Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

“Yes, sir.”

“People within our esteemed organization have been aware of you for some time.”

Like Janssen, Horcher was incapable of being sardonic. “Esteemed” would be meant sincerely, though which organization he might be referring to was a mystery, given the incomprehensible hierarchy of the police. To his shock he learned the answer to this question when Horcher continued. “The SD has quite some file on you, wholly independent of the Gestapo’s.”

This chilled Kohl to his core. Everyone in government could count on a Gestapo file. It would be insulting not to have one. But the SD, the elite intelligence service for the SS? And its leader was none other than Reinhard Heydrich himself. So the story he’d spun to Krauss about Heydrich’s hometown had returned. And all to save a Jew baker he didn’t even know.

Breathing hard, palms staining his trousers with sweat, Willi Kohl numbly nodded, as the end of his career – and perhaps his life – began to unfold before him.

“Apparently there have been discussions about you at high levels.”

“Yes, sir.” He hoped his voice didn’t quaver. He locked his eyes onto Horcher’s, which tore themselves away after an electric few seconds and examined a Bakelite bust of Hitler on a table near the door.

“There is a matter that has come up. And unfortunately I can do nothing about it.”

Of course there would be no help from Friedrich Horcher, who was not only merely Kripo, the lowest rung of the Sipo, but was a coward as well.

“Yes, sir, what might this matter be?”

“It is desired… it actually is ordered that you represent us at the ICPC in London this February.”

Kohl nodded slowly, waiting for more. But, no, this seemed to be the entire volley of bad news.

The International Criminal Police Commission, founded in Vienna in the twenties, was a cooperative network of police forces throughout the world. They shared information about crime, criminals and law enforcement techniques via publications, telegram and radio. Germany was a member and Kohl had been delighted to learn that, though America was not, representatives from the FBI would be attending the conference, with an eye toward joining.

Horcher scanned his desktop, upon whose surface Hitler, Göring and Himmler also gazed down from their wooden frames on the wall.

Kohl took several breaths to steady himself. He said, “It would be an honor.”

“Honor?” Horcher scowled. Leaning forward, he said softly, “Generous of you.”

Kohl understood his superior’s scorn. Attendance at the conference would be a waste of time. Because the hue and cry of National Socialism was a self-reliant Germany, an alliance of international law enforcement organizations sharing information was the last thing Hitler wanted. There was a reason that “Gestapo” was an acronym for “ secret state police.”

Kohl was being sent as a figurehead, merely to keep up appearances. No one higher would dare go – for a National Socialist official to leave the country for two weeks meant he might not find his job awaiting him when he returned. But Kohl, since he was merely a worker bee, with no intent to rise in the Party ranks, could disappear for a fortnight and return with no loss – aside, of course, from the little matter that a dozen cases would be delayed, and rapists and killers might go free.

Which was not their concern, of course.

Horcher was relieved at the detective’s reaction. He asked with animation, “When was your last holiday, Willi?”

“Heidi and I go to Wannsee and the Black Forest frequently.”

“I mean abroad.”

“Ah, well… some years now. France. And one trip to Brighton in England.”

“You should take your wife with you to London.”

The suggestion alone was enough to expiate Horcher’s guilt; after a judicious moment he said to Kohl, “I’m told the ferry and train fares are quite reasonable at that time of year.” Another pause. “Though we will, of course, provide for your travel and accommodations.”

“Most generous.”

“Again, I’m sorry you must bear this cross, Willi. But you’ll eat and drink well. British beer is much better than what one hears. And you can see the Tower of London!”

“Yes, I would enjoy that.”

“What a treat, the Tower of London,” the chief of inspectors repeated enthusiastically. “Well, good day to you, Willi.”

“Good day, sir.”

Through the halls, eerie and gloomy, despite shafts of bright sunlight falling on the oak and marble, Kohl returned to his office, calming slowly from the scare.

He sat heavily in his chair and glanced at the box of evidence and his notes regarding the Dresden Alley incident.

Then his eyes slid to a folder sitting next to it. He lifted the telephone receiver and placed a call to the operator in Gatow and asked to be connected to a private residence.

“Yes?” a young man’s voice answered cautiously, unaccustomed perhaps to calls on Sunday morning.

“This is Gendarme Raul?” Kohl asked.

A pause. “Yes.”

“I am Inspector Willi Kohl.”

“Ah, yes, Inspector. Hail Hitler. You are telephoning me at home. On a Sunday.”

Kohl chuckled. “Indeed I am. Forgive the interruption. I’m calling regarding the crime scene report from the shootings in Gatow and the other, the Polish workers.”

“Forgive me, sir. I am inexperienced. The report, I’m sure, was shoddy compared to what you are used to. Certainly nothing of the quality you yourself could produce. I did the best I could.”

“You mean the report is completed?”

Another hesitation, longer than the first. “Yes, sir. And it was submitted to Gendarmerie Commander Meyerhoff.”

“I see. When was that?”

“Wednesday last, I believe. Yes. That is correct.”

“Has he reviewed it?”

“I noticed a copy on his desk Friday evening, sir. I had also asked that one be sent to you. I’m surprised you haven’t received it yet.”

“Well, I will follow this matter up with your superior… Tell me, Raul. Were you satisfied with your handling of the crime scene?”

“I believe I did a thorough job, sir.”

“Did you reach any conclusions?” Kohl asked.

“I…”

“Speculation is perfectly acceptable at this stage of an investigation.”

The young man said, “Robbery did not seem to be the motive?”

“You are asking me?”

“No, sir. I’m stating my conclusion. Well, speculation.”

“Good. Their belongings were on them?”

“Their money was missing. But jewelry and other effects were not taken. Some of them appeared quite valuable. Though…”

“Go on.”

“The items were on the victims when they were brought into our morgue. I’m sorry to say the effects have since disappeared.”

“That does not interest, or surprise, me. Did you find any suggestion that they had enemies? Any of them?”

“No, sir, at least not regarding the families in Gatow. Quiet, hardworking, apparently decent folk. Jews, yes, but they did not practice their religion. They were, of course, not involved in the Party but they were not dissidents. As for the Polish workers, they had come here from Warsaw only three days before their deaths to plant trees for the Olympics. They were not Communists or agitators that anyone knew.”

“Any other thoughts?”

“There were at least two or three killers involved. I noted the footprints, as you instructed me. Both incidents, the same.”

“The type of weapon used?”

“No idea, sir. The casings for the shells were gone when I arrived.”

“Gone?” An epidemic of conscientious murderers, it seemed. “Well, the lead slugs may tell us. Did you recover any in good shape?”