“Jogiches,” he said as he got to his feet. “What do you say to a bath?” He heard movement from across the room.
An anxious whisper followed: “Who’s. .?” Jogiches caught himself; he, too, had been drifting elsewhere. A match flared and the lamp lit up. Hoffner checked his watch. Three-fifteen. “Is it safe to leave the trunk here?” he said.
Jogiches needed another moment to find his focus. “The trunk?” he said. “I imagine. Yes. As safe as anywhere.” It was only when he was on his feet that he thought to ask, “A bath?” Jogiches looked genuinely puzzled. “What about a bath?”
It took them nearly half an hour to get across town to the Admiral’s Palace, even at this time of night. The steam rooms were a common destination for Berlin’s night-crawl crowd-open once again through the night now that the city had come back to its senses-and where a few marks and forty minutes were all that was needed to rejuvenate any set of tired bones or aching heads. For the most devoted-those who saw the pools and steam baths only by first light-it was known as the “clean break,” the stop between bar and desk. It was remarkable how a few minutes sweating out the booze could make a day at the office seem almost bearable.
Hoffner paid for both himself and Jogiches and, after a quick stop at the locker stalls, emerged to the common lounge decked out in slippers and a Turkish towel; Jogiches had opted for the full robe and hood: he looked like a slightly bedraggled Druid.
It was an impressive place, two stories high, with a colonnade of black and white marble columns under an open balcony that ran the perimeter of the four walls. A few of the denizens were peering down, catching a breath before returning to their self-imposed swelter boxes. Others sat below in thick leather chairs, reading papers or talking casually to one another. A series of Persian rugs dotted the floor. One might have guessed that this was the setting for an afternoon tea, had each of the men not been in various states of undress. The fattest invariably sat au naturel. Hoffner wondered if it was a lack of towel girth or simply pride that had prompted the choices.
He led Jogiches up the stairs and toward the last of the rooms on the right. A large, powerfully built man stood at the door in nothing but white socks: he had little to be ashamed of. He held a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and was showing extreme care each time he removed it to flick away the ash.
“Private room,” he said through a cloud of smoke.
“Tell him Nikolai Hoffner wants to see him.”
The man glanced over at Jogiches. “And?”
“Just tell him Hoffner.”
The man sized them up again, and then knocked once over his shoulder. A moment later a plume of steam billowed from the half-opened door to reveal a second, equally impressive titan, who was drenched in sweat. “Nikolai Hoffner,” said the first man. The door closed and the three stood staring at each other while they waited. “Drop the robe and the towel,” said the man. “And the slippers. Nothing goes in.” Jogiches and Hoffner did as they were told: they were now three naked silent men.
The knock came and the man nodded them through.
The sting of hot, moist air was instantaneous, as was the hiss of gushing steam. As far as Hoffner could make out, the room was all white tile, including the floor: he had to steady himself against the wall to keep from slipping. His skin had gone instantly slick, and the puffed air made it impossible to see more than a half-meter in front of him.
“Watch yourself there, Inspector,” came a voice from across the room. “Let’s see that you make it across alive.” It was joined by a small chorus of laughter. “Turn it down, Zenlo,” said the voice. Hoffner heard the squeal of a valve being spun. Instantly the hiss choked off and the steam began its slow descent to the floor. As the air cleared, Hoffner saw the six or seven men who were seated across the room on two step-levels. They might have passed for a klatch of well-fed businessmen if not for the collection of odd scars and discolorations on their cheeks, arms, and chests. Marks of the trade, thought Hoffner. No wonder they liked the baths: a nightly chance to wash away their sins.
On the topmost step, and in the far corner, sat an equally naked Alby Pimm.
Pimm was small and pale by comparison to the rest, with a shock of curly jet-black hair that made him look almost boyish. His face, however, said otherwise. It had that weathered look of forty-odd years living off the streets, time spent climbing to the top ranks of the Immertreu, one of Berlin’s more notorious syndicates. Just now Pimm was enjoying a rather charmed relationship with the Kripo. He had proved himself useful during the war-keeping an eye on undesirables and foreigners-and had thus earned himself something of a free hand when it came to his less-violent enterprises: black-market trade, a little extortion-these passed without too much interference. Anything more serious, however, was still fair game.
Pimm said with a smile, “Not with us in an official capacity, are you, Inspector?” The men laughed again, and Hoffner pointed to a spot on the lower step. “Be my guest,” said Pimm. “And this is. .” Pimm needed another moment to find the name. “Herr Jogiches, isn’t it?” Jogiches said nothing as the two men sat. “Odd little pairing.” More laughter.
Hoffner said, “I need to talk to you.”
“You are talking to me.”
“Alone.”
“Ah.” Pimm was enjoying this. He took a drink from a small wooden box that sat at his side. “A bull and a Red,” he said. “What times we live in.” He took a second drink and then bobbed his head toward the door: the men began to take their towels and file out. The last in line was a long, lanky fellow with the most angular face Hoffner had ever seen: there looked to be just enough skin on the cheeks and nose to cover the bone, although the eye sockets seemed to be wanting a bit more. “Zenlo,” Pimm said. The man turned. “Stay by the door.” The man nodded and stepped outside.
Hoffner was now dripping with sweat. He pulled his hand across his face to clear his eyes. Pimm slid the box across the tile toward him and said, “That’s how the Japanese drink their water. The wood keeps it cool. Clever little people.”
“I could do with something a bit stronger,” said Hoffner.
“Not in here you couldn’t. That’s what you’re pissing out. Trust me, take the water.” Pimm watched as Hoffner reached up for the box and drank; he then said, “I don’t know who’s doing all the killing, if that’s why you’re here. Bad for business all around. I thought you’d finished it with the Belgian.”
Hoffner slid the box back. “Bad for more than business.”
Pimm nodded slowly. “Yah.” He picked up a bowl of water and, leaning forward, tipped it over his head. “I was sorry to hear about that.” He remained stooped over. “That revolution of yours didn’t do me much good, either, Herr Spartakus.”
Jogiches was feeling the heat in his beard. He dabbed a bit of water onto his cheeks. “My apologies,” he said.
Pimm laughed to himself and spat. He tipped a second bowl over himself and sat up. “So, what is it you gentlemen want?”
Hoffner had propped his elbows on his knees. He felt the sweat drip from his chin, and watched as it splattered on the tile between his feet. “I want you to break into the fourth floor of the Alex and steal a body.” Hoffner took a bowl of his own and tipped it over his head.
Again Pimm laughed. “You want what?” Hoffner remained bent over in silence. It took Pimm another few seconds to realize that Hoffner was serious. The laughter stopped. “And why would I do that?”