Straight into Darkness Read online

  “Thank you.”

  Once Haaf was gone, Berg again eyed the pastries longingly. He bit his lip, then sat down, idly brushing crumbs off the tabletop. Then he picked up several granules of heavy white sugar with a moistened index finger, licking the tip with his tongue.

  What’s done is done.

  His hand inched over to the plate filled with sweets.

  Life is fragile.

  He picked up a piece of strudel and allowed himself a healthy bite.

  SEVEN

  The gleaming black BMW was given its due respect as pedestrians stepped aside to clear a path for such a fine machine. The rumbling engine cut through the air, making the ride a loud one. Progress in Munich was measured in decibel levels, though most of the noise still came from the human voice box—the constant parades of uniformed members of political parties or the drunken roars emanating from beer halls.

  Regarding his town through the back window, Berg could not help but admire its beauty: the sinewy banks of the Isar, the green parks, adorned bridges, tree-lined boulevards, majestic architecture, and the ornate, double-onion-domed Frauenkirche peeking through the sky from the old city. Though factories meant jobs and money, he hoped that Munich wouldn’t end up with problems like the coal belt cities spasmodic from industrial fever, all hard-edged and gray.

  The People’s Bank of Southern Germany was located on Leopold Strasse past the state library just north of the Ludwig-Maximilian University—an enclave of private academia originally started by royalty, but now run by the city. The current rumor was that many of its professors and students belonged to the occult right-wing Thule Society and supported Hitler. When the educated got behind a dictator, there was always cause for concern. Berg couldn’t dwell on politics, though. He had more-immediate concerns.

  Like its neighbors, the bank building was five stories, with the tellers on the ground floor. Volker had already arrived, standing at the curb, expectant as he checked his pocket watch. The junior Haaf parked his car between a sausage cart and a gaggle of resting bicycles. The two men got out, and Berg immediately noticed that Volker had begun to wilt around the edges. His coat was wrinkled in back, the brim of his hat less than perfectly smooth, his shoes soiled with mud. Trivial imperfections but conspicuous because it was Martin Volker. Berg made quick introductions, and Volker offered condolences. Franz Haaf nodded gravely, then opened the door to the bank.

  They went inside.

  If customers were an indication of success, the business appeared to be prosperous. Bespectacled men in three-piece suits holding overcoats and several well-adorned, feather-hatted older women stood in four straight lines, waiting patiently to step up to the tellers. The handsomely attired employees, working with efficiency, sat behind scrollwork iron cages. The place was well appointed with white marble on the floors and fluted Doric columns holding up the beams that ran across a carved wooden ceiling. The walls were fashioned from picture-frame paneling, and hanging inside the frames were stiff portraits of bedecked, bellied burghers, past presidents of the bank, all of them displaying the esteemed Haaf escutcheon.

  The young Haaf passed through the scene quickly, taking Berg and Volker behind the activity and into a web of private offices. The elder Haaf had a young private secretary with pinched features and a sour face. He looked at Franz and, in a nasal voice, immediately informed him that his father, Herr Haaf the bank president, was in an important meeting with several important Bavarian financiers. “Your father specifically asked not to be disturbed.”

  “It’s an emergency, Wilhelm. Inform him that I need to speak with him now.”

  Wilhelm wrinkled his nose. “I was instructed not to disturb him, sir. So you may tell him yourself.”

  “But you’re his secretary. It’s your job to tell him.”

  “Not when he’s in a meeting and he asks me not to disturb him.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Berg said. “I’ll tell him.”

  Haaf stopped Berg, then glared at the obstinate young man. “If you don’t tell him at this moment, I will have your job.”

  The young man gave a snort. “I doubt that.” But he got up anyway. He knocked at the door to the inner office and went inside.

  Franz was furious. “Upstart!”

  Volker pulled off his gloves. “Indeed. You should inform your father.”

  “I will when the timing is more . . . suitable.” Then the young Haaf’s eyes misted. “I don’t know if I can tell him what happened.”

  “We’ll do the talking, Herr Haaf.” Volker’s voice was without comfort.

  Wilhelm had returned with the elder Haaf in tow. Kurt Haaf was tall but so thin as to be almost skeletal, his finely tailored suit hanging on his narrow shoulders, suggesting that once this man had weighed more. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken.

  “Grüss Gott.” He clicked his heels together in a sharp snap. “Kurt Haaf, here. I am in the middle of a meeting. What is it that couldn’t wait an hour?”

  “Papa,” Franz said. “Do sit down—”

  “I don’t want to sit! I want to get back to my business. Some of us earn money. And don’t tell me it is another gambling debt, Franz! That is not my concern.”

  Symmetrical pink spots rose on Franz’s cheeks. “It’s Anna.”

  “Anna?” The banker made a face. “What did she do this time?”

  Franz’s pleading eyes traveled from his father’s face to Volker, then to Berg, who regarded the senior banker. “I am Polizei Inspektor Axel Berg, Herr Haaf. This is my superior, Erster Kriminal Hauptkommissar Martin Volker—”

  “Yes, yes.” Haaf’s eyes went to Volker’s. “We have met.”

  “We have, Herr Haaf,” Volker answered. “At the house of Polizei Kriminal Direktor Max Brummer. One of the reasons I am here personally. And also out of respect for your position in the community. I am afraid we have terrible news.”

  Berg felt his face tighten. Kurt Haaf’s eyes darkened. “What?”

  Volker nodded to Berg.

  Bastard!

  Berg kept his gaze somewhere over Herr Haaf’s shoulder. “The police were called into the Englischer Garten early this morning. A woman’s body was found. We have reason to believe that the woman . . .” He cleared his throat. “We believe that the woman was your daugh . . .”

  Haaf clutched his chest and pitched forward. Volker grabbed his right arm, and Berg took his left as he told Franz to bring his father a shot of whiskey. Wilhelm, who was standing, started to speak, but only sputtered instead.

  “Move!” Volker pushed the young secretary out of the way.

  Slowly, Kurt Haaf was lowered into Wilhelm’s chair. Franz came back with amber liquid in a shot glass. Kurt drank it down and coughed, shaking off any help. To Wilhelm, he said, “Go in there and tell them an emergency has arisen. I’ll be back in five minutes . . . ten at the most. Pass out the cigars—the ones from Havana—and tell them to take a smoking break.”

  Franz stared at his father in disbelief. “Papa, we should send them home.”

  Kurt ignored his son and whispered fiercely to Wilhelm, “Go!”

  The young secretary disappeared behind the closed doors. Berg chose the temporary lull to look around the secretary’s wood-paneled office. His desk was small but modern, made of blond ash burl and trimmed with ebony. On the top sat piles of papers along with a lovely Egyptian-style, gold-plated desk set inlaid with dots of mother-of-pearl. A nineteenth-century grandmother clock had been pushed into the corner.

  Kurt’s face was now deep red; a thin layer of sweat coated his forehead. “You are sure about this?”

  “Your son-in-law gave me a picture . . . your son as well.” Berg looked down at his shoes. Then he made eye contact with the old man. “It’s the same woman.”

  This time, Haaf’s voice cracked. “Still, I would like to be sure. When can I make the identification?”

  Volker stepped in. “Herr Haaf, we shall avail ourselves to you at this difficult time. But first, sir, we would lik
e to make the body presentable.”

  Kurt nodded, then suddenly clutched his chest again.

  “Mein Gott,” Franz exclaimed. “I shall call Doctor Wiess.”

  “I don’t need a doctor!” Haaf turned to Berg. “You say you found her body this morning?”

  Berg nodded.

  Kurt pulled out his pocket watch, flipped open the cover, then stared a moment before closing it with a snap. “So the attack . . . it was not in her house?”

  Berg said, “It is always possible that she was . . . that she expired in her house and was placed in the park afterward, but that being the case, we have no suspects for the crime.”

  “What about Anton?” Kurt suggested. “He was in the house.”

  Franz regarded his father as if he were speaking an unfamiliar language. “Papa, you can’t be serious. Anton doesn’t have enough gumption to step on a fly.”

  “That’s because he is a bug himself. A bug and a Jew—”

  “Father, you were the one who approved of the match!”

  “I approved of the money, not of the weasel.” He let out a gush of air. “Your sister’s spending habits required nothing short of a small fortune. Why not take it from the Jew?”

  Franz rolled his eyes. “Forgive my father. He’s not thinking too clearly.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my thinking,” the elder Haaf declared. This time he managed to stand up. “Their marriage was a sham. They fought all the time.”

  “Father! This is surely not police business.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Franz!” Haaf had turned damp and florid. “Nothing but conflict from the day she moved into that house.”

  “What did they fight about?”

  “What didn’t they fight about? Money, religion, politics, friends, what to eat for supper. The only thing likable about Anton was his unerring sense of business. They are born with it, you know. And don’t you tell me that I sound like one of Hitler’s finest. I don’t agree with everything he says, but not all of his rhetoric is drivel.” His eyes threw daggers at Berg. “The Jew couldn’t even impregnate her!”

  Franz shook his head like a father indulging a petulant toddler.

  “As a matter of fact, Herr Haaf,” Berg said, “she was pregnant.”

  “Not by his seed—that I can assure you!”

  “Papa!”

  Berg said, “And you know that for certain, Herr Haaf? That the baby did not belong to her husband?”

  Haaf snorted out an unintelligible grumble. “Not as fact, no.” He grabbed his pocket handkerchief and dabbed his face. “But if it indeed wasn’t his child, it could be the reason for her . . .”

  “Demise.” Berg provided the word.

  Haaf wagged his finger in the air. “The weasel finally broke. He got angry. Another fight and this time he couldn’t control himself. If you’ve been to the house, you know it’s a stone’s throw to the Garten.” He poked Berg’s chest as he spoke. “Take him into a locked room! Beat the confession out of him! He’s weak. He’ll buckle.”

  The young Wilhelm had come back. “The gentlemen await your return, Herr Haaf.”

  “I need another moment. Give me your handkerchief, Wilhelm. I need it out of necessity more than you need it as an ornament!”

  The young secretary paused, but complied. The old man mopped his sopping brow. “Bring them refreshments, Wilhelm. Löwenbräu—dark. Also pretzels, mustard, and wurst. That will occupy their stomachs until I can regain my composure.”

  “Certainly.” The young employee licked his lips. “Are you feeling better, sir?”

  “Better? Hardly!” He waved the handkerchief with an air of dismissal. “Go!”

  Again, Wilhelm disappeared. Haaf turned to Berg. “You will apprise me of the progress of your investigations.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And what about Anton?”

  Berg said, “Perhaps another visit will be in order.”

  “You’re damn right another visit is in order!”

  “I will ensure it, Herr Haaf,” Volker said.

  “I certainly hope so, Herr Kommissar. I’ve given you plenty of my time. I’d like to think that I haven’t wasted it.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “And when may I see . . . see her?”

  “This afternoon . . . maybe three hours from now.” Volker thought a moment. “Say . . . two o’clock?”

  The old man shook his head. “I’ve another appointment.” He turned to his son. “Perhaps you can go make the identification in my stead, Franz.”

  “Of course, Papa.”

  The old man placed a bony hand on his son’s shoulder, then dropped his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “We should both be grateful that Mother is no longer with us to witness such heartache, no?”

  Franz nodded. Berg said nothing. What a terrible thing for which to be grateful.

  EIGHT

  Once outside, Berg felt as if an enormous stone had been lifted off his shoulders. Sadness loomed even larger when confined to the indoors. He inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly, adjusting his breathing to the rhythm of the city. He gave his companions a quick glance. Haaf’s expression was grave, Volker’s distracted.

  The Kommissar adjusted his hat. “Your father’s perspective on his son-in-law was quite interesting, Herr Haaf.”

  “My father is being ridiculous,” Haaf snapped. “Anton adored Anna; he would never hurt her.”

  “His adoration combined with a sudden betrayal could have been the cause of the inexplicable action.”

  “Nonsense!” Haaf insisted.

  Volker remained unconvinced. “Even if your father was ranting to deal with the shock, I think another visit to your brother-in-law is called for.” Volker turned up the collar of his coat. “I will leave that up to Inspektor Berg. In any case, I shall meet you at Ett Strasse Station at one-thirty.”

  Haaf was momentarily confused.

  Volker said, “For the identification?”

  “Ah, yes, of course. Thank you for accompanying me.”

  “How could I do anything less?” The Chief nodded to Berg. “I will leave you two gentlemen now. Auf Wiederschau’n.”

  “Auf Wiederschau’n,” Haaf mumbled.

  Volker walked half a block, then got into his Mercedes, driving off amid clouds of black smoke.

  “An extravagance for a policeman . . . to have a car, no? And such an impressive one at that.” Haaf stuck his hands into his coat pockets. “He wears expensive clothing—his suit, his hat, his overcoat. How does he manage on a civil servant’s salary?”

  “You may ask him.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t know, Herr Haaf. He has never consulted me on financial matters.”

  “Your superior has style.”

  “The Kommissar is one of a kind.”

  “Said without a trace of irony,” Haaf said.

  “There is no irony. Simply a statement of fact.”

  “Hmmm.” Haaf took out a cigarette tin, shoved a smoke between his lips, lit up and blew out a thick billow of gray fumes. “What next?”

  Without thinking, Berg looked at the tin. English writing. Tobacco from The States was expensive.

  “Oh, sorry.” Haaf offered him a cigarette. “Here. I insist.” Berg took it, and Haaf lit it for him. “So you will see Anton again?”

  “I think yes. Did Herr Gross and your sister fight as often as your father said?”

  “And you don’t fight with your wife?”

  “My wife is alive. Did Anna ever confide in you her dissatisfaction with her marriage?”

  “It was rough for her, yes. But there was affection as well. I witnessed the flirtatious smiles between them. Genuine smiles.”

  Berg sucked in smoke from his cigarette and let it out slowly. “Still I would like to hear how your brother-in-law viewed his marriage.”

  “I’m sure he will tell you everything was perfect, that there were no problems at all.”

  “Then I would know that he was
lying. In a marriage, there are always problems. And then there is Anna’s pregnancy. If the child was not his, it could be a motive for homicide.”

  “My father spoke out of anger, out of prejudice, out of crazy agitation upon hearing such horrid news. I don’t believe that Anton could possibly be involved. You may interview him, of course, but I doubt if my brother-in-law will speak ill of my sister or talk about any dissatisfaction with the marriage. Not in his current state of mind, certainly.”

  Haaf spoke sense. Gross would probably be too distraught to say anything remotely negative about his wife. In the months ahead, she’d probably become a saint. Berg reconsidered. “I should also like to take the photograph of Anna that you have given me and show it to the theater owners in Schwabing. I’d like to find out if your sister was there last night.”

  “I think it would make more sense than thumping on poor Anton,” Haaf said. “Would you like me to drop you off someplace?”

  “Thank you, Herr Haaf, but no. A smoke along with a short walk will clear my mind.”

  “There is a very good bakery on Türken Strasse. Kulms, near the Komödien Theater. Just in case you are in need of a quick bit of nourishment.”

  “Thank you for the recommendation,” Berg said.

  “I shall leave then.” A slight bow. “Auf Wiederschau’n.”

  “Auf Wiederschau’n.” Berg watched the young man pivot and walk away, then whispered, “Pfueti”—an informal Bavarian way of saying good-bye. It was a contraction of “Behüt dich Gott”—may God protect you. This time, Pfueti was exactly what Berg had wanted to say.

  • • •

  BERG STROLLED several blocks down Leopold Strasse, then turned right onto Franz Joseph Strasse and into Schwabing, the heart and soul of the city’s artistic and intellectual community. Called the Munich Montmartre, the area was still vibrant with life, although its glory days had dulled as the decade wore on. Once it wasn’t unusual to see Kandinsky sipping coffee with Berthold Brecht, or Lenin engaged in a heated debate with Trotsky outside one of the many Russian tearooms, giving rise to the term Schwabing Soviet.

  Once was a very long time ago.