Rosa

“Order makes things easier,” Pimm said bluntly. The steam was already beginning to rise; he waved a cloud from his face. “That’s something your second-story safecracker doesn’t follow. A little anarchy works just fine for him; the bulls are occupied elsewhere and he makes a killing. But an organization-that needs routine. That needs people settled, safe. Right, left-makes no difference to me.”

“Then why chance another bump in the road when things are moving so smoothly now?”

Pimm bobbed his head as if conceding the point. He then took a towel and wiped his face. When he spoke, it was with a focus that was wholly unexpected: “The reason so many of you Reds are Jews, Herr Spartakus, is that a Jew is told to create heaven on earth. The next world, messiahs, fear of hell-never really been the point, has it? The Jew is meant to do it here, now. And the ones who get tired of waiting become Reds because for them, socialism is heaven on earth. The perfect world, and with no God telling them what to do this time. Everyone just as good as the rest. Everyone looking out for the rest. The Red can’t tell you how you’re supposed to get there-in fact, all he can tell you is what you’re not supposed to do and what won’t be there-but, still, he thinks he can build it. Sound familiar, does it?” Pimm paused. “Your Red never loses what makes him a Jew; he simply shifts his focus.” Pimm held Jogiches’s gaze and then turned to Hoffner. “You get my help, Inspector, not because it’s good for business, or because the devil I know is better than the devil I don’t, but because, even if nothing else of what you’re saying is true, I have no interest in having one more lunatic tell me that my elimination is part of his grand plan.” He shouted to the door. “Zenlo.” The man appeared instantly. “We’re going east. Tell the boys.”

Pimm a Jew, and a political one at that, thought Hoffner: the world was full of surprises. At least this one was working in their favor.

Back at Pimm’s offices-two large rooms above a repair garage, furniture, a telephone-Pimm produced a series of remarkably accurate layouts of the Alex’s third and fourth floors. He had had enough boys inside for a night or two, he explained. Someone was bound to remember something.

Equally remarkable was the ease with which Pimm and Jogiches got down to the planning of the thing. For Hoffner, it was like listening to a book being read in reverse: they were beginning where he always ended-with the inception of a crime-and they were leading to the moment that was his first. Hoffner was too tired to reconfigure his mind. He found a couch, sat back, and let it all pass in front of him.

The sun was just coming up, and a stream of men began to make their way up the stairs and into the offices. They were an odd collection of shapes and sizes-swindlers and thieves-and each with something to show for a night’s work. Most carried a battered cigar box, the telltale appendage of Berlin’s underbelly. Not that any of these men could have afforded the fine Dutch tobacco advertised on the top flaps. No, these boxes were filled with “jimmies” and “little aldermen”-always arranged in order of size-and, most important, a few S-hooks. After all, even housebreakers’ tools deserved their nicknames: a jimmy your crowbar, a little alderman your picklock. An S-hook needed no such distinction. It was what it was, and could have you through a door in close to ten seconds if you knew what you were doing. For the less adept, a “ripper”-that ancient drilling tool-would get you in, but it was never as elegant. Those who worked for Pimm were S-hook men: they walked with a certain swagger.

Odder still was the businesslike efficiency with which everything was managed: one of the titans from the steam baths was behind a desk writing out slips for money and goods received, the men patiently waiting in line, all with a deferential nod for Pimm, who was too busy with Jogiches across the room to take any notice. The titan passed on the slips to a man who was tallying them up, who then passed them to a third who was writing feverishly into a ledger. No doubt those who were missing this morning’s accounting would be visited later, but for now the process seemed far removed from the world that these men usually inhabited. Hoffner recognized a face here and there: it was nice to see that the men had found steady work.

Jogiches called over: “Which room on the floor?” Hoffner realized the question was for him, and he pushed himself up and stepped over to the table that was already thick with sheets of paper filled with diagrams and notes: they might just as well have been in Chinese for all that Hoffner could make of them. Jogiches pulled over one of the layouts and repeated the question.

“I don’t know,” said Hoffner.

Pimm and Jogiches exchanged a glance. Pimm said, “That’s something we have to know.”

Hoffner understood.

Jogiches said, “You can’t go back in yourself, you know.”

Hoffner nodded. Even he had known that from the start.

Kriminaldirektor Gerhard Weigland kept himself buttoned up to the neck as he peered out from the rear seat of his Daimler sedan. The automobile was an older model-a gift to himself on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding-but it was still in excellent condition. Weigland had made sure to hire a good man to see to its upkeep: a former mechanic with the Kripo. A man to be trusted. That man was now seated behind the wheel and in full chauffeur’s attire, awaiting instructions.

“You’re sure you saw her go in?” said Weigland. He had arrived by cab five minutes ago after getting the call.

The man had been very clear on the telephone. He was no less certain now. “Yes, mein Herr.”

“And she hasn’t come out?”

“No, mein Herr.”

The car was parked at the edge of a narrow alleyway. Weigland’s eyes were fixed on the side mirror, which had been reangled so as to keep the building behind them in its sites. “Maybe we turn the motor on to get a bit of heat, don’t you think?”

The man in the front seat pressed the starter and the car came to life.

“Much better,” said Weigland.

“Yes, mein Herr.”

They sat in silence for another ten minutes before Weigland saw the front door to the building pull open. The girl appeared. Weigland hitched forward on his seat, but waited until she was out of view before reaching for the handle. “Take the car home,” he said as he pushed the door open. He stepped to the cobblestones and quietly shut the door behind him. He then made his way to the edge of the alley and peered out. Finding the girl halfway down the street, Weigland began to follow.

It was a quarter to seven when Hoffner stepped from the tram. The fruit and vegetable carts were already up and running, as was a tinker’s stand that was directly in front of Fichte’s building. The man was hammering away at an old pot as a woman looked on: unlikely that Fichte was sleeping through that.

Hoffner bought an apple and remained by the carts. Fichte had picked a nice spot, just right for a bachelor detective. The street denizens probably felt safer knowing that a young Kripo man was living here; or at least they had felt that way until this week.

Hoffner was tossing away his third core when he saw Fichte emerge at the top of his stoop. The boy was a shadow of himself, his face pale and sunken, his eyes wrecked from nights without sleep. Hoffner waited until Fichte had reached the bottom of the steps before making his way over. Fichte was keeping his head down as he walked. He nearly walked past Hoffner, but for some reason looked up at the last moment. He stopped.

Hoffner thought he saw a moment of relief in the boy’s eyes, as if Fichte had finally found someone with whom to share his burdens. An equally quick flash of disgust followed, then pity, all of which dissolved into a look of resigned exhaustion. Fichte hadn’t the energy to feel anything lasting for Hoffner.

“Hello, Nikolai.”

“Hans.”

They stood silently until Fichte said, “She hasn’t been in touch with me, if that’s what you want. I don’t know where she is.” He began to move off, but Hoffner stopped him.

“That’s not why I’m here, Hans.”

Fichte was too tired to find the reason. He said, “Look, I was sorry. . I mean, I am sorry. . about all of that. . your Martha. . ” Fichte was floundering.

Hoffner cut him off. “Can we get a coffee somewhere?”

Fichte hesitated. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why? Because your Herr Braun might disapprove?”

Fichte looked as if he might answer; instead he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his inhaler. He took a quick suck.