Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

“It’s in how he draws it,” he said out loud as he began to flip through the pages. He was hoping to find something resembling the diameter-cut. There was nothing.

The sudden break in silence momentarily startled Fichte. “An exercise, you mean?”

“Maybe.” Hoffner stared a moment longer. “I don’t know.” He then took the pages and grabbed his coat. “Friday night,” he said as he slipped his arm through the sleeve. “The only place that handles this kind of lace and that stays open past six is KaDeWe, yes?”

“The shops I tried wouldn’t be open this late,” said Fichte. “KaDeWe. Maybe Tietz. But KaDeWe definitely.”

“Good,” said Hoffner as he grabbed his hat. “Then I’m guessing our friend there is going to be able to tell us more about Herr Wouters than you, I, van Acker, or any doctor ever could.”

KaDeWe was packed. The revolution was now a distant memory, and capitalism had wasted no time in calling its faithful back to the teat. If any of the store’s clientele had seen this morning’s BZ, they were showing little concern. After all, there was a special on scarves, and someone had heard that a bit of perfume from Paris had finally made its way through. They were in the west, deep in the west. No one killed in the west.

Hoffner and Fichte sidestepped their way through the crowds and over to the glove counter, where, for some reason, things were less frantic. A placard on top of the glass explained:

We regret any inconvenience, however this department will be closing at five-thirty this evening. All inquiries may be taken up at the information desk. Thank you for your patience.

Hoffner checked his watch. It was a quarter to six. He moved across the aisle to lady’s handkerchiefs, where a line of three or four women was waiting for the clerk. Hoffner stepped up to the glass. “The gentleman who handles the gloves,” he said bluntly. “Herr Taubmann. Where does he change before leaving the store?”

The clerk turned slowly at the interruption as the woman started talking quietly among themselves. “Mein Herr,” he said through two stiff lips, “as you can see, there are other customers waiting-”

Hoffner pulled out his badge; he had no time for this tonight. “My apologies. Where can I find him?”

The man’s sneer became a weak smile. “Is there something the matter, mein Herr ?” The man was doing his best not to rattle the ladies. “Surely this is a mistake?”

“Yes, that’s what this is,” said Hoffner abruptly. “A mistake. Just tell me where he changes.”

Three minutes later, Hoffner was leading Fichte through the maze of underground employee corridors in search of Room 17. It was eerily quiet, given the mayhem they had just come from on the main floor.

Herr Taubmann was sitting alone on a long bench, tying his shoe, when Hoffner and Fichte stepped into the cold room; evidently heat was not a necessity for KaDeWe’s workers. Hoffner noticed that the walls were in need of a bit of replastering, as well.

Taubmann’s suit hung in a locker directly across from him. It was perfectly placed, the creases exact on the hanger. Hoffner saw the open bottle of rosewater placed on a shelf just below the cuffs to keep it fresh: a perfect touch for the man, he thought.

Taubmann looked up, his surprise instantaneous. It was the first time Hoffner had realized how birdlike Taubmann was. “Herr Hoffner,” Taubmann said nervously. His head tweaked from side to side as he glanced from Hoffner to Fichte. “This is a restricted area.” He seemed unsure what to say next. “Your order has not yet come in.” Even Taubmann recognized the absurdity of what he had just said.

“Yes,” Hoffner cut in reassuringly. “I’m not here about the gloves, Herr Taubmann.” He calmly produced his badge. “It’s Inspector Hoffner. I just need to ask you some questions about. . lace designs.”

Taubmann was still trying to process the badge. “Inspector?”

“Yes. You’ve been so helpful in the past. I hope that’s all right?”

Taubmann struggled to find an answer. “Questions about lace?”

“Yes.” Hoffner needed to move this along. “I know you have an appointment tonight, but this shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

Taubmann’s nervousness turned to shock. “How do you know about my appointment?” he said tensely.

Hoffner raised a hand. “I don’t,” he said in his most pacifying tone. “I merely assumed. There was a note at your counter. You were closing early.”

Taubmann’s relief was immediate. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. The note. I–It’s a dinner for my mother. Once a year. We celebrate her birthday. I always leave a few minutes early. Saves an enormous amount of time back here. You can’t imagine. Half an hour at least.”

It amused Hoffner to see how much information the innocent were willing to volunteer. “Of course,” he said. “How nice for you. But could I steal just a few minutes of your time?”

Taubmann was again running through the last half-minute in his head. “You still want the gloves from Bruges, yes?” The salesman was returning.

Hoffner smiled. “Of course.”

“Good.” Taubmann was recovering beautifully. “That’s good. And this is. .?”

Hoffner turned to Fichte. “My partner. Detective Fichte. Herr Taubmann.”

Fichte offered a quick nod.

“Oh, yes,” said Taubmann. “I trust your doctor’s visit was a success?”

Naturally, Taubmann would have remembered that. Fichte nodded again, with a forced smile.

“Very good,” said Taubmann. He was slightly less efficient out of his perfect suit. He seemed aware of it himself as he motioned for Hoffner to take a seat. Hoffner did so, and pulled out the pages from van Acker’s files.

“If you can,” said Hoffner, “I’d like to know what these are.”

Still not sure what was going on, Taubmann took the sheets. “All right,” he said tentatively. He brought the pages up to his face. As with the gloves, his expression changed instantly. His head began to dart from row to row as he studied the sketches with great intensity. After nearly two minutes he said, “This is marvelous work. Really. Not another aunt, is it, mein Herr ?”

“Another. .?” Hoffner remembered his first lie. “No. Not another aunt.”

Taubmann nodded, his eyes still fixed on the sketches. “No, I wouldn’t imagine something this unusual as a gift.”

“Unusual?” said Hoffner.

Taubmann looked up. “A point tude. It’s exceptionally rare. It applies to only a handful of meshes.”

“I see,” said Hoffner.

Gazing at the drawings again, Taubmann said, “Am I right in guessing that you want to know if we can make pieces from them?”

Hoffner found it oddly charming how everything for Herr Taubmann revolved around the sale of lace. A detective had just invaded his changing room, with mysterious sheets of paper, and all Taubmann saw was an order for unusual gloves. The man was perfect. Hoffner could ask him anything without wondering if Taubmann might see beyond the question. It made it all very safe.

“Once again,” said Hoffner, “you’ve guessed correctly.”

Taubmann’s smile was only slightly self-congratulatory. “Thank you, mein Herr, but I’m not quite clear why it’s so. . pressing.” He was doing his best to be accommodating. “After all, I will be in tomorrow morning.”

“Yes.”

“Not that I’m not keen on the sale,” Taubmann said eagerly. “But. . you understand.”

“Of course,” said Hoffner, easing himself back into character. “It’s just that I came across it-this. . point tude, as you say-quite by accident, and I’m simply fascinated by it.” Hoffner decided to lead the man. “Much the way you are, I suspect?” He saw Taubmann begin to waver. “Just two minutes, Herr Taubmann. You’ll allow me that brief imposition, won’t you?”