Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

No, he thought. It would -

His breath was knocked from his lungs as he felt a jarring blow to his body and found himself tumbling to the drop cloth covering the marble, gasping in agony… confused, frightened… But the one thought most prominent in his mind as he struck the floor was: Now I’ll get paint on my suit too! What will Gertrud say about this?

The Munich House was a small restaurant ten blocks northwest of the Tier-garten and five from Dresden Alley.

Willi Kohl had eaten here several times and recalled enjoying the Hungarian goulash, to which they added caraway seeds and raisins, of all things. He’d drunk a wonderful red Austrian Blaufrankisch wine with the meal.

He and Janssen parked the DKW in front of the place and Kohl tossed the Kripo card onto the dashboard to fend off eager Schupos armed with their traffic offense booklets.

Tapping spent tobacco from his meerschaum pipe, Kohl hurried toward the restaurant, Konrad Janssen close behind. Inside, the decor was Bavarian: brown wood and yellowing stucco plaster, with borders of wooden gardenias everywhere, clumsily carved and painted. The room was aromatic of sour spices and grilled meat. Kohl was instantly hungry; he had eaten only one breakfast that morning and it had consisted of nothing more than pastry and coffee. The smoke was dense, for the lunch hour was nearly over and people had exchanged empty plates for coffee and cigarettes.

Kohl saw his son Günter standing with the young Hitler Youth leader, Helmut Gruber, and two other teenagers, dressed in the group’s uniform. The Youth had kept their army officer-style hats on, even though they were inside, either out of disrespect or ignorance.

“I received your message, boys.”

Extending his arm in a salute, the Hitler Youth leader said, “Detective-inspector Kohl, Hail Hitler. We have identified the man you are seeking.” He held up the picture of the body found in Dresden Alley.

“Have you now?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kohl glanced at Günter and saw contradictory feelings in his son’s face. He was proud to have elevated his status with the Youth but wasn’t happy that Helmut had preempted the restaurant search. The inspector wondered if this incident would be a double benefit – the identification of the body for him and a lesson about the realities of life among the National Socialists for his son.

The maître d’ or owner, a stocky, balding man in a dusty black suit and shabby gold-striped waistcoat, saluted Kohl. When he spoke he was clearly uneasy. Hitler Youth were among the most energetic of denouncers. “Inspector, your son and his friends here were inquiring about this individual.”

“Yes, yes. And you, sir, are…?”

“Gerhard Klemp. I am the manager and have been for sixteen years.”

“Did this man eat lunch here yesterday?”

“Please, yes, he did. And almost three days a week. He first came in several months ago. He said he liked it because we prepare more than just German food.”

Kohl wanted the boys to know as little about the murder as possible so he said to his son and the Hitler Youths, “Ah, thank you, son. Thank you, Helmut.” He nodded to the others. “We will take over from here. You’re a credit to your nation.”

“I would do anything for our Leader, Detective-inspector,” Helmut said in a tone fitting to his declaration. “Good day, sir.” Again he lifted his arm. Kohl watched his son’s arm extend similarly and, in response, the inspector himself gave a sharp National Socialist salute. “Hail.” Kohl ignored Janssen’s faint look of amusement at his gesture.

The youngsters left, chattering and laughing; they seemed normal for a change, boyish and happy, free from their usual visage – mindless automatons out of Fritz Lang’s science fiction film Metropolis. He caught his son’s eye and the boy smiled and waved as the cluster disappeared out the door. Kohl prayed his decision on his son’s behalf was not a mistake; Günter could so easily be seduced by the group.

He turned back to Klemp and tapped the picture. “What time did he lunch here yesterday?”

“He came in early, about eleven, just as we were opening. He left thirty, forty minutes later.”

Kohl could see that Klemp was troubled by the death but reluctant to express sympathy in case the man turned out to be an enemy of the state. He was also very curious but, as with most citizens these days, was afraid to ask questions about the investigation or to volunteer anything more than he was asked. At least he didn’t suffer from blindness.

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

Janssen asked, “But did you happen to observe him outside to see if he arrived with anyone or perhaps met someone when he left?” He nodded toward the restaurant’s large, uncurtained windows.

“I didn’t see anyone, no.”

“Were there persons he dined with regularly?”

“No. He was usually by himself.”

“And which way did he go after he finished eating yesterday?” Kohl asked, jotting it all down in his notebook after touching the pencil tip to his tongue.

“I believe to the south. That would be the left.”

The direction of Dresden Alley.

“What do you know about him?” Kohl asked.

“Ach, a few things. For one, I have his address, if that helps.”

“Indeed it does,” said Kohl excitedly.

“After he began coming here regularly I suggested he open an account with us.” He turned to a file box containing neatly penned cards and wrote down an address on a slip of paper. Janssen looked at it. “Two blocks from here, sir.”

“Do you know anything else about him?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. He was secretive. We spoke rarely. It wasn’t the language. No, it was his preoccupation. He was usually reading the newspaper or a book or business documents and didn’t wish to converse.”

“What do you mean by ‘it wasn’t the language’?”

“Oh, he was an American.”

Kohl lifted an eyebrow at Janssen. “He was?”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, glancing once more at the picture of the dead man.

“And his name?”

“Mr. Reginald Morgan, sir.”

“And you are who?”

Robert Taggert held up a cautionary finger in response to Reinhard Ernst’s question, then looked carefully out the window Ernst had been standing at when Taggert had tackled the colonel a moment before to get him out of the line of sight of the shed, where Paul Schumann was waiting.

Taggert caught a glimpse of the black doorway in the shed and could vaguely make out the muzzle of the Mauser easing back and forth.

“No one go outside!” Taggert called to the workers. “Keep away from the windows and the doors!” He turned back to Ernst, who sat on a box containing cans of paint. Several of the laborers had helped him up from the floor and stood nearby.

Taggert had been late arriving at the stadium. Driving the white van, he’d had to circle far to the north and west to make certain Schumann didn’t see him. After flashing his identity cards to the guards, he had run up the stairs to the press floor to find Ernst pausing in front of the window. The construction noise was loud and the colonel hadn’t heard his shout over the screams of the power saws. So the American had sprinted down the hall past a dozen or so astonished workers and knocked Ernst away from the window.

The colonel was cradling his head, which had struck the tarpaulin-covered floor. There was no blood on his scalp, and he didn’t seem badly hurt, though Taggert’s tackle had stunned him and knocked the wind from his lungs.

Responding to Ernst’s question, Taggert said, “I’m with the American diplomatic staff in Washington, D.C.” He proffered his papers: a government identification card and an authentic American passport issued in his real name, not the forgery in the name of Reginald Morgan – the Office of Naval Intelligence agent he’d shot to death in front of Paul Schumann in Dresden Alley yesterday and had been impersonating ever since.