Hoffner had omitted Fichte’s “in training” status when he told the Belgian who was coming. In fact, he had even given Fichte a promotion, figuring Fichte could use all the help he could get. Back in Bruges, van Acker had been duly impressed by so young a detective inspector. Per Hoffner’s instructions-and given his head this morning-Fichte had kept as quiet as possible during the ride up from town. “It’s all right,” said Fichte without much conviction.
They heard footsteps through the door. Van Acker said, “I’ll translate. Make sure there’s no confusion.”
A second guard opened the door and ushered them into a tiny vestibule. It was lit by a single bulb and was in no better state of repair than the outside walls. A large iron door waited directly across from them. Van Acker was forced to suffer through a repeat performance of the conversation at the gate before being permitted to sign the registry. “Everyone who comes in or goes out,” he said as he handed the pen to Fichte. “Staff and visitors alike.” Fichte finished signing just as the guard was unlocking the iron door that led into the asylum proper. “Don’t be fooled by the surroundings,” said van Acker. “They take this all very seriously.”
The scrape of the bolt in the lock behind them was enough to tell Fichte how seriously Sint-Walburga took its inmates. Van Acker led them down a narrow corridor and into an open hall. It might have been any country house entrance hall-vaulted ceiling, fireplace, chairs and sofas-except that its windows had all been bricked over, leaving it devoid of any natural light. What light there was came from a collection of overworked lamps, placed at odd intervals along the walls, that did little more than create a stark, yellow pall within the space. That, however, was not the hall’s most disconcerting feature. The grand staircase, which still sported remnants of a once-magnificent carpet, was encased in a cage of thick bars that ran along the banisters and up to the second floor. There was barely enough room to squeeze an arm through; even so, they had taken every precaution: a second iron door stood at the bottom of the steps where the banisters met. Shadows from the bars spilled out into the hall and seemed to trap the single guard on duty in his own phantom cage. He gave a perfunctory nod to the two men; he knew they were not heading up.
For Fichte, however, the sounds coming from above made the rest seem almost inviting. At first he thought it was the mewling of dogs; he quickly realized, however, that these were human voices. Some murmured in whispers, others in incoherent wails. The one constant was an unrelenting desperation. One voice suddenly broke through, its anguish enough to prompt Fichte’s own sense of despair. Almost at once, a door bolted shut, and the voice again retreated into the amorphous mass of sound.
“The patients are on the top two floors,” said van Acker, as if relegating them to the upper reaches could in any way mitigate their presence throughout the building. Fichte did his best to nod. “The Superintendent keeps himself down here.”
All but one of the doors off the hall had been barred over. Van Acker led them over to it and knocked once before letting himself in. He told Fichte to wait outside. Fichte agreed, glad to have put some distance between himself and the stairs. He watched as van Acker made his way across the office and began to speak quickly in French to the man seated behind the far desk.
Fichte had lied. He barely understood a word. He could pick out the mannerisms of a greeting, or small talk, but he was completely at sea until he heard van Acker mention the name Wouters. Fichte did, however, recognize the look of confusion on van Acker’s face the moment the Superintendent began to reply. Confusion turned to shock. Fichte needed no French to know that something was wrong.
When the man finished speaking, van Acker slowly turned back to the door. He hesitated and then motioned for Fichte to join them. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said. “Could you join us?”
It took Fichte a moment to remember his “promotion.” He stepped into the office. It was clear that van Acker was on edge: the introductions were brief.
The room fell silent as van Acker seemed unsure what he wanted to say. Finally he turned to Fichte and, almost under his breath, said, “Wouters is dead.” He did nothing to hide his own disbelief and regret. “It seems he hung himself two nights ago.”
Fichte remained surprisingly calm; he let the information settle. He then said, “I’ll need to send a wire.”
Hoffner got lucky. At this hour, most of the city’s cabs were already back in central Berlin, picking their spots for the rush hour. The sky had opened up, and, had it not been for the sudden appearance of a black Tonneau Mercedes dropping off a fare-and his own quick sprint to flag it down-Hoffner would have been left to slog his way through the downpour to the nearest bus stop. Even so, he received a nice dousing of his pants for his efforts. It was an acceptable trade-off: his shoes would have gotten soaked through, anyway. Once safely inside, he thought about a nap, but that was not to be. He was having trouble shaking Luxemburg.
On the edge of downtown, he told the driver to head up toward Friedrichstrasse. The man disagreed. “You want to avoid die Mitte this time of day, mein Herr. Faster if we hook over south of the Hallesches Gate.”
“Just try Friedrichstrasse,” Hoffner said. “All right?”
The man shrugged. “Your time, your money.”
As promised, the traffic slowed once they hit the middle of town. The spray from the wheels of the cars rapped mercilessly at the cab’s windows and repeatedly dissolved the outside world into a swirl of melting pictures. Hoffner rolled down his window when they hit Friedrichstrasse, so as to minimize the distortion. He checked his watch; it was about time for tea. Positioning himself back on the seat so as to avoid the splatter, he peered out.
He spotted her at Schuckert’s, just beyond Leipziger Strasse. She had ducked in under the awning, and was waiting for the worst of it to pass. Her coat was too thin for the weather, and she held her arms across her chest for added warmth.
“Pull over!” shouted Hoffner over the patter of the rain.
The driver turned abruptly for the curb. Several horn squawks accompanied the maneuver. “I told you it would be bad.”
Hoffner paid and hopped out. He placed the papers under his coat and darted over to the restaurant. It was not until he had removed his hat that Lina recognized him. She tried to hide her pleasure in a look of surprise, but her face was not yet sophisticated enough to carry it off. Hoffner shook out his hat as he approached. “I thought it might be you,” he said, deciding to play out the charade.
“Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” said Lina. “What a nice surprise.”
“You look absolutely frozen, Frulein Lina. Let me buy you a coffee.”
She hesitated before answering: “I can’t bring them inside unless I’m selling.” She glanced down at her basket of flowers, then back at Hoffner. “And the tea hour is my best time, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
“Not in this weather, it isn’t,” he said, before she could find another excuse. He looked over and saw the lone waiter who had been stationed for the outside seating. The man was holding his tray across his chest and staring out at the rain. Heated lamps or not, no one would be stupid enough to sit out today. “Herr Ober,” said Hoffner, calling the man over. Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. Well trained, the man showed no reaction as Hoffner continued: “This young lady is going to leave her basket out here while we go inside for a coffee. You’ll be good enough to see that nothing happens to it, yes?”
The man gave a swift nod. “Of course, mein Herr.”
“Good.” Hoffner turned to Lina, and motioned her to the door. “Shall we, Frulein?”