Straight into Darkness Page 3

  “A fecund lady . . .” Berg muttered.

  “Excuse me?” Volker replied. Berg was silent. Single-handedly, the Kommissar crumpled up the paperwork and let the sheaves fall to the floor. “I think the Junge has learned his lesson.”

  The two men locked eyes. Berg’s answer was slow and spoken through clenched teeth. “I’ll take you at your word, Herr Kommissar.”

  Volker smiled at his nephew. “Lothar, listen to me carefully. If you or your friends ever so much as pick up a stone again, let alone hurl it at any building, I will personally cut off your stones. Do you understand?”

  Grinning, the boy could scarcely contain a snicker. “Yes, Uncle, I understand.”

  “That’s good.” Volker turned to Berg. “Are you satisfied?”

  Berg nodded. “If you are satisfied, then I am as well, sir.”

  “I think not.” With unerring speed, Volker viciously backhanded the boy across the face twice in rapid succession. Even Berg winced when he heard the crack from Lothar’s nasal septum. Blood poured out of his mouth and nose. He broke out into tears as Volker shook out his right hand. “Lothar, if you want to be a good German soldier, first learn discipline. Does someone have a handkerchief?”

  A stunned Storf offered Volker his own pocket square.

  “How kind of you, Ulrich.” Volker wiped up Lothar’s face as the boy wailed. Blood was still flowing. “Stop carrying on so! What if Ernst Röhm were to see you like this? What do you think he’d say?” Again the Kommissar shook his head. “Go wash your face, then go home. And tell your mother that if this happens again, I will not save you.” He gave him a shove toward the door. “Go, go. I have pressing matters.” A more insistent push. “Go!”

  Clutching the white cloth to his face, the boy dashed out just as a befuddled Müller returned with two mugs of schnapps-laced tea. “What was that all about?”

  Volker took one of the mugs. “Georg, how very thoughtful of you.” To Berg, he said, “Go home and get dressed properly. You may use one of the motor scooters from the department. Go immediately to the Englischer Garten. I will meet you there.” He faced Georg. “You, too, Müller. And you, Storf, as well.”

  “What’s the problem, sir?” Berg asked.

  “Not necessarily a problem at this point, more of a mystery. A woman’s body has been found. If she was connected, then we’ll have a problem.”

  “Homicide?” Berg asked.

  Volker shrugged. “Perhaps a homicide, perhaps a suicide, perhaps an accident, perhaps even natural causes. The only thing we know right now is that she is dead.”

  THREE

  Four years ago, Munich police had gone from bicycles and horse wagons to a motor pool of nine Stolle-Viktoria two-wagon Kraftrader, or scooters, two Viktoria-Solo, single Kraftrader, and one motorized BMW-Dixi-Wagen Typ 3/15 to replace the horse-drawn wagon that had been used to transport the police or round up suspects. The BMW worked so well that within a few years, concomitant with the development of the Mordkommission, the department ordered another one for the specific use as the Mordwagen—the official vehicle for investigations of homicides. As much as Berg groused about the new motorized traffic, he was grateful to be riding home in a Kraftrad after this morning’s chase.

  The city was now awake and filled with sounds from the squeaky wooden wheels of pushcarts to the constant clang of streetcars. The previously empty streets had filled with activity: heavily clad pedestrians holding their hats against the wind, bicycle riders attempting to maintain balance while dodging people, animals, and motorcars. Berg noticed a gang of school-age boys with rucksacks, whipping a cup to make it spin, a game known as Kreisel. There were also several bands of older boys—Social Democrats judging by their green shirts—who were passing out leaflets to pedestrians for an upcoming rally in Teresienwiese, a large meadow used for the annual Oktoberfest. The people who took the flyers gave them a momentary glance before tossing them aside, and the discarded paper wound up wafting through the blustery air.

  Despite the heavy coat, Berg shivered in the open air. His face smarted from the cold, his fingers and nose nearly numb. The good part was that the fifteen-minute walk was condensed to a four-minute ride. He pulled up alongside his apartment house and turned off the motor. He opened the door to the lobby, then, holding the gate with his shoulder, Berg managed to lug the scooter inside. He had no lock for it. He hoped no one would steal it because he wasn’t about to schlep the machine up four flights of stairs. Halfway up the steps, he met Joachim and Monika on their way to school. Joachim was holding Monika’s rucksack as well as her hand.

  “Guten Morgen.” Berg planted a kiss on his towheaded children.

  “Grüss Gott, Papa.” Joachim asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine.”

  “And the boy—?”

  “It’s been taken care of.”

  “What has been taken care of?” asked Monika.

  Joachim said, “The boys who throw rocks at our building.”

  “I don’t like them.” There was fear and moisture in Monika’s eight-year-old eyes. It broke Berg’s heart that she had to live in such tumultuous times. “They scare me. Sometimes they follow me home from school.”

  “If they do it again, you tell me.”

  Monika’s expression was grave. Then she suddenly brightened. “We’re going on a field trip today.”

  “How nice. Where to?”

  “To see a real live camel. And a Niggerlippen!”

  Berg wrinkled his nose. “A what?”

  “A camel and a Niggerlippen,” Monika answered.

  “There is a display of an African village at the exhibition hall,” Joachim explained. “In one of the stands, they have a Niggerlippen in a loincloth.”

  Berg took this in. “An African man . . . in a loincloth . . . on display.”

  Monika nodded with excitement.

  “What does he do?” Berg asked. “Does he just stand there being . . . African?”

  His children shrugged. Monika said, “Maybe he sings Swingjugend.”

  Joachim’s jeweled eyes became mischievous. “Maybe he will bring a woman to do a fan dance like Josephine Baker.”

  “Somehow I doubt that, since the real fan dancer wasn’t allowed entrance into Munich.”

  “What’s a fan dance?” Monika asked.

  “Never you mind.” Then, to his son, “And don’t say anything, either. It’s bad enough I sneak into the clubs to listen to American Negro music. If your mother hears talk about Josephine Baker, she will surely kick me out.” Berg tousled Joachim’s hair. “Well, go on. No sense being late. You might miss that one-of-a-kind field trip.”

  They smiled and continued down the steps. Berg waited until they were at the ground level before proceeding upward. After taking off his muddy boots, he walked through his front door. It was warm; someone must have turned up the radiator. He could smell coffee from the percolator. His stomach rumbled.

  Britta was still in her bathrobe, sitting at the kitchen table, her fingers clasped around a red can of Onko Kaffee from Bremen. She brushed blond strands from her gray eyes and held up the tin.

  “We’re out.”

  Berg poured two mugs from the percolator and added a teaspoon of milk and sugar to each. “That’s the second time in a month.”

  “It’s my one weakness. I can check the black market. It will be cheaper than the stores.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Britta plucked a cigarette from a red-and-white Schimmelpennick tin and lit up. Berg brought the mugs to the kitchen table and raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said coffee was your one weakness.”

  She took a drag and blew smoke in his face, then smiled. “I guess I have several weaknesses.”

  She offered him a cigarette. Instead, he took hers and inhaled deeply. Then he brought the hot coffee up to his face and let the steam warm his skin. She took a piece of stale bread and dipped it in the coffee to soften it. The radio was playing more static than music�
��some kind of nationalistic Bavarian accordion humdrum that was all the rage. “Did you buy a paper?”

  Berg gave her back the cigarette and sipped his coffee. “No. I have pressing business right now. If you want, I will pick up a copy of the Post on the way home.”

  “Then pick up a copy of the Beobachter to balance it.”

  “I will not have that trash in my house.”

  “Then at least buy the Neueste Nachrichten. Men came to the school last week, Axel. They asked the children what newspapers were in the house.”

  Berg thought of the implications. “And they told them nothing?”

  “Of course. They’ve been trained well and they’re not stupid.” She chewed on soggy bread. “But what if one of their friends says something? They’ve been up to the apartment. Children talk. You have to be practical.”

  “You’re right. I’ll buy both papers.”

  Britta was surprised by his acquiescence. He must have had other things on his mind. “So he is behind bars? Your punk?”

  “I think he won’t bother us again.”

  “Ah!” She shook her head and took a drag on her cigarette. “And who is he related to?”

  With a pocketknife, Berg began to clean his nails. “He is Volker’s nephew.”

  “Nudge-nudge, wink-wink. They are all disgusting!”

  “Volker clobbered him across the nose.” He put down the knife, held up his hands, and examined his nails. Satisfied, he folded the knife back into its frame. “I believe Volker broke it.”

  “Good. Maybe next time Volker will break his head.”

  “It’s quite likely.” Berg went to the closet and pulled out his uniform. “The man doesn’t take guff from anyone.”

  “So our windows are safe until the next punk comes along.” She looked around the room. “It would help if you took down those awful pictures. Anyone looking in our windows would think that Kommunisten live here.”

  His eyes swept over the wall, landing on Joachim’s drawing—a floral still life done in pastels when the boy was just ten. Berg had been so proud of it that he had made a frame from junk wood, protecting the chalk with glass from an old window. “You object to your son’s artwork? What kind of mother are you?”

  “Stop it, Axel.” She sighed. “You know what I mean.”

  What she meant were the pencil drawings by Klee the Swiss and Jawlensky the Jew. “Liking avant-garde art does not a Kommunist make.”

  “But it is not favored by members of the workers’ parties.”

  Berg agreed silently as he put on a clean undershirt and poked his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. He washed his face and shaved in the kitchen sink. Then he retrieved his boots and scrubbed the mud from their soles. “Is it my fault that southern Germany is filled with philistines? Can I use this cloth to dry my shoes?”

  “Why do you need to dry the shoes? They will just get wet anyway.”

  His slipped the knife back inside the boot. “So I won’t track mud in the house.”

  She smiled. “That would make sense.” Again, she dipped her bread in the coffee. “This is terrible. It’s like eating ersatz.”

  “We have fresh rolls.”

  “I know, but I hate to waste.”

  Berg kissed the top of her head, then went to the icebox. He pulled out the butter and the two fresh rye rolls that she had bought yesterday morning. “Think of the long lines five years ago.” He bit into one of the rolls. “I don’t trust Hindenburg, nor do I trust Scharnagl.” He offered the second roll and the butter to his wife. “I say we eat as if inflation is around the corner.”

  Britta took the roll and slathered it with butter. She nibbled on the bread, then took a big bite. She closed her eyes and chewed slowly. “You are right. This is so much better.”

  “Marmalade?”

  “No, thank you.” Another bite. “I don’t trust them, either. No one does. What does that do to a country when no one has faith in its leaders?”

  “I don’t like to think about it.” Properly dressed, Berg sat down and slipped on his boots. “It is nice to discuss politics with you, Britta, but some of us have to work. I am on a case. A body in the Englischer Garten.”

  Britta’s mouth fell open. “Are you joking?”

  “I am not.”

  “Murder?”

  “At this point, we don’t know.”

  “And the deceased?” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Who, Axel?”

  “I don’t know that either.” He finished lacing up his boots and kissed her forehead. “Be careful, darling. Turbulent times we live in.”

  FOUR

  Clad in warm, dry attire, his belly calmed by a cup of coffee and a roll, Berg felt ready to take on death. Even the sky was offering penance as blue peeked out from leaden clouds. The wind, though present, had lost its bite. Crossing the Isar on Maximilian’s Bridge into the western side of Munich, Berg turned his scooter to the right, down Widenmayer Strasse, a thoroughfare lined by stately Gothic buildings rich in ornamentation and architectural features. The exterior paint added color to the landscape, the bricks and stone often awash in gentle grays, soft creams, buttery yellows, terra-cotta, or burnt umber, rich earth tones more fitting in sunny Lugano than in overcast Munich. Some of the multistoried structures were divided into apartments, but some were still private residences housing the elite old money as well as the nouveau riche.

  As Berg headed west onto Prinzregenten Strasse, he passed a band of black-shirted youths with red bow ties marching in step to their leader’s call—Kommunisten, about twenty of them, young and callow. Stupid children playing at war with their uniforms, their speeches and flag waving, and their endless parades, doing all of their politicking from a safe distance, far away from the Soviet bloodbath. Berg never recalled any glamour in battle. All he could remember, as he hunkered down in trenches, drenched in his own piss, was terror as he dodged bullets from the Tommies and the meddlesome Yanks.

  His mouth suddenly was parched. He swallowed dryly, thinking about a midmorning snack of weisswurst and Löwenbräu on tap. A puny roll and a cup of coffee were only going to carry him so far. Maybe a quick bite after this initial investigation . . .

  At the southern end of the Englischer Garten, Berg pulled the scooter to the curb, turned off the engine, then dismounted. As he entered the premises on foot, he realized that Volker hadn’t pinpointed the location of the crime scene. The park was over nine hundred acres, and certainly Berg could cover more ground riding through the area on the pedestrian pathways. Yet he elected to walk, dragging the Kraftrad at his side, because it would be unseemly to disturb the atmosphere of peace and serenity with din from the industrial world.

  Designed by Friedrich Ludwig von Sckell over a hundred years earlier, this oasis of greenery reached its full splendor in summertime when the trees were canopies of leafy boughs and the shrubbery exploded with color and scent. During the warm season, the Kleinhesseloher See—a small lake next to the spacious beer garden—rippled lazily from the oars of canoes and paddleboats. But even in winter, the land was tranquil, with its streams and walkways that were perfect for a meditative stroll as one brooded on German politics.

  Right now, Berg’s mind wasn’t focused on the fate of the Fatherland. Just past the Japanese Teahouse, in a copse of tall brush and detritus that was ringed by the bare arms of maple, birch, and chestnut trees, there was a flurry of activity, although most of it nonproductive. A dozen policemen were milling about, smoking and talking. Off to the side, the Mordwagen sat on the grass, its doors opened wide. Professor Josef Kolb was pulling out boxes from the interior, setting up a makeshift forensic station containing a multitude of investigation accessories: bottles, vials, tweezers, magnifying glasses, saws, chemicals, scissors, rulers, calipers, brushes, and photographic equipment set on spindly stands. Kolb was a slight man with bug eyes and unkempt hair. He saw Berg approach and waved to him with a gloved hand. Berg leaned the scooter against its kickstand, but before he could walk over to Kolb, Volker
emerged from the crowd, wearing a displeased expression. That was nothing new. The boss lit a cigarette and cocked his head. The two of them walked away from the activity, away from the Mordwagen.

  “Look at them! A bunch of gnats—all movement and no purpose.” Volker blew out a plume of smoke. “How many do you think you’ll need for your investigation?”

  “What am I investigating?”

  “A woman strangled by a stocking. A delivery boy on a bicycle spotted her in the tangle of brush. He summoned one of the foot patrolmen, who promptly issued him a citation for riding his bicycle on the walkway.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished.”

  “Rules are rules. Because of the early hour, he thought he could get away with it. Cigarette?”

  “Please,” Berg answered. “Was the woman a prostitute?”

  “I don’t know.” Volker blew smoke into the misty air. “So far, the only thing I can say is she isn’t dressed like one. Her clothes are good quality. So if she is a lady of the evening, she has a generous benefactor.”

  “What does Professor Kolb say?”

  “Professor Kolb has been playing with his accoutrements. And it doesn’t take an appointment at the university to determine death by garroting. The stocking is still tightly bound around her neck.” Volker huffed. “I have a department to run in a city on the brink of chaos.”

  “Chaos is standard business, sir.”

  “But garroting isn’t. I’m not pleased by this turn of events. Find out who she is and what happened. How many men will you need?”

  Berg looked at the crowd of officers. “None except Storf and Müller. We’re capable of scanning the area for witnesses as well as evidence. Are they here? Storf and Müller?”

  “They are interrogating the delivery boy.”

  “Very good. Is he a suspect?”

  “How in bloody hell should I know? He is as good as anyone, I suppose. If he gives you an inkling of wariness, lock him up and we’ll consider the homicide a closed case.” Volker broke away and barked at the foot patrolmen, “All of you! Back to your posts!” He clapped his hands loudly. “Now!”