Braun nodded amiably. “Of course.” He took a drag. “Pretty much all we do in the Polpo. Nothing ever seems to find an end up on the fourth floor. Always leading from one thing to the next to the next.” He picked at a piece of stray tobacco on his tongue. He examined it as he said, “From what I’ve seen, you look like you might have a talent for that sort of thing.” He flicked the tobacco away and looked across at Fichte warmly. “We were all very impressed with your work on the Wouters case.”
Fichte tried an awkward pull on his cigarette and began to nod his head quickly. “No. Of course. That’s the sort of thing I do best.”
“Have you ever considered the Polpo?”
The suggestion caught Fichte completely by surprise. “Considered the Polpo?”
Braun was still unnervingly relaxed. “It’s just something I wonder about when I see work of that caliber, that’s all. A bit of healthy competition, you understand. Wanting the best that the Kripo has to offer.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t listen to me, Hans. I’m just a jealous detective who’d like to filch from the boys on the third floor. You’ll be getting quite a bit of that in your career, I imagine.” The waiter arrived. Braun said, “Shall I order two more while we have him here?”
Fichte fumbled with a nod.
Braun waited until they were alone before continuing: “I’ve made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. You’re a Kripo man, through and through.” He raised his glass. “To fine work on whichever floor it happens to be coming from.” The two men drank.
Fichte sat with his glass in hand. He was feeling a bit light-headed, although he was doing his best to keep himself under control. Not that he had ever thought of the Polpo. They were safe in deep water, shoals closer in, or something like that: he could never remember the exact words Hoffner had used. But that seemed so far from the truth, given tonight, more so given his recent encounters with Hermannsohn. Still, Fichte knew to be wary. “I need a bit more under my belt before I start thinking about any of that.” He took a sip.
Braun nodded. “That’s your Kommissar Hoffner speaking now.” Braun corrected himself. “Your Oberkommissar. Pardon me. How can we forget the great promotion ceremony at the Royal Palace? Quite a show they put on.”
The word “show” pricked at Fichte. It reminded him who was sitting across the table. “Yes,” he said. “The Kripo spares no expense.”
Braun seemed surprised by the answer. He smiled. “I’ve offended you again. My apologies.” He took a slow pull on his cigarette. “I’d like to say it’s the whiskey, but we both know it’s that jealousy rearing its ugly head. Ignore it, Hans. I do.”
This time Braun’s mea culpa seemed more contrived. Fichte returned a bland smile and took another sip.
Braun said, “You’re quite devoted to your Herr Hoffner, aren’t you?”
The tone of the conversation had shifted, and Fichte was strangely aware of it. He knew that Braun was hinting at something. Even so, Fichte took his time. He placed his glass on the table and said, “He was my Kriminal-Kommissar, and he remains my partner. I’ve learned a great deal working with him.” He looked across at Braun. “He also happens to be a brilliant detective.”
“Your loyalty is admirable.”
“Thank you.”
“If a bit nave.”
This time the word more than pricked. Fichte was not terribly good at hiding his resentment, especially with a few drinks in him. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, Herr Oberkommissar.”
Braun was more direct. “We don’t like letting the good ones get away, Hans. And we’re very persistent.”
Fichte waited. “Why nave?”
“Herr Hoffner is an excellent detective. No question about that.”
“And yet you don’t let the good ones get away.”
“We don’t. But you have to understand that it’s more than just detective work up on the fourth floor. It’s a man’s character, his past. Herr Hoffner. . well, he comes up a bit short on both counts.”
Fichte was amazed at Braun’s candor. “We’re talking about my partner, Herr Braun.”
“Yes,” said Braun unapologetically. “I know.”
Fichte felt suddenly ashamed for having let it get this far. There was something decidedly petty in Braun’s style. Fichte reached for his glass and downed the whiskey. It was a mistake. He instantly felt the effects. “It’s been a pleasure, Herr Braun. Thank you for the drinks.” He started to get up.
Braun said calmly, “He’s fucking your girl, Hans. Not much character in that.”
Fichte stared across the table. He was certain he had misheard. “Excuse me?”
“Your girl,” said Braun no less directly. “Lina. Herr Hoffner’s been screwing her ever since your little trip to Belgium, or didn’t you know that? There’s your Kripo, Hans. There’s your loyalty.”
Fichte felt his legs begin to slip out from under him; luckily, he was still only a few centimeters above the banquette. It did nothing to help the sudden throbbing in the back of his head. Fichte wanted to answer, make a joke, but he was swimming in booze, drowning under the image of Hoffner with Lina. He felt his neck constrict, his lungs tighten, and he began to gasp for breath. He thought Braun was saying something, reaching out a hand, but he could hardly see him. Fichte fumbled in his pocket for his inhaler. He took in a long, deep suck and his lungs began to open; he could breathe again. He felt himself standing. Not sure what was coming out, he said, “Thank you for the drinks, Herr Oberkommissar.” He tried to regain his focus. “You’ll excuse me.”
Without waiting for a response, Fichte made his way for the front doors. His head was clearing, but his face felt as if it were on fire. He needed cold air, anything to be away from this noise and the crush of bodies. He began to push his way through the crowd, when he saw little Elise, Lina’s roommate, standing alone inside the coat-check room. The sight of her was like another crack to his skull. Fichte barreled his way over.
Her expression soured the instant she saw him. “Ticket, sir,” she said sharply,
Fichte steadied himself on the counter. “Is she fucking someone?” he said loudly.
Elise looked past him, afraid that someone might have heard. “Keep your voice down, Hans.”
Fichte was no less insistent in a whisper. “Is she fucking my partner?”
It was clear that Elise had been waiting weeks to hear the question. She now took her time in answering. “What do you care?” she said in a hushed, nasty tone. “You’ve been screwing everything that walks through that door in the last month. Serves you right.”
Fichte held himself rigidly at the counter. He wanted to reach over and slap her to the ground. With a sudden jab, he thrust his hand into his pocket. He saw her flinch, and he laughed sloppily. He then pulled out his ticket and tossed it on the counter. His words were growing more slurred. “My coat, you fucking bitch.”
Elise had shown all the fight she had. She backed away slowly and turned to the rack. She laid the coat on the counter and again stepped away.
Fichte teetered momentarily. He tasted a dry sourness in his throat. “Bitch,” he said. He then grabbed his coat and headed for the doors.
Sometimes you need a bit of good fortune, and today it was Hoffner’s turn.
A cable had arrived in the morning from Belgium: van Acker had come up with a name for the substitute Wouters. He was a Konrad Urlicher, a German from Bonn. Strangely enough, it was Urlicher’s anatomy that had been the key to his identity. During the autopsy of the body, the doctors had discovered that Urlicher had suffered from a rare bone disease. This discovery might have meant nothing had there not also been indications that Urlicher had been treated for the disease using somewhat innovative if experimental techniques: something to do with marrow extracts. The upshot was that only a handful of clinics in Europe had been using the new techniques. Photographs of the man had been sent out to each of them. Within a week, Urlicher’s name had come back.