What was more startling was that Urlicher had not been insane. He had simply been dying. Who better, then, thought Hoffner, to take the place of a madman? Van Acker had sent along as much information as he could on Urlicher-and his stay at Bonn’s Fritsch Clinic-including background, family, and recent past. He had also included the names of those who had visited Urlicher while he had been hospitalized, and it was there that Hoffner had turned up gold.
Two names appeared on both the Sint-Walburga and clinic sheets: a Joachim Manstein and an Erich Oster. Both men had visited Urlicher one week before his disappearance from the Bonn clinic in October of 1918, and again two days before he had killed himself at Sint-Walburga in January of 1919. Hoffner had also discovered that Manstein had made a solo trip to the asylum in June of 1918, some six months before the suicide, and it was the tracking of that first visit that had brought the picture into focus.
Whatever these men had had in mind, their plan had been initiated as of June 1918. It was at that time, according to the doctors at Sint-Walburga, that the real Wouters had begun to let himself go: no bathing, no cutting of the hair. It was clear now that the purpose of Manstein’s first visit in June had been to prepare Wouters for the switch to come in October. By then Wouters would be unrecognizable, allowing for a reasonable facsimile-long hair, etc.-to take his place. The visit to the Bonn clinic in October had been to alert Urlicher that the switch was coming. And the last visit to Sint-Walburga in January had been to give Urlicher his final orders. That he had wrapped a rope around his neck was proof enough that Urlicher had been willing to follow them to the letter.
The precision of the operation-and it was an operation, in Hoffner’s mind-led him to conclude that the military connection extended beyond the Ascomycete 4. That Manstein and Oster had been able to cross into Belgium on two separate occasions during the war-one to prepare Wouters, the other to make the switch-could have been possible only with military credentials. A single man without papers might have been able to slip across the border. Three men-one of them looking like a raving lunatic-would not.
With the names in hand, Hoffner now knew where to start digging: the Office of the General Staff.
Fichte, of course, had yet to appear this morning. These late arrivals were becoming irritatingly commonplace. Hoffner was about to write him a note when there was a knock at the door. He looked up to see Polpo Direktor Gerhard Weigland standing in the hall.
“Busy, Nikolai?” Hoffner’s mistrust must have registered on his face. “Just to talk,” said Weigland. “If you have a minute?”
Hoffner placed the pages in a drawer and motioned Weigland to take a seat. “Of course, Herr Direktor.”
Weigland glanced around the office and then sat. “As organized as ever.” Hoffner remained silent. “A chief inspector should have a bigger place, don’t you think?”
“This suits me fine, Herr Direktor.”
“Yes,” said Weigland. “I imagine it does.” He shifted tone. “Nice bit of press for you and young Fichte. Quite the heroes, these days.”
“The press believes what it wants to believe, Herr Direktor.”
“Does it?” Weigland nodded knowingly. “So, no heroes, then?”
“You’d do better to ask Fichte about that, Herr Direktor. I’m sure you see more of him than I do.”
Weigland ignored the jab. “The boy has ambition. Not such a bad thing.”
Hoffner cut to it. “What is it that I can do for you, Herr Direktor?”
Weigland nodded knowingly. “No time for chitchat. Of course. All those murders to get to.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver medallion that hung on a ribbon. He placed it on the desk. “I’ve had this for a good many years. It was your father’s.”
Hoffner barely moved as he glanced down at the small pendant. He looked across at Weigland and said coldly, “It’s very nice. Was there anything else, Herr Direktor?”
“It’s meant for you, Nikolai.”
Hoffner nodded to himself. “And is there a reason it’s coming to me now?”
Weigland reached for the pendant and flipped it over. “There’s an inscription.” He read: “‘Third Highest Marks, Political Police Entrance Examination, Martin Hoffner, 1877.’ Your father gave it to me.” Weigland stared a moment longer at the silver finish. “He didn’t want it after all that business.” Weigland set it down and looked across at Hoffner. “It was a long time ago. I thought you might want it.”
There was never any subtlety with Weigland: no doubt someone had been standing by the wire room, Weigland now aware that the lines between Berlin and Bruges were still very much open. It was a further reminder for Hoffner not to step where he wasn’t welcome. “You’ve been waiting for the right moment, is that it, Herr Direktor?”
Weigland looked as if he might reply with equal callousness; instead he said, “I just thought you might want it. A medal for a hero. Silly, I suppose. But then one can’t always be a hero. Best to make the most of it while you can.” Subtlety, thought Hoffner. Always subtlety. Weigland stood. “Well. . please pass on my congratulations to Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Fichte. When you see him.”
Hoffner stood. The two men exchanged a nod and Weigland moved to the corridor. He was at the door when he turned back and said, “I imagine it’s time for a new map, Nikolai. Keep to what you do best.” Weigland waited a moment and then headed out.
Hoffner listened for the footfalls to recede before he sat and reached across the desk for the medal. It was a cheap little thing, silver plate, something to be won at any school outing. Hoffner read the inscription: the lettering had blackened over the years.
He found himself staring at the date. His father had been a young man then, and ambitious. Hoffner could hardly imagine it. It was not the man he had ever known: Weigland had seen to that. For a moment Hoffner felt his father’s bitterness as his own. He tossed the thing onto the papers and slammed the drawer shut.
Regimental Affairs was a relatively small office on the third floor of the General Staff building. None of its occupants looked up as Hoffner stepped inside: a distinguished-looking major sat at the far end-beyond a waist-high partition that ran the width of the room-his desk piled high with thick volumes; four lieutenants, also at desks and just this side of the partition, were leafing through mysterious reams of paper; and a young clerk-his coat off, his rank another mystery-sat closest to the door and was typing up the pages as they came down the line. The walls were nothing but floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, each filled with tall brown volumes with dates and regiment numbers etched across their spines. It might have been a university reading room-the air had that musty, academic smell to it-if not for the ramrod-straight backs of the men: these were soldiers, not scholars.
Hoffner pulled out his badge and said to the clerk, “I need a word with your Herr Major.”
The boy looked up. “May I ask what business the Herr Chief Inspector has with the Herr Major?”
“Personnel.”
The boy stood and moved briskly through the swinging half-door to the other side of the partition. Hoffner watched as the boy waited for the Herr Major to acknowledge him. The two exchanged a few words, and the clerk returned. “The Herr Major wishes to inform the Herr Chief Inspector that the Personnel Office is located-”
“On the third floor,” Hoffner cut in. “Yes. I’ve just had the pleasure of your Captain Strasser’s assistance. I’m not interested in the personnel of the General Staff. I’m looking for specific regimental members.”
Again the clerk made his way back. This time the Herr Major looked up and gazed out at Hoffner. Half a minute later, Hoffner was seated in front of his desk.