Another shout. The siren grew closer. “Oh, Schumann – if I’m not there in an hour? The radio that Bull Gordon told you about, in the embassy building they’re working on?”
Paul nodded.
“Call in and tell them that you need new instructions.” A grim laugh. “And you may as well give them the news that I’m dead. Now, get out of here. Keep your eyes forward, look casual. And whatever happens, don’t run.”
“Don’t run? Why?”
“Because there are far too many people in this country who will chase you simply because you are running. Now hurry!” Morgan turned back to his task with the quick precision of a tailor.
The dusty, pitted black car pulled onto the sidewalk near the alleyway, where three Schupo officers stood, wearing spotless green uniforms with bright orange collar tabs and tall green-and-black shako hats.
A middle-aged mustachioed man in a three-piece, off-white linen suit climbed out of the passenger side of the vehicle, which rose several inches, relieved of his considerable weight. He placed his Panama hat on his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, which was swept back, and tapped the smoldering tobacco from his meerschaum pipe.
The engine stuttered, coughed and finally went silent. Pocketing the yellowing pipe, Inspector Willi Kohl glanced at their vehicle with some exasperation. The top SS and Gestapo investigators had Mercedes and BMWs. But Kripo inspectors, even senior ones like Kohl, were relegated to Auto Union cars. And, of the four interlocking rings representing the combined companies – Audi, Horch, Wanderer and DKW – it was, naturally, a two-year-old model of the most modest of those lines that had been made available to Kohl (while his car ran, to be generous, on petrol, it was telling that the initials “DKW” stood for the words “steam-powered vehicle”).
Konrad Janssen, smooth-shaven and hatless like so many of today’s young inspector candidates, emerged from the driver’s seat and buttoned his double-breasted, green silk suit jacket. He took a briefcase and the Leica case from the trunk.
Patting his pocket to make sure he had his notebook and evidence envelopes, Kohl wandered toward the Schupos.
“Hail Hitler, Inspector,” the older of the trio said, a familiarity in his voice. Kohl didn’t recognize him and wondered if they’d met before this. The Schupo – city patrolmen – might assist inspectors occasionally but they were not technically under the command of the Kripo. Kohl had little regular contact with any of them.
Kohl lifted his arm in a semblance of a Party salute. “Where’s the body?”
“Through there, sir,” the man said. “Dresden Alley.” The other officers stood at half attention. They were cautious. Schupo officers were very talented at traffic offenses and catching pickpockets and holding back crowds when Hitler rode down the broad avenue of Under the Lindens, but murder today called for discernment on their part. A killing by a robber would require them to protect the scene carefully; a murder by the Stormtroopers or the SS meant they should disappear as quickly as they could and forget what they’d seen.
Kohl said to the older Schupo, “Tell me what you know.”
“Yes, sir. That’s not much, I’m afraid. A call came into the Tiergarten precinct and I came immediately here. I was the first to arrive.”
“Who called?” Kohl walked into the alley then looked back at the other officers and impatiently gestured for them to follow.
“She gave no name. A woman. She heard a shot from around here.”
“The time she called?”
“Around noon, sir.”
“You arrived when?”
“I left as soon as my commander alerted me.”
“And you arrived when?” Kohl repeated.
“Perhaps twenty minutes past noon. Perhaps thirty.” He gestured down a narrow offshoot that ended in a cul-de-sac.
Lying on his back on the cobblestones was a man in his forties, over-weight. The wound in the side of his head was clearly the cause of death and he’d bled profusely. His clothes were disheveled and his pockets turned out. There was no doubt he’d been killed here; the blood pattern made this conclusion obvious.
The inspector said to the two younger Schupos, “Please, see if you can find witnesses, particularly anyone at the mouths of this alley. And in these buildings here.” He nodded to the two surrounding brick structures – noting, though, that they were windowless. “And that café we passed. The Beer House, it was called.”
“Yes, sir.” The men walked off sharply.
“Did you search him?”
“No,” the senior Schupo said then added, “Only to verify that he was not Jewish, of course.”
“Then you did search him.”
“I simply opened his trousers. Which I refastened. As you can see.”
Kohl wondered whether whoever had decided that the deaths of circumcised men were to be given low priority had considered that sometimes the procedure was performed for medical reasons, even presumably on the most Aryan of babies.
Kohl searched the pockets and found no identification. Nothing at all, in fact. Curious.
“You took nothing from him? There were no documents? No personal effects?”
“No, sir.”
Breathing heavily as he knelt, the inspector examined the body carefully and found the man’s hands to be soft, free of calluses. He spoke, half to himself, half to Konrad Janssen. “With these hands, trimmed nails and hair and residue of talcum on his skin, he doesn’t work labor. I see ink on his fingers but not much, which suggests he’s not in the printing trade. Besides, the patterns suggest the ink comes from handwriting, probably ledgers and correspondence. He’s not a journalist, for he would have traces of pencil lead on his hands and I can see none.” Kohl knew this because he’d investigated the deaths of a dozen reporters just after the National Socialists came to power. Not one of the cases had been closed; not one was being actively investigated. “Businessman, professional, civil servant, government…”
“Nothing under his nails either, sir.”
Kohl nodded then probed the man’s legs. “An intellectual man most likely, as I said. But his legs are very muscular. And look at those excessively worn shoes. Ach, they make my own feet burn just to glance at them. My guess is that he is a walker and a hiker.” The inspector grunted as he rose with some effort.
“Out for a stroll after an early lunch.”
“Yes, very likely. There is a toothpick, which might be his.” Kohl retrieved and smelled it. Garlic. He bent down and smelled the same scent near the victim’s mouth too. “Yes, I believe so.” He dropped the toothpick into one of his small brown paper envelopes and sealed it.
The young officer continued. “So, a robbery victim.”
“Certainly a possibility,” Kohl said slowly. “But I think not. A robber taking everything that the man had on him? And there aren’t any gunpowder burn patterns on the neck or ear. That means the bullet was fired from some distance. A robber would have been closer and confronted him face-to-face. This man was shot from behind and the side.” A lick of the stubby pencil tip, and Kohl recorded these observations in his crinkled notebook. “Yes, yes, I’m sure there are robbers who would lie in wait and shoot a victim then rob him. But that doesn’t fit what we know about most thieves, does it?”
The wound also suggested that the killer had not been the Gestapo, SS or Stormtroopers. The bullet in such cases usually was fired from point-blank range into the front of the brain or the back.
“What was he doing in the alley?” the inspector candidate mused, looking around as if the answer were lying on the ground.
“That question doesn’t interest us yet, Janssen. This is a popular shortcut between Spener Street and Calvin Street. His purpose may have been illicit but we’ll have to learn that from evidence other than his route.” Kohl examined the head wound again then walked to the wall of the alley, on which a considerable amount of blood was spattered.