The one aspect of the case about which van Acker had been hazy was the placement of the bodies. The Bruges police had caught Wouters in mid-etching, kneeling over his third victim; they had failed to look for a pattern in the discoveries because there had never been enough of a body count to create one.
“At least now we have a name for the girl,” said Hoffner as he continued to flip through the pages. “She was called Mary Koop. She worked at Sint-Walburga. She disappeared about two months ago.”
Fichte said, “So, if Wouters is still in the asylum, what are we dealing with here?”
Hoffner nodded as he scanned his scrawl. “That was the first question I asked myself.”
Fichte decided to take a stab. “Maybe it was someone who read about the case? Someone who was imitating him? Like that fellow who took up where Chertonski left off.”
Hoffner looked up. “Chertonski?” he said in mild disbelief. “You can’t be serious. That was knocking over old women’s flats, Hans, not killing them, and certainly not leaving them with pieces of artwork chiseled into their backs.”
Fichte seemed to shrink ever so slightly into his coat. “No-of course not. You’re right, Herr Kriminal-”
Hoffner put up a hand to stop him. “Whatever it is, Hans, I was trying to say it’s the wrong question.” Hoffner was about to explain, when he stopped. His hand became a single finger as he listened intently; he glanced over at the door and then motioned Fichte over. Fichte stood and, with a nod from Hoffner, quickly opened the door.
There, poised in a knocking position, stood Detective Sergeant Ludwig Groener.
“Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” said Hoffner. “Can we help you with something?” On instinct, Fichte took a step back.
Groener stood motionless. He held a stack of papers in his hand as he peered at Fichte, then Hoffner. He remained outside the office. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said. “You received a telephone call from abroad. There was no entry in the log.”
Hoffner nodded in agreement. “If there was no entry, how do you know I received it?”
Groener had no answer. Instead he took aim at Fichte. “As his Assistent, Herr Fichte, it’s your job to fill in all appropriate logs. You know this, of course.”
“Of course, Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” said Fichte. “When the Herr Kriminal-Kommissar receives a call. Absolutely. I’ll make a note of that.”
The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Realizing that Fichte was going to be of no help, Groener again turned to Hoffner. “It’s my job to know when calls come in, and the like, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
“And to listen at the doors of detective inspectors’ offices?” said Hoffner. “Do you find that equally exciting?”
For an instant Groener looked as if he had gotten a whiff of his own breath. Then, just as quickly, he resumed the taut stare of bureaucratic efficiency. “The telephone call from Belgium, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Have your man make a note of it in the log at the switchboard.” Groener turned and started to go.
Hoffner stopped him by saying, “Would you like me to give him a detailed account of what was said, Herr Groener? Or is the notation of information you already have sufficient?”
Groener kept his back to Hoffner. He turned his head slightly and said, “What was discussed is your business, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. It’s your case.”
“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” Hoffner said coldly. “It is.”
Groener offered a clipped nod and then retreated down the hall.
Fichte waited until Groener had moved out of sight before turning back to Hoffner. “God, he makes the place stink.”
“Close the door, Hans.” With a plaintive look from Fichte, Hoffner said, “All right, wave it out a few times.” Fichte opened and closed the door with gusto, and then shut it before returning to his seat. Hoffner said, “So, who else knew about the wire?”
“It was on your desk when I got back from Missing Persons. I assume just one of the boys and the wire operator. That’s it.”
“Evidently not.” Hoffner sat, thinking to himself: Why would anyone else have been looking for it in the first place?
“Why the wrong question?” said Fichte, resuming their previous conversation.
It took Hoffner a moment to refocus; he looked over at Fichte. “Because right now it doesn’t matter who’s doing the killing, or why. What matters is how he got to Berlin.”
Fichte’s all-too-predictable “I don’t understand” was out before Hoffner could explain.
“Look at what we have.” Hoffner settled back in his chair as he spoke: “You’d think the piece out of place would be Wouters-everything in the Bruges case is the same, everything points to him, except he’s locked away in an asylum seven hundred kilometers from here, a fact that is both frightening and astounding-but it’s not. That’s not the piece that doesn’t fit. Imitator or not-it doesn’t matter which-the killings are taking place here by someone who knows the Bruges case. By someone who must have been in Bruges. But not because he can make a few markings on a woman’s back. No, the reason he must have been in Bruges is that, unless he was there, how else would he have been able to bring the girl from Bruges to Berlin? Given her mental state, she clearly couldn’t have made it on her own. So how did anyone get from Bruges to Berlin over two months ago? The only transports would have been military. No one else could have crossed the lines, even after the armistice. How? And how does he bring a girl with him?”
Fichte needed a moment to absorb the information. “So the fact that it’s not Wouters doesn’t trouble you.”
“Of course it troubles me, Hans.” Hoffner’s tone was thick with frustration. “It horrifies me. But right now, it’s not the most inconsistent piece of information we have.”
“It’s a shame Kroll didn’t have anything for us on the grease. That might have been helpful.”
Hoffner nodded slowly. He had decided to keep this recent discovery from Fichte: until he knew what it all meant-and now, with the information from Bruges, he had no idea when that might be-Hoffner needed to keep everything as focused as possible. As much as he wanted to trust Fichte with it, he knew that would be unwise: the appearance of the Polpo had made that abundantly clear, not to mention the leak. The less Fichte knew, the safer it would be for everyone involved. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “We’ll have to wait on that.”
Fichte tried another tack: “Was the Wouters case well reported in Belgium? I mean, during the war, would they have spent a lot of time with it in the newspapers? That could be of use.”
Hoffner had been thinking the same thing. “Excellent question, Hans. You’ll have to ask the Chief Inspector when you see him.”
Fichte’s confusion returned, and Hoffner explained: “We need to know what they have in Bruges, and we need it quickly. More than that, we need to hear what Mr. Wouters has to say, and whom he might have said it to.” Fichte remained silent. Hoffner tried to lead him. “There is another way to get from Bruges to Berlin, Hans, also controlled by the military, although a bit quicker than a train.” When Fichte continued to stare back at him, Hoffner said, “You’ve never been in an aeroplane, have you, Hans?” Hoffner watched as the blood drained from Fichte’s face. “Not so bad, really. Just remember to turn your head away from the wind.” Hoffner smiled at Fichte’s blank stare. “Trust me,” he said. “You’ll know when.”