Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Paul drank down half the beer. “What do we do? Do you know anything about Ernst’s schedule?”

“I don’t even know where he lives, except somewhere in Charlottenburg. We could stake him out at the Chancellory maybe, follow him. But that’ll be very hard. If you’re within five hundred feet of a senior party official you can be expected to be stopped for your papers and detained if they don’t like what they see.”

Paul reflected for a moment. He said, “I have a thought. I might be able to get some information.”

“About what?”

“Ernst,” Paul said.

“You?” Morgan asked, surprised.

“But I’ll need a couple of hundred marks.”

“I have that, yes.” He counted out bills and slipped them to Paul.

“And your man in the information ministry? Do you think he could find out about people who aren’t officials?”

Morgan shrugged. “I can’t say for certain. But I can tell you one thing without doubt – that if the National Socialists have any skill at all, it is gathering information on their citizens.”

Janssen and Kohl left the courtyard building.

Mrs. Haeger could offer no descriptions of the suspects, though, ironically, this was due to literal, not political, blindness. Cataracts in her eyes had allowed the busybody to observe the men hiding, then and making off with the bicycles but rendered her unable to give any more details.

Discouraged, they returned to November 1923 Square and resumed their search, making their way up and down the street, talking to shop vendors and waiters, flashing the etching of the victim and inquiring about their suspect.

They had no success – until they came to a bakery across from the park, hidden in the shadow of Hitler’s statue. A round man in a dusty white apron admitted to Kohl that he’d seen a taxi pull up across the street an hour or so ago. A taxi here was an unusual occurrence, he said, since residents could not afford them and there was no earthly reason for anyone from outside the neighborhood to come here, at least not in a cab.

The man had noticed a big man with slicked-down hair climb out, look around and then walk to the statue. He’d sat down on a bench for a short time then left.

“He was wearing what?”

“Some light clothing. I didn’t see very clearly.”

“Any other features you noticed?”

“No, sir. I had a customer.”

“Did he have a suitcase or satchel with him?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

So, Kohl reflected, his assumption was correct: most likely he was staying somewhere near Lützow Plaza and had come here on an errand of some sort.

“Which way did he go?”

“I didn’t see, sir. Sorry.”

Blindness, of course. But at least this was a confirmation that their suspect had indeed arrived here recently.

Just then a black Mercedes turned the corner and braked to a stop.

“Ach,” Kohl muttered, watching Peter Krauss get out of the vehicle and look around. He knew how the man had tracked him down. Regulations required that he inform the department’s desk officers every time he left the Alex during duty hours and where he would be. He’d debated about not sharing this information today. But ignoring rules was hard for Willi Kohl and before he left he’d jotted down, November 1923 Square, and the time he expected to return.

Krauss nodded a greeting. “Just making the rounds, Willi. Wondering how the case is coming.”

“Which case?” Kohl asked, solely to be petulant.

“The body in Dresden Alley, of course.”

“Ach, it seems our department resources are diminished.” He added in a wry tone, “For some unknown reason. But we think the suspect might have come here earlier.”

“I told you I would check with my contacts. I’m pleased to report that my informant has it on good information that the killer is indeed a foreigner.”

Kohl took out his pad and pencil. “And what is the suspect’s name?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“What is his nationality?”

“He wasn’t able to say.”

“Well, who is this informant?” Kohl asked, exasperated.

“Oh, I can’t release that.”

“I need to interview him, Peter. If he’s a witness.”

“He’s not a witness. He has his own sources, which are-”

“-also confidential.”

“Indeed. I’m merely telling you this because it was encouraging to learn that your suspicions have been confirmed.”

“ My suspicions.”

“That he was not German.”

“I never said that.”

“Who are you?” Krauss asked, turning to the baker.

“The inspector here was asking me about a man I saw.”

“Your suspect?” Krauss asked Kohl.

“Perhaps.”

“Ach, you are good, Willi. We’re kilometers from Dresden Alley and yet you’ve tracked the suspect to this hellhole.” He glanced toward the witness. “Is he cooperating?”

The baker spoke in a shaking voice. “I didn’t see anything, sir. Not really. Just a man getting out of a taxi.”

“Where was this man?”

“I don’t-”

“Where?” Krauss growled.

“Across the street. Really, sir, I didn’t see anything. His back was to me. He-”

“Liar.”

“I swear to… I swear to the Leader.”

“A man who swears a false oath is still a liar.” Krauss gestured toward one of his own young assistants, a round-faced officer. “We’ll take him to Prince Albrecht Street. A day there and he’ll give us a complete description.”

“No, please, sir. I want to help. I promise you.”

Willi Kohl shrugged. “But the fact is you have not helped.”

“I told you-”

Kohl asked for the man’s identity card.

With shaking hands, he handed the inspector his ID, which Kohl opened and examined.

Krauss glanced at his assistant again. “Cuff him. Take him back to headquarters.”

The young Gestapo officer pulled the man’s hands behind him and clamped on the irons. Tears filled his eyes. “I tried to recall. I honestly-”

“Well, you will recall. I assure you that.”

Kohl said to him, “We are dealing with matters of great importance here. I would rather you cooperated now. But if my colleague wants to take you to Prince Albrecht Street” – the inspector lifted an eyebrow to the terrified man – “things will go badly for you, Mr. Heydrich. Very badly.”

The man blinked and wiped his tears. “But, sir-”

“Yes, yes, they will indeed…” Kohl’s voice faded. He looked at the ID card again. “You are… where were you born?”

“Göttburg, outside of Munich, sir.”

“Ah.” Kohl’s face remained placid. He nodded slowly. Krauss glanced at him.

“But, sir, I think-”

“And the town is small?”

“Yes, sir. I-”

“Please, silence,” Kohl said, continuing to stare at the identity card.

Krauss finally asked, “What is it, Willi?”

Kohl gestured the Gestapo inspector aside. He whispered, “I think the Kripo is no longer interested in this man. You can do with him as you wish.”

Krauss was silent for a moment, trying to make sense of Kohl’s sudden change of heart. “Why?”

“And, please, as a favor, don’t mention that Janssen and I detained him.”

“Again, I must ask why, Willi?”

After a moment Kohl said, “SD Leader Heydrich came from Göttburg.”

Reinhard Heydrich, head of the SS’s intelligence division and Himmler’s number two, was considered the most ruthless man in the Third Empire. Heydrich was a heartless machine (he’d once impregnated a girl then abandoned her because he detested women with loose morals). It was said that Hitler disliked inflicting pain but tolerated its use if it suited his needs. Heinrich Himmler enjoyed inflicting pain but was inept at using it to further his goals. Heydrich both enjoyed inflicting pain and was a craftsman at its application.