Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Krauss glanced at the baker and asked uneasily, “Are they… are you saying they’re related, you think?”

“I prefer not to take the chance. At the Gestapo you have a far better relation with SD than the Kripo does. You can question him without much risk of consequence. If they see my name connected to him in an investigation, my career could be over.”

“But still… interrogating one of Heydrich’s relatives?” Krauss looked down at the sidewalk. He asked Kohl, “Do you think that he knows anything valuable?”

Kohl studied the miserable baker. “I think there is perhaps more he knows but nothing particularly helpful to us. I have a feeling what you sense him being evasive about is nothing more than his practice of thinning flour with sawdust or using black-market butter.” The inspector glanced around the neighborhood. “I’m sure that if Janssen and I keep at it here we can learn whatever information might be found regarding the Dresden Alley incident and at the same time” – he lowered his voice – “keep our jobs.”

Pacing, Krauss was perhaps trying to recall if he’d mentioned his own name to this man, who might in turn relay it to his cousin Heydrich. He said abruptly, “Remove the cuffs.” As the young officer did, Krauss said, “We’ll need a report on the Dresden Alley matter soon, Willi.”

“Of course.”

“Hail Hitler.”

“Hail.”

The two Gestapo officers climbed into their Mercedes, circled the statue of the Leader and sped into traffic.

When the car had gone Kohl handed the baker back his ID card. “Here you are, Mr. Rosenbaum. You may go back to work now. We will not trouble you again.”

“Thank you, oh, thank you,” the baker said effusively. His hands were shaking and tears dripped into the creases around his mouth. “God bless you, sir.”

“Shhhhh,” Kohl said, irritated at the indiscreet gratitude. “Now get back into your store.”

“Yes, sir. A loaf of bread for you? Some strudel?”

“No, no. Now, your store.”

The man hurried back inside.

As they walked to their car Janssen asked, “His name was not Heydrich? It was Rosenbaum?”

“Regarding this matter, Janssen, it is better for you not to inquire. It will not help you become a better inspector.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man nodded in a knowing way.

“Now,” Kohl continued, “we know that our suspect got out of a taxi there and sat in the square before he went on his mission here, whatever that might have been. Let’s ask the benchwarmers if they saw anything.”

They had no luck with this crowd, many of whom were, as Kohl had explained to Janssen, not the least sympathetic to the Party or police. No luck, that is, until they came to one man sitting in the shadow of the bronze Leader. Kohl looked him over and smelled soldier – either regular army or Free Corps, the informal militia that was formed after the War.

He nodded energetically when Kohl asked about the suspect. “Ach, yes, yes, I know who you mean.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am Helmut Gershner, former corporal in Kaiser Wilhelm’s army.”

“And what can you tell us, Corporal?”

“I was speaking to this man not forty-five minutes ago. He fit your description.”

Kohl felt his heart pound quickly. “Is he still around here, do you know?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Well, tell us about him.”

“Yes, Inspector. We were speaking of the War. At first I thought we were comrades but then I sensed something was odd.”

“What was that, sir?”

“He spoke of the battle of St. Mihiel. And yet he was not troubled.”

“Troubled?”

The man shook his head. “We lost fifteen thousand captured at that battle and many, many dead. To me it was the black-letter day for my unit, Detachment C. Such a tragedy! The Americans and the French pushed us back to the Hindenburg Line. He knew much of the fighting, it seemed. I suspect he was there. But the battle was not a horror to him. I could see in his eyes he found those terrible days as nothing. And” – the man’s eyes flared in indignation – “he would not share my flask in honor of the dead. I don’t know why you are looking for him but this reaction alone made me suspicious. I suspect that he was a deserter. Or a coward. Perhaps he was even a backstabber.”

Or perhaps, Kohl thought wryly, he was the enemy. The inspector asked, “Did he say anything of his business here? Or anywhere?”

“No, sir, he did not. We spoke for only a few moments.”

“Was he alone?”

“I think not. He seemed to join another man, somewhat smaller than he. But I didn’t see clearly. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention, sir.”

“You’re doing fine, soldier,” Janssen said. To Kohl, the inspector candidate offered, “Perhaps that man we saw in the courtyard was his colleague. A dark suit, smaller.”

Kohl nodded. “Possibly. One of the companions at the Summer Garden.” He asked the veteran, “What was his age, the larger man?”

“About forty, plus a year or two. The same as myself.”

“And you got a good look at him?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I was as close to him as I am to you right now. I can describe him perfectly.”

Greet God, Kohl thought; the plague of blindness is over. He glanced up the street, looking for someone he’d observed on their search of the area a half hour earlier. He took the veteran by the arm and, holding up one hand to stop traffic, led the limping man across the street.

“Sir,” he said to a vendor in a paint-stained smock, sitting beside a cheap pushcart displaying pictures. The street artist looked up from a floral still life he was painting. He set down his brush and rose in alarm when he saw Kohl’s identification card.

“I am sorry, Inspector. I promise you I have tried many times to obtain a permit but-”

Kohl snapped, “Can you use a pencil or only paints?”

“I-”

“Pencil! Can you use one?”

“Yes, sir. I often began with a pencil to do the preliminary sketch and then I-”

“Yes, yes, fine. Now, I have a job for you.” Kohl deposited the limping corporal in the shabby canvas chair and shoved a pad of paper toward the artist.

“You wish me to do a drawing of this man?” the vendor asked, game but confused.

“No, I wish you to do a drawing of the man this man is about to describe.”

The taxi sped past a large hotel, from which fluttered black-white-and-red Nazi flags.

“Ach, that’s the Metropol,” the driver said. “You know who is there presently? The great actress and singer Lillian Harvey! I saw her myself. You must enjoy her musicals.”

“She’s good.” Paul had no idea who the woman was.

“She is making a film just now in Babelsberg for UFA Studios. I would love to have her as a fare but, of course, she has a limousine.”

Paul glanced absently at the posh hotel – just the sort of place where a movie starlet would stay. Then the Opel turned north, and abruptly the neighborhood changed, growing seamier by the block. Five minutes later Paul told the driver, “Please, here will do.”

The man dropped him at the curb and, alert to the risks of taxis now, Paul waited until the vehicle had disappeared in traffic before walking two blocks to Dragoner Street then continuing to the Aryan Café.

Inside he didn’t have to search hard for Otto Webber. The German was sitting at a table in the front bar, arguing with a man in a dirty light blue suit and a flat-topped straw boater hat. Webber glanced up and beamed a great smile toward Paul then quickly dismissed his companion.

“Come here, come here, Mr. John Dillinger! How are you, my friend?” Webber rose to embrace him.