Fichte moved a stack of papers from a chair. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” He sat.
“Your girl get home all right?”
“Yes. Thank you for asking, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
“Good.” Hoffner watched Fichte’s expression; the boy had no idea what he had signed on for with this Lina. Hoffner wondered if he had been any less thickheaded at Fichte’s age. He hoped not. With a smile, Hoffner leaned back against the wall, his elbows on the chair’s armrests, his hands clasped at his chest, and said easily, “So. What exactly do you think we learned last night?”
Fichte thought for a moment and then said, “That I shouldn’t bring Lina-”
“Yes,” Hoffner cut in impatiently. “We’ve been through all that. What about from upstairs?”
This took greater concentration. “That-this is a political case and we shouldn’t overstep our bounds?”
“Exactly right,” said Hoffner. Fichte’s surprise was instantaneous. “Something wrong?” said Hoffner coyly.
“Well”-Fichte showed a bit more fire-“I didn’t think you-we-would back down so easily.” He waited for a reaction. When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte added, “It is our case, after all.”
“It is, isn’t it.” Hoffner sat staring across at Fichte.
Uncomfortable with the silence, Fichte said, “I’m not sure I understand, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
Hoffner sat forward. “You need to ask yourself, Hans: Is Luxemburg an element of our case?”
“Of course,” said Fichte.
“According to the Polpo?”
“I suppose not, no.”
The response provoked several quick taps of Hoffner’s fingers on the desk. “And so their focus will be-” He waited for Fichte to complete the thought.
“Luxemburg.”
“And ours?”
Fichte was anxious not to stumble, having come this far. “Everything else. .?” he said tentatively.
“Exactly. For the time being, we’re no longer concerned with Frau Luxemburg, with her forced, angular ruts, or with her second carver. You understand?”
“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. I do.”
“Good. Does this mean she’s no longer an element of the case?”
Without hesitation, Fichte said, “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar, it does not.”
“Excellent, Hans.” Again, Hoffner smiled. “Maybe a drink for you, now and then, isn’t such a bad idea. Full marks this morning.” Fichte looked pleased, if slightly embarrassed. “All right,” said Hoffner. “So what do we do now?”
“We-look at everything else.”
When nothing by way of detail followed, Hoffner explained, “The morgue, Hans. I need you to go down and retrieve that bottle of preserving grease. The one from yesterday’s victim. No one’s to see you leave with it, you understand? And then I want you to meet me outside in the square. Is all of that possible?”
“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
“Good.”
The Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical Chemistry and Electrochemistry sits on what was once the Prussian Royal Estate of Dahlem in the southwest section of town. It stretches over a thousand acres of prime riding land, and was the gift of one of those unremarkable Junker princes who, recognizing the need for “something useful in this city of ours,” ceded it to a growing Berlin. Naturally he had wanted a racecourse, or perhaps a garden “for young ladies to stroll about at their leisure,” but in the end prudence had won out. He had been happy enough to let someone else make the decision, especially when they had come to him for a little cash for the project. “Land is the greatest treasure,” he had said: it was up to the Prussian Ministry to come up with anything else. As it turned out, one member of the Ministry had voted for the racecourse; it happened to be the prince’s cousin. The rest had opted for a different kind of “useful.” The doors to the Institute had opened in October of 1912, and since then the place had been home to some of the more innovative breakthroughs in German chemical engineering and physics. Many attributed its success to the man at the top. The Direktor, however, took little credit. He had always enjoyed horse racing himself and sometimes wondered if they had all not somehow missed out on a wonderful opportunity.
Getting to the Institute from Alexanderplatz requires two transfers, first on the No. 3 to Potsdamer Platz, then on the Nord-End 51 to Shmargendorf Depot, and finally on the No. 22A, which stops directly in front of the university’s central library. Students who fall asleep on the bus after a late night slumming it “up east” find themselves out in Grunewald before they know it, at which point most of them have no choice but to spend the night in the park and curse fate for their misadventure. Hoffner and Fichte took a cab.
“I thought about university, at one point,” said Fichte as they moved across the plaza toward the Institute’s entrance. It was a massive building of five floors, with an ersatz Greek front of four thick columns and pediment tacked onto the faade; odder still was the circular tower that seemed to be standing sentry duty at its far right. Its roof resembled a vast Schutzi helmet-made of Thuringian slate-along with its very own imperial prong rising to the sky: an unflinching Teuton at the gates of the Temple Athena, thought Hoffner. So much for chemistry. “Not much of a student, though,” Fichte continued. “More what my father wanted me to do, I suppose. Luckily the war came along and, well, you know the rest.”
Hoffner nodded, not having been listening, and began to mount the steps. He had to remind himself that yammering enthusiasm was a part of the Fichte-away-from-the-office days. He watched as the boy raced by to open the door for him.
According to the wood-carved listing in the entry hall, Herr Professor Doktor Uwe Kroll was to be found on the third floor. Hoffner remembered roughly where Kroll’s office was; even so, it took them a good ten minutes to locate Kroll in the lab across from his office.
Kroll was wearing a white lab coat, and sat staring intently at a slide beneath his microscope when the two men stepped into the room. There was nothing at all to distinguish Krolclass="underline" he projected the perfect image of the scientist, except without the eyeglasses. Fichte had always associated myopia with science. He estimated Kroll to be in his late forties.
“That was quick, Nikolai,” said Kroll, still perched in concentration. “I didn’t expect you for another half-hour.”
“We took a cab.”
“Ah,” said Kroll, looking up. “The deep pockets of the Kriminalpolizei.”
Hoffner introduced Fichte.
Kroll said, “You should know, Herr Kriminal-Assistent, that your Detective Inspector would have made a pretty fair chemist himself. Didn’t like the symmetry, though, wasn’t that it, Nikolai? Too much coherence.” Kroll held out his hand. “All right, let’s have a look at it, this great mysterious goop of yours that’s too complex to be seen by my esteemed colleagues at police headquarters.”
Fichte produced the bottle and handed it to Kroll, who brought it up to the light and watched as the contents oozed slowly from side to side. Kroll then brought it to his lap, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed. “You said on the telephone that it was used to preserve flesh. Are you sure it wasn’t used as an inhibitor?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Hoffner.
“As something to keep the elements of decay-animals, moisture, that sort of thing-from getting to the skin. Rather than as an agent that works with the skin. You see what I’m saying?”
“A repellent,” said Hoffner.
“Exactly. That would make my work much easier. On the other hand, if it is something that actually interacts with the flesh and creates a reaction, then it becomes far more complicated.”