“I better,” Harry said. “The way things have been going.”
“Do you know the penalty for carrying a concealed weapon in Germany?”
They were in an interrogation room, Huber sitting to his right, putting on his glasses, blank expression.
“We will come back to this. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“I was visiting friends,” Harry said, stretching the truth a little.
“The people you visit do not seem to live very long.” Eyes looking at him over the black frames of the glasses.
“They were dead when I found them.”
Huber said, “Who do you think is killing these people?”
Harry didn’t know if he could trust him, didn’t know how much to tell him. Huber could have been a Nazi sympathizer for all he knew. “If I tell you, you won’t believe it.”
“The situation you are in, I think you had better.”
“Ernst Hess,” Harry said, letting the name hang. Huber kept his eyes on him, brow furrowed, serious, and then a hint of a smile. More emotion than Harry had ever seen from him. “He’s trying to cover up what he did during the war.”
“What are you talking about?”
Harry told him.
“If this were true,” Huber said, “why was he not prosecuted?”
“There were no witnesses,” Harry said.
“But now you have come forward.” He paused. “You make these accusations. What proof do you have?”
“Go to the morgue,” Harry said. “The bodies are piling up. A few days ago you found an auto dealer and his wife, the Lachmanns, shot the same way as the others, but you haven’t connected the dots.”
“Maybe the dots lead to you.”
Colette got back to her apartment at 6:30 Saturday evening, listened to Harry’s message. She went to Odeonsplatz to meet him, arriving at 6:45. Walked around, didn’t see him. Tried his hotel from the pay phone. He didn’t answer. She went back to her apartment, checked her messages again, nothing from Harry. She called his hotel and left a message. Maybe he was out with his friend.
She tried him again first thing in the morning. He was still checked in but didn’t answer. Now Colette was worried. She phoned Bernd Kramer, her contact with the police, and found out Harry was in custody at Stadelheim. Arrested for carrying a concealed weapon, awaiting arraignment.
Twenty-seven
Monday afternoon, Colette was on the phone with her editor, Gunter, in Berlin, discussing the risks of running her story about Hess. “You’ll get the photos and the article on Wednesday. Incriminating stuff. This should put a wrench in Hess’ political future.”
“I’m more concerned about your future as a journalist. Hess is popular, well liked. There will be a backlash. You could be a target. I’m not even sure Max will agree to publish it.”
“Can you hang on?” Colette said. “Someone is ringing the bell.” She put the phone down, crossed the living room and looked out the window, saw him and went back to the phone. “Gunter, just a minute, the postman is delivering a package.” She buzzed him in and opened the door. Heard him coming up the stairs. “Thank you so much,” Colette said as he approached, face partially hidden under the brim of the cap. He was carrying a small rectangular package, his shoes making a snapping sound on the tile floor.
She was wondering who it was from, glanced at the label on the box. “Der Spiegel.”
He looked at her and said, “The magazine?”
“I am a journalist.”
“You have to sign.” He patted his shirt pocket and the front of his uniform jacket. “Forgive me, I have misplaced my pen.”
She noticed his manicured nails and shoes, hand-made black leather like Max wore, her editor-in-chief in Berlin, the shoes contrasting the plainness of the uniform. “I’ll be right back.” She walked quickly through the apartment, glanced at the phone on the table, Gunter still on the line, went into her bedroom, closed the door and locked it. Knew she had only a minute or two before Hess came after her. The photos from the rally were in an envelope on her desk, Colette regretting now she hadn’t sent them earlier. She tucked the envelope in her purse, grabbed her passport.
There was a sliding door that opened onto a small balcony. All the apartments had them. She slid the door open and went out. She had two chairs and a table and would sit there in the evenings and watch the sun set over the city. Colette slid a chair over to the edge of the railing, stood on it and jumped half a meter over onto the Steigerwalds’ balcony. She knew they weren’t home, tried their door, it was locked. She jumped to the Dauschers, looked back and saw Hess on her balcony. She tried the door. It opened and she went in and ran through the apartment. Opened the door, looked down the empty hall, and ran for the stairs.
Hess was wondering what she saw, what tipped her off. He didn’t go after her. She was too young, too fast. He walked into the kitchen, noticed the phone off the hook and hung it up. A light was blinking on the answering machine next to it. He pressed the message button and listened:
“Colette, where are you? Call your mother.”
“It’s Gunter. How are you coming on the article? Call me.”
“It’s Harry. Meet me at Odeonsplatz at six.” This one was dated the day before.
Now the phone was ringing. He let it ring and listened to the message: “Colette, Gunter, I was cut off. Get back to me.”
Hess ejected the tape and put it in his pocket. He walked through the kitchen. Like the rest of the apartment, it was clean, spotless, nothing out of place. He admired the discipline required to maintain an orderly life. There was an address book on the counter. He put it in his pocket.
Off the kitchen where he expected a pantry was a windowless room with photographic developing equipment on a long counter: enlarger, safelight, timer, a plastic tub of processing chemicals and next to it a tub of water. Half a dozen black-and-white photographs were clipped to a drying rack with clothespins.
The photographs had been taken the night of the rally, high angles from the rear of the hall, capturing the frenzy and energy of the Blackshirts. His face peeking around the banner was featured in three of the pictures. They were extreme long shots, difficult if not impossible to identify him. There was a binder on the counter that had plastic sheets of 35 mm negatives organized in rows. There were individual photographs of the mementos locked in the drawer in his apartment, Jewvenirs, as he thought of them, items he’d taken from the Jews he’d killed. Hess was shocked they’d broken into his apartment. He took everything. But the important question — had she made a duplicate set, and sent them to her publisher?
Harry had been in solitary confinement for two days, going crazy in the six-by-eight-foot cell that had a bunk, sink and toilet, and a barred, grime-stained window with a dim view of industrial Munich. Harry doing push-ups and sit-ups to burn off his anxiety. He’d been out once in thirty-six hours to shower and walk around a small concrete enclosure, the exercise yard, a guard standing by the door, keeping an eye on him. Harry had it to himself in the early evening, sun fading over chainlink fence topped with razor wire. The only other time Harry had been in jail was overnight in Washington DC. It was tough then and even tougher now. Not knowing what was going to happen, Harry assuming the worst, seeing himself going to trial, sentenced, doing time.
He heard a key scrape the lock. The door opened, a guard handed him a pile of clothes and told him to get dressed. The clothes were his, pale blue shirt, navy pants, navy blazer, black shoes and belt. Whoever had gone to his hotel room had a sense of style. The guard waited while he changed, cuffed his hands and escorted him upstairs. From there a detective took him outside and put him in the backseat of an unmarked Audi sedan. Harry surprised to see Huber sitting next to him, wearing a tweed sport coat, looking over black horn rims, a large manila envelope in his hand. Huber leaned over, unlocked the cuffs, put them in his sport-coat pocket. The driver’s door opened, the detective got in behind the wheel, started the car and they took off.