Herr Braun ignored Bergemann’s implied question. ‘How can I help you, Detective?’ he said.
‘Well, I’m not sure you can,’ said Bergemann. ‘But I wanted to alert you to something that could concern you.’ He waited for a response, but Herr Braun just peered at him with his four eyes. ‘We don’t have that much to go on, of course,’ Bergemann continued. ‘The killer has been careful and has left very few clues. But one thing does point to the possibility that he is somehow connected to the SS.’
‘Really?’ said Herr Braun. ‘I’m surprised.’ He did not sound surprised. ‘And what is that one thing?’
Bergemann told Herr Braun about the drug exemption and the SS number and the killer’s likely addiction. He did not mention the intersecting streetcar lines or Doctor Rosenberg or nurse Grosz or the killer’s Gestapo alias Friedrich Grosz.
‘I see,’ said Herr Braun. He did not ask Bergemann how he had come by that number or whether he knew whose number it was. Bergemann concluded from this that it was likely that Braun and the Gestapo were already aware of these facts. ‘Thank you, Detective, for bringing this to our attention. We will certainly look into it,’ said Herr Braun.
Bergemann had come intending to push Herr Braun for information if it seemed opportune to do so. But Braun’s lack of curiosity about Bergemann’s information suggested that, if the Gestapo knew more than Bergemann had told him, they weren’t going to give anything away. Herr Braun had also convinced him, without saying so, that the Gestapo did not want the police to pursue the case. If there was an SS connection, as seemed likely, the Gestapo would likely want the investigation closed down and covered up. They might shut down the case and yet still go after the perpetrator, find and punish him. It was not in their interest to have a serial killer on the loose. But whatever they did, Bergemann thought it certain that none of it would ever be known to the public or to the police.
In fact, when Bergemann got back to his office, Gruber was waiting with the news. ‘You’re off the case, Bergemann.’
‘All right, Sergeant,’ said Bergemann.
‘And no arguments, Bergemann. You hear me? It’s not my decision.’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Bergemann. ‘I understand.’
No arguments? thought Gruber. What the hell is he up to now?
Bergemann was not up to anything. He was just making necessary adjustments, taking prudent precautions. Being taken off the case was a relief. It was a dangerous case, after all. His visit to Briennerstraße would have brought that home if he hadn’t already known it. In fact, being taken off the case was a sort of warning. It meant the Gestapo was now aware of him, if they hadn’t been before. And even though he was no longer officially investigating, they knew he knew something, and they would be watching him.
Since the Anschluß, since Austria had ‘rejoined’ the German Reich in March, the Gestapo was more active than ever. This had to do with the Führer’s decision to prepare for war, and the opposition coming from his generals. They were either scheming traitors or short-sighted weaklings. The Führer saw betrayal and defeatism around every corner, so of course the Gestapo was busy.
This included them interfering in what until now had been strictly police business. Two Gestapo had shown up one hot July day to talk to Gruber. Why do they always come in twos? Bergemann wondered. Are they always checking on one another?
He could tell from the look on Gruber’s face that this visit was unexpected and unwelcome. They were in his office for a good hour. No voices were raised, but there were no smiles either. Once they had gone, Gruber came out mopping his brow.
‘What did they want?’ said Bergemann.
‘I’ll be damned if I know,’ said Gruber, and Bergemann believed him. ‘Damn it, Hans, someone has poked a stick in the hornets’ nest.’
Schleiffer in Trouble
The Gestapo also came one day to question Heinz Schleiffer. Over the years Heinz had dutifully done his part, been watchful and responsible, trying to help the Führer keep order, doing, he thought, his patriotic duty. And yet there they were early one Sunday morning. Heinz answered the door still in his pajamas with a piece of buttered toast in his hand. It was Sunday morning after all.
This was not too long after Willi’s arrest, and the two men, one short, one tall, both wearing ill-fitting suits, were interested in understanding Schleiffer’s interest – what seemed to them undue interest – in Willi Geismeier, aka Karl Juncker.
‘We’re just trying to get the whole story,’ said the tall one as they stepped past Heinz and into his apartment.
‘But I didn’t even know his real name,’ said Heinz.
‘No? So you say.’
‘All I did was identify him … for your colleagues from photos they showed me. I thought they …’
‘Yes, you identified him. But you denied that he was a policeman.’
‘I didn’t deny it. I just didn’t know it,’ said Schleiffer.
‘He wore a police rosette in his lapel,’ said the first man, the tall one. He kept his hat on. ‘Why the devil do you think he did that?’
‘You seem to know almost nothing about this man,’ said the short man. He kept cracking his knuckles. ‘And yet you filed numerous reports about him.’
‘Yes. I didn’t know. I thought he acted suspicious, that’s all,’ said Heinz.
‘So, how could you file so many complaints and know so little?’ said the first man. ‘You filed your complaints based on what?’
‘My suspicions,’ said Heinz.
‘I see. Your suspicions,’ said the tall man. He began walking around the room, looking at the furnishings, lifting a magazine from the table as though he expected to find something illicit under it, opening a cupboard. Of course Heinz had nothing to hide, but when someone started opening cupboards, you didn’t know what they might find that could arouse their suspicions, even if you were perfectly innocent.
