Hoffner had to stifle the urge to upbraid Fichte in front of the two men. He took the sheets. “My apologies for my Assistent, Herr Kepner. He is-overly cautious.”
Kepner waved Hoffner off. “Better that than the other, Herr Kommissar.”
Out of nowhere, Fichte rose to his feet. He snapped his head in a bow. “My apologies, Herr Brenner.”
Hoffner thought the gesture a bit extravagant, but he knew it would keep Fichte quiet for the rest of the interview. Brenner nodded quietly.
“It’s a Bruges design,” said Kepner. “I have yet to determine an optimal point of origin-” He stopped himself. “You understand what I mean by this?”
“Yes, mein Herr. The starting point.”
“Exactly. These are only rough sketches. Anything more detailed will take more time.”
It was odd, seeing the design drawn with such precision: a woman’s flesh created its own imperfections; Hoffner’s rendering had been “crude” by Kepner’s estimation. This, however, showed the true artistry and intricacy of the pattern. Lines and turns Hoffner had never imagined filled the little sketches. He wondered if, perhaps in his haste, he had missed the design in one of Wouters’s pages. It hardly mattered now; he was about to show Kepner where to find his optimal point of origin.
“What if you were to start here, mein Herr?” Hoffner placed the sheet on the table and pointed to the spot that approximated the point where Mary Koop’s body had been found.
Kepner pulled out his glasses and leaned forward. He had not been anticipating suggestions from the Kripo. Fichte seemed equally surprised. “From where?” said Kepner. Hoffner kept his finger on the sheet as he turned it toward Kepner. Kepner gazed down with an uncertain stare until his eyes began to move through the sketch. “All right,” he said absently. Without looking up, he pulled a short pencil from his pocket and, very slowly, began to create another replica, another possible route for the design. He continued to glance back at the other drawings he had made, along with a list of calculations he had written out on a separate page. “Is this a guess, Herr Inspector?” he said as he continued to draw.
“An educated one, mein Herr.”
“Yes, I imagine it would be.” Kepner hummed in a monotone as he went back and forth between drawings and figures.
Progress was slow going-Kepner kept at it for nearly twenty minutes-as Hoffner began to see what he needed. If Mary Koop had been the optimal point of origin in the station design, then the Rosenthaler Platz-Wouters’s home-had to be the origin in the city design. What else could it be? It was the one site that Wouters had meant to keep pure, or at least beyond the reach of death. The preserving grease had said as much. That was why it was the deviation; and that was why it held the key.
Hoffner tried to reconstruct the path of Wouters’s victims in his head, taking Rosenthaler Platz as his starting point: southeast to Mnz Strasse, due west to Oranienburger, northeast to Prenzlauer, west to Blowplatz, and finally north to Senefelderplatz. All the while, he continued to watch Kepner. With each turn of the pencil, Kepner was following the identical shifts in direction. Hoffner rarely let himself give in to moments like these. Now his heart began to accelerate as Kepner drew closer and closer to the sixth knot.
“There,” said Hoffner.
Kepner looked up, unsure why he was being asked to stop. “It’s hardly finished, Herr Inspector.”
“That was your sixth knot?”
Kepner went back and counted. “The sixth that required a direction change. Yes.”
Hoffner stared across at the design. “Southeast,” he said to himself.
“Excuse me, Herr Inspector?”
Hoffner refocused. “Nothing, mein Herr.”
“‘Nothing,’” Kepner echoed cautiously. “And this is what you needed?”
Hoffner thought for a moment. If Wouters-and not the second carver-was consistent, he would be depositing his next victim sometime in the next three or four days. There was little chance that a body was already waiting for them at that sixth knot. Even so, Hoffner had no intention of making a return trip to Charlottenburg. He told Kepner to continue.
When Kepner began to make the turn away from the eighth knot, Hoffner stopped him again. “There. That’s fine, mein Herr.”
Kepner glanced up. “You’re sure this time?” Hoffner nodded. “Good.” Kepner dropped the pencil and sat back. He removed his glasses and rubbed two fingers on the bridge of his nose.
Hoffner picked up the pencil. “May I?” he said. Kepner looked over; he was still blinking the strain from his eyes. He nodded indifferently.
Hoffner took a clean sheet and began to sketch Kepner’s design, but on a much larger scale: large enough to conform to the map that was hanging back on his office wall. Hoffner finished and slid the drawing across the table. Kepner had been watching him. He now leaned in to take a closer look.
“The dimensions are still accurate?” said Hoffner.
Kepner continued to examine the sheet: “As I said, Inspector, these drawings are rough. I would need other tools to make a perfectly accurate rendering, but this, I suspect, is as close as any I’ve constructed.” He slid the sheet back to Hoffner. “I doubt this mesh would ever be configured on such a large scale, but then again, I doubt many Kripo officers would be as consumed by lace as you are.” Kepner raised a hand to stop Hoffner from answering. “I don’t want to know the details, Herr Inspector. I’m tired, that’s all.”
Herr Brenner stood. “You have everything you need?” Brenner might have been a cold fish, but he was a cold fish devoted to his father-in-law.
“Yes, mein Herr.” Hoffner began to shuffle the papers together. “May I take these?” He continued to stack them.
“You are taking them, Inspector,” said Kepner with the hint of a smile. He had sunk back comfortably into his chair. “What would I do with them, anyway? Just make sure you catch him before he comes too far west, that’s all.” Hoffner stopped in mid-shuffle. Kepner enjoyed Hoffner’s momentary surprise. “There’s no stricture about reading before sundown, Inspector.”
Kepner had known exactly what he was doing, all along. He had simply managed to feel safer not knowing the details.
“I’ll try, mein Herr.”
“Good,” said Kepner. “There is one favor I have to ask of you.”
Hoffner finished stacking. “Of course, mein Herr.”
“This aspect of your case. The lace. I’m hoping it can remain out of your reports. Lace, you see, is primarily. .” Kepner hesitated. “That is to say, the quality of this particular lace-”
“Lace is a Jewish concern, Inspector,” Brenner cut in bluntly. “In Berlin, trade and production of this type are run primarily by Jews.”
“I see,” said Hoffner.
Kepner deferred to his son-in-law. Brenner continued: “If it should get out, if the newspapers should decide to print that we were in any way associated with this case-that this man was using our designs as some kind of inspiration for his madness-you understand our concern.”
Fichte piped in, “A loss of business, mein Herr?”
The room fell silent. Brenner had long ago learned to swallow his rage. When he answered, he spoke quietly, deliberately. “No, Herr Detective. Another excuse to blame the Jews. Not that the revolution hasn’t delivered on that front.”
Before Fichte could open his mouth again, Hoffner said, “Of course, mein Herr.” He stood, the pages in hand. “None of this needs to come out. The reading public never goes in much for the details, anyway. You have my word.”
Brenner remained silent. He glanced at Kepner. The older man nodded. Brenner then turned back to Hoffner. “I’ll show you out.”
Forty minutes later, Hoffner stood in his office, slowly penciling the last lines of the design onto the map. He made sure that the lengths of each of the segments conformed to the basic proportions of Kepner’s original, but it was clear even before he had made it halfway to the sixth knot where Wouters would be bringing his next victim. Hoffner stared at the spot. Somehow he had known all along.