Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

The two walked off down the sidewalk.

“This way. He ran this way.” Felstedt led Kohl and Janssen down two alleys into crowded Gormann Street.

“We were sure he went down one of these other alleys. We had men covering the far ends of them all but he disappeared.”

Kohl surveyed them. Several alleys branched off from the street, one a cul-de-sac, the others connecting to different streets. “All right, sir, we will take over from here.”

With his comrades gone, Felstedt was more candid. In a low voice he said, “He is a dangerous man, Inspector.”

“And you feel that your description is accurate?”

A hesitation. Then: “A Jew. Clearly he was a Jew, yes. Crinkly hair like an Ethiopian, a Jew nose, Jew eyes.” The Stormtrooper brushed at the stain on his shirt and swaggered away.

“Cretin,” Janssen muttered, glancing cautiously at Kohl, who said, “To be kind.” The inspector was looking up and down the alleys, musing, “Despite his own strain of blindness, though, I believe what ‘commandant’ Felstedt told us. Our suspect was cornered but managed to escape – and from dozens of SA. We will look in the trash containers in the alleys, Janssen.”

“Yes, sir. You think he discarded some clothing or the satchel to escape?”

“It is logical.”

They inspected each of the alleys, looking into the trash bins: nothing but old cartons, papers, cans, bottles, rotting food.

Kohl stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, glancing around and then asked, “Who does your shirts, Janssen?”

“My shirts?”

“They are always impeccably washed and pressed.”

“My wife, of course.”

“Then my apologies to her for having to clean and mend the one you are presently wearing.”

“Why should she need to clean and mend my shirt?”

“Because you are going to lie down on your belly and fish into that sewer grating.”

“But-”

“Yes, yes, I know. But I’ve done so, many times. And with age, Janssen, comes some privilege. Now off with your jacket. It’s lovely silk. No need to repair that as well.”

The young man handed Kohl his dark green suit jacket. It was quite nice. Janssen’s family was well off and he had some money independent of his monthly inspector candidate salary – which was fortunate, considering the paltry compensation Kripo detectives received. The young man knelt on the cobblestones and, supporting himself with one hand, reached into the dark opening.

As it turned out, though, the shirt was not badly soiled after all, for the young man called out only a moment later, “Something here, sir!” He stood up and displayed a crumpled brown object. Göring’s hat. And a bonus: Inside it was the tie, indeed gaudy green.

Janssen explained that they’d been resting on a ledge only a half meter below the sewer opening. He searched once more but found nothing else.

“We have some answers, Janssen,” Kohl said, examining the inside of the hat. The manufacturer’s label read, Stetson Mity-Lite. Another had been stitched inside by the store. Manny’s Men’s Wear, New York City.

“More to add to our portrait of the suspect.” Kohl took the monocle from his vest pocket, squinted it into his eye and examined some hairs caught in the sweatband. “He has medium-length dark brown hair with a bit of red in it. Not black or ‘crinkly’ at all. Straight. And there are no stains from cream or hair oil.”

Kohl handed the hat and tie to Janssen, licked the tip of his pencil and jotted these latest observations into his notebook, which he then folded closed.

“Where to now, sir? Back to the Alex?”

“And what would we do there? Eat biscuits and sip coffee, as our Stormtrooper comrades think we do all day long? Or watch the Gestapo siphon off our resources as they round up every Russian in town? No, I think we’ll go for a drive. I hope the DKW doesn’t overheat again. The last time Heidi and I took the children to the country we sat outside Falken-hagen for two hours with nothing to do but watch the cows.”

The taxi he’d taken from the Olympic Village dropped him at Lützow Plaza, a busy square near a brown, stagnant canal south of the Tiergarten.

Paul stepped out, smelling fetid water, and stood for a moment, orienting himself as he looked about slowly. He saw no lingering eyes peering at him over newspapers, no furtive men in brown suits or uniforms. He began walking east. This was a quiet, residential neighborhood, with some lovely houses and some modest. Recalling perfectly Morgan’s directions, he followed the canal for a time, crossed it and turned down Prince Heinrich Street. He soon came to a quiet road, Magdeburger Alley, lined with four-and five-story residential buildings, which reminded him of the quainter tenements on the West Side of Manhattan. Nearly all of the houses flew flags, most of them National Socialist red, white and black, and several with banners bearing the intertwined rings of the Olympics. The house he sought, No. 26, flew one of the latter. He pressed the doorbell. A moment later footsteps sounded. The curtain in a side window wafted as if in a sudden breeze. Then a pause. Metal snapped and the door opened.

Paul nodded at the woman, who looked out cautiously. “Good afternoon,” he said in German.

“You are Paul Schumann?”

“That’s right.”

She was in her late thirties, early forties, he guessed. A slim figure in a flowery dress with a hemline well below the knees, which Marion would have labeled “pretty unstylish,” a couple of years out of date. Her dark blonde hair was short and waved and, like most of the women he’d seen in Berlin, she wore no makeup. Her skin was dull and her brown eyes tired, but those were superficial qualities that a few square meals and a couple of nights’ undisturbed sleep would take care of. And, curiously, because of these distractions it made the woman behind them appear all the more attractive to him. Not like Marion’s friends – Marion herself too – who sometimes got so dolled up that you never knew what they really looked like.

“I am Käthe Richter. Welcome to Berlin.” She thrust a red, bony hand forward and shook his firmly. “I didn’t know when you’d be arriving. Mr. Morgan said sometime this weekend. In any case, your quarters are ready. Please, come in.”

He stepped into the foyer, smelling naphtha from moth repellent and cinnamon and just a hint of lilac, perhaps her perfume. After she closed and locked the door she looked through the curtained side window once again and examined the street for a moment. Then she took the suitcase and the leather satchel from him.

“No, I-”

“I will carry them,” she said briskly. “Come this way.”

She led him to a door halfway down the dim corridor, which still had the original gas lamps installed next to the newer electric fixtures. A few faded oil paintings of pastoral scenes were on the walls. Käthe opened the door and motioned him inside. The apartment was large, clean and sparsely furnished. The front door opened onto the living room, a bedroom was in the back, to the left, and along the wall was a small kitchen, separated from the rest of the living area by a stained Japanese screen. Tables were covered with figurines of animals and dolls, chipped, lacquered boxes and cheap paper fans. There were two unsteady electric lamps. A gramophone was in the corner, next to a large console radio, which she walked to and turned on.

“The smoking room is in the front of the building. I am sure you are used to a men-only smoking room but here everyone may use it. I insist on that.”

He wasn’t used to smoking rooms at all. He nodded.

“Now, tell me if you like the rooms. I have others if you do not.”