Straight into Darkness Read online

  “And then what did you do?”

  “I found a policeman and apprised him of the situation. I could tell he wanted to question me, but instead he took my name and address and let me go home to compose myself.”

  “Did you see anyone suspicious coming into or going out from the area?”

  “There were some people around me, ja? But no one I’d label as suspicious.”

  And even if he did see people, what did it matter? According to Herr Professor Kolb, the woman was murdered at least two days ago. Müller tapped his pencil against his notepad.

  Johannsen became impatient. “I have nothing else to add.” He rose from the sofa. “If you have no more questions, Herr Inspektor, I would like to get back to my work.”

  “Ah . . .” As Müller got up, he awakened the beast, still drooling. This time a low growl emanated from the depths of its throat. “Is he going to bite me?”

  “Otto?” Johannsen placed his shod foot squarely on top of the dog’s head. “He’s a baby.”

  “A very large one then,” Müller said, sidestepping around the ruffian. Then he hesitated before saying, “Your work . . . what is your work?”

  “I am a composer.”

  “Ah . . .” Müller glanced around the living room. “But one without a piano.”

  “I have a separate music room. Soundproofed.” A slow smile spread across Johannsen’s face. “I would not like it if my neighbors complained. Auf Wiedersehen.”

  • • •

  SHOWING A PICTURE of a dead woman to people at random, hoping that someone could identify her, was a rigged game of hit-and-miss. But sometimes even the tremendous odds stacked against you were rendered meaningless. Such was the case when Storf spotted a young, attractive woman wearing a hat over a short bob coming out of Konigen’s Milliners, near Maximilian Strasse. She toddled awkwardly because she was toting two very bulky hatboxes. She wore a brown tweed suit and had on leather pumps.

  Storf corralled her just as she was readjusting her packages and showed her the postmortem photograph. Expecting nothing, he was stunned when her dark eyes got very big, her red-painted lips tightened into an “O,” and her throat uttered an audible gasp. Quickly, she averted her glance.

  “Is that Marlena?”

  Storf’s heartbeat quickened. “I don’t know, meine Dame, perhaps you can tell me.”

  “I am Fräulein Erika Schulweiss.” She looked up into Storf’s blue eyes. “And you are?”

  “My apologies for not introducing myself properly. I am Inspektor Ulrich Storf. I am sorry to trouble you with such unpleasantness, but the police are desperately searching for the identity of this woman. Perhaps you can peek at the photograph one more time?”

  She did. “It looks like Marlena.”

  “Marlena who?”

  “Marlena Druer.”

  Storf glanced at the young woman. She appeared to be in her early twenties with a slim figure, but ample hips. A lovely girl with a body meant for breeding. He felt a tug below his waist, then looked away, knowing he was red-faced. But the woman hardly seemed to notice.

  “At least I think it’s Marlena.” She bit her thumbnail. “It looks like Marlena.”

  Storf took out his notepad and pencil. “And where does Frau Druer—”

  “Fräulein Druer.”

  “Ah, yes. Where does Fräulein Druer live?”

  “Not here,” Erika answered. “I mean, not in Munich. She lives in Berlin. She is a longtime family friend . . . a friend of my older sister actually. My sister also lives in Berlin. The two of them come out to visit our family around this time every year . . . right after Fasching. They have been doing this for the last six years. But this year, Henrietta—that’s my sister—she wasn’t feeling well. She just had her fourth baby not more than two months ago. So Marlena came by herself.” She stared at Storf. “Are you writing all of this down?”

  “Yes, I am trying to do that.”

  “I’ll slow down then. I talk very rapidly. It drives my family to distraction, I’m afraid. I grew up in Spain. There are many Germans in Spain. If you think I talk quickly, you should hear the Spanish. Especially the Cubans. We had several Cubans who went to my school. My school had all kinds of people—Spanish, Cuban, German, Portuguese . . . a regular League of Nations—”

  “Fräulein Schulweiss?” Storf interrupted. “I’d like to talk about Marlena Druer, please.”

  “Yes. Marlena.” Erika put down her packages on the sidewalk, straightened her hat, and raised the veil so she could see a bit better. She glanced at the picture again. “Ach mein Gott! I’m sure that’s Marlena. This is just dreadful! She looks so young in that photograph.”

  Death tended to do that, especially to the face. It smoothed out the wrinkles. Ulrich said, “How old is she?”

  “She is thirty-five. The same age as my sister.”

  “You are much younger than your sister, then?”

  “Yes, this is true. I am twenty. I come from a large family. Henrietta is the oldest and I am the youngest. Only my brother and I are left . . . at home. The rest have married and moved away. The house keeps getting emptier and emptier, but my parents refuse to move.”

  “Marlena was staying with your family, then?”

  “No. My sister of course stayed with my family, but Marlena never did. Instead, she rented at a small pension. Marlena always insisted on her privacy, which I never could understand because she could get plenty of privacy in our house.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Oh dear, maybe three days ago.”

  “And you weren’t alarmed that you hadn’t heard from her in two or three days?”

  “Not at all. Marlena came and went as she pleased. If she didn’t come calling for several days, we just figured she had other plans. She and my sister always brought their skis. It was entirely possible that Marlena had gone skiing nearby . . . or even in Switzerland. Or even that she suddenly changed her mind and went back to Berlin. Or even Paris. That was Marlena. I think that’s why my sister adored her. Henrietta was very shy and Marlena was outgoing. They’re quite a pair.” Again, her eyes watered. “This is terrible!”

  Storf patted her back in a comforting gesture. “I am so sorry to have burdened you with this ugly matter. Perhaps we can contact someone to come with us to the mortuary to identify the body. Perhaps your father or brother may be able to do that?”

  Now Erika’s eyes filled with tears that ran down her cheeks. “Yes, of course.” She took out a handkerchief from her purse. “You will tell them this dreadful news. I cannot do it.”

  “Of course, Fräulein Schulweiss. We would never allow a lovely woman such as yourself to dirty her hands with such awful doings.”

  Erika smiled. “That is very kind of you, Inspektor.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  The two of them engaged eyes for a moment.

  Storf picked up her packages. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany me to your family’s home so I may talk to the gentlemen in your house?”

  Erika reddened. “My father is working. My brother as well.”

  “Ah . . .” Storf nodded. “So perhaps you can give me the address of your father’s employment so I may speak to him right away?”

  Erika didn’t answer.

  “These are pressing matters, Fräulein Schulweiss.”

  “My father is a doctor, Herr Inspektor. Today is his day for surgery.”

  “Then perhaps I can speak to your brother?”

  “He is not home, either.”

  “Oh . . . that is a problem. Still, I would like to accompany you home and carry your packages. It is the least I can do after bringing you such terrible news.”

  “That is very kind of you, Inspektor.” She gave Storf a smile. “My streetcar is not more than two blocks away. Come.”

  They walked without speaking. Storf wanted to question her further about Marlena Druer and her habits, but with all the noise and the pedestrians bumping into the
packages, he could scarcely manage to walk without toppling over.

  “I have an idea,” Erika said brightly. “Why don’t you wait at my house for my brother? I do think that it would be much better for police matters to be handled in the privacy of one’s home.”

  “And when do you think your brother might return home?”

  “Well, it is around three. . . .” She paused. “Perhaps in an hour. Maybe a little longer.”

  Again, Storf felt his heart beating against his chest. Not only was the girl very well formed, her face was pleasing as well. She was, however, completely out of his class. Still, there was no harm in taking a break. He had been on his feet for the last three hours. If nothing else, he’d get a hot cup of tea and a chance to rest. Maybe he’d even get a beer, if the family was generous. “If it’s no inconvenience to your mother, I will wait at your home, then.”

  “It will be no inconvenience to her whatever.” A slow smile spread across Erika’s face. “She is out of town.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The beer hall was packed, most of the tables taken up by Vereine, the numerous clubs that had formed and dissolved and formed again, each one indicated by a flag with its insignia on the tabletop. Vereine weren’t just offshoots of the major political parties. These days, the clubs included the carpenters’ union, the plumbers’ union, the masons’ union, the tailors’ union, and, of course, the city police, although in this beer hall—Der Bierkeller—Berg couldn’t see his departmental banner. After a minute of surveying the masses, he spotted some free seats at the end of a long trestle table. He and Müller sat down and ordered a couple of Löwenbräus.

  Berg checked the clock and compared it to his wristwatch—a wedding gift from his father-in-law. It had an eighteen-karat gold case and was engraved, but it ran slow. He adjusted the time to quarter past five, then wound the stem three times, putting the face to his ear to make sure it was ticking. He said, “Not like Storf to be late.”

  Two beer mugs were plunked in front of their faces, foam swelling over the lip of each stein.

  “Maybe he’s discovered something.” Müller took a big gulp of brew. “Ah . . . das tut gut.”

  “Discovered what? Has he contacted you?”

  “No.” Müller took another swig. “Just postulating.”

  “Did Professor Kolb say anything more about the deceased?”

  “Just what he told you. From the insect eggs, it appears that she died around three days ago. Frankly, I think he just enjoys playing with repulsive things.”

  “And no one discovered her until Johannsen. What a pity.”

  “Yes, a pity.”

  “Anything else on her condition beyond being strangled?”

  “It wasn’t done with the stocking.”

  “Yes. Kolb said it was a wire or a piece of twine. I was there.”

  Georg popped pretzels into his mouth. “When he looked at the ligature mark under the microscope, he found a repetitive pattern etched into the skin . . . in the part where the wire didn’t actually cut through the flesh. Little, lined circles—”

  “A necklace chain.”

  “That’s what he was thinking, yes.”

  “Did you find a necklace near her?”

  “No,” Müller responded. “But she was dressed in evening wear. It’s logical that she had on a necklace. The culprit murdered her with it and then stole it.”

  “Did we find the other stocking?”

  “No.”

  “So maybe the murderer took that as well.”

  “Whatever for?” Müller asked.

  Berg thought a moment. “Some criminals are like that. They take things from their victims—clothing or jewelry.”

  “More likely, they rob for profit.”

  “Yes, of course. But they take insignificant things as well. I’ve seen a case where the murderer actually cut off pieces of his victim’s hair. When asked why, he said he simply wanted a memory.”

  Müller shook his head. “Very strange.”

  “And she wasn’t violated?” Berg asked.

  “It appears not, but she has spent several days moldering. Herr Professor took swabs of the region. Perhaps he’ll spot something under the microscope.”

  “So already there are differences. One was violated, and the other was not. Different implements to use as a garrote. It could be different murderers.”

  “Indeed.” Müller took another gulp. “I’m starved. Are you eating, Axel?”

  Berg was lost in thought. “But in both cases, the matching stocking is gone. That indicates the same hand, wouldn’t you think?”

  “What I think is I am hungry. How about a plate of cheese and cold cuts with some brown bread and butter?”

  Berg stared at Müller for a moment, then slowly brought his thoughts back to the present. “Yes, that would be satisfying.”

  A waiter was summoned and Müller shouted the order over the din. People were laughing loudly, bellowing over one another. Not only that, the singing had begun—a cappella and off tune. The brass band had yet to set up, but in its stead was an accordionist in traditional Bavarian dress of white shirt, suspenders, and lederhosen, taking his instrument out of the case. Glasses were clinking, and momentary friendships were being formed. Beer-induced frivolity—and why not? Life was dreary and so was the weather. It was advisable to take whatever was offered.

  Berg’s musing made him think of Margot. He pictured her coy smile as she preened in front of a mirror, fanning her face with luxurious black feathers. He had thought about visiting her before meeting Müller, but then had quickly dismissed the notion. It was not wise to get too involved, even though being faithful made him testy.

  “Where is Storf?” he groused.

  “He’ll be here, Axel. Relax.”

  Forget about her! “Anything productive come out of the interview with Anders Johannsen?”

  “All business, eh?”

  “Do you think I keep your company for pleasure?”

  Müller smiled. “He claims to have found her around seven-fifteen in the morning.”

  “He is sure?”

  “The old man’s constitutional is like clockwork.”

  “He is old?”

  “In his fifties, although he looks younger—except for the white hair.”

  “What does he look like aside from having white hair?”

  “Sharp features, long nose . . . tall.”

  “He’s tall?”

  “What?” Müller was shouting over the racket.

  “I asked if he’s tall,” Berg said, shouting back.

  “I’d say about six-two.”

  The singing had picked up in volume and in spirit. Each Verein was boasting its superiority in animated melody, and when challenged by a rival club, the members flung back insults in song. The cacophony was enough to render any tune meaningless.

  “The man who was with Anna Gross was tall and blond.”

  “Johannsen isn’t blond, he’s white.”

  “But in certain lighting white can be mistaken for blond.” Berg took out his sketch. “Did he look anything like this?”

  Müller regarded the sketch in earnest. “On a very basic level . . . the thinness of the face . . . the sharp nose.” He looked up. “Really, Berg, this drawing could be just about anyone.”

  He was right. Still, Berg would not dismiss the thought that the man might have been more than just an unfortunate onlooker. “Was Johannsen nervous when you talked to him?”

  “Not nervous, Axel, upset. It isn’t every day that a citizen finds a decomposing corpse. Why are you suspicious of him?”

  “Because some criminals love to revisit their handiwork. He could be toying with us . . . like Britain’s Jack the Ripper—”

  “Frau Gross was a married woman, not a prostitute.”

  “She was a woman who could have been carrying on an affair. And we know nothing about the other body.”

  “Maybe Storf knows something about that,” Müller said.

  “
Wherever he is,” Berg grumbled.

  The waiter presented them with plates of food and a basket of brown bread. Conversation stopped temporarily as they ate.

  Berg said, “I showed my sketch around the Russian teahouses today. A balalaika player told me he looked like a man known as Ro—a gentleman who presents himself as fallen aristocracy, although his authenticity is dubious.”

  Müller raised an eyebrow. “So the man in your sketch really does exist?”

  “I think so, yes. Anna Gross’s chambermaid also recognized the man in the sketch as someone Anna had entertained—possibly a Russian. We turned up a calling card that she could not place. The name on the card was Robert Schick. Ro . . . Robert. More than a coincidence, I’d say.”

  “Yes, I agree.” Müller looked annoyed. “Since you have a name and a picture, why are you even considering Anders Johannsen as the culprit?”

  “Impostors take on many names.”

  “Johannsen lives in a nice apartment. He appears to be a man of means. He doesn’t seem like an impostor.”

  “Just a comment,” Berg said. “Besides, I have to keep considering that there may be more than one murderer.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Storf—harried and disheveled—and waved him over. Storf was weaving his way through the crowd, bumping into elbows and knocking over beer steins, apologizing profusely for each mishap. At last, he took the chair next to Müller.

  “Sorry.”

  Berg looked at the clock: quarter to six. “You were tied up with police work?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Storf was breathing hard. “It is hot in here.”

  “Hot and loud,” Berg complained. “I don’t know why we keep meeting in beer halls.”

  “You look thirsty, man.” Müller signaled the waiter for another beer.

  “Thank you, Georg,” Storf replied.

  “I hope your tardiness resulted in some good news?”

  Storf drained half a stein. “All business, Axel?” He smiled, then took a picture out of his pocket. “This woman is our murder victim, no?”

  It was the corpse in her more robust days: a pretty, dark-haired woman with round brown eyes, a wide smile, and two very charming dimples. Berg and Müller looked at him with admiration.