The Ochsenhof.
What could be better, he thought. Two city blocks filled with the worst human refuse that Berlin had to offer. Murder was routine in the “cattle yard,” not that Wouters could have known that. The man was simply following his design. That it was now leading him to a place that, in essence, lay beyond the reach of the Kripo was simply his good fortune.
Hoffner stared a moment longer, then began to remove the pins.
Fichte said, “How did you know where to tell Kepner to start?”
Hoffner continued with the pins. “That’s an excellent question, Hans.” Hoffner went to work on the tacks that were holding the map to the wall. “Give me a hand here.” Fichte stepped over and the two brought the map to the desk. Very delicately, Hoffner began to fold it.
Fichte said, “We don’t need the map anymore?”
Hoffner concentrated on the folds. “We don’t need anyone else seeing what’s been written on it.”
Fichte understood. “So how did you know?” he said.
Hoffner made the final crease. “The cavern inside the Rosenthaler station,” he said. He felt strange placing the map inside the filing cabinet rather than in a folder for the archive clerk. Maps came down only when cases were complete. This case, however, was changing the rules as it went.
“What about it?” said Fichte.
Hoffner locked the drawer. “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss it. Right now, I need ten minutes. Then meet me downstairs, and bring whatever’s going to keep you the driest.”
Wouters was making them wait.
Three days camped outside the Ochsenhof had taken its toll. Fichte complained of everything-cramp, filth, exhaustion; Hoffner was feeling it in his lower back and legs. He said nothing. He knew that Mulackstrasse was never kind. At best, it only goaded the rain. Tonight the wind was whipping up. Even the most secure nooks and alleyways had fallen prey to the biting damp and chill.
Three a.m., and they were holed up in a recessed stairwell directly across from the tenement. Six or so of its entrances were in clear sight. Hoffner had found a bit of a muslin tarp that, along with a flask of brandy, was helping to keep them warm. It was a relative term. And, of course, there was the price to pay for the added heat: three minutes each morning at a nearby washbasin and toilet were doing little to dull the stink. Fichte was a large man. He was giving off as good as he got.
Stench and cold aside, Hoffner was grateful to be out on the streets: it meant that he was away from the Alex. The last few days had brought the “chisel murders” to a fever pitch. Any reason to avoid those unending requests for interviews and the like suited him just fine: Sunday, the Tiergarten body had graced the front pages, although Weigland’s pull had managed to keep any mention of Ganz-Neurath, or U-Bahn 2, from the public; Monday, Berlin had met the Rosenthaler Platz victim, though she remained unidentified, as Hoffner and Fichte were the only ones, thus far, to have given Mary Koop a name; and today, the list of the remaining victims-dating all the way back to the very first, in Mnz Strasse-had appeared in Kvatsch’s BZ afternoon article.
The Kripo leak had been working double time to make sure that any momentum lost to the revolution was now being paid back, and with interest. Anxiety over a pair of murders that had occurred in the last ten days was gaining a kind of retrospective boost of panic: the murders stretched back over months, and Berliners felt compelled to make up for lost time. The first accusations of Kripo incompetence were beginning to surface.
Hoffner stretched his neck. “I’m going to check on the boys.”
Hoffner had known from the start that the tenement was too large to manage from one lookout point, and so he had turned to little Franz. There was no one else at the Alex he could trust: word would get out, and Wouters would slip through their hands. Hoffner had told Prager that he was getting close; Prager might have been feeling the pressure himself, but he was smart enough to know that Hoffner worked best on his own terms.
Franz had recruited a group of teenaged Schlgers, street thugs who blended in perfectly with their surroundings: probably one full set of teeth among them. They needed the money; Hoffner needed the manpower. He had shown each of them the photograph of Wouters-the one he had pulled from van Acker’s file-although a description of Wouters’s diminutive size, and the fact that he would be dragging a trunk, had been far more helpful.
The nights had been easiest for Hoffner. Fichte preferred the days, what with the chance to stretch his legs, move through the crowds, get something hot to eat. All that changed after dark. In the silence, Fichte would drift off and leave Hoffner alone to piece together the strands that lay beyond Wouters: the second carver, the military connection to the Ascomycete 4, the “additions” to the Rosenthaler station, even the choice of the Tiergarten site as a threat to the city’s tenuous social order. They all led him back to one name: Luxemburg. Naturally, the why still eluded him. In a strange way, it was Wouters who now seemed more and more out of place. Rosa, however, remained suspended above it all, the world unwilling to “let her be,” even in death. Hoffner had kept the little book with him. He had read through it from time to time as Fichte slept. It held no answers, but there was something quieting in it.
He pulled back the tarp. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said. The sudden slap of chilled air forced a muted grunt from Fichte. Hoffner stood. “Try to stay awake this time.”
Cramp in his leg forced Hoffner to take the steps one at a time. Keeping to the shadows, he peered out in both directions. The street was empty; even the prostitutes were staying in. Hoffner pulled down the brim of his hat and headed out into the lamplight.
He played the drunk during his rounds. The shuffling feet, the bobbing head, the single hand held out along the shop fronts for balance, were not an uncommon sight this time of night on Mulackstrasse. In fact, on his last circuit, Hoffner had nearly bumped into the genuine article: a weaving body had appeared from a side street, doing its best against the rain and wind and its own inebriation. One of the boys had actually mistaken him for Hoffner and popped out. The boy had been too late to see his mistake. Caught, he had done what any boy in his position would have done: he had tossed the man for everything he was worth. Hoffner had pretended to retch during the performance. The man, to his credit, had suffered it all with a drunk’s affability. He had even managed a pat on Hoffner’s back-“It’ll pass, my friend, it’ll pass”-as he continued down the street. This time, Hoffner walked alone.
Halfway down the block, he propped himself up against a wall as if he were catching his breath. “Anything?” he said quietly.
The boy had learned his lesson; he remained within the shadows. “Not a peep, Eminence.”
This one had a sense of humor. “No one to clean out this time?”
“Not my cock-up.”
“No choice, was it?”
“That’s right.”
Hoffner bent over as if he were about to retch. “But you’ll be splitting the proceeds with your mates, yes?”
“Splitting the what?”
“Just make sure Franz gets his cut.”
There was a silence. “Yeah. All right.”
Hoffner spat a few times, then moved off. He turned the corner.
The western side of the building was no less desolate. Another six or so entrances waited silently under the lamplight. Hoffner knew that they had been lucky thus far. Lamps had a tendency to burn out at the oddest of times in this part of town. Mulackstrasse in shadow was one thing; in total darkness it was suicide.