The Defeated Aristocrat (27 page)

‘That’s interesting. I had no idea Nagel even had a brother.’ Wolf opened the door. ‘See you at seven o’clock in the Green Stork.’

City Hospital, Hinterrossgarten, Konigsberg, Morning of Sunday January 12th 1919

Peter dumped his coffee cup on the floor, and walked over to Helmut’s bed.

‘Any change?’ Kappel asked.

‘Not that I can see.’ Peter stretched. ‘I need to soak my head in cold water if I’m going to stay awake until we’re relieved.’

He went into the corridor. Henz was slumped so low in the chair outside the door his nose was practically touching the floor. Peter tweaked his ear. Henz woke with a start. He stared up at Peter, disorientated.

‘Kappel and I going to the meeting in the Green Stork if the kriminaldirektor remembers to send men to relieve us. I’m hoping cold water can wake me up. See you in a few minutes.’

‘Wait, I’ll come with you.’

‘Two people guarding Norde at all times, remember, Henz.’ Kappel opened the door. ‘I’ll wash when Peter returns. You can sit with Norde now.’ Kappel took Henz’s chair as soon as he vacated it.

Henz went into Norde’s room. He cleared Peter and Kappel’s coffee cups on to a tray he’d left on the windowsill. Bored, he picked up Helmut’s chart and studied the nurse’s notes. As he couldn’t understand her writing it was a fruitless exercise. He walked from the bed to the door, counting his steps. One … two … three … four … five … He turned on his heel and continued walking to the window. He could hear nurses talking outside the door.

He looked out at the view of the Castle Lake. Imagined it on a summer’s day, frozen no longer but dotted with pleasure boats. He’d take a girl out there, row her from one end to the other and after they’d returned the boat to the man who rented them out, they’d cross the bridge and go to the Park Hotel where he’d buy her a fine supper with a white wine …

Lost in the pleasure of anticipation he didn’t give a thought as to what Peter and Kappel were doing until a high-pitched scream blasted his daydream from his mind.

He unbuttoned his police issue gun and opened the door to see a nurse transfixed in the doorway of the room opposite. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Konigsberg, Morning of Sunday January 12th 1919

Wolf left the brewery and walked to the Schmeide Bridge. The orbs of the jugendstil triple-headed lamps glowed wraithlike above the parapet. Beneath him ice packs bumped and ground on the surface of the river, grazing the banks and hulls of the berthed boats.

He thrust his gloved hands deep into his coat pockets. Had winters always been this cold in Konigsberg? Every wet, mud-filled day in France and Belgium he’d dreamed of the dry cold of home. Skating on the Schloss Teich, skiing in the woods around Lichtenhagen, racing sledges against his brothers on country lanes. The dreams had been real. So real the high spot had been a return to Waldschloss to find one of Martha’s fine suppers laid on the table in the great hall, with jugs of mulled wine, beer, and warming schnapps to wash down the food. But he always woke before he was able to fill a glass or take a bite.

He left the bridge and dived into the network of narrow medieval thoroughfares that surrounded the cathedral. The lamps weren’t as tall, numerous, or bright as on the bridge, but most houses had an electric light or oil lamp burning in a window close to the door.

He suddenly felt overwhelmingly proud of his home city. It had been a long time since he’d felt remotely patriotic. Probably not since the first sergeant had yelled at him during his military training in 1914. This was his home as much as Lichtenhagen. He, Peter and his siblings had spent days, occasionally weeks, in Gebaur Strasse when his father had had business in Konigsberg, and later when he’d been a student at the university he and Peter had moved into one of the family’s apartments in Theater Strasse.

So many memories were centred in these streets. Most good. Would he have considered leaving East Prussia if it hadn’t been for the war? Would he have stayed in Waldschloss for the rest of his life living in domestic harmony – or more likely discord – with Gretel until he died?

If he hadn’t gone to war, he wouldn’t be ‘working’ without pay for Georg Hafen nor intent on visiting Johanna Behn before dawn. He felt in his pocket for the key she’d given him. A few hours in Johanna’s bed had shattered his preconceptions about spinsters who opted for a profession rather than marriage.

He toyed with the idea of walking around to the back of the Behn’s house to see if she’d left a light burning, before reflecting it was doubtful she’d welcome a visitor at that hour, even if she’d left the lamp on.

He walked up the icy path to the front door. An electric light, angled to illuminate the brass-embossed sign
Behn Legal Services
, burned in the porch. He opened his watch beneath it. Almost six thirty. It was a good half hour walk to Wasser Strasse. Even if he spent only ten minutes with Johanna it would make him late for the meeting in the Green Stork. He pulled the copper bell.

The door was opened by an elderly man. ‘Office isn’t open on Sundays, sir.’

‘I have to speak with Fraulein Behn, urgently on a police matter.’

‘Your name?’

‘Wolf Mau.’

‘von Mau?’

‘Just Mau,’ Wolf corrected, wondering if he’d ever be rid of his aristocratic heritage. The more he protested, the more it followed him.

‘I’ll see if she’s available.’ The man dropped the coal bucket he was carrying, wiped his hands on his canvas apron and walked up the stairs. Wolf heard him knock the door. He imagined Johanna leaving her bed – but he’d reckoned without the hours she kept. The old man returned a few seconds later.

‘Fraulein Behn is at breakfast, but if you don’t mind joining her at the table she can spare you a few minutes, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

The heat in the hall was suffocating after the freezing cold of the street. Wolf unbuttoned his coat and ran up the stairs. The apartment door was open and he walked into the living room. Johanna was sitting at the table on the covered balcony. She waved him in.

‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’

He kissed her cheek.

‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘Take off your hat and coat. Throw them on the sofa and sit down.’

He did as she suggested and took the cup she handed him.

‘Otto said you wanted to talk to me about a police matter. If you’d wanted to see me, all you had to do was use your key. As you see,’ she indicated the lamp burning on a shelf behind her, ‘the light is burning.’

‘I wasn’t sure your generous invitation extended to the early hours of the morning.’

‘I rise at five even on Sundays. The habit’s hard to break. On weekdays I like to read through my appointment diary and plan the day ahead. If you came hoping to jump into my bed again, it’s best not to ring the doorbell. My caretaker is discreet but I’d rather not flaunt my private life in front of him.’

‘The thought of returning your bed is very appealing, but as I haven’t been to bed yet, I’d only fall asleep. I have a breakfast meeting in the Green Stork at seven and I have to go to Gebaur Strasse afterwards. I promised to spend the day with my son.’

‘Why haven’t you slept?’

Wolf told her about the attack on Helmut in Engels’s brewery and his conversation with Dolf. ‘Helmut was badly injured but before he lost consciousness he said he heard one of his attackers say, “he’s not the one”.’

‘You think Dolf Engels could be the right one?’

‘It’s possible the killer mistook Helmut for Dolf.’ He spooned sugar into his coffee and added cream. ‘I think something might have happened in France after I was captured and Dorfman was promoted to replace me.’

‘What?’ She passed him a basket of bread rolls.

He realised he was hungry, took one and bit into it. ‘I’ve no idea, but I’d like to know why Dorfman is sending money to a French convent.’

‘The nuns cared for him and his officers when they were wounded and I’m only saying that much because I overheard him telling you.’

‘How much money is he sending them?’

‘That information is confidential under lawyer/client privilege. I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to and I don’t. I respect my clients. They entrust their personal affairs to me and I treat their privacy with the utmost circumspection.’

‘I’m talking about murder.’

‘You think I’d compromise my integrity for a theory? That’s all you have, Wolf.’

He looked at her. ‘You’re right. I had no right to ask you for information and I had no right to come here.’

‘You have every right to come here on personal business any time you chose.’

He left the table. ‘Provided the lamp is burning.’

‘Provided the lamp is burning,’ she reiterated. ‘I’ll see you out.’

City Hospital, Hinterrossgarten, Konigsberg, Morning of Sunday January 12th 1919

Dorfman crouched over the sink in the hospital bathroom. The place stank of ammonia and antiseptic and something foul he’d rather not think about. He’d been retching for what seemed like hours and felt empty and light-headed. He ran the cold tap and splashed water on to his hands and face. Sensing someone moving behind him he whirled around. Klein was in the doorway.

‘Yes?’ he growled.

‘Should I send for Kriminaldirektor Hafen and a doctor, sir?’

‘What do I need a doctor for?’ Dorfman failed to expel the image of the emasculated and mutilated corpse from his mind. So much blood and tissue – more than he’d ever seen in a single corpse on the Western Front … spread over a hospital bed … The man had been alive and then … in the space of less than ten minutes, if Henz’s timing was right, he’d been reduced to a heap of chopped dog meat.

‘A doctor has to certify death, sir.’ Klein swayed on his feet and Dorfman realised he wasn’t the only one in shock.

‘This is a hospital, Klein. Get a doctor here to pronounce death. Given what the man’s been reduced to, he shouldn’t find it difficult.’

‘Should I inform Kriminaldirektor Hafen, sir?’

‘I’m in charge. There’s no need to inform anyone.’

‘The photographer, sir?’

‘Photographer? What in heaven’s name do you want a photographer for?’

‘Kriminaldirektor Hafen …’

‘How many times do I have to repeat that I, not the kriminaldirektor, am in charge of this case? Find a doctor to certify death. Get what’s left of the corpse to the mortuary and order the hospital to clean that room.’

‘Helmut Norde and the other officers, sir?’

‘Are to remain in Norde’s room until I have time to question them. If you value your job, you’ll stay with Norde. Contact no one and keep everyone away from Norde except the doctor and nurse who are treating him.’

Klein clicked his heels and bowed.

Konigsberg, Morning of Sunday January 12th 1919

Snow began to fall as Wolf crossed the Kramer Bridge that connected The Kneiphof with the Old Town. He turned up his coat collar and trudged into Wasser Strasse. Lights burned in the Green Stork. He pushed the door open, stepped inside and breathed in warm, bread perfumed air.

Adele, the waitress who’d served him the day before, helped him off with his coat. She took it and his hat and hung them up close to the stove. ‘If you’re here for the meeting, sir, Herr Frank ordered the table laid in the kitchen.’

‘Thank you.’ He sniffed theatrically. ‘Rye bread?’

‘And poppy seed rolls, sir. Herr Frank ordered the cook to come in early.’

Wolf walked through to the kitchen. Ralf was presiding at the head of a scrub down preparation table, laid with a typical East Prussian breakfast of bread, butter, rolls, cold meats, cheeses, and jams.

Josef was on Ralf’s right, Georg his left. There was no sign of Peter or Luther Kappel, but Emil Grunman, Reiner Schult, and Dolf Engels were eating and talking in equal measure. They rose to their feet when they saw him.

‘Sit down, please.’

‘We were talking about the war, sir,’ Emil explained.

‘It’s over.’ Wolf took an empty chair at the foot of the table. ‘Are Peter and Luther working?’ he asked Georg.

‘I don’t know.’ Georg left his chair. ‘Ralf offered me the use of his office and telephone. I was about to contact police headquarters to find out if they’ve left.’

‘I have an urgent message for Peter from Martha,’ Wolf lied, needing an excuse to speak to Georg. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘We’ll keep the coffee hot, Wolf,’ Ralf held up his cup.

‘You made no progress with Johanna Behn?’ Georg guessed when they were alone.

‘None,’ Wolf admitted.

‘Warned you.’

‘I still think there’s a link.’

‘You could be right but police officers don’t think …’

‘They act on facts.’

Georg sat behind Ralf’s desk which was amazingly clear and picked up the telephone. ‘Police headquarters, please.’

‘Is there any way you can find out how much money the kriminalrat has donated to this convent?’ Wolf asked.

Georg put his hand over the speaker.

‘I doubt his bank manager will be any more amenable to answering confidential questions based on your guesses than Johanna Behn. Do you really want to speak to Peter?’

Wolf shook his head.

‘Is that the duty officer? … This is Kriminaldirektor Hafen. Can you tell me what time Plewe and Kappel were relieved at the hospital? What …’

Georg eyes were bright. His face pale. ‘An officer has been murdered at the hospital.’

Wolf could hear his own blood thundering through his veins. All he could think about was Peter. Please God … not Peter … Please God …

He heard his own voice. ‘Who?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

City Hospital, Hinterrossgarten, Konigsberg, Morning of Sunday January 12th 1919

The young officer shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he stood on the step outside the main entrance to the hospital. ‘I’m sorry, Kriminaldirektor,’ he apologised. ‘Kriminalrat Dorfman has locked down the building. He ordered every officer on sentry duty to detain anyone who tries to leave and stop anyone from entering. He warned not even high-ranking police officers are to be allowed in.’