The Ice Queen: A Novel (24 page)

“How can I find information about fallen German soldiers?” she asked after a brief greeting.

“You can try the War Graves Commission,” Miriam told her. “What, exactly, are you looking for? Oh, I have to warn you. This call could be expensive. I’ve been in Poland since last night.”

“What? What are you doing there?”

“This Goldberg case has piqued my curiosity,” Miriam admitted. “I thought I’d do a little research on-site.”

For a moment, Pia was speechless.

“And where is that?” she asked at last.

“I’m in Wegorzewo,” said Miriam, “formerly called Angerburg, on the Mauersee. The real Goldberg was born here. There are advantages to speaking Polish. The mayor himself has opened the city archives to me.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Pia had to grin. “Well, good luck. And thanks for the tip.”

She clicked through the Internet until she came to a Web site with the title worldwarvictims.de. It had a link to an online graves search. She entered the full name of the murdered Herrmann Schneider as well as his birth date and birthplace. She stared at the monitor as she waited. A few seconds later, she read with amazement that Herrmann Ludwig Schneider, born March 2, 1921, in Wuppertal, recipient of the Knight’s Cross, first lieutenant and squadron captain of the Sixth Squadron of Fighter Group 400, fell in action on December 24, 1944, in an aerial battle at Hausen. He had flown a Focke-Wulf Fw 19 A-8, and his mortal remains were buried at the main cemetery in Wuppertal.

“That can’t be true!” she exclaimed, and then told Ostermann what she had found. “The real Herrmann Schneider has been dead for fifty-two years.”

“Herrmann Schneider is an ideal pseudonym. A common name.” Ostermann frowned. “If I wanted to falsify my identity, then I would also seek out a name that was as ordinary as possible.”

“Right.” Pia nodded. “But how did our Schneider get hold of the data on the real Schneider?”

“Maybe they knew each other, were in the same unit. When our Schneider needed a new identity after the war, he remembered his friend, who had died in the meantime, and took his name.”

“But what about the family of the real Schneider?”

“They had already buried their Schneider, so that settled the matter for them.”

“But it was way too easy to figure out,” said Pia, sounding dubious. “I found him in a few seconds.”

“You have to put yourself back in time,” replied Ostermann. “The war is over and chaos reigns. A man in civvies with no papers appears before the officials of the occupation forces and claims his name is Herrmann Schneider. Maybe he even got hold of the real Herrmann’s military service book. Who knows? Sixty years ago, nobody could have imagined that it would be possible to find things in a few seconds by computer—things that previously required a detective and a lot of luck, in addition to a heap of money and large amounts of time. In that situation I would have taken the identity of somebody I knew something about, but only if it was absolutely necessary. And I would have made sure to stay out of the public eye. That’s what our Schneider did. For his whole life, he was unobtrusiveness personified.”

“Unbelievable.” Pia made some notes. “Then we need to search for a Hans Kallweit from Steinort in East Prussia. Steinort is in the vicinity of Angerburg, where the real Goldberg came from. And if your theory is right, then the phony Goldberg—Oskar—could actually have known the real Goldberg before the war.”

“Precisely.” Ostermann cast a covetous glance at Pia’s
döner
on the desk; it had gone cold. “Are you going to eat that?”

“No.” Pia shook her head absently. “Be my guest.”

Ostermann didn’t have to be told twice. Pia was already back on the Web. Anita and Vera had been friends, as were the phony Schneider—Hans Kallweit—and the phony Goldberg—Oskar. Not three minutes later, she had a brief bio of Vera Kaltensee on her screen.

Born April 28, 1922, in Lauenburg am Dobensee, Angerburg district
, she read.
Parents: Baron Heinrich Elard von Zeydlitz-Lauenburg and Baroness Hertha von Zeydlitz-Lauenburg, née von Pape. Siblings: Heinrich (1898–1917), Meinhard (1899–1917), Elard (1917, missing Jan. 1945). Fled in Jan. 1945; the rest of the family died in a Russian attack on the column of refugees trekking from Lauenburg.

She clicked further to the informative East Prussian site, entered “Lauenburg,” and found a reference to a tiny village named Doba on the Dobensee, near the ruins of the former castle of the Zeydlitz-Lauenburg family.

“Vera Kaltensee and Anita Frings came from the same corner of East Prussia as the phony Goldberg and the phony Schneider,” Pia told her colleague. “If you ask me, all four of them must have known one another in the past.”

“That could be,” said Ostermann, leaning his elbows on the desk. He looked Pia in the eye. “But why did they make such a secret out of it?”

“Good question.” Pia was nibbling at her ballpoint pen. She thought for a moment, then grabbed her cell and called Miriam again. Her friend picked up seconds later.

“Have you got something to write with?” Pia asked. “Since you’re already doing research, keep an eye out for a Hans Kallweit from Steinort and an Anita Maria Willumat.”

*   *   *

The Frankfurt Kunsthaus, one of the premier addresses for national and international contemporary art, was located in a historic town house right on Römerberg Square. Pia had to admit that her SUV was not very practical on a Saturday afternoon downtown. The parking garages around Römer and Hauptwache were all full, and finding a parking spot on the street for the bulky Nissan turned out to be hopeless. Finally, she gave up and drove right onto the big square in front of the Frankfurt city hall. It took less than a minute for two zealous female officers to show up and motion for her to drive off at once. Pia got out and showed the officers her ID and Kripo badge.

“Is that real?” asked one of them suspiciously, and Pia imagined her biting the badge to see whether it might be made of chocolate.

“Of course it’s real,” Pia said impatiently.

“You wouldn’t believe the stuff people show us.” The officer handed back her ID and badge. “If we confiscated it all, we could open our own museum.”

“I won’t be long, don’t worry,” Pia assured them, and headed for the Kunsthaus, which was always open on Saturday afternoon. Personally, she didn’t care much for contemporary art so she was astounded to see how many people were crowded into the foyer, the exhibition rooms, and on the stairs. All to see the work of a Chilean sculptor and painter whose name Pia had never heard before. The café on the ground floor was also jammed. Pia looked around and felt like a real cultural philistine. None of the names of the artists in the brochures and flyers were even vaguely familiar, and she asked herself what on earth people saw in those blobs and slashes.

She asked the young woman at the information stand to inform Professor Kaltensee that she had arrived. As she waited, she leafed through a brochure that described the focus of the Frankfurt Kunsthaus. Besides the emphasis on so-called contemporary art in all its forms, the Eugen Kaltensee Foundation, which owned the property, also supported and promoted young and talented musicians and actors. On one of the upper floors, there was a concert hall as well as living quarters and work studios for artists in residence from Germany and abroad. Considering Professor Kaltensee’s reputation, Pia suspected these were primarily young
female
artists whom the director of the Frankfurt Kunsthaus found to be particularly attractive. Just as she was thinking this, Pia saw Elard Kaltensee coming down the stairs. The man had made no real impression on her at Mühlenhof, but today he seemed completely transformed. He was dressed in black from head to toe, almost like a priest or magician—a somberly impressive figure, before whom the crowd parted respectfully.

“Hello, Ms. Kirchhoff.” He stopped in front of her and held out his hand without smiling. “Please excuse me for making you wait.”

“No problem. Thanks for finding time to see me on such short notice,” Pia replied. Seen up close, Elard Kaltensee also looked exhausted today. There were dark shadows under his red-rimmed eyes, and a three-day growth of beard covered his sunken cheeks. Pia had the impression that he had put on a disguise to play a role that he no longer enjoyed.

“Come with me,” he said, “and we’ll go up to my residence.”

She followed him curiously up the creaking stairs to the fifth floor. For years, the wildest rumors had been circulating through Frankfurt society about this residence on the top floor of the building. Apparently, plenty of decadent parties had taken place here. People whispered about orgiastic cocaine binges with prominent guests from the city’s art and political scenes. Kaltensee opened a door and politely allowed Pia to enter first. At that moment, his cell phone rang.

“Please excuse me.” He stayed on the landing. “I’ll be right there.”

A dim twilight reigned in the apartment. Pia looked around the huge room with its exposed ceiling beams and worn hardwood floorboards. In front of the windows that reached from floor to ceiling stood a cluttered desk made of dark mahogany. Stacks of books and catalogs covered every available inch of the surface. In one corner, the sooty maw of a fireplace gaped in front of a leather sofa group arranged around a low wooden coffee table. The walls, which seemed to be freshly painted, were bright white and bare except for two huge framed photographs. One depicted the rather attractive back view of a naked man, the other a close-up of someone’s eyes, mouth, nose, and chin covered by splayed fingers.

Pia sauntered farther through the apartment. The scarred oak floor creaked under her feet. From the kitchen, a glass door led out onto a roof terrace. The bathroom was done all in white, with wet footprints still visible on the tiles. A used towel tossed next to the shower, a pair of jeans dropped carelessly on the floor, the smell of aftershave lingering in the room. Pia wondered whether she might have interrupted Elard Kaltensee in a bit of hanky-panky, because the jeans weren’t the sort of thing he’d wear.

She couldn’t resist the temptation to cast a curious glance into the next room, which was separated only by a heavy velvet curtain. She saw a wide, rumpled bed and a clothes rack. Every single item of clothing was black. A gilt figure of the Buddha served as the base for a glass table on which a bouquet of withered roses stood in a silver champagne cooler. The fragrance of the flowers hung heavy and sweet in the air. On the floor next to the bed stood an old-fashioned steamer trunk and a massive, many-armed bronze candelabra. The candles had burned down, leaving a fanciful pattern of wax on the wooden floor. Not quite the love nest Pia had expected. Her adrenaline level shot up involuntarily when she saw a pistol on the nightstand. Holding her breath, she ventured a step closer and leaned over the bed. Just as she was about to reach for the gun, she noticed a movement directly behind her. Startled, she lost her balance and suddenly found herself lying on the bed. Next to her stood Elard Kaltensee, scrutinizing her with a strange look in his eyes.

*   *   *

Marleen could smell that he’d been drinking, and he’d obviously had quite a lot. But before she could say a word, he took her face in his hands and planted a kiss on her lips with such passion that her knees got weak. His hands slipped underneath her blouse, undid her bra, and enveloped her breasts.

“Jesus, I’m crazy about you,” Thomas Ritter said in a husky whisper. As he urged her toward the bed, her heart was pounding in her throat. With his eyes fixed on hers, he unzipped his pants and dropped them to the floor. Then he was on top of her, pressing her onto the bed with his whole weight. He thrust his pelvis against hers, and her body instantly responded to his demand, matching his need with her own. Arousal flowed through her body, and even though she had imagined the afternoon proceeding somewhat differently, she was starting to enjoy it. Marleen Ritter kicked off her shoes and wiggled with feverish impatience out of her jeans as they continued to kiss. Only then did she realize that today she’d put on a pair of panty hose, those love killers, but her husband didn’t even seem to notice. She gasped for breath and closed her eyes as he entered her without a trace of tenderness. It didn’t always have to be pure romance with candlelight and roses.…

*   *   *

“Disappointed?”

Elard Kaltensee went over to a small bar in the corner of the room and took two glasses from a shelf. Pia turned to him. She was glad that he’d handled the embarrassing situation a moment before without comment. He didn’t seem to resent her indiscreet snooping around in his apartment. The old dueling pistol that he had pressed into her hand was a fine piece and probably very valuable to a collector. It was certainly not the weapon recently used to murder three people.

“Why would I be disappointed?” Pia retorted.

“I know the rumors that have been going around about this apartment,” he replied, motioning her to take a seat on the leather sofa. “Would you like something to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“Diet Coke.”

“That’s fine for me, too.”

He opened a small refrigerator, took out a bottle of Coke, and filled two glasses, setting them on the low coffee table. He sat down on a couch across from Pia.

“Did these legendary parties really happen?” Pia asked.

“There were quite a few parties, but never the sort of orgies that were rumored. The last one was in the late eighties,” he said. “After that, it just got too exhausting. I’m actually rather bourgeois. I prefer to spend the evening with a glass of red wine in front of the TV and then go to bed at ten.”

“I thought you lived at Mühlenhof,” said Pia.

“Yes, I do. It became impossible to live here anymore.” Elard Kaltensee studied his hands. “The whole Frankfurt art scene seemed to think it owned me and refused to stop besieging me. Eventually, I lost all desire to be part of this circus; I didn’t want anything to do with these people who kept badgering me. From one day to the next, I found them revolting, these pompous, clueless art collectors, the so-called experts who buy as if possessed by whatever was just declared ‘in,’ paying horrendous sums. But even worse were the untalented wannabe artists who can’t cope with ordinary life. I got sick of their puffed-up egos, their crazed worldview and confused understanding of art. They would jabber on for hours, even whole nights, trying to convince me that they and they alone were worthy of the foundation’s grants and stipends. Out of a thousand, there’s usually only one who is really worth sponsoring.” He emitted a sound that was more of a snort than a laugh. “They probably assumed that I was keen on carrying on a discussion with them into the wee hours, but in contrast to these people, I had to show up at the university to give an eight o’clock lecture. That’s why I moved to Mühlenhof three years ago.”