He checked in with the other boys, two more lookouts with nothing to report. He dropped a pack of cigarettes in the shadows at each of the posts: something to keep the boys awake. He then headed back, the sound of his own footfalls a solitary echo on the street. He was tired and wet. Maybe he could take a nap, let Hans earn his pay? Not much chance of that.
It was only when he reached the stairwell that Hoffner heard the scurrying of feet from behind him. He turned to see little Franz running up. The boy’s expression told him everything.
With newfound energy, Hoffner whispered into the shadows. “We’ve got him, Hans.” He waited to hear the tarp being pulled back before running out to meet the boy. Hoffner no longer felt the damp.
“Where?” he said as the two met in the middle of the street.
Franz spoke through gasps. “Just now.” He motioned back to the corner. “The fourth entryway.”
“Alone?”
The boy nodded.
“With a trunk?”
Again, the boy nodded.
Hoffner had heard nothing, no scraping of metal on cobblestone. How had Wouters maneuvered the trunk? There was no time to worry about that now. Without another word, Hoffner raced off. He was at the corner-Fichte and Franz chasing after him-when he saw five or six of the boys gathered at one of the far entryways, each of them pressed up against the door. Hoffner ran up to them.
“He’s gone down to the pit rooms,” whispered one of the boys. “Heard him go down. We can take him, if you want.”
Hoffner pulled his Mauser one-four-eight from his belt and tried to catch his breath. The pistol had been with him since 1912. He had fired it twice in the last seven years, once to test the action on the trigger, the other to salute Knig in a drunken farewell on some Tyrolean hillside. The lettering on the gripstrap marking-KripoDZ. 148-still shone like new.
At the sight of the gun, the boys edged back. Even Fichte was momentarily unnerved. Hoffner said, “No one takes him.” His breathing was still heavy. “You see him leave the building, you start shouting. You don’t go near him, you keep him in sight. Understood?” Fichte nodded along with the boys. “Get out your pistol, Hans.” Fichte did as he was told. Hoffner then pulled open the door and headed in.
The short corridor was lit like an interrogation room: stark light bounced off cracked walls and tile, and the smell of cabbage filled the air, a sourness seasoned with urine. At the stairs, Hoffner stopped. Somewhere above, someone was taking a nice beating; higher still, an old woman laughed or cried: even at this hour, the sounds of muted desperation trickled down. Hoffner put up a hand. Fichte stayed where he was, and Hoffner took two steps down to listen.
He heard it almost at once, its incongruity drawing him farther down the steps: a faint if high-pitched squeal was repeating in perfect intervals as it grew more distant. It was too even, too precise, and therefore completely out of place inside these walls. Hoffner suddenly realized what it was. He was following the rotation of a rusted wheel. An image popped into his head. The trunk was being moved on a porter’s wheel, the sort to be found at any train station. The marks at the sites had not been formed by the dragging of a trunk, but by a wheel pressing down into the mud. The weight of the bodies had simply flattened and thus widened its imprint.
Hoffner continued to listen. This was the sound of Wouters transporting his final victim. With a quick wave for Fichte, Hoffner started down.
The lower reaches of the tenement spread out in a warren of narrow corridors, bare bulbs dotting the walls, only here they were placed too far apart to create continuous light. Checkerboard patches led off in all directions. The infamous pit rooms-where pipes and coal stoves bristled with heat, and where only the most wretched took refuge-appeared at equally disjointed intervals. Half of the doors had gone missing for firewood. The rest clung to rotting hinges, or leaned out menacingly into the corridors, but they did nothing to keep the swelter from infiltrating. The air here was oppressive. Hoffner felt the perspiration forming in the creases of his neck as he heard Fichte begin to labor for breath.
The squeal called to them from one of the corridors, and Hoffner, his pistol held chest-high, moved toward it at an even pace, following the twists and turns, just fast enough to draw them closer to their man. He could feel Wouters’s presence, the sound of his footsteps slowly growing more distinct. Wouters was moving rhythmically, easily, uninterrupted-no idea that he was being followed. For the second time in a matter of days, Hoffner felt the sharp pull of anticipation.
And then, without warning, Fichte let go with a choked gasp. Dumbstruck, Hoffner turned to silence him, but it was too late. Fichte was doing all he could to stifle the seizing in his lungs. It was as if his throat had collapsed in on itself.
Hoffner turned back to the empty corridor. The squeal had stopped. Silence, and then a sudden crash and the sound of darting feet. Hoffner looked back at Fichte. The boy was on his knee, sucking desperately on his inhaler.
Hoffner ran, forcing himself to move faster, his hand sliding along the chipped walls as he propelled himself forward. Wouters’s steps were faint, but they were there. Taking a turn, Hoffner nearly fell over the abandoned trunk. It lay on its side and was blocking most of the corridor. For an instant he imagined what lay inside; putting it from his mind, he clambered over the wood and metal-still slick from the rain-and continued after Wouters.
Whether it was the nights out in the cold, or the sudden heat, or simply his own incapacity, Hoffner felt himself giving way. He strained for breath. He felt the stress in his legs and chest, his throat ready to explode, and still he pushed himself on. Wouters was disappearing into the endless corridors. He was slipping out of Hoffner’s hands, and all Hoffner felt was his own desperate failure. All of this would start again. All of it. And there would be nothing he could do to stop it.
A single shot rang out, and Hoffner froze. He planted his hand against the wall for support, and tried to quiet his breathing long enough to locate its origin. A second shot was fired, and Hoffner began to move. The echo hung in the air and led him first left, then along a corridor until he saw a shadow move beyond the open door of one of the pit rooms. He tightened his grip on his pistol, drew up to the door and, bracing himself, shouldered his way in.
What he saw was mind-numbing. A small body lay perfectly still in the half-light. Hoffner recognized it at once. It was Wouters. He was dead. A single bullet had entered his left thigh. Another had cut deep into his chest. He looked remarkably peaceful.
A board moved from across the room and, no less dazed, Hoffner looked over to see Kommissar Ernst Tamshik crouched down, rummaging through scrap wood.
“No body,” said Tamshik as he got to his feet.
Hoffner was still catching his breath as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “What are you doing here?” he said in a near whisper.
“He’s not much to look at, is he?” This was a different Tamshik, one intent on police work. The bullying and sneers were nowhere in sight. “All this trouble for so little a man. Remarkable.”
Hoffner finally caught his breath. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.
Tamshik continued to scan the room. “Looking for a body, Kommissar.”
Hoffner tried to focus. Instinctively he pointed back to the corridor, toward the trunk, but stopped himself. “How did you know he would be coming down here?”
Tamshik peered over at Hoffner. “You didn’t think you’d be the only one to find a way inside his head, did you Kommissar?” The smirk returned. “Typical Kripo arrogance.”