“I see knickers!” shouted Tamako. “Black and gold knickers! Oh, those lovely knickers! Three cheers for the lady in blue!”
The dance floor erupted, and the orchestra took it as its cue to raise the decibel level. Everything grew more feverish, while Fichte, seated at the bar with a vodka and orange, watched in delight.
He enjoyed the view from the bar. More than that, he enjoyed how he could be viewed from the bar. Hardly a quarter-hour passed without a handshake or a drink for the young detective. The girls had grown less attractive over the weeks-after all, who could keep a Haller Girl interested for more than a few days? — but some of the middling ones were still coming by. Tonight a buxom counter girl from one of the stores along the Kurfrstendamm was on his arm: she had a flat of her own; she had made that very clear early on in the evening. She was drinking champagne, but Fichte was figuring it would be worth the extras.
She pulled away from him and showed a bit of thigh as she flapped her skirt. “I want to dance, Hans. Let’s dance.”
Fichte imagined the treats in store for him. He placed his drink on the bar and followed her out as a photographer flashed a shot. It was a slow night. Who knew? Fichte might even make it back into the morning papers.
The girl was all thrusts and kicks, and she liked it when Fichte kept his hand clamped around her buttocks. He bent closer in and placed his cheek on hers, and little beads of sweat started where their skin touched. She smelled of talc and matted hair as Fichte reached up and stole a squeeze of her breast. She slapped at him playfully, and the cloth clung momentarily to his palm as he pulled it away.
Back at the bar he bought her another champagne. He was handing it over when a familiar voice from behind broke through the crowd.
“Something of a madhouse tonight, isn’t it?” said the voice.
Fichte turned to see Polpo Oberkommissar Gustav Braun reaching out for two glasses of his own. Fichte took a moment to process the image. Smiling, and with his hair mussed at the front, Braun looked almost human.
Fichte’s girl was growing impatient. “Hans-my drink?”
Fichte recovered and handed her the champagne. Braun, however, remained no less perplexing. With a false camaraderie, Fichte said, “Herr Oberkommissar. What a surprise.”
Braun was handing one of the drinks to a lady friend of his own. “We’re not at the Alex now. It’s Gustav, please. Allow me to present Frulein Tilde Raubal. Frulein Raubal, Herr Fichte. This is the young detective I’ve been telling you so much about.” The woman extended her hand.
Fichte took it and brought it to his lips. “A pleasure,” he said. “This is-” He had forgotten the girl’s name. There were several moments of uncomfortable silence before the girl said with an unflattering tartness, “Frulein Dimp. Vicki Dimp.” She extended her hand, though not with quite the same grace as her counterpart.
Suffering through the girl’s sweaty little hand, Braun said, “You must come and join us. Wouldn’t want to drag you away from the cameras, but we do have a table away from the noise, unless you prefer the bar.”
Fichte answered instantly. “Wonderful.” He motioned for Braun to lead the way. Frulein Dimp, though less than enthusiastic, followed Frulein Raubal into the crowd.
The air was slightly less steamy away from the bar, which made squeezing into the half-moon booth more pleasant than it might have been. Even so, the women were forced to sit shoulder to shoulder, while Fichte kept most of his heft teetering on the edge of the banquette: he placed a hand on the side of the table for balance. He smiled awkwardly at Frau Raubal, who seemed expertly bored.
“He might be a she,” said Braun, gazing up at the catwalk and a strutting Tamako. “There are rumors.” Fichte peered up with him. “Then again,” said Braun, “he might just be a diseased homosexual.”
Fichte found Braun’s chumminess thrilling. If only for a few moments, he was being invited into the inner circle. Fichte had guessed at Tamako’s darker secrets. Now here was a man who could more than merely speculate. Fichte said eagerly, “If only Herr Trubo could speak.”
Braun was momentarily confused by the response-seeing that Herr Trubo was, in fact, a megaphone whose sole purpose was to speak-but he nodded anyway and raised his glass. “To the times ahead,” he said.
The four toasted, and Fichte turned to his girl. “Herr Braun”-he corrected himself-“Gustav is very high up with the Polpo. They handle the more complex cases at the Alex.”
Frulein Dimp needed no coaching “I know what the Polpo does, Hans. I read the papers, too.”
Braun said genially, “We don’t spend a lot of time in the papers, Frulein.” He was becoming more human by the minute. “We leave that to heroes like Hans, here.”
Fichte would have blushed, but his face was too busy sweating.
“What we do,” continued Braun, “is always less interesting to the public.”
Fichte perked up. “Not true at all. You manage what’s most interesting to them without their even knowing it. The Polpo keeps a different kind of peace.”
Braun said, “You’ve been talking with Walther Hermannsohn, from the sound of it. Good man, Hermannsohn. Knows his business.”
Fichte had in fact spent more than a little time chatting with the young Kommissar over the last few weeks: a few chance meetings at a lunch spot around the corner from the Alex. Hermannsohn was, as Braun said, quite a good fellow. Fichte said, “Yes, not what one expects, really.”
Braun gave him no time to backtrack: “And what did you expect?”
Fichte was suddenly on the spot. “Well, you know,” he said, trying to buy some time. “What people imagine goes on inside the Polpo.”
“Uninformed people,” said Braun.
“Yes. Exactly,” said Fichte, trying not to show his relief. “The common misconceptions.”
Braun raised his glass and with a knowing look-one that only confused Fichte-downed his whiskey in one swallow. He then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Why don’t you two girls have a spin at the roulette wheel? Give Herr Fichte-”
“Hans,” corrected Fichte enthusiastically.
“-Hans and me a chance to talk.” Braun pulled a five-mark bill from his wallet.
Frulein Raubal looked relieved, as if she had been waiting for the suggestion all along; Frulein Dimp simply marveled at the amount of money.
Braun was on his feet. The women slid over, and Frau Raubal placed a nice kiss on Braun’s cheek as she took the bill.
“You talk as long as you want,” said Frulein Dimp as she reached across the table for her drink. She made sure to give Fichte a nice view of her cleavage. “We’ll be just fine, Hans, darling. Don’t you worry about us.”
And like that, the girls were gone. Braun settled back into his seat and managed to wave down a passing waiter. He ordered two whiskeys. He said, “Nice-looking girl, Hans. Very enthusiastic.”
Fichte tried his best to keep up. “I certainly hope so.” He laughed a bit too loudly, but Braun let it pass.
“I imagine you’ve been on quite a tear since the Wouters case broke.”
“I can’t complain.”
Braun offered him a cigarette. “You enjoy that kind of work, do you? Murders and the like.” The two men lit up.
“I don’t know if I’d say ‘enjoy,’ but it is interesting.”
“Of course. Interesting in a limited sort of way.” He saw Fichte’s confusion. “I only mean that the cases have fixed parameters.” This didn’t seem to help. Braun spoke more slowly. “You catch the killer and the case is closed. That sort of thing. They don’t really lead anywhere else.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Well. . yes and no. There are some cases that lead elsewhere.”
“And you like those?”
Fichte tried to find the right words. “Well, I haven’t had the chance yet to work on one that’s led beyond the. . you know, beyond the case. But I’ve certainly read about the ones that have.”