Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

He had made the reservations for tomorrow, Thursday morning.

Meanwhile, Hoffner had spent the better part of this morning suffering through a series of hot baths and liniment treatments; there had been no way to fight it. He had barely been able to get out of bed, and Martha had lost no time in getting a doctor to the flat. Something had torn, according to the specialist; breathing would be painful for the next few days. Hoffner could thank Fichte’s considerable size for that. The doctor had recommended a week in bed. Hoffner had agreed to half a day.

Luckily, it had forced him to see just how useful the telephone could be. Everyone seemed to be far more efficient than when in person. Hoffner was guessing that a request from a disembodied voice conveyed an authority attributable to some higher source: “two tickets for Munich” had never sounded so numinous.

The station envelope was waiting on his desk when he arrived back at the Alex. Hoffner penned a short note and placed it, along with one of the tickets, into a separate envelope. He then called upstairs for one of the boys, and three minutes later, little Sascha arrived at his door.

“How’s the Count?” said Hoffner, shuffling through more of van Acker’s files. He was still working on Manstein, who remained nothing more than a name. Hoffner glanced over when there was no reply. “Of Monte Cristo,” he said. “All’s well there?”

Sascha brightened up. “Oh yes, Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar. It’s Treasure Island now.”

Hoffner nodded encouragingly. “Spending your money on books. That’s commendable.” He held out the envelope. The Kremmener Strasse address was written in thick pen. “You know where this is?”

The boy read and nodded. “I don’t buy them, Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar, ” he said as he tucked the envelope into his pocket. “Franz gives them to me when he’s finished with them.” Another bit of surprising news, thought Hoffner. “Do you want me to wait for a response, Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar ?”

Hoffner knew the answer would be coming soon enough: 9:13 tomorrow morning if the schedule was correct. “Just make sure it gets there. You don’t have to wait.”

Sascha was gone by the time Hoffner had dug out a few coins. Odd little fellow, he thought. He would never make it on the streets. Maybe little Franz knew that, as well.

The Hotel Eden remained the temporary headquarters of the Cavalry Guards Rifle Division, the Schtzen-Division.

Hoffner had made sure to tell the duty sergeant that he was heading over; he wanted anyone taking an interest in his itinerary to know what he was doing this afternoon: a message of his own, as it were, to make it clear that it would take more than a few bruises to derail him. Maybe, then, there was just a hint of ego in all of this.

Unfortunately, Hoffner still had no idea what he intended to do now that he was at the hotel. It was unlikely that Pabst or Runge would have much to say to a Kripo detective; then again, these were not clever men. There was always the chance that they knew more than they should.

Aside from the uniforms, Hoffner was hard-pressed to find anything remotely akin to military precision on the first floor. Soldiers milled about, some armed, others in half-buttoned tunics, most with cigarettes stuck in the corners of their mouths. These, suffice it to say, were not regular troops. What little help Hoffner’s badge had been across town at the GS was here the object of sneers and laughter. It was only when he started up for the second floor that a sergeant shouted over from his game of cards.

“And where do you think you’re going, Herr Kripo?” The man smiled across at his fellow players.

Hoffner stopped and said easily, “It looks like up these stairs, doesn’t it, Herr Sergeant?”

The man was not amused. “No one goes up without our saying so.”

Hoffner nodded to himself. “That’s good to know.” He began to climb again.

The man was up, rifle in hand, before Hoffner had taken two more steps. The sergeant cocked the bolt. Hoffner stopped and the man drew up to the base of the stairs.

“Did you hear me say so, Herr Kripo?” The hall fell silent. Hoffner was now the center of attention.

Hoffner slowly turned around and peered down at the man. He waited and then said, “Are you going to shoot me, Herr Sergeant?”

The man was clearly not used to being challenged; it was wonderful to see a man struggle so publicly with his own arrogance. There were several long moments of indecision before the sergeant said quickly, “Let me see that badge again.”

Hoffner was impressed; the man had shown remarkable restraint. Hoffner slowly walked back down the steps, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out his badge. He held it there, his gaze unwavering.

Without so much as a glance, the sergeant said, “That’s all right, then.” He nodded his head. “You can go up.”

Hoffner remained where he was and slowly placed the badge in his pocket. “Thank you, Herr Sergeant,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.” Hoffner then turned and headed up the stairs. Behind him, he heard the first murmurs of conversation reclaim the hall. Hoffner wondered if it would always be this easy to back these men down.

First Staff Captain Pabst was in his office-a converted hotel room overlooking the Gardens-having a smoke with two of his officers when Hoffner appeared at the door. At least here there was a bit more decorum. A young lieutenant was seated in the hallway. He announced Hoffner and then stepped aside.

Pabst was buttoning his tunic when he invited Hoffner in. He was all cheekbones and charm as he motioned to a chair. “Please, Herr Oberkommissar. ” He turned to the two other men. “That will be all, gentlemen.”

The officers snapped their heads sharply and then moved past Hoffner. Pabst waited behind his desk.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, Herr Kapitn ?” Hoffner began as he sat.

“Not at all. Cigarette, Herr Oberkommissar ?” Pabst kept his private cache in a silver holder, which he now pulled from his pocket. Hoffner declined. “A Kripo chief inspector,” said Pabst. “What can possibly be of interest to you here?” He placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit up.

“Routine questions, Herr Kapitn. A formality, really. About the Liebknecht and Luxemburg killings.”

Pabst showed a moment’s recognition before the bland smile returned. He nodded knowingly. “Oh yes, of course,” he answered as if he were talking about a soldier’s missed curfew. “Someone seems to think some of my men were involved, is that right?”

Hoffner found the indifference almost believable. “There was an article, Herr Kapitn. Accusations. We simply have to follow them up, that’s all.”

“Naturally. But, correct me if I’m wrong, Herr Oberkommissar, anything untoward would fall under military jurisdiction? That is right, isn’t it?”

Hoffner wondered if the phrase was printed in some training manual somewhere. He also saw how Pabst had chosen his words carefully: not “wrongdoing” or “criminal activity,” but “anything untoward.” Pabst was setting the tone. “These were very public figures, Herr Kapitn. It’s more about information. How the army deals with its own is not our concern.”

Hoffner was pleased with himself for this turn of phrase, not that he knew what it meant. Luckily, it seemed to be having the same effect on Pabst: mild confusion left him with no real response. “Naturally,” said Pabst, his smile less convincing.

Hoffner spoke directly: “Could you then describe the events of January fifteen?”