“And your guess is?”
Kroll looked over at Fichte with a grin. “And now you see where the two of us go our separate ways, Herr Kriminal-Assistent. No guesses, Nikolai. I can let you know in a few days.” When Hoffner nodded, Kroll placed the jar on his table and said, “And am I right in thinking you’ll be the one to get in touch with me?”
“Yes.”
“‘Yes,’” repeated Kroll knowingly. “Must be interesting times at Kripo headquarters, these days.”
Hoffner waited before answering. “Yes.”
“‘Yes,’” Kroll repeated again. “And should anyone come calling from the Alex, I know nothing about this little jar. Is that right?”
“Is that a guess, Uwe?” Without giving Kroll a chance to answer, Hoffner added, “You see, Hans? Even a chemist can show the makings of a pretty fair detective.”
Out on the plaza, the rain had returned as freezing drizzle; it slapped at the face like tiny pieces of glass, but did little to dampen Fichte’s enthusiasm.
“You saw what he did?” said Fichte eagerly. “When he opened the bottle?”
Reluctantly, Hoffner said, “Yes, Hans. I saw. He sniffed at it.” Hoffner pulled his collar up to his neck: how difficult was it to remember a scarf?
“You see,” said Fichte, his coat still unbuttoned. “I have an instinct for these things.”
“An instinct. That must be it. Then tell me, Nostradamus, where are we heading next?”
“KaDeWe’s.” Fichte spoke with absolute certainty. He brushed a bit of moisture from his nose. “To see about the gloves.” Hoffner nearly stopped in his tracks as Fichte continued, “I checked on the body this morning-number five, in the morgue. The gloves were missing. The Polpo doesn’t know about them, so I assumed you’d taken them. KaDeWe is the best place in town for lace.”
And just like that, thought Hoffner, Fichte was actually becoming a detective.
“A darker beige and a powdered blue,” said the man behind the counter. He stared across at the woman who looked to be incapable of making a decision. She pulled the glove snug onto her hand and gazed at it in the mirror. She flexed her fingers and then reangled her head. All the while, the man stood with a sliver of smile sewn onto his lips. After nearly half a minute he glanced furtively at Hoffner, who had edged closer to the glass. “Just another minute, mein Herr,” he said impatiently, but with no change in his expression. “Thank you, mein Herr.”
In his finely pressed suit, the man looked like the perfect twin of every other clerk on the floor, or perhaps the perfect “light” twin, as they seemed to come in three distinct shades: blond, brunette, and gray. The creases in his trousers were another nod to his perfection, as was the slip of blue handkerchief that peeped out from his breast pocket. The delicacy of his hands was also something remarkable, pale and soft as they graced the waves of satin.
“You will find none more exquisite in the city, Madame,” he said, equally transfixed by the gloves. “Feel them against your skin. Lovely.”
It was clear from Fichte’s expression that he had never been inside Kaufhaus des Westens, or KaDeWe, as it had come to be known: the high temple of capitalism, undaunted by threats from either socialists or shortages. Utterly self-assured, the place was alive with consumption, and Fichte seemed unable to take it all in fast enough. There was the endless sea of scarves and blouses, soaps and colognes, each department with its own distinct color and feel. Even the size of the clerks seemed to change from one area to the next: long, elegant men to clothe the customer, squatter ones to perfume her, thick-necked boys for her sporting equipment. And somewhere in the distant reaches, men’s ties and shirts filled the glass-topped rows; they, however, were lost behind a wall of ever-moving flesh. Above it all, the din from countless conversations crested in an orchestral echo that, to Fichte’s ear, sounded as if it were tuning. He had played the violin as a boy, poorly, but had always enjoyed that collective search for pitch.
Looking up, he followed a network of wires that crisscrossed the vaulted space; the lines were only a stepladder’s climb from him, but they seemed to soar high above as they rose to a squadron of desks on the mezzanine leveclass="underline" this was where all transactions were consummated; money was never kept at the counters. In a constant whir of tramlike efficiency, tiny boxes whizzed overhead, carrying receipts and payments back and forth. This had been the way at KaDeWe since its opening; modern mechanisms had yet to infiltrate. Fichte had to wonder if a pluck on one of the cables might produce a perfect A-flat.
“Oh, well,” said the woman as she removed the glove. “Not today.” She thanked the clerk and moved off. The man nodded politely, replaced the two sets of gloves beneath the glass, and then turned to Hoffner and Fichte. He needed only a glance to take stock of the two men: Fichte was still gazing upward. It was enough for the clerk to know that his frustrations would continue.
“And now, mein Herr,” he said to Hoffner with icy civility. “How can we be of assistance today?”
Hoffner pulled from his pocket a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. He opened it and placed the contents on the counter. “I’m wondering,” he said, “where I might get a pair like these for my wife.” The voice and attitude were unlike anything Fichte had ever seen or heard coming from Hoffner before. There was something almost apologetic, even puny, to him. It was an astonishing transformation. The wonder of KaDeWe instantly faded to the background.
“For your wife,” said the man, as he glanced indifferently at the muddied gloves. “Yes, mein Herr.”
“The dog got into the bureau,” said Hoffner sheepishly. “Made a complete mess of them. All my fault.”
“Yes,” repeated the man. He took in a long breath, then picked up one of the gloves. Almost at once his demeanor changed. He quickly brought the glove up to his face and began to examine it closely.
“Is there-something wrong?” said Hoffner.
The man looked across at him. “Oh, no, no, no, mein Herr,” he said, now the model of fawning servility. “It’s just-I couldn’t tell the remarkable quality, what with all the staining.”
“I see,” said Hoffner with a bland smile.
The clerk continued to pick his way through the lace. “Wonderful,” he said. “May I ask where mein Herr originally purchased them?”
“A gift,” said Hoffner. “From an aunt, I believe.”
“I see,” said the man. He placed the glove on the counter and pointed behind him to two large volumes. “May I?” he said.
Hoffner nodded his assent.
The man pulled the second of the books from the shelf and, placing it on the counter, began to leaf through. It was clear he knew exactly what he was looking for. “It’s an extremely intricate pattern, mein Herr,” he said as he continued to flip through the pages. “Quite rare. We don’t carry it ourselves, but we’d be happy to order it for you. Ah, yes,” he said, stopping on a page. “Here it is.” He flipped the book around so that Hoffner could see the drawing. “Mechlin Rseau de Bruges,” said the man as he watched Hoffner scan the page. The clerk then picked up the glove and began to illustrate for Fichte. “It’s like the Brussels mesh,” he said as he dusted off the palm. “But here you see the four threads are plaited only twice, instead of four times, on the two sides, while the two threads are twisted twice, instead of once, on the four sides.” The clerk stared at the glove with almost spiritual devotion; it was as if Hoffner and Fichte had disappeared. “Marvelous craftsmanship.”
Fichte had no idea what the man was saying; he nodded nonetheless.
“It’s Belgian?” said Hoffner, looking up from the book.
“Yes, mein Herr. And made only in Bruges. As I said, we can order it for you.”
“From this firm, here,” said Hoffner, pointing to a name on the page.