Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

It was the last thing Hoffner had expected to hear. “What I wanted you to do?”

“You are joking.” When Hoffner again said nothing, Sascha said, “What did you think, Father? That I actually cared about some first-year stmper ? We went over so you could make good with your Kripo friend. I thought you’d be happy.”

Hoffner had no idea what to answer. He was trying to figure out which was worse: the fact that his son thought that he had been using him, or Sascha’s conviction that going along had been his only way to please his father. Neither left Hoffner with much to say. “He’s not Kripo,” said Hoffner. “He’s Polpo.”

The word seemed to spark an immediate interest. “The fellows who got rid of the Reds?”

“Among others. Yes.”

“And he’s a friend of yours?”

The sudden level of enthusiasm troubled Hoffner. “No. I just wanted to know what he was doing here.”

As quickly as it had come, Sascha’s fascination vanished. “And that’s the reason you came today?” he said with renewed venom.

It took Hoffner a moment to follow the boy’s train of thought. “No, of course not,” he said, trying to dismiss the absurdity. “I had no idea he’d be here.”

Sascha stared at his father. He then said, “I have to go.” He started for the door.

Hoffner moved to block his path. “I can wait. Take you home.” The silence returned. “If you like.”

Sascha’s eyes had gone cold. He said, “Today’s Friday, Father. There’s a concert. After that, I’m at Kroll’s house for the night. Mother knows all about it.”

Hoffner nodded as if he had just now remembered: he had never been told. “I saw his father today,” he said for some reason. When Sascha continued to stare at him blankly, Hoffner said almost apologetically, “You know you don’t have to help with that Krieger boy, now. No reason for you to waste your time on some stmper. ” The word sounded so forced on his tongue.

In a strangely detached tone, Sascha said, “No, I think I’d like to, Father. Who knows? Could be fun.” He brought the bag back up to his shoulder. “But I really do have to go now. Kroll’s waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you for coming, Father.”

Before Hoffner could answer, Sascha had sidestepped his way to the door and was pushing his way through. Hoffner was left to face the corridor alone.

Idiot, he thought as he began to walk. Pushed him right into Tamshik’s hands, didn’t I? Sometimes Hoffner wondered if it might not have been better never to have met Martha at all.

It was Wednesday when he finally got back to headquarters. The weekend had disappeared into a Schwarzschild black hole of family commitments: Martha’s sisters on Saturday, his mother on Sunday. Sascha had been present for both events and had worn his potential Tamshik-connection like a light summer cardigan: casually draped over his shoulder in a posture of smug defiance. Hoffner had sat through the long afternoons hoping for a ring of the telephone. It had never come. Monday and Tuesday had found him at the Reichstadt Court giving expert testimony and presentation of evidence for three separate cases. By himself, Hoffner had sent two men to the gallows. The third, a minor trafficker in Pimm’s organization, had gotten off with a slap on the wrist. Evidently, Weigland enjoyed his sugar cubes more than he was letting on.

In the meantime, Fichte had found nothing among the various stores that dealt with Monsieur Edgar Troimpel et Fils; not that Hoffner had been expecting anything. The trade lines between the former Central and Entente powers were just now beginning to resurface: French cheese was finding its way to Salzburg, Umbrian wine to Cologne. Given that everyone’s focus was on Paris and the peace talks, the lace market remained slightly less pressing. On the helpful side, Hoffner’s fawning friend at KaDeWe-Herr Taubmann-had been kind enough to take a stab at when the gloves had been made: kind enough once Hoffner had ordered a single pair for himself. They had cost him nearly half a week’s salary. He would, of course, cancel the order in a few day’s time. Still, the money was out of pocket until then, but the information had been worth it.

Herr Taubmann had estimated that, given the lower-than-usual quality of the dye, the gloves had been produced in the last six months: the war had forced everyone to cut corners, which meant that the gloves had been purchased no earlier than the summer of 1918. The question of where was equally limited: before the war, Troimpel et Fils had sold in Berlin, Milan, London, and Paris, and, of course, Brussels and Bruges, but given Belgium’s fate during the first few weeks of the war, export to friend or foe had been out of the question. A pair or two might have been brought back to Berlin by a soldier on leave, but the chances of an officer’s gift-and a rather pricey one at that-ending up on the hands of, at best, a middle-class girl were beyond remote.

The gloves had been purchased in Belgium, that much was clear. And, given the girl’s unique characteristics when compared with those of the other victims-her age, her clothes, the preserving grease-Hoffner was guessing that she, too, had originated elsewhere. He had sent out a wire to both the Brussels and Bruges police on Monday before leaving for the courts.

On the unlikely chance that he was wrong, however, Hoffner had sent Fichte out this morning to the Missing and Displaced Persons Office in Hessiche Strasse. For some reason, the powers that be had decided to set up the bureau directly across the street from the morgue: someone’s idea of efficiency, no doubt. There was still the possibility that a photo or description of the girl had come in sometime in the last six weeks: a slim one, thought Hoffner, but at least it was giving Fichte a chance to familiarize himself with one of the more depressing offices in town, and one of the busiest since the revolution.

Hoffner picked up the telephone and dialed the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. The KWI operator was infamous for misdirecting calls, and Hoffner spent a good ten minutes waiting for her to find the right extension. He was still adrift in static when a messenger appeared at his door, holding a small envelope. Hoffner ushered the boy into his office just as Kroll was picking up the line.

“Uwe Kroll here.”

Hoffner took the envelope, then motioned for the boy to wait. “Uwe, hello. Any news?” There was an unexpected silence on the other end. “It’s Nikolai.”

“Yes,” said Kroll. “I know who it is.” Again, Kroll seemed content to leave it at that.

“Is this a bad time?” Hoffner said skeptically.

“You’re calling about the material.”

Hoffner stated the obvious: “Yes.”

Kroll paused. “You’re going to need to come down to the Institute, Nikolai. All right?”

There was something odd in Kroll’s voice. Hoffner had been bringing him goops and oozes to analyze for years, and not one of them had ever provoked more than a playful curiosity. This, however, had the ring of seriousness to it. Hoffner considered pressing for more, but knew better. “All right,” he said. “An hour?”

“Fine,” said Kroll. “I’ll see you then.”

Hoffner hung up and he turned to the boy. “From the wire room?”

“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”

“No?. . Interesting.” Hoffner peered at his own name written across the front of the envelope. There was no return address, no office number, just the name. The boy started to go. “Wait,” said Hoffner. The boy planted himself by the door as Hoffner opened the envelope. The note was brief, and to the point. It read: You should go back to the flat, Detective Inspector.