Straight into Darkness Read online

  “Unlikely,” Gross insisted. “I heard nothing. I have nothing else to say.”

  “Yes, of course,” Berg replied. “But just assume for a minute that maybe you didn’t hear everything. Can you think of any reason why she might have gone out at night without telling you, sir?”

  The implication was obvious. Gross’s eyes turned furious. “None whatsoever! And I don’t believe that she would go out without telling me, especially in her condition! Maybe some hooligan broke in last night when I was asleep and took her.”

  “Ah, Herr Gross, entirely possible,” Volker said. “And we will look into that. But then you must admit that it would be possible for things to happen in her part of the house without your knowing . . . provided that you were in a deep sleep.”

  Gross grew red with anger. “I cannot believe . . . She would never go out so late and on her own.”

  Berg tried to soften the shock. “I’m sure she would never do it under ordinary conditions, Herr Gross, but maybe an emergency came up and you were sleeping. Out of love and consideration for you, she ventured out on her own.”

  “Any idea what kind of emergency might draw her out?” Volker added.

  “Only if it had something to do with her family, and I haven’t heard— Oh, mein Gott! Her family!” His eyes, focused on Berg, pleaded for support. “Someone must tell them. I cannot. . . .” He squeezed his eyelids shut to prevent tears from rolling down his cheeks. He turned away and blotted his face with a white linen handkerchief.

  Berg said, “I will tell them for you, Herr Gross.”

  The man heaved a deep sigh of grief. “Thank you. It is most appreciated.”

  “Of course, I will need their names and addresses.”

  Gross shook off his sadness and pulled a pad and pencil from his coat pocket. He was grateful to be doing something with his hands other than wringing them. “I will give them to you right now.”

  “And what is your wife’s father’s employment?” Volker asked.

  “Banking.” Gross finished writing and tore off the piece of paper with a flourish. He handed the information to Volker, who said nothing. But Berg detected the slight rise of his superior’s eyebrow.

  “The bank . . . it is family-owned, correct?” Volker asked.

  “That is a personal question, Herr Kommissar.”

  “I don’t mean to overstep my bounds, Herr Gross, but I am trying to assess the situation. I’m thinking of perhaps a kidnapping for ransom.”

  Gross had regained his composure, replacing shock with anger. “You can hardly ask for ransom if there is nothing to ransom.”

  Berg said, “Perhaps there was supposed to be a ransom note this morning, but someone found her too soon.”

  Gross ignored this hypothesis. “Again, I ask you! When can I see her?”

  “First, we would like to make her presentable for you—”

  “I want to see her!” Gross raised his voice. “I want to see her now!”

  His cries brought in Haslinger. “Sir, is everything all right?”

  Gross turned his fierce stare onto his servant. “No! Everything is not all right. It’s Anna. The police think she . . .” He turned his head away from Haslinger and faced Berg. “You tell him.”

  Upon hearing the news, Haslinger gasped. Gross repeated loudly his demand to see his wife’s body. Haslinger tried to calm Gross down by offering him a drink of brandy. Gross slapped the snifter from Haslinger’s hand and began to pace. He grew increasingly more agitated as the dreadful words were finally registering.

  His wife was dead!

  The situation was spiraling downward. Volker took control. He stood up and said, “Herr Gross. I will accompany you to see the body. But I must warn you. It is hard to look at if one is not used to such things.”

  Gross’s face registered horror. “She was mutilated?”

  “No, not at all,” Volker assured him. “But there is always something in the face . . . sometimes haunting . . . the eyes that no longer respond. I really do suggest you wait until the shock has worn off.”

  Defeated, Gross fell back onto the sofa. “If you think it’s best.”

  “I do.”

  “Was she . . . violated?”

  “I don’t know,” Volker lied. “We will find out, of course.”

  Haslinger broke in. “I’m sorry but I must ask you to leave right now! Herr Gross cannot stand any more shock!”

  Volker patted the butler’s shoulder with condescension. “Of course, my good man, we understand. Our coats, please?”

  Gross said, “See them to the door, Haslinger. I’ll be . . . all right.”

  “This way,” the butler said stiffly. As they walked down the hall toward the front door, Haslinger made a slight detour. A moment later, he came back and thrust their coats against their chests. Then he threw open the front door. But Volker took his time before leaving, slowly putting on his coat. “We’ll just be a moment, Haslinger. We must look presentable.”

  Haslinger tapped his foot. Berg waited, flipping the piece of paper between his fingers. Volker smoothed the brim on his Borsalino and gave it a flick with his fingers.

  “Ah, that should do it. You need not bother waiting for us, Haslinger. We can let ourselves out.”

  The butler didn’t move.

  Volker smiled and stepped out into the hallway. He and Berg didn’t speak until they were outside the building. Berg took a deep breath and let it out. It had been stifling inside the apartment. Never had the cold felt so good. He put on his hat.

  Volker regarded the slip of paper Gross had given him. “Kurt Haaf. So Anna was his daughter. Interesting.”

  Berg waited.

  “The People’s Bank of Southern Germany.” Volker handed him the address. “It almost went out of business in ’25.”

  “Not exactly newsworthy, sir. Many banks went out of business.”

  “Those banks whose presidents did not marry their daughter to rich Jews, yes, they did go out of business.” Volker laughed softly and shook his head. “An arrangement right out of a cartoon from Simplicissimus. Knowing Kurt, I’m not surprised. He should have been a Jew the way he loves his money.”

  “As if Jews are the only ones who love money . . .”

  Volker smiled. “I see you’re ready to join the leagues of the disenfranchised.”

  Berg ignored him. “And we’re interviewing him together, sir?”

  Volker thought a moment. “The address is in Bogenhausen, not at the bank. I want you to go to the family home and see if anyone’s there. I shall go back to the crime scene and see what has been accomplished. When you have located Kurt, check back with me. I shall meet you then. Done?”

  “Done.” Berg sighed. “Poor people. Such a pity!”

  Volker regarded him with appraising eyes. “Be courteous, Berg, but do leave the sympathy to the women of their household. The police are to be respected as Munich’s soldiers of safety. Let us save the maudlin outpouring for the theater, no?”

  “It was a simple statement, sir, not an overwrought snit.”

  Volker took in his words and found them satisfactory.

  SIX

  It was one grand home after another, not Berg’s usual homicide investigation. Most of Munich’s deaths were mundane: a man flattened by a runaway horse or an out-of-control motorcar, a drunken onlooker crushed at one of the town’s numerous political rallies, angry men reduced to fisticuffs in beer brawls gone awry. Murders weren’t beautiful young women from wealthy families.

  A fast walk over the Luitpold Bridge brought Berg into Bogenhausen, a residential area of stately homes on tree-lined streets, of green parks and cobblestone walkways. Quiet and peaceful, yet the neighborhood had none of the sterility often associated with affluent districts because it housed a considerable number of artists. Thomas Mann lived here. So had Oskar Maria Graf, Hans Knappertsbusch, and Max Halbe. In the cold months, most of the foliage was bare and spindly, but spring was coming, evidenced by the greening limbs of the elms, bir
ches, and chestnuts. A pleasant place to stroll had murder not occupied Berg’s mind.

  Kurt Haaf’s two-story detached villa was painted yellow with windows framed by green shutters. The roof was constructed from red tiles, high and peaked, allowing room for several attic gables. There was a second-story balcony ringed by scrolled wrought iron; a fence of the same design surrounded the lot. A pricey home but somewhat modest for a banker. If Volker’s pronouncements were true, however—that the bank had almost failed—Haaf was most fortunate to end up with such prosperous accommodations.

  Berg knocked on the door, and his rapping was answered by a young man in a partial state of dress. He wore long, black wool pants held up by suspenders and a white, long-sleeved shirt with cuffs but without a collar and tie. His face was lean and boyish; his lips so thin that they were almost invisible. Dark brown eyes rested behind half-glasses perched on a long nose. His entire expression was one of annoyance. He held a coffee cup in his right hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Guten Tag,” Berg said. “I am looking for Herr Kurt Haaf.”

  “Yes.”

  A pause. Berg said, “Are you Herr Haaf?”

  “No, I am his son, Franz. What’s this about?”

  “I am sorry for the intru—”

  “Yes, yes. Get on with it.”

  “I am Inspektor Axel Berg from the police. May I come in?”

  Haaf waited a moment. “Police?”

  “Yes.” Berg took a step toward the threshold. “Bitte?”

  There was a pause, then Haaf opened the door all the way. Berg followed the young man through a marble entry hall into a sizable living room that looked smaller because it was crammed with ponderously ornate furniture. The room did boast high ceilings with carved moldings and highly polished hardwood floors. But the dark brooding pieces along with the heavy drapery ate up most of the natural light coming through the windows. The ivory walls were dressed either by sepia-toned landscapes or stern-looking portraiture.

  Haaf did not sit. “May I ask your business, Inspektor?”

  “It is . . . personal,” Berg said. “I think I will need to speak with your father.”

  “My father is already at work—a good Münchener burgher—the model of industry. I, on the other hand, being a resolute wastrel, have spent too many nights in the city’s most roguish Kabaretts.”

  Berg licked his lips and said nothing.

  Haaf looked around the room. “If my father were here, he’d insist we talk in this stuffy mausoleum.” The man smiled. “But he isn’t here, is he?” He crooked a finger. “Come this way. No reason you should interrupt my morning coffee.”

  The young man led Berg into a glass solarium. The room was surprisingly warm and moist, no doubt due to the dozens of potted plants emitting heat as well as the odor of moss and must. The atrium looked upon a rose garden, dormant now, but Berg could picture the palette of color that would explode in a few months’ time. Seating was provided by wicker furniture with cushions upholstered in tropical flowers. A table was prepared with a coffee set, a plate of pastries, and a variety of newspapers—the Münchener Neueste Nachrichten, the Münchener Post, the Völkischer Beobachter. There was also a copy of the Red Dog—the satirical magazine Simplicissimus.

  Berg’s eyes jumped from one party headline to another party headline. So viele Meinungen haben wie Winde auf dem Dach—as many opinions as winds on the roof.

  “Do sit.” Haaf lifted his mug. “Would you like a cup? Perhaps a fresh pastry from the Viktualienmarkt? The apple strudel is excellent.”

  Berg remained standing. “I’m not hungry nor thirsty, thank you. And I think my poor news may impact on your appetite.” He closed his eyes, then opened them. “This morning the police found a woman’s body in the Englischer Garten. I have reason to think that it is your sister, Anna—”

  Immediately, Franz broke into spasmodic coughs, spewing out the hot liquid. The force of his hacking sent coffee sloshing over the rim of his cup and burned his hands. He cried out in pain, then placed the cup and saucer on the table. He shook out his fingers. “This is impossible!”

  “I’m afraid it’s—”

  “Impossible!” The young man began to pace. “How can that be?”

  “I was hoping that you could provide me with some clues.”

  “Me?” He turned livid. “Just what are you implying?”

  “Nothing, Herr Haaf, other than one sibling’s knowledge of the other.”

  “Dear Anna hasn’t lived here in five years.”

  “And you are not close to her?”

  The young Haaf sputtered out, “Of course, we’re close. Oh dear, this is just . . . and you’re sure it’s she?”

  “We think so, yes. Her husband will be making the identification later on today.”

  “So you’re not sure.”

  “I have seen a picture. The likeness is uncanny.”

  “Oh, mein Gott! You must tell me what happened.”

  “We’re still determining that. May I ask for your help in this matter?”

  “Of course!” Haaf stopped pacing and sank into a chair. “This is terrible.”

  “Yes.”

  “Terrible, terrible, terrible!”

  “Yes,” Berg agreed. “I would like to ask you something. We are trying to ascertain why a lady of Anna’s stature would have gone out last night without a proper escort. Can you think of any reason for such conduct?”

  “What makes you think she went without Anton?”

  “Because he did not accompany her last night. As a matter of fact, he insists that she went to bed last night at eight because she was feeling ill. Apparently she was with child.”

  “Oh, dear . . .” A sigh. “That is truly tragic. They have wanted a child for quite some time. Anton was quite insistent on producing an heir.”

  Berg’s brow rose. “Your sister wasn’t anxious for motherhood?”

  “Of course, she wanted a child.” Haaf started to speak, but thought better of it.

  “There is more you are not saying, Herr Haaf,” Berg replied. “Now is not the time for discretion. We must bring your sister’s killer to justice immediately. What are your thoughts on this matter?”

  Haaf shook his head.

  Berg said, “Perhaps the marriage wasn’t a happy one?”

  “That is personal, Inspektor.”

  “Yes, but it may be relevant to the crime. You do want to know what happened, correct?”

  “Of course.” Haaf licked his lips. “What can I say? Both fathers were pleased with the union. Anton is a gentleman. His looks are certainly passable, and his manners are beyond reproach.”

  “But . . .”

  “Anton is a fine man and provides wonderfully for my sister, but he is stiff even for the burghers in the region. He is a teetotaler. Not even a splash of beer. To say he is a conservative would be understating his political views. My sister, on the other hand . . .”

  Berg waited.

  “My sister is progressive . . . very modern with a keen sense of justice.”

  “A Social Democrat?”

  “More like a—” Haaf stopped himself.

  “A Kommunist?” Berg filled in.

  Haaf averted his gaze. “She visited me when I was in school in Berlin. She had a fierce laugh and could drink with the best of my schoolmates. Her life . . . It is very different now—a beautiful bird in a gilded cage. If someone were to open the door, I think it might be quite possible that she would spread her wings.”

  “Ah . . .” Berg said. “Another gentleman in her life?”

  “I’m not suggesting that that is the case. But I know she loved the theater and Anton did not. Their apartment isn’t too far from Schwabing.”

  “And she’d go out unaccompanied to a play at night? With all that is going on?”

  “Ironically, it is only under the cloak of night that one’s movements are often undetected.” Haaf hung his head in sorrow. “Maybe not this time.”

  “And you did not
see her last night?”

  “Ah . . .” He shook his head. “No, I did not see her last night, Inspektor. I wish I had.”

  “Then I shall check the theaters. Perhaps someone remembers her. Such a lovely woman and unaccompanied, she would stand out.” Berg thought a moment. “Or perhaps she wasn’t unaccompanied.”

  Haaf said nothing.

  “In either case, I have a picture of her . . . her wedding picture.”

  “That awful thing . . . so rigid and posed. Wait here.”

  Haaf left the solarium. Berg eyed the pastries, a piece of strudel with raisins and apple extruding from the flaky crust. It was all he could do not to nip off a piece of the fruit and pop it in his mouth. A moment later, Haaf returned, picture in hand.

  “One of my friends experiments with photographic equipment. I think this one captured the spirit as well as the face.”

  Indeed it did. Shining eyes burned through an angel’s face. Thick hair cascaded down a long neck, falling past bare shoulders. Since the picture had been cropped just below her neck, one could imagine her body as nude instead of clad in an off-the-shoulder blouse.

  “Thank you,” Berg said. “This will help.”

  “I want it back.”

  “Of course.” He stowed the picture in the pocket of his coat. “Now I have the onerous task of telling your father the dreadful news.”

  “I will come with you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I cannot allow my father to hear such awful words without being there to support him.”

  “Very good. How far is the bank?”

  “A five-minute car ride.”

  “I have no car,” Berg told him.

  “Then we shall take mine. It is parked right outside. I shall have one of the servants crank it up.”

  “And if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to use your telephone . . . of course, you have a telephone.”

  “Of course.”

  “I would like to call up Herr Kommissar Volker. Out of respect for your father’s position in the community, Herr Volker would like to be at the bank when we break the news to Herr Haaf.”

  “Certainly. If you just wait here for a moment, I shall arrange everything. And please . . .” He pointed to the table. “Help yourself.”