Straight into Darkness Read online

  “Of course,” Roddewig thought out loud. “So maybe there’s no need to arrest or charge him. All we have to do is implicate him. Cast suspicion and let rumors do the rest.”

  Volker said, “Idle gossip, Stefan?” The Kommandant shrugged. “This is all very premature. Let me work on the case a while longer before we take such drastic actions.”

  “And then if you do investigate and still come up empty?” asked Brummer.

  “Idle gossip . . .” Volker nodded at his superiors. “With minimal effort, Herr Direktor, that can be done.”

  TEN

  In Munich, there were beer halls for tourists and beer halls for the locals. The Old City had the former establishments: Das Kellnerhaus, located in the southern area of Giesing, fell into the latter category. As soon as Berg stepped inside, he was enveloped in an intense cloud of heat, smoke, and grease. Mixing in with the odor of frying sausage and tobacco was the stink of sweat and gases pouring out from the raucous crowd of workingmen enjoying a hearty lunch. With all those bodies, it would have been noisy even without the band. Factoring in the din from the brass musicians and accordion player, the clamor was deafening. But few if any noticed the drawbacks because the place was warm, the beer was cheap, the food was good, and the atmosphere was home.

  It took only a few moments for Berg’s eyes to adjust from the outside glare to the interior’s weak lighting. Although the shutters were open all the way, the afternoon sunlight was minimal. The decor was dark: dark wooden paneling on the walls, dark wooden floors, dark wooden ceiling planks and rafters. In Germany, the Black Forest was not just a name but a way of life.

  The single room was packed with endless rows of benches and trestle tables holding people who sat shoulder to shoulder. Deft waiters in lederhosen and agile waitresses in dirndls carried multiple mugs of beer while balancing platters of food. Faces soaked with perspiration, they worked with efficiency and speed. Once Berg spotted Ulrich and Georg, he had to dodge the harried help just to walk from the door to where his colleagues were sitting. Berg managed to squeeze himself a place on the bench. The tabletop held plates of cold cuts, cheese, rye bread, and pretzels. Within seconds, a filled beer stein was plopped in front of his face.

  After draining it, Berg shouted, “We can’t talk business in here.”

  “So first we eat and then we talk,” Georg Müller shouted back.

  That made sense. Berg heaped cold cuts and cheese on his plate, slathered a slice of rye with butter, and proceeded to wolf the food down without even registering the taste. A few minutes later he devoured a pretzel. With his stomach satisfied, he nursed a beer until he reached his thirty-minute time limit. The heat was stifling, the racket was overwhelming, and the smells began to play havoc with his digestive juices. After paying his tab, he got up, signaling for the others to follow.

  Outside it was cool and windy, but the bitter chill had lifted. A block down was a small Platz where a coffeehouse had set up a half-dozen tables outside. Berg pointed to an empty spot.

  “How about here?”

  “Then we have to order coffee,” Storf groused.

  Berg sat down. “I’ll take care of the tab.”

  “Then I won’t complain.” Storf took a seat. “Shouldn’t we go inside?”

  “It’s more private out here, I think.” Berg looked around. The Platz was across the street from a small public garden. The trees were still bare, but the flower beds had been planted with tulips. “Drink something hot if you’re cold.” He rubbed his hands.

  Storf pointed out, “You are cold as well. We should have waited out the crowd at Das Kellnerhaus.”

  “That would have been impossible, Ulrich; the place is always jammed. At least here we don’t have to breathe in the stenches of farts and belches.”

  Storf bristled. “If you want effete university intellectuals, Berg, go to a Kabarett in Berlin and sip absinthe. A Munich beer hall is strictly for real people—those who eat and belch and fart and fuck.”

  “Pigs eat and belch and fart and fuck.”

  “That could explain why we eat so much pig,” Müller said, laughing.

  “There is nothing wrong with taking an occasional shower,” Berg said.

  “Yes, that would be fine, Axel,” Storf said. “Showering in freezing temperatures and catching a death of a cold. Some of us don’t have indoor plumbing.”

  “Besides, who sweats in the winter?” Müller added.

  “My nose tells me many people sweat.” Berg pulled up the collar on his coat. “Putting up with a little nip is better than the stink of bodies and tobacco.”

  “You are too delicate for this city,” Storf commented. “The Brownshirts will eat you up.”

  “The Brownshirts are nothing but punks.”

  “Why you’d want to think of yourself as Kosmopolit is beyond me.” Storf shrugged. “To be associated with those kinds of people.”

  “You mean the Jews?”

  “The Jews, the Kommunisten, the intellectuals. They are subversive. In this climate, Berg, it is not good to be associated with subversives.”

  “I am considered subversive because I don’t join up with a bunch of hooligans—”

  “Shhhh . . .” Müller silenced him. “Giesing is his domain.”

  “So why do we come here?” Berg complained. “It’s dangerous, stinks of garbage and horse dung, and the Austrian has spies breathing down our necks.”

  “And where would you suggest we go, Axel?” Müller said. “Not all of us have married so well.”

  “Your runaway mind has grossly exaggerated my financial condition.”

  Storf said, “You have a two-bedroom apartment, you have indoor plumbing, you have electricity, and you have a building with heat. That is rich by our blood.”

  Berg rolled his eyes. “Let’s just order.” He signaled for the waitress, a bored, heavyset woman in a blue working dress. He ordered coffee for all and a plate of pastries.

  But Storf would not let the discussion end. “Why do you insist on defending degenerates?”

  “I do not defend degenerates; I defend intellectualism. There is nothing degenerative about being educated.”

  “Except that all the universities are overrun with Jews.”

  “They are educated.”

  “They are subversive.” Müller grew angry. “What is your affinity for those who steal from good German citizens, Berg?”

  “Ask him about a young woman, Georg, of a certain subversive persuasion,” Ulrich said under his breath.

  “You!” Berg pointed a finger at Storf. “That’s quite enough!”

  Ulrich knew he had gone too far. He held out his hands defensively. Müller’s smile had turned into a wide grin. “Ah . . . at last you make sense. Little kitty is very hard to resist, no matter where it comes from. I must ask you who she is or else I threaten to go to your wife.”

  “That is a fart without wind, Georg,” Berg answered listlessly. “I know at least two ‘working’ Fräulein who take money from you.”

  “I see we must have women in common.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Even I wouldn’t lower myself to fuck a Jew.”

  “You might if you saw this one.” Storf brushed off Berg’s glaring eyes. “I am only defending you, Inspektor.”

  “Ah, Axel, please!” Müller said. “Don’t give the impression that you’re sweet on her. It is bad to fall in love with whores.”

  “Especially subversive Jewish ones,” Storf added. “The next thing you know she’ll be talking revolution.”

  Fortunately, the waitress returned with three cups of coffee and a tray of sweets. Berg picked up a poppy-seed cookie and took a bite, chewing slowly as he thought about how to defuse the situation. He wanted to punch them both in the face, but it was best to keep emotions hidden in these uncertain times. “I am protective of my property, including my whores.” Berg forced the words out of his mouth. “Especially one so young.”

  Storf broke into a venal
smile. “Yes, women run dry very quickly. And how old is she? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

  “You’re repulsive.” Berg laughed it off, but in truth Margot wasn’t much older. Although she had been eighteen for at least three months, the affair had started over a year ago. Blood rose to his cheeks. He hid his embarrassment behind his coffee cup.

  Müller said, “The youngest girl I ever fucked—I mean fucked as a man—was thirteen. She was a Gypsy. And she wasn’t even a virgin. Gypsies fuck very young.”

  Ulrich said, “How was she?”

  “Dark,” Müller said. “Very dark. Dark all over except pink where it counted: pink and swollen and ready. I went through a stage . . . I fucked many Gypsy girls. But now . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It is too dangerous. Though not as satisfying, it is safer to be content with the old German whores.”

  “Why not a young German whore?” Storf asked.

  “A money issue.”

  “Not Axel’s problem,” Storf added.

  Berg said, “And exactly how would I explain to my wife that I’m spending her money on whores?”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t ask for an accounting.” Storf picked up a tiny cream-filled shell and popped it into his mouth. “How much does she cost you . . . your young one?”

  Berg looked away. “Cigarettes, beer, an occasional trinket . . . the usual.” He gave them both the heat and fury of his eyes. “May we talk about Anna Gross?”

  “Murdered by strangulation,” Storf began.

  “Did you ever find her shoe?”

  “I didn’t know I was to look for it.”

  “We found nothing that appeared to belong to her in the area,” Müller joined in. “No articles of clothing.”

  “No shoe, then.”

  “No.”

  “No coat?”

  “No.”

  “A pocketbook?”

  “Nothing means nothing, Berg.”

  “She had semen in her,” Storf said. “Professor Kolb verified it with his microscope at the crime scene. What I can’t explain is how this pregnant woman managed to leave the house in evening attire without her husband knowing she was gone. It seems to me that her husband must have known she was gone.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know until she came home,” Müller said. “He catches her as she sneaks in, and confronts her. Then he kills her and drags her body to the park and calls the police to cover up his crime.”

  “It is certainly plausible. But what about the shoe?” Berg brought up. The two men regarded the Inspektor. “Why would her husband remove her shoe? Why would he take her coat?”

  “Why would anyone remove her shoe?” Storf asked.

  “Because there are some perverted people who like to collect mementos of their victims.”

  “You read too many lurid stories from those cheap magazines.”

  Berg shrugged. “There is a witness who may have seen Anna last night with a man. They appeared to be intimate.”

  Müller sneered. “With so many wives whoring, is it any wonder that we good German men seek others for solace?”

  “Can we keep the discussion on Anna Gross, please?” Finally having their attention, Berg spoke about his conversation with Gerhart Leit, then revealed the sketch of Anna’s phantom companion. The men studied it in earnest.

  Berg said, “He looks familiar, doesn’t he?”

  “He looks like a thousand people,” Storf said.

  True enough. Berg continued. “In answer to your question, Ulrich, about how she could have escaped her husband’s notice . . . what about a sleeping potion in his nighttime tea or drink?”

  Storf said, “Except she went to bed before he did.”

  “Obviously she didn’t stay in bed,” Müller said.

  “A trusted servant could have slipped something in his beverage,” Berg answered. “After Herr Gross fell into a deep sleep, someone could have informed Anna Gross that it was safe to go out.”

  “I reckon it’s a possibility,” Müller said.

  “I will go back to the house of Herr Gross,” Berg announced. “I think it will serve me better if I speak to the help. Usually it is the chambermaid who knows if her mistress has access to laudanum or some other sleeping medicine.”

  The trio drank coffee.

  Müller said, “Are you going to show Herr Gross your little sketch?”

  “He will only deny knowing the man,” Berg answered. “The help is another matter. Especially the women. They are more open to police questions, no?” Berg checked his pocket watch and frowned. It was well past two o’clock. “We talk too much about trivia. Herr Gross is with Volker identifying Anna. I can’t make it back before the husband.”

  “So go tomorrow morning,” Müller said. “Your mind will be refreshed by a good night’s sleep.”

  “But Gross will be home, planning the funeral. I need to talk to the help when he is gone.”

  Storf said, “You must look for an opportunity, Axel. I’m sure the Jew will have business to tidy up. Just be patient.”

  Müller said, “And how do you intend to get Anna’s chambermaid to speak about such personal matters?”

  “My dear Georg, you don’t start out talking about personal matters, you segue into them only after you’ve sufficiently charmed the lady in question.”

  “And if your charm fails, Berg?”

  “It is well known that many in the Munich police are not only sympathetic to the Austrian’s cause but also well versed in his hooligan methods.” Berg stowed the picture in his pocket. “The threat of a night in jail will be enough to loosen the tightest of lips.”

  ELEVEN

  When Berg returned to the Ett Strasse station, it was just past three. Awaiting him were two officially stamped envelopes on his desktop. If that didn’t speak for German efficiency, what did?

  Immediately, he took out a green folder containing a homicide file—a Mordakte—for Anna Gross. Also inside were eight postmortem photographs taken at the scene, all of them very clear, very focused, and very obscene. The second package was paperwork, an extensive report on the cause of Anna’s death by strangulation. Also detailed were other marks and bruises on her body. Fresh indentation marks were found around her arm and wrist, made from fingertips squeezing flesh. She had tried to escape? Maybe he held her back.

  The other papers were mainly lists: items found at the crime scene, names of suspects, names of potential witnesses. To all of this, Berg added his own notes, his own interviews and reports as well as the original sketch he’d drafted under Gerhart Leit’s instructions. In order not to ruin the drawing by repeated exposure, Berg copied the face into his notebook, comparing the two versions, making them as close as possible. By the time the church bells chimed out the six o’clock hour, Anna Gross’s homicide file had developed girth. Berg had been working for over twelve hours. He was tired and dirty and thirsty. A pint of beer would go down very smoothly.

  But unlike most men after a hard day’s work, he didn’t head for the nearest beer hall. Nor did he take steps to go home. His decision was dictated by drives other than hunger pangs. She worked just a few blocks away from the station.

  Proximity was how they had met. They had both been eating lunch in a nearby square. It had been a stunning autumn day, the sky cloudless and blue, the leaves in full color. The air had been crisp and cool at that turning point when the bite of winter started sinking its fangs into the bone marrow. She had been wrapped in a tattered wool coat with a scarf around her neck and a ski cap on her head. Her teeth were chattering. Her hands were encased in mittens, but her exposed nose had turned bright red. Had he known from the start that she was a Jewess, Berg wouldn’t have bothered, but her looks were deceptive with her fair complexion and her bright blue eyes. He had offered her some hot coffee from his thermos, and they started talking.

  One month later, they wound up in bed.

  Margot worked in a small textile factory in the Isarvorstadt region—a swampy, low area where the banks of the Isar did lit
tle to stem the rising waters when the skies opened like faucets. It was a neighborhood of flooded streets and poverty, teeming with East European immigrants. The conditions were crowded, sanitation was poor, disease was rampant, and crime was pervasive. Still, roses grew in the most adverse of conditions.

  The mill was hot and humid from the steam used to press the cloth, from the sweat of its workers: the weavers, dyers, laundresses, and pressers. The plant made many textiles, but specialized in the blue fabric that made up the typical Arbeitsmaid-Kleid—the farm-girl dress. It was Margot’s job to press the fabric. Then she sent it down the assembly line where somebody else rolled the yards around square bolts or cardboard dowels for wholesale distribution.

  It used to be that whenever Berg wanted to see her, he sent a messenger with instructions telling her when and where. In the past few months, however, he had turned bold, walking into the plant unannounced and right up to Margot’s station, throwing his arms around her small waist and kissing her neck with the passion of ownership. She would scold him, of course, just as she was scolding him now.

  “Not here!”

  “Then come outside.”

  “I am working,” she told him.

  “It is past six.”

  “I know, but if I don’t finish this job, he will fire me.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Maybe ten minutes.”

  “I will wait,” Berg said.

  She smiled at him, perspiration covering her face. A hand, burned and roughened, settled gently on his forearm. “Then wait outside. Your association with me hurts both of us.”

  Berg regarded her pink, round wet face. Her long, curly hair was covered by a white cap. She was wearing a blue dress made out of the fabric she was pressing, a white apron tied around her waist. Her fingertips were callused. He kissed her palm, his tongue gently licking her skin. “Ten minutes, huh?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He loved the urgency of her voice. Everything she did was urgent, as if time were running out. “Very well, then. At our usual spot?”