hand in the air, then let it fall back down on his lapdog. “I am a collector.” He pointed to the Cubist paintings. “Munich was an unrivaled artists’ community. Since the Great War and the Austrian, nothing has been the same. Hitler claims to be an artist. That’s a laugh. Surely you have seen Karl Valentin with Liesl Karlstadt at one time or another. His latest interpretation of modern times is quite apropos to what we’re talking about.”

  If you say so. Müller was forever wary of those who expressed themselves so strongly. Political rivals were always setting traps. “What time do you walk your dogs, Herr Johannsen?”

  “I rise and dress at six in the morning. I am out for my walk by seven. You may set your watch on my routine. You do not want to keep a hound like Otto waiting when necessity calls.”

  “I suppose not. So you discovered the body around . . .”

  “I did not look at my watch, but I would say around fifteen minutes into my constitutional.”

  “Seven-fifteen.”

  “I would say so, yes.”