Garden of Beasts (32 page)

Grandfather and grandson made their way through a crowd of workers and foremen energetically finishing the construction here on the press-booth floor, cutting doors to size, mounting hardware, sanding and painting walls. As they dodged around a carpentry station, Ernst glanced down at the arm of his suit and grimaced.

“What’s wrong, Opa?” Rudy shouted over the scream of a saw.

“Oh, look at this. Look at what I’ve gotten on me.” There was a sprinkling of plaster on it.

He brushed the dust away as best he could but some remained. He wondered if he should wet his fingers to clean it. But this might cause the plaster to set permanently in the cloth. Gertrud would not be pleased if that happened. He’d leave it for now. He put his hand on the door handle to step onto the outer walkway that led to the stairs.

“Colonel!” a voice called in his ear.

Ernst turned.

The SS guard had run up behind him. He shouted over the whine of the saw, “Sir, the Leader’s dogs are here. He wonders if your grandson would like to pose with them.”

“Dogs?” Rudy asked excitedly.

Hitler liked German shepherds and had several of them. They were genial animals, house pets.

“Would you like that?” Ernst asked.

“Oh, yes, please, Opa.”

“Don’t play roughly with them.”

“No, I won’t.”

Ernst escorted the boy back down the hall and watched him run to the dogs, which were sniffing around the room, exploring. Hitler laughed, seeing the youngster hug the larger one and kiss him on top of the head. The animal licked Rudy with his huge tongue. With some difficulty, Göring bent down and petted the animals too, a childlike smile on his round face. Though he was heartless in many ways, the minister loved animals devoutly.

The colonel then returned to the corridor and walked toward the outer door once again. He blew again at the plaster dust on his sleeve then paused in front of one of the large, south-facing windows and looked outside. The sun fell on him fiercely. He’d left his hat back in the press booth. Should he get it?

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?

Chapter Twenty-Six

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.

Taggert said, “I’ve come here to warn you about a plot against your life. An assassin is outside now.”

“But Krupp… Is Baron von Bohlen involved?”

“Krupp?” Taggert feigned surprise and listened as Ernst explained about the phone call.

“No, that must have been one of the conspirators, who called to lure you out.” He gestured out the door. “The killer is in one of the supply sheds south of the stadium. We’ve heard he’s a Russian but dressed in an SS uniform.”

“A Russian? Yes, yes, there was a security alert about such a man.”

In fact, there would have been no danger had Ernst stayed at the window or stepped out onto the porch. The rifle that Schumann now held was the same one he’d tested at November 1923 Square yesterday but last night Taggert had plugged the barrel of the gun with lead so that if Schumann had fired, the bullet never would have left the muzzle. Yet had that happened, the American gangster would have known he’d been set up and might have escaped, even if he’d been injured by the exploding rifle.

“Our Leader could be in danger!”

“No,” Taggert said. “It’s only you he’s after.”

“Me?…” Then Ernst’s head swiveled. “My grandson!” He rose abruptly. “My grandson is here. He could be at risk too.”

“We have to tell everyone to stay away from the windows,” Taggert said, “and to evacuate the area.” The two men hurried down the hallway. “Is Hitler in the pressroom?” Taggert asked.

“He was a few minutes ago.”

Oh, this was far better than Taggert could have hoped for. When Schumann had reported, back in the boardinghouse, that Hitler and the other leaders would be assembled here, he’d been ecstatic, though he’d obscured this reaction, of course. He now said, “I need to tell him what we’ve learned. We have to act fast before the assassin escapes.”

They walked into the pressroom. The American blinked, stunned to find himself among the most powerful men in Germany, their heads turning to look at him in curiosity. The only ones in the room who ignored Taggert were two cheerful German shepherd dogs and a cute little boy of about six or seven.

Adolf Hitler noticed Ernst, still holding the back of his head, the paint and plaster on his suit. Alarmed, he asked, “Reinhard, you are hurt?”

“Opa!” The boy ran forward.

Ernst first put his arms around the child and ushered him quickly to the center of the room away from the doors and windows. “It’s all right, Rudy. I just took a spill…. Everyone, keep back from the windows!” He gestured to an SS guard. “Take my grandson into the hallway. Stay with him.”

“Yes, sir.” The man did as ordered.

“What’s happened?” Hitler called.

Ernst replied, “This man is an American diplomat. He tells me there’s a Russian out there with a rifle. In one of the supply sheds south of the stadium.”

Himmler nodded to a guard. “Get some men in here now! And assemble a detachment downstairs.”

“Yes, my Police Chief.”

Ernst explained about Taggert, and the German leader approached the American, who was nearly breathless with excitement to be in Hitler’s presence. The man was short, about the same height as Taggert, but broader of body and with thicker features. A stern frown filled his wan face and he examined the American’s papers carefully. The eyes of the dictator of Germany were surrounded by drooping lids above and bags below but they themselves were every bit the pale but piercing blue that he’d heard of. This man could mesmerize anyone, Taggert thought, feeling this force himself.

“Please, my Leader, may I see?” Himmler asked. Hitler handed him the documents. The man looked them over and asked, “You speak German?”

“Yes, I do.”

“With all respect, sir, are you armed?”

“I am,” Taggert said.

“With the Leader and the others here, I will take possession of your weapon until we learn what this matter is about.”

“Of course.” Taggert lifted his jacket and allowed one of the SS men to take the pistol from him. He’d expected this. Himmler was, after all, head of the SS, whose primary purpose was guarding Hitler and the government leaders.

Himmler told another SS trooper to take a look at the sheds and see if he could observe the purported assassin. “Hurry.”

“Yes, my Police Chief.”

As he left the pressroom, a dozen armed SS guards filed into the room and spread out, protecting the assembly. Taggert turned to Hitler and nodded respectfully. “State Chancellor-President, several days ago we learned of a potential plot by the Russians.”

Nodding, Himmler said, “The intelligence we received Friday from Hamburg—about the Russian doing some ‘damage.’”

Hitler waved him silent and nodded for Taggert to continue.

“We thought nothing particular of this information. We hear it all the time from the damn Russians. But then we learned some specifics a few hours ago: that his target was Colonel Ernst and that he might be here at the stadium this afternoon. I assumed he was examining the stadium with an eye toward shooting the colonel during the Games themselves. I came here to see for myself and noticed a man slip into a shed south of the stadium. And then I learned to my shock that the colonel and the rest of you were here.”

“How did he get on the grounds?” Hitler raged.

“An SS uniform and false identity papers, we believe,” Taggert explained.

“I was about to step outside,” Ernst said. “This man saved my life.”

“What about Krupp? The phone call?” Göring asked.

“Krupp has nothing to do with this, I’m sure,” Taggert said. “The call was undoubtedly from a confederate to lure the colonel outside.”

Himmler nodded to Heydrich, who strode to the phone, dialed a number and spoke for several moments. He looked up. “No, it was not Krupp who called. Unless he now makes his calls from the Potsdam Plaza post office.”

Hitler muttered ominously to Himmler, “Why did
we
not know about this?”

Taggert knew that conspiracy paranoia danced constantly in Hitler’s head. He came to Himmler’s defense, saying, “They were very clever, the Russians. We only learned about it from our sources in Moscow, by happenstance…. But, please, sir, we must move quickly. If he realizes we’re onto him he’ll escape and try again.”

“Why Ernst?” Göring asked.

Meaning, Taggert supposed, why not
me?

Taggert directed his response to Hitler, “State Leader, we understand that Colonel Ernst is involved in rearmament. We are not troubled with that—in America we consider Germany our greatest European ally and we want you to be militarily strong.”

“Your countrymen feel this way?” Hitler asked. It was well known in diplomatic circles that he was very troubled by the anti-Nazi sentiment in America.