Garden of Beasts (20 page)

“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.

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.”

Chapter Fifteen

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.

They sat. Before Paul could even unbutton his jacket, Liesl, the attractive young waitress who’d served them earlier, made a beeline for him. “Ach, you’re back,” she announced, resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard. “You could not resist me! I knew it! What will it be now?”

“Pschorr for me,” Paul said. “For him a Berlin beer.”

Her fingers brushed the back of his neck as she stepped away.

Webber’s eyes followed Liesl. “It seems that you have yourself a special friend. And what
does
bring you back? The allure of Liesl? Or have you been beating up more dung-shirts and need my help?”

“I thought we might be able to do some business, after all.”

“Ach, your words are like Mozart’s music to me. I knew you were a sharp one.”

Liesl brought the beers immediately. Paul noted that at least two customers who’d ordered earlier had not been served. She wrinkled her face, looking around the bar. “I must work now. Otherwise I would sit and join you and let you buy me schnapps.” Resentfully she strode off.

Webber slammed his glass into Paul’s. “Thank you for this.” He nodded after the man in the baby-blue suit, who was now at the bar. “Such problems I have. You wouldn’t believe them. Hitler announced a new car at the Berlin Auto Show last year. Better than the Audi, cheaper than the DKW. The Folks-Wagon, it is to be called. A car for everybody. You can pay by installments then pick it up when you’ve paid in full. Not a bad idea. The company can make use of the money and they still keep the car in case you don’t complete the payments. Is that not brilliant?”

Paul nodded.

“Ach, I was lucky enough to find thousands of tires.”

“Find?”

Webber shrugged. “And now I learn that the damn engineers have changed the wheel size of the piss-ant little car. My inventory is useless.”

“How much did you lose?”

Webber regarded the foam in his beer. “I haven’t actually lost money. But I will not
make
money. That is just as bad. Automobiles are one thing this country’s done well. The Little Man’s rebuilt all the roads. But we have a joke: You can travel anywhere in the country in great speed and comfort. But why would you want to? All you find at the other end of the road are more National Socialists.” He roared with laughter.

Liesl was looking at Paul expectantly from across the room. What did she want? Another order for beer, a roll in the hay, a marriage proposal? Paul turned back to Webber. “I will admit you were right, Otto. I am something more than a sportswriter.”

“If you are a sportswriter at all.”

“I have a proposal.”

“Fine, fine. But let us talk among four eyes. You understand the meaning? Just the two of us. There’s a better place to speak and I need to deliver something.”

They drained their beers and Paul left some marks on the table. Webber picked up a cloth shopping bag with the words
KaDeWe—the World’s Finest Store
printed on the side. They escaped without saying good-bye to Liesl.

“Come this way.” Outside they turned north, away from downtown, from the shops, from the fancy Metropol Hotel, and plunged into the increasingly tawdry neighborhood.

There were a number of nightclubs and cabarets here but they’d all been boarded up. “Ach, look at this. My old neighborhood. It’s all gone now. Listen, Mr. John Dillinger, I will tell you that I was very famous in Berlin. Just like your mobs that I read about in the crime shockers, we had our
Ringvereine
here.”

Paul was not familiar with the word, whose literal translation was “ring association,” but, with Webber’s explanation, decided it meant “gang rings.”

Webber continued. “Ach, we had many of them. Very powerful. Mine was called after your Wild West. We were the Cowboys.” He used the English word. “I was president of it for a time. Yes,
president.
You look surprised. But we held elections to choose our leaders.”

“Democracy.”

Webber grew serious. “You must remember, we were a republic then, our German government was. It was
President
Hindenburg. Our gang rings were very well run. They were grand. We owned buildings and restaurants and had elegant parties. Even costume balls, and we invited politicians and police officials. We were criminals, yes, but we were respectable. We were proud and we were skillful too. Someday I may boast to you of my better cons.

“I don’t know much about your mob, Mr. John Dillinger—your Al Capone, your Dutch Schultz—but ours began as boxing clubs. Laborers would meet to box after work and they began protection rings. We had years of rebellion and civil unrest after the War, fighting with the Kosis. Madness. And then dreadful inflation… It was cheaper to burn banknotes for heat than to spend them on wood. One of your dollars would buy billions of marks. Times were terrible. We have an expression in our country: ‘The devil plays in the empty pocket.’ And all of our pockets were empty. It’s why the Little Man came to power. And it’s how I made myself a success. The world was barter and the black market. I bloomed in such an atmosphere.”

“I can imagine,” Paul said. Then he nodded at a boarded-up cabaret. “And the National Socialists have cleaned everything up.”

“Ach, that’s one way to put it. Depends on what you mean by ‘cleaned up.’ The Little Man isn’t right in the head. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t like women. Or men. Watch how he holds his hat over his crotch at rallies. We say he’s protecting the last of Germany’s unemployed!” Webber laughed hard. Then the smile faded. “But it’s no joke. Thanks to him, the inmates have taken over the prison.”

They continued in silence for a time. Then Webber stopped and pointed proudly to a decrepit building.

“Here we are, my friend. Look at the name.”

The faded sign read in English,
The Texas Club.

“This used to be our headquarters. Of my gang ring, the Cowboys, I was telling you. It was far, far nicer then. Watch your step, Mr. John Dillinger. There are sometimes men sleeping off hangovers in the entryway. Ach, did I lament already how times have changed?”

Webber had delivered his mysterious shopping bag to the bartender and collected an envelope.

The room was filled with smoke and stank of garbage and garlic. The floor was littered with cigarette and cigar butts, smoked down to tiny nubs.

“Have only beer here,” Webber warned. “They can’t adulterate the kegs. They come sealed from the brewery. As for everything else? Well, they mix the schnapps with ethyl and food extract. The wine… Ach, do not even ask. And as for food…” He nodded at sets of knives, forks and spoons chained to the wall next to each table. A young man in filthy clothing was walking around the room rinsing the used ones in a greasy pail. “Far better to leave hungry,” Webber said. “Or you might not leave at all.”

They ordered and found seats. The bartender, staring darkly at Paul the whole time, brought beers. Both men wiped the lips of the glasses before drinking. Webber happened to glance down and then frowned. He lifted his solid leg over his opposite knee and examined his trousers. The bottom of his cuff had frayed through, threads dangling.

He examined the damage. “Ach. And these trousers were from England! Bond Street! Well, I’ll get one of my girls to fix it.”

“Girls? You have daughters?”

“I may. Sons too perhaps. I don’t know. But I am referring to one of the women I live with.”

“Women?
All together?”

“Of course not,” Webber said. “Sometimes I’m at one’s apartment, sometimes at another’s. A week here, a week there. One of them is a cook possessed by Escoffier, one sews as Michelangelo sculpted, one is a woman of considerable experience in bed. Ach, they’re all pearls, each in her own way.”

“Do they…”

“Know of each other?” Webber shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. They don’t ask, I don’t say.” He leaned forward. “Now, Mr. John Dillinger. What can I do for you?”

“I am going to say something to you, Otto. And you may choose to stand up and leave. I’ll understand if you do. Or you can stay and hear me out. If so, and if you can help me, there will be some very good money in it for you.”

“I’m intrigued. Keep talking.”

“I have an associate in Berlin. He just had a contact of his do some research on you.”

“On me? I’m flattered.” And he truly seemed to be.

“You were born in Berlin in 1886, moved to Cologne when you were twelve and back here three years later after your school expelled you.”

Now Webber frowned. “I left voluntarily. The story is often misre-ported.”

“For theft of kitchen goods and a liaison with a chambermaid.”

“
She
was the seductress and—”

“You have been arrested seven times and served a total of thirteen months in Moabit.”

Webber beamed. “So many arrests, such short sentences. Which attests to the quality of my connections in high places.”

Paul concluded: “And the British are none too happy with you because of that rancid oil you sold their embassy cook last year. The French, as well, because of the horsemeat you passed off as lamb. They have a notice posted not to deal with you anymore.”

“Ach, the French,” he sneered. “So you are telling me that you wish to make sure you can trust me and that I am the clever criminal I purport to be, not a stupid criminal like a National Socialist spy. You are merely being prudent. Why would I be insulted at this?”

“No, what you may be insulted about is that my associate has arranged to make some people in Berlin aware of you, some people in our government. Now, you’re free to choose to have nothing more to do with me. A disap pointment but understandable. But if you do decide to help us, and you betray me, these people will find you. And the consequences will be unpleasant. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Bribery and threat, the cornerstones of trust in Berlin, as Reggie Morgan had said.

Webber wiped his face, lowered his gaze and muttered, “I save your life and this is how you treat me?”

Paul sighed. Not only did he like this improbable man but he saw no other way to get any wire on Ernst’s whereabouts. But he’d had no choice in having Morgan’s contacts look into Webber’s background and to make arrangements to ensure he didn’t betray them. These were precautions that were vital in this dangerous city. “So, I suppose we finish our beers in silence and go our separate ways.”

After a moment, though, Webber’s face broke into a smile. “But I will admit I am not as insulted as I ought to be, Mr. Schumann.”

Paul blinked. He’d never told Webber his name.

“You see, I had my doubts about you too. At the Aryan Café, our first meeting, when you walked past me to refresh your makeup, as my girls would say, I palmed your passport and had a look. Ach, you didn’t smell like a National Socialist but, as you suggest, one can never be too careful in this mad town of ours. So
I
made inquiries about
you.
You have no connection with Wilhelm Street that
my
contact was able to uncover. How was my skill, by the way? You felt nothing, did you, when I took your passport?”

“No,” Paul said, smiling ruefully.

“So I think we have achieved enough mutual
respect
”—he laughed wryly—“to be able to consider a business proposition. Please continue, Mr. John Dillinger. Tell me what you have in mind.”

Paul counted out a hundred of the marks Morgan had given him and passed them to Webber, whose eyebrow rose.

“What do you wish to buy?”

“I need some information.”

“Ach, information. Yes, yes. That
could
cost one hundred marks. Or it could cost much more. Information about what or whom?”

He regarded the dark eyes of the man sitting across from him. “Reinhard Ernst.”

Webber’s lower lip jutted out and he cocked his head. “So at last the pieces fall into place. You are here for a very interesting new Olympic event. Big-game hunting. And you have made a good choice, my friend.”

“Good?” Paul asked.

“Yes, yes. The colonel is making many changes here. And not for the country’s benefit. He’s getting us ready for mischief. The Little Man’s a fool but he gathers smart people around him and Ernst is one of the smartest.” Webber lit up one of his foul cigars. Paul, a Chesterfield, breaking only two matches from the cheap box to get a flame this time.

Webber’s eyes were distant. “I served the Kaiser for three years. Until the surrender. Oh, I did some brave things, I’ll tell you. My company once advanced over a hundred meters against the British and it only took us two months to do it. Earned us some medals, that one did. Those of us who survived. There are plaques in some villages that say only,
To the fallen.
The towns couldn’t afford enough bronze to put all the names of the dead on them.” He shook his head. “You Yankees had the Maxims. We had our Machine-Gun. Same as the Maxims. We stole the design from you, or you stole it from us. I don’t recall which. But the Britons, ach,
they
had the Vickers. Water-cooled. Now, that was a snuff grinder, for you. That was quite a piece of metalwork…. No, no, we don’t want another war, what ever the Little Man says, none of us do. That would be the end of everything. And that’s what the colonel is up to.” Webber slipped the hundred marks into his pocket and puffed on his vile ersatz cigar. “What do you need to know?”