Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Kohl licked his pencil, jotted the number into his notebook and asked Janssen for the list of people who had bought such guns, supplied by police precincts around town. The young man produced it from his briefcase. “Now get the fingerprint kit from the car and print the gun and our friends here. Both the live one and the dead one.”

“Yes, sir.” He stepped outside.

The inspector flipped through the names on the list, seeing no Schumann.

“Try Taggert,” the American said, “or one of those names.” He nodded toward a stack of passports sitting on the table. “He had those on him.”

“Please, you may sit.” The inspector helped the cuffed Schumann onto the couch. He’d never had a suspect assist him in an investigation before but Kohl picked up the stack of passports that Schumann suggested might be revealing.

And indeed they were. One passport was Reginald Morgan’s, the man killed in Dresden Alley. It was clearly authentic. The others contained pictures of the man lying at their feet but were issued in different names. One could not be a criminal investigator in National Socialist Germany these days without being familiar with forged documents. Of the others, only the passport in the name of Robert Taggert seemed genuine to Kohl and was the only one filled with apparently legitimate stamps and visas. He compared all the names with those on the list of gun purchasers. He stopped at one entry.

Janssen appeared in the doorway with the fingerprint kit and the Leica. Kohl held up the list. “It seems the deceased did buy the Modelo A last month, Janssen. Under the name of Artur Schmidt.”

Which still didn’t preclude Schumann from being Morgan’s killer; Taggert might simply have given or sold him the gun. “Proceed with the fingerprinting,” Kohl instructed. The young officer opened the briefcase and began his task.

“I didn’t kill Reggie Morgan, I’m telling you. He did.”

“Please, say nothing now, Mr. Schumann.”

Reginald Morgan’s wallet was also here. Kohl looked through it. He paused and looked at the picture of the man at a social event, standing with two older people.

We know something else about him… that he was somebody’s son… And perhaps he was somebody’s brother. And maybe somebody’s husband or lover…

The inspector candidate proceeded to dust powder on the gun and then took Taggert’s prints. The young man said to Schumann, “Sir, if you could sit forward please.” Kohl approved of his protégé’s polite tone.

Schumann cooperated and the young man printed him then wiped the ink off his fingers with the astringent cleaner that was included in the kit. Janssen placed the gun and the two printed cards on a table for his boss’s inspection. “Sir?”

Kohl pulled out his monocle. He examined the weapon and the men’s prints closely. He was no expert but his opinion was that the only prints on the pistol were Taggert’s.

Janssen’s eyes narrowed and he nodded to the floor.

Kohl followed the glance. A battered leather bag there. Ah, the telltale satchel! Kohl walked over and opened the clasp. He leafed through the contents – deciphering the English as best he could. There were many notes about Berlin, sports, the Olympics, a press pass in the name of Paul Schumann, dozens of innocuous clippings from American newspapers.

So, the inspector thought, he’s been lying. The bag placed him at the murder scene.

But as Kohl examined it carefully he noted that, while it was old, yes, the leather was supple, not flaking.

Then he glanced at the body in front of them. Kohl set the case down and crouched over the dead man’s shoes. They were brown, worn, and shedding bits of leather. The color and shine were just like the ones they’d found on the cobblestones of Dresden Alley and on the floor of the Summer Garden restaurant. Schumann’s shoes were not shedding such flakes. The inspector’s face twisted in irritation at himself. Another erroneous assumption. Schumann had been telling the truth. Perhaps.

“Search him now, Janssen,” Kohl said, rising. A nod toward the body.

The inspector candidate dropped to his knees and began examining the corpse carefully.

Kohl lifted an eyebrow at Janssen, who continued the search. He found money, a penknife, a packet of cigarettes. A pocket watch on a heavy gold chain. Then the young man frowned. “Look, sir.” He handed the inspector some silk clothing labels, undoubtedly cut from the garments Reginald Morgan had worn in Dresden Alley. They bore the names of German clothing manufacturers or stores.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Schumann said.

“Yes, yes, you may talk in a minute. Janssen, contact headquarters. Have someone there get in touch with the American embassy. Ask about this Robert Taggert. Tell them he’s in possession of a diplomatic identity card. Say nothing about his death at this time.”

“Yes, sir.” Janssen located the phone, which Kohl noted was disconnected from the wall, a common sight nowadays. The Olympic flag on the building, unaccompanied by the National Socialist banner, told him the place was owned or managed by a Jew or someone else in disfavor; the phones might be tapped. “Call from the wireless in the DKW, Janssen.”

The inspector candidate nodded and left the room again.

“Now, sir, you may enlighten me. And please spare me no details.”

Schumann said in German, “I came over here with the Olympic team. I’m a sportswriter. A freelance journalist. Do you-?”

“Yes, yes, I am familiar with the term.”

“I was supposed to meet Reggie Morgan and he’d introduce me to some people for the stories. I wanted what we call ‘color.’ Information about the livelier parts of the city, gamblers, hustlers, boxing clubs.”

“And this Reggie Morgan did what? As a profession, I mean.”

“He was just an American businessman I’d heard about. He’d lived here for a few years and knew the place pretty well.”

Kohl pointed out, “You came over with the Olympic team and yet theyseemed unwilling to tell me anything about you. That’s curious, don’t you think?”

Schumann laughed bitterly. “You live in this country and you ask me why anyone would be reluctant to answer a policeman’s questions?”

It is a matter of state security…

Willi Kohl allowed no expression to cross his face but he was momentarily embarrassed at the truth of this comment. He regarded Schumann closely. The American appeared at ease. Kohl could detect no signs of fabrication, which was one of the inspector’s particular talents.

“Continue.”

“I was to meet with Morgan yesterday.”

“That would have been when? And where?”

“Around noon. Outside a beer hall on Spener Street.”

Right next to Dresden Alley, Kohl reflected. And around the time of the shooting. Surely, if he had something to hide, he would not place himself near the scene of the killing. Or would he? The National Socialist criminals were by and large stupid and obvious. Kohl sensed he was in the presence of a very smart man, though whether he was a criminal or not, the inspector could not tell. “But, as you contend, the real Reginald Morgan did not show up. It was this Taggert.”

“That’s right. Though I didn’t know it at the time. He claimed he was Morgan.”

“And what happened at this meeting?”

“It was very brief. He was agitated. He pulled me into this alley, said something had come up and I was supposed to meet him later. At a restaurant-”

“The name?”

“The Summer Garden.”

“Where the wheat beer was not to your liking.”

Schumann blinked, then replied, “Is it to anyone’s liking?”

Kohl refrained from smiling. “And you met Taggert again, as planned, at the Summer Garden?”