The Sleepwalkers (16 page)

“So you come to the door with a pistol?”

“I promise you it’s nothing.”

Fritz stared at him helplessly, throwing off his cape. “Okay. If that’s the way you want it.” Fritz shrugged. “Then let’s celebrate. I bear good tidings.”

He popped open a bottle. “To
mein Kapitän!”
He raised a glass. “Without whom I would not be here. Or anywhere. Prosit.”

They clinked.

“Prosit.” Will felt compelled to keep up with him, downing it all without a breath, the bubbles rushing to his brain.

“Tell me, Fritz, what’s your good news? I could use a little.”

“Strictly confidential.” Fritz put a finger over his lips.

Willi placed his hand on his heart.

“Strasser’s broken with Hitler.”

“Nein.”
That furious scene between them at the Kaiserhof popped back into Willi’s mind.

“Hasn’t been made official yet,” Fritz clarified. “But I naturally have my sources. And the Führer is
insane
with rage. Tearing apart drapes. Chewing the carpet. Literally. The man’s certifiable.”

“Does it mean the Nazi Party will split?”

Fritz poured them another round. “Too early to say. But von Schleicher’s divide-and-conquer scheme has clearly torn open a real rift.”

“Well. That is good news.” Willi raised his glass. “Dare I say it? To 1933.”

“Nineteen thirty-three!”

Wiping his mouth, Fritz looked down at the big, open map on the table. “Let me guess. You’re planning a holiday along the Havel? No? It must be work then. What a surprise. All work, no play, friend . . .”

Willi felt the champagne rapidly undermining his discretion.

“Come on, Fritz. Crime doesn’t take any holidays. Wait a second . . . you’re a yachtsman. You know the Havel.”

“Like the underside of my prick.”

“Hypothetically and
completely
off the record, Fritz.” Willi put down his glass. “If a body wound up on the riverbank here”—he pointed at Spandau—“and it had been in the water six or seven hours, given the currents, how far upstream might she have been when she started?”

“She?” The long dueling scar on Fritz’s cheek, a souvenir of his college days, stretched with sarcasm. “Hypothetically?”

“Yes, Fritz. And strictly
off the record.”

“Well, use your Jewish
Kopf,
Willi.” The jagged scar contracted now with a teasing edge. “It would completely depend on how long she’d been lying on that hypothetical riverbank, wouldn’t it?”

Fritz loved nothing more than a good mystery, Willi knew. Fritz was a congenital snoop, which was why he’d volunteered for intelligence ops behind enemy lines and why he made such a great reporter. The man was brilliant, but a two-edged sword. He had a big mouth. Especially when he drank. Which was all the time.

“I mean, it is possible she could have gone in the river just a short ways upstream, and most of the time she was lying right there, where you found her.”

Willi visualized upstream from where they found her.

The Black Stag Inn.

But she couldn’t have had her bones transplanted there.

“Maybe,” he conceded. “Let’s assume though she was floating for most of those hours.”

“I’ll tell you what.” Fritz grinned. By the way he was rubbing his yachtsman’s hands, Willi could tell he was about to propose one of his famous wagers. “I’ll help you calculate the nautical mileage. I’ll even help you find this mythical place
she
might have gone in the water . . . if you tell me one small thing about yourself.”

“What on earth could be of interest about a boring man like me?”

Fritz put an arm around Willi’s shoulder. “Why have you been avoiding me,” he said as if weary to the bone, “when I’ve repeatedly told you I have the most
marvelous
woman I want to introduce you to? A woman so smart. So beautiful. So exactly what you need. But there’s this absolute cad you see, just dying to—”

A determined knock at the door turned both their heads. “Willi—open up. I’ve got enough food here to feed an army and my arms are about to break.”

Fritz looked at him, mortified. “
Ach nein,
Willi. The Boot Girl?”

“Why, Fritz!” Paula exclaimed as if they were dear old friends.

She was wearing a tight, red sweater dress with a matching ribbon in her hair.

And those goddamned black lace gloves.

“Merry Christmas,
Liebchen.
You, too, Willi.”

She kissed them both on the lips.

“Can you believe what I lugged on the streetcar? Half a goose. My mother’s apple tarts. You could smell it in Kreuzberg.”

As they put away the food, Fritz couldn’t stop looking at Paula. He was entranced by her, Willi could tell. Her bravura and her unstudied warmth. Her whole proletarian manner. Actually Fritz could be very liberal. For ex-royalty. It never seemed to matter to him, for instance, that Willi was a middle-class Jew, a mere civil servant. Fritz was devoted to him. And if an aristocrat
can overlook such fundamental differences, Willi tried to convince himself as Paula snuggled between them on the couch, perhaps I can, too. Although Fritz of course was a total black sheep. His family had disowned him years ago. The man could take liberalism way beyond the pale. When he and Sylvie were still together and Vicki was alive, Fritz always wanted him to stop being so bourgeois and try swapping partners. He’d even wanted them all to go to bed together.
“Ach,
Willi, it’s 1928, for crying out loud.” Willi looked over at him now. From the gleam in his eye it seemed the son of a gun might have similar notions.

Indeed, after finishing several bottles the three had grown chummy on the couch, tapping each other’s knees as they listened to Beethoven’s Ninth from the Opera House. The music was heightening. The “Ode to Joy” approaching its fantastic climax. When out of the blue Paula jumped up and switched off the radio.

“Willi, don’t you dare be pigheaded about this.” She stared at him as if they’d been arguing. “I’ve given it a lot of thought. And the only way to find those sleepwalkers is to send in a decoy.”

Willi’s body stiffened. “You can’t just go blabbing about this wherever you feel. It’s police business, Paula. You make me sorry I ever told you.”

“Who’s blabbing?” Her emerald eyes glistened. “You told me Fritz was your oldest friend. You trust him with your life. With characters like these—you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

Fritz sat up. “So that’s why the gun. You
are
in trouble.”

“You’re carrying a gun now?” Paula demanded.

Willi felt backed in a corner.

“Come on,
Freund.”
Fritz looked insulted. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you. And you know very well I can hold my tongue when required. I didn’t spill about the Child Eater, did I? Until you gave the word. So fess up: what’s all this about sleepwalkers?”

Willi shot Paula a furious look.

She gave it right back. “Well, don’t let your big fat head get in the way. Three brains are better than one.”

Outside, the bells of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church tolled six o’clock. Willi looked at the four eyes seeming to burn through him. He tried to hold out, but couldn’t. He did need help. And he trusted no one on the force anymore.

By the time he finished telling them, the three were cold sober.

“Sons of bitches.” Fritz crushed a whole pack of cigarettes between his fingers. “Just when you think they can’t be anywhere near as bad as they seem, they turn out a hundred times worse.”

Paula paced. “Look, Willi. You gotta admit you can’t go near Gustave incognito. He’d see right through you. But I never met the man. Have you, Fritz?”

“Me? No, never. Thank goodness.”

“So there you have it. There’s no choice but to let Fritz and me do it.”

“Do what? What are you talking about?”

“I’ll pretend to be Polish. My accent is perfect. If legs zis Gustave lookink for . . . vell . . . so . . . vat more he can be vanting?” She ran a hand up hers suggestively. “We’ll go to Gustave’s floor show. He’ll hypnotize me. Give me his posthypnotic instructions. Fritz will accompany me home. And when I start walking, you and half the Berlin police follow me wherever the hell I go. It’s the only way to find their lair.”

Leave the rats bait, then watch them scurry back with it to their hole. Very good, Willi saw at once. If it worked, it could eliminate weeks of legwork and useless stakeouts. But even for a trained policewoman, it was too dangerous. These bastards didn’t kidnap for ransom.

“Absolutely not.”

“Maybe you don’t want to admit what a fine plan the lady has, huh?” Fritz taunted. “Tell me: what have you come up with?”

“I’ll take Gustave into custody. Search his house. With or without a warrant.”

Paula shrugged. “You said it yourself, Willi: Gustave’s just a pimp. What if you nab him and he doesn’t talk?”

“Or worse,” Fritz pointed out. “What if he really doesn’t know. Maybe he just sends victims to some prearranged locale.”

“He’s still got to arrange it. Speak to someone.”

“Maybe they keep him in the dark.”

“But why?”

“Because,” Paula guessed, “maybe he’s not really doing this voluntarily. Maybe . . . they’ve got something on him.”

Willi recalled the Great Gustave’s yacht. His publishing empire. The millions he was worth. He certainly didn’t need to abduct women for money, Willi had to admit. Maybe Paula was onto something. But even so. There was no way on earth he’d take a risk like that with her.

The church bells were tolling midnight when Fritz left. Willi was boiling mad. Paula had made a big show as if she were going to go with him as long as Willi was being such a stubborn mule. She gave Fritz a long kiss on the mouth, running her fingers through his hair, calling him
Liebchen
and making sure Willi heard her say how much she hoped to see him soon. Willi had no patience for games like that.

When she closed the door, he let her have a good firm crack across the face. He didn’t enjoy it. But he meant it.

She stared at him, shocked. Then the green eyes filled with more love than ever. He turned away, too upset to look at her. “I’m going to freshen up,” he heard her say, and she closed the bathroom door. He slumped against the kitchen counter.

Yesterday at Café Rippa, just as they were about to leave, his conversation with Kai had taken an extraordinary turn.

“Pardon me for butting in, Inspektor Kraus,” the kid seemed
to say out of nowhere. “But as long as we’re being honest here,” he whispered from the side of his mouth, “I hear you’ve gotten chummy with a certain Tauentzien lady.”

Willi was so shocked he didn’t know what to say.

Despite its 4 million people, Berlin could be awfully small.

“Don’t misunderstand me.” Kai shrugged, pulling on his poncho and looking around for his hat. “Paula’s the greatest. Everybody loves her. But I hope she hasn’t given you the wrong impression.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, about her being she’s something she isn’t.” He found the big slouch cap and put it on.

“I know who she is.”

“Do you?” Kai adjusted the red feather on the side.

“What are you trying to tell me, Kai?” Willi asked as the boy got up to leave.

“Just this.” Kai placed his huge hands on the table, his blue gaze piercing Willi, his gold earring dangling. “Have you ever looked between her fingers, Inspektor?”

And with a wink of a dark mascaraed eye, he left.

Paula emerged eventually from the bathroom, changed into a kimono. Her hair pinned up. Eyes as cloudy as waxed paper. There was a big red mark where he’d hit her.

“Ummm. I feel better.” She stumbled toward him. “Give me a drink, Willi. Want to hit me some more?”

“Take off those goddamn gloves,” he commanded. “Let me see your hands.”

“No.” She thrust them behind her back and pressed against a wall.

“I said take off those gloves.”

He grabbed her arm.

She let out a shriek.

“Shut up, you fool.” He clamped down on her mouth.

With his free hand he ripped one glove off, its thin lace tearing
easily. Then he thrust her fingers up to the light. She fell passive and silent.

Between each finger was a dense black rash of needle marks.

She pulled away. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.” She glared at him bitterly.

He hung his head. He hadn’t. He absolutely hadn’t.

Unless . . . he just didn’t want to admit it.

All those trips to the bathroom.

“So now you see how it is. Your beautiful Paula, a morphine addict. Since she was fifteen. You still want to take care of her? Still want to marry her?” She stopped, gasping for breath. “I didn’t think so.”

Then she grabbed him, turning him around, making him face her.

“Which is why you’ve got to let me do it, Willi. You could never be happy with somebody like me. Nobody could. I can’t even. For God’s sakes, don’t deny me the one chance I’ll have to do something useful with my—”

He turned away.

“We could finish off this whole sick operation.” She was weeping bitterly now. “Think of how many lives might be—”

“No. No. No.”

The phone startled them.

“Sorry for calling so late, Chief.” It was Gunther. “I just wanted to let you know . . . there’s been another sleepwalker. Greek this time.”

Willi’s stomach turned. “You got a name?”

“Yeah. Von Auerlicht. Melina. A countess of all things.”

“Thanks, Gunther.” Willi hung up, looking at Paula’s cloudy eyes. She was begging for approval.

“Please, Willi. Please. Let me go.”

“All right,” he finally said, his throat clenching. “But only after I prepare every goddamn detail of this. I’m not offering you up as some sacrificial lamb.”

“Oh, Willi, Willi.” She hugged him fiercely. “You’re such a wonderful boy.”

First thing next morning he went to see Fritz.

Everybody knew the House of Ullstein. Eleven newspapers. Eight magazines. Ullstein Books. Ullstein Patterns. The uncontested publishing giant of Germany. As Willi entered their towering headquarters on Koch Strasse, he climbed a grand staircase lined with paintings of the famous Ullstein brothers—five in all, each heading up a different division of the company. Looking down from the top, a life-size portrait of their father, Leopold Ullstein, founder of the firm in 1877. And just below him, Fritz was waiting, his long dueling scar looking out of place, clashing with the furnishings, with his own pinstriped suit.