Hoffner stood catching his breath on the final landing, the extra flights on either end of his usual three-floor climb having taxed him to his limits. He knew he was in poor condition; he just preferred not to be reminded of it. He mopped a handkerchief across the back of his neck and waited for his heart to dislodge from the base of his throat. No wonder the boys up here were always in such a foul mood.
There was little to distinguish the corridor from its counterpart on the third floor: the intervals between offices were identical; the wood creaked with equal regularity; and the smell of lavatory disinfectant and stale cigarettes lingered in the air. It was all too familiar, except for the little 4s that appeared on each of the office doors. A trivial detail, thought Hoffner, yet monumentaclass="underline" their stark angularity was so contemptuous as compared to the soft curves of the 3s below. In his twenty years with the Kripo, Hoffner had ventured up-or rather, had been summoned up-half a dozen times, always to the same office, always to the same clerk for the mundane exchange of files, yet even the clerk, in his role as bland bureaucrat, had maintained an air of impenetrability, as if he, too, drew strength from those dismissive 4s. There was no such thing as “mild amusement” on the fourth floor.
Room 416 looked to be like any other on the hall. Hoffner heard voices through the door: he knocked once, the din stopped, and a moment later the door opened to reveal Kriminal-Oberkommissar Braun.
“Good evening, Herr Inspector,” said Braun, still immaculately combed and pressed. In a strange twist, he, too, had lost his jacket; Hoffner wondered if there might be a steam pipe somewhere in the vicinity.
“Kriminal-Oberkommissar,” said Hoffner. Braun nodded once and ushered him in.
Two other men stood to the left by a long desk; a third was seated behind. The gaslight was keeping the office as bright as possible. Hans Fichte was by himself in a chair at the far end of the room, bits and pieces of him lost to the shadows. He sat up eagerly as Hoffner entered.
“Kriminal-Assistent,” said Hoffner with a look to keep Fichte where he was.
Fichte seemed slightly disappointed; he settled back into his chair. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he replied quietly.
“Ah, here we are, Nikolai,” said the man from behind the desk. “Nice to see you again.”
Polpo Kriminaldirektor Gerhard Weigland stood and offered his hand. He had aged considerably since Hoffner last saw him: the hair was virtually gone except for a neat ring of curly white at the temples; the beard had grown long and full, stained a mucinous yellow around the chin and moustache from decades of cigarettes; and the face had thickened, pressing the eyes deep into the twin cavities above the gray-red cheeks. Never tall, Weigland seemed squatter still from the added weight. His hand, though, remained powerful. The knuckles drove up through the flesh as if the fingers intended to squeeze the life out of anything they touched.
Hoffner peered at the two other men, then stepped over and took the PKD’s hand. “Herr Kriminaldirektor,” said Hoffner.
“It’s been a long time, Nikolai,” said Weigland; he released and sat. “Only a floor above and-well, a long time.”
“Yes, Herr Kriminaldirektor,” said Hoffner, who remained standing at the edge of the desk.
“It seems your man was in the midst of giving a little tour,” said Weigland through a half-smile.
Hoffner said, “Hans is very enthusiastic, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”
“As we discovered,” said Weigland with a laugh. The other men laughed, as well.
Hoffner waited. “I’m sure that’s not why we’re here, Herr Kriminaldirektor. After all, we were all Assistenten once.”
Weigland stared up with a smile that claimed to know Hoffner better than it did: everything about Weigland claimed to know more than it did. “Always right to it,” he said. “A lesson for us all, eh, Herr Oberkommissar?”
Braun, who was now at Weigland’s side, seemed to grow tauter still. “Indeed, Herr Direktor.”
“We needed a bit more time with the Luxemburg body,” said Weigland in an equally casual tone. “You understand.”
“We?” said Hoffner, peering again at the two other men.
Weigland followed Hoffner’s gaze. “You know Kommissaren Tamshik and Hermannsohn?”
“No, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”
“Ah,” said Weigland. “My mistake.” He made the introductions. “They’ve been brought in, now that it’s a political case.”
Ernst Tamshik had the look of the military about him, the way he kept his hands clasped tightly behind his back, the way his broad shoulders hitched high so as to keep his back ramrod straight. There might even have been something protective to him had it not been for the expression on his face: he was a bully, and a particularly brutal one, judging from the child’s sneer in his eyes, an ex-sergeant major, Hoffner guessed, who had reveled in the terrorizing of his young recruits. But, like all bullies, he had learned to play the innocent while under his mother’s watchful gaze. Hoffner had yet to figure out which of the two, Weigland or Braun, had assumed that role.
Walther Hermannsohn was far less graspable. He was slighter, though just as tall, and had no need for Tamshik’s stifled violence or Braun’s clipped affectation. He projected nothing and, for Hoffner, that made him the most dangerous man in the room.
“A political case?” said Hoffner. “That seems a bit premature, don’t you think, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”
Weigland was momentarily confused. “Premature? Why do you say that?”
Hoffner explained, “Luxemburg has the same markings as the other homicides. Why assume that it wasn’t simply bad luck for her and poor timing for us-or, rather, for you, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”
Weigland tried another unconvincing smile. He shifted slightly in his chair. “It’s just Direktor now, Nikolai. Direktor,Kommissar,Oberkommissar. We’ve dispensed with the Kriminal up here.”
Hoffner waited before answering. “That’s convenient.” Weigland showed no reaction. “Then, my mistake, Herr Direktor.”
Weigland’s smile broadened. “No mistake, Nikolai. Just a bit of new information.”
Hoffner nodded once. “Is it also new Polpo policy to take Kripo bodies from the morgue in the middle of the night?”
Weigland was unprepared for the question. Tamshik, however, was not so reticent. He spoke with a clumsy arrogance. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
The look from Braun told Hoffner where the teat lay.
“If,” Braun said calmly, “this is a political case-as the Direktor has just said-then your confusion, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar, seems unwarranted.”
Hoffner continued to look at Weigland. “And the body would simply have found its way back to the morgue by tomorrow morning? Or would my confusion have begun then?”