“Forgive me, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner, “but I don’t recall reading anything about a proposed line this far out.”
“Of course you don’t. No one does. The Kaiser was afraid that if news got out that an underground train-not a tram, mind you, or an omnibus, not something in the daylight, Kommissar-but something like this was being designed to connect Berlin West to the scum of Kreuzberg and Prenzlauer-well then, a great many people might have had good reason to make the Kaiser’s life as uncomfortable as possible. Safety, insulation-that sort of thing. What the Kaiser knew was that his Charlottenburg faithful simply needed time to see how wonderful his new underground trains were going to be. He knew they would eventually come begging for their own, so why not have the trains at the ready when they did?”
“But only as far as the zoo,” said Hoffner.
“Yes.”
“No reason for the Kaiser to press his luck by taking the trains into the heart of the West.”
Trger was enjoying this more than he was letting on. “Something like that, Kommissar.”
“And then the war came.”
“Exactly. We all discovered that the Kaiser was more interested in the world beyond Berlin than in her trains. Everything came to a stop, and the Number Two U-Bahn line happily drifted into oblivion. That is, of course, until last week. I can’t say we enjoyed hearing that women were being killed and then moved to our sites, but until this morning, Kommissar, no one knew about that. Luckily, they still have no idea about the Rosenthaler station. That, I have no doubt, will come out soon enough. When it does, our firm will have to answer some rather unpleasant questions. That, however, does not concern us. Embarrassment fades. The sites in the middle of town threaten no one.” He paused. “This one, however, does-especially given recent events. You understand what I am saying now, Kommissar?”
Hoffner did. The revolution had made an underground site this far west far more troubling. The image of a ten-thousand-strong mass moving down the Siegesallee in early January was still fresh in everyone’s minds: how much more frightening would the prospect be of an endless stream of such filth making its way out from beneath the streets in the dead of night? At any moment, they could emerge like rats to run rampant. Herr Direktor Trger and his cohorts might be willing to stomach the hysteria produced by a maniac on the loose; they would not, however, tempt the kind of panic that could tear Berlin apart at the seams. “And you’ve managed to keep it hidden all this time?” said Hoffner.
“They think we’ve been building a holding pool for some enormous fish,” said Trger. “Tell me, Herr Kommissar, does this look like a holding pool to you?”
Hoffner said, “May I see the body, Herr Direktor?”
“You understand our concern, Kommissar.”
Hoffner spoke candidly: “That the Polpo knows how to keep the press at bay, and that we in the Kripo-especially those of us who live in Kreuzberg-have never been quite as useful? Yes, Herr Direktor. I understand that quite well. May I see the body now?” Hoffner enjoyed the sudden tension that was radiating from Weigland.
Trger, on the other hand, seemed amused by the jab. “Then we’re clear, Kommissar?”
“Absolutely, Herr Direktor.”
“Naturally, my colleagues and I are eager to assist you in any way we can.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Herr Direktor.”
Trger waited. He continued to gaze at Hoffner as he spoke to Weigland. “You shouldn’t have let this one get away to the Kripo, Gerhard. That’s not like you.”
Weigland tried a smile. “No, Herr Direktor.”
“Any help at all, Kommissar.”
Hoffner nodded.
Weigland waited to make sure that Trger was finished before motioning Hoffner in the direction of the body. “It’s this way,” he said as he led Hoffner to the end of the tunnel; the three directors started back for the ladder.
“Always have to be clever, don’t you?” said Weigland under his breath.
Hoffner said dryly, “You have some very impressive friends, Herr Direktor. I’m very impressed.”
“Just finish the case, Nikolai. Make all our lives easier.”
The woman was lying facedown in the dirt, at most a day since she had been killed. Hoffner crouched down next to her and saw the drag marks leading up to the spot; he saw the ripped bodice of her dress, the age in her face, the diameter-cut design etched across her back, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was not the work of Paul Wouters.
Hoffner might have been guessing had he come to the conclusion from her clothes alone. The dress and shoes were too young for a woman her age, and there was nothing of the solitary nurse or seamstress in them. Hoffner drew out his pen and lifted up the back hem of her dress. There, as he had expected, he found the telltale sign just above her knee: a little purse was tied on tightly to her thigh. He weighed it in his hand. It was still filled with coins. This woman had been a prostitute, and far more than Wouters could ever have handled.
The clothes and occupation, however, were only confirmation for what Hoffner saw in the design. He ran his thumb along the ruts. He pressed down onto the cold flaps of skin. They were jagged, their angle wrong. These had come at the hands of the second carver.
Hoffner glanced down the tunnel and felt Weigland’s gaze over his shoulder. Someone had gone to great lengths to create the perfect setting. Everything was laid out exactly as it had been in Senefelderplatz two days ago, as it had been over the last month and a half at each of the other sites: the Mnz Strasse roadwork, the sewer entrance at Oranienburger Strasse, the Prenzlauer underpass, the grotto off Blowplatz. Everything perfect, thought Hoffner, and just a day after Herr Braun’s revelations.
He was about to turn back to the body when something else stopped him. Hoffner continued to stare down the tunnel. He saw it in the lights hanging from above, in the placement and dimension of the wooden boards along the dirt walls. It was in the layout of the planks, in the steel beams, in the height of the ceiling, its contours-everything about the tunnel. He had been distracted, first by Trger, then by the victim. Now it was infinitely clear.
Hoffner jumped up and started toward the directors, who were almost to the ladder. He quickened his pace. “Herr Direktor.” He began to run as he yelled out, “One moment, please.”
Trger stopped. He turned around. “Herr Kommissar?”
Hoffner drew up to him. He could hear Weigland trying to catch up from behind. “Herr Direktor.” Hoffner spoke with intensity. “This site. These sites. How are they designed?”
Trger seemed unsure of the question: “You mean how is the tunnel built, Herr Kommissar?”
“No, the designs, Herr Direktor. How are they configured?”
Trger glanced momentarily at his colleagues. “We have a model. What’s called a Master Draft. It acts as a central plan. Why, Kommissar?”
“Each site, Herr Direktor? Each one is designed in the same way?” Hoffner felt the pieces falling into place.
“In theory, yes.” Trger was still not sure what he was explaining. “One basic tunnel design. One basic track design. It makes for much more cost-effective production of materials, instruction to foremen, so forth and so on.” Trger was finished answering questions. “Why is this of any importance?”
“So the Senefelder site would be almost identical to this one?”
“More or less, yes.” Trger was growing impatient. “Why are you asking this?”
“Even something as involved as the Rosenthaler Platz station. An arcade. That, as well?”