Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

The Herr Major turned to the clerk, but the boy was one step ahead of him. The boy produced the second volume, his finger wedged between two pages. He opened it and handed the book to the Herr Major.

Once again the Herr Major glanced down the page. “Yes, Herr Inspector,” he said without so much as a nod for his clerk. “Munich recruits.” With a twitch of his fingers, he dismissed the boy.

Hoffner said, “May I, Herr Major?”

It was the Division Lists, broken down into regiments, battalions, and units, the last of which were alphabetized. Urlicher had been a member of the Liebregiment, Second Battalion, First Unit. Several lines above his name was an entry for a Second Lieutenant Erich Oster. Joachim Manstein, however, was not to be found. Hoffner casually flipped through to see if Manstein might appear in another unit or even battalion, but a quick scan turned up nothing. He knew anything more than a perfunctory glance would have caught the Herr Major’s attention. Hoffner brought out his pen and wrote down the names in Urlicher’s unit. He then closed the book and handed it back.

“The names you’ve written,” said the Herr Major. “Some of these men remain active members of the regiment, Herr Inspector. I’m correct in thinking that they will not be a part of your investigation?”

Hoffner pocketed his pen. “Of course, Herr Major.”

With a nod, the two men stood. The Herr Major said, “The man is dead by now, Herr Inspector. The disease is crippling and ultimately fatal. The bones become as brittle as paper. As you said, he is no longer our responsibility.”

Hoffner understood. The work of Regimental Affairs was now devoted to toting up the dead like so much excess inventory. Urlicher’s discharge had saved them valuable space; they were not intent on finding a spot for him now. “Then we won’t need to see each other again, will we, Herr Major?”

At the door, Hoffner tipped his hat to the clerk. The boy almost forgot himself with a smile.

Back at his office, Hoffner wrote out a short list of names: Urlicher, Oster, and Manstein, Trger, Schumpert, and Biberkopf-Jogiches had mentioned “Prussian business concerns,” so why not include them? — and for good measure, Braun, Tamshik, and Hermannsohn; Weigland, he knew, was not clever enough to merit inclusion. At the bottom of the page, he wrote the words “Rosa” and “Wouters.” He also jotted down dates next to each of the men’s names, indicating when they might have become involved, or at least when they had shown some connection to Rosa and Wouters. How far back that went was impossible to say.

The first three had conspired to set Wouters loose on Berlin starting in June of last year, but to what end? To get rid of Rosa without a trace of political involvement, by having it appear that she was just one more victim of Wouters’s madness? Why not simply do the killings themselves, if it was all a ploy? Why dredge up Wouters? If Urlicher, Oster, and Manstein had in fact been working in conjunction with any of the last three on the list, why was the Polpo holding on to her body? Why set up Wouters, unleash him, and then keep Rosa hidden? Jogiches’s “obvious” answer made sense only in hindsight. Worse, Hoffner had nothing to say about the three names in the middle. The design of the Rosenthaler station and the missing engineer-Herr Tben/Sazonov-pointed to the construction company of Ganz-Neurath, but Berlin money linked to a Munich regiment not only seemed a stretch, it was completely out of character: there were no heights steep enough from which a Prussian could look down his nose at a Bavarian. The timing there was also troubling: when had Herr Tben/Sazonov made his alterations so as to give Wouters his ideal surroundings?

The only recourse Hoffner had was to track down Oster and Manstein, which only confirmed everything Jogiches had been saying: Munich.

Hoffner reached over to telephone the duty desk for a train schedule and saw little Franz standing in the doorway. It was unclear how long the boy had been there. “Something I can do for you, Franz?”

The boy was oddly hesitant. “A note’s come in for you, Herr Oberkommissar. To the duty desk.”

“Well, give it here.” Franz produced the small, familiar-looking envelope. “Same man with the beard?” Hoffner sliced open the top as Franz nodded.

Odd, thought Hoffner. Jogiches was hardly a man to repeat himself. “Anything on Herr Kvatsch?” He pulled out the card. He had given up hope at this point: Kvatsch was playing it far better than he had anticipated. Still, it was good to ask; keep the boy on his toes.

“A few more times with Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Groener,” said Franz, “but nothing more, Herr Oberkommissar. ”

Groener, thought Hoffner. More dirty work for Jogiches. He made a mental note to sit down with the detective sergeant. Over a whiskey. It was the only substance he could think of strong enough to counteract the stench.

The card was the same quality as before, except this time Jogiches had chosen a typewriter. There was an address, the word “Urgent,” and the signature “K.”

Hoffner looked up. Franz was peering across at him with surprising interest. “Yes?” said Hoffner.

For just a moment the boy looked as if he had been caught out. “Well. .” he said, “I’ve been following Herr Kvatsch around for you, Herr Oberkommissar, and for a couple of weeks now.” Franz let the words linger.

Hoffner understood. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a few pfennigs. He placed the coins on the far side of the desk and said, “Never be afraid to ask for what you’re owed, Franz.”

The boy walked over and took the money. “Yes, Herr Oberkommissar. ”

Hoffner knew there was no point in keeping after Kvatsch now. Even so, he said, “Ten pfennigs a week for more information, all right?”

This seemed fair. Franz nodded. He pocketed his wages and headed out the door.

Forty-five minutes later, Hoffner stepped out of a cab and into the overwhelming stench of hacked flesh. Fichte was still nowhere to be found, but the note had been clear: urgent. Hoffner would manage Fichte later.

The address from Jogiches was out in the slaughter-yard district, about as far east as one could go: killing of this kind was too much even for the folks in Prenzlauer Berg; they wanted it out of their backyards, as well. The whole area was little more than a series of slick cobblestone alleys and dirty gray walls topped by barbed wire, although the cows and hogs and whatnot were hardly there long enough to merit the precaution. Someone had once joked that the wires had been set in place to keep the rest of Berlin from sneaking up and stealing a few pieces of meat. Given the state of things now, no one was laughing.

Oddly enough, it was the one place in town that reminded Hoffner of his father’s Berlin, where the smell of manure outpaced the stink of automobile petrol, and where the lazy hoof-fall of an overworked nag replaced the coiled snap of a tram wire from above. This was a world of wagons and pushcarts, the red and yellow spokes of the slaughterhouse two-wheelers as common a sight as a Daimler in the Westend. No amount of snow could cover the grit that was here; a constant plume of locomotive smoke rose from the Belt Line Railway yards-livestock rolling in from East Prussia and Pomerania and Brandenburg-soaking the flakes in soot before they had a chance to make it to the ground. It hardly mattered, though: there was nothing to hide out here. It was killing, pure and simple.

Hoffner found the building, a worn sign for MECK UND SONNE above the door. The shortages had forced some of the smaller houses to consolidate, a nice word for shutting down the works and letting go fifty men. The surrounding buildings had fallen victim, as well. Hard to imagine something more depressing than a row of slaughterhouses, but here it was, a row of abandoned ones.