“You-?”
He realized that he’d translated the phrase literally; it would have no meaning in German. “We say ‘touching off.’ I put a bullet into the backs of their heads.”
“Ach, yes,” Webber whispered, unsmiling now. “‘Snuffing,’ we’d say.”
“Yes. Well, I also knew whom they worked for, the bootlegger who’d ordered my father tortured. I touched him off too.”
Webber fell silent. Paul realized he’d never told the story to anyone.
“You got your company back?”
“Oh, no, the place had been raided by the feds, the government, before that and confiscated. As for me, I disappeared underground in Hell’s Kitchen in Manhattan. And I got ready to die.”
“To die?”
“I’d killed a very important man. This mob leader. I knew that his associates or someone else would come to find me and kill me. I’d covered my tracks very well, the police wouldn’t get me. But the gangs knew I was the one. I didn’t want to lead anybody to my family – my brother’d started his own printing company by then – so instead of going back into business with him I took a job in a gym, sparring and cleaning up in exchange for a room.”
“And you waited to die. But I can’t help but notice that you’re still extremely alive, Mr. John Dillinger. How did that transpire?”
“Some other men-”
“Gang leaders.”
“-heard what I’d done. They hadn’t been happy with the man I’d killed, the way he’d done business, like torturing my father and killing policemen. They thought criminals should be professionals. Gentlemen.”
“Like me,” Webber said, thumping his chest.
“They heard how I’d killed the gangster and his men. It had been clean, with no evidence left behind. And no one innocent was hurt. They asked me to do the same to another man, another very bad man. I didn’t want to but I found out what he’d done. He’d killed a witness and the man’s family, even his two children. So I agreed. And I touched him off too. They paid me a lot of money. Then I killed someone else. I saved up the money they paid me and bought a small gym. I was going to quit. But do you know what it means to get into a rut?”
“Indeed I do.”
“Well, this rut has been my life for years…” Paul fell silent. “So that’s my story. All truth, no lies.”
Finally Webber asked, “It bothers you? Doing this for a living?”
Paul was silent for a moment. “It should bother me more, I think. I felt worse touching off your boys during the war. In New York, I only touch off other killers. The bad ones. The ones who do what those men did to my father.” He laughed. “I say that I’m only correcting God’s mistakes.”
“I like that, Mr. John Dillinger.” Webber nodded. “God’s mistakes. Oh, we’ve got a few of those around here, yes, we do.” He finished his beer. “Now, it’s Saturday. A difficult time to get information. Meet me tomorrow morning at the Tiergarten. There is a small lake at the end of Stern Alley. On the south side. What time would be good for you?”
“Early. Say eight.”
“Ach, very well,” Webber said, frowning. “That is early. But I will be on the moment.”
“There’s one more thing I need,” Paul said.
“What? Whisky? Tobacco? I can even find some cocaine. There’s not much left in town. Yet I-”
“It’s not for me. It’s for a woman. A present.”
Webber grinned broadly. “Ach, Mr. John Dillinger, good for you! In Berlin only a short time and already your heart has spoken. Or perhaps the voice is from another part of your body. Well, how would your friend like a nice garter belt with stockings to match? From France, of course. A bustier in red and black? Or is she more modest? A cashmere sweater. Perhaps some Belgian chocolates. Or some lace. Perfume is always good. And for you, of course, my friend, a very special price.”
Chapter Sixteen
Busy times.
There were dozens of matters that might have been occupying the mind of the huge, sweating man who, late this Saturday afternoon, sat in his appropriately spacious office within the recently completed 400,000-square-foot air ministry building at 81-85 Wilhelm Street, bigger even than the Chancellory and Hitler’s apartments combined.
Hermann Göring could, for instance, resume work on the creation of the massive industrial empire that he was currently planning (and that would be named after him, of course). He could be drafting a memorandum to rural gendarmeries throughout the country, reminding them that the State Law for the Protection of Animals, which he himself had written, was to be strictly enforced and anyone caught hunting foxes with hounds would be severely punished.
Or there was the vital matter of his party for the Olympics, for which Göring was constructing his own village within the air ministry itself (he’d managed to get a look at the plans for Goebbels’s event and upped his own gala to outdo the mealworm by tens of thousands of marks). And, of course, there was the ever-vital matter of what he would wear to the party. He could even be meeting with his adjutants regarding his present mission within the Third Empire: building the finest air force in the world.
But what forty-three-year-old Hermann Göring was now preoccupied with was a pensioner widow twice his age, who lived in a small cottage outside Hamburg.
Not that the man whose titles included minister without portfolio, commissioner for air, commander in chief of the air force, Prussian minister president, air minister and hunting master of the empire was himself doing any of the legwork regarding Mrs. Ruby Kleinfeldt, of course. A dozen of his minions and Gestapo officers scurried about on Wilhelm Street and in Hamburg, digging through records and interviewing people.
Göring himself was staring out the window of his opulent office, eating a massive plate of spaghetti. This was Hitler’s favorite dish and Göring had watched the Leader picking at a bowl of it yesterday. Seeing the unconsumed portion triggered an itch within Göring that had festered into a fierce craving; so far he’d had three large helpings today.
What will we find about you? he silently asked the elderly woman, who knew nothing of the bustling inquiry about her. The investigation seemed absurdly digressive, considering the many vital projects currently on his calendar. Yet this one was vitally important because it could lead to the downfall of Reinhard Ernst.
Soldiering was at the core of Hermann Göring, who often recalled the happy days of the War, flying his all-white Fokker D-7 biplane over France and Belgium, engaging any Allied pilot foolish enough to be in the skies nearby (a confirmed twenty-two had paid for that mistake with their lives, though Göring remained convinced he’d killed many more). He might now be a behemoth who couldn’t even fit into the cockpit of his old plane, a man whose life was painkillers, food, money, art, power. But if you asked him who he was at heart, Göring’s answer would be: I am a soldier.
And a soldier who knew how best to turn his country into a nation of warriors once again – you showed your muscle. You didn’t negotiate, you didn’t pad around like a youth making for the bushes behind a barn to secretly puff away on his father’s pipe – the behavior of Colonel Reinhard Ernst.
The man had a woman’s touch about this business. Even the faggot Roehm, the head of the Stormtroopers killed by Göring and Hitler in the putsch two years ago, was a bulldog compared with Ernst. Secret arm’s-length deals with Krupp, nervously shifting resources from one shipyard to another, forcing their present “army,” such as it was, to train with wooden guns and artillery in small groups, so they wouldn’t draw attention. A dozen other such prissy tactics.
Why the hesitancy? Because, Göring believed, the man’s loyalty to National Socialist views was suspect. The Leader and Göring were not naive. They knew their support was not universal. You can win votes with fists and guns; you cannot win hearts. And many hearts within their country were not devoted to National Socialism, among them people at the top of the armed forces. Ernst could very well be intentionally dragging his Prussian heels to keep Hitler and Göring from having the one institution they needed desperately: a strong military. It was likely Ernst himself even hoped to accede to the throne if the two rulers were deposed.