Garden of Beasts

permanently in the cloth. Gertrud would not be pleased if that happened. He’d leave it for now. He put his hand on the door handle to step onto the outer walkway that led to the stairs.
    “Colonel!” a voice called in his ear.
    Ernst turned.
    The SS guard had run up behind him. He shouted over the whine of the saw, “Sir, the Leader’s dogs are here. He wonders if your grandson would like to pose with them.”
    “Dogs?” Rudy asked excitedly.
    Hitler liked German shepherds and had several of them. They were genial animals, house pets.
    “Would you like that?” Ernst asked.
    “Oh, yes, please, Opa.”
    “Don’t play roughly with them.”
    “No, I won’t.”
    Ernst escorted the boy back down the hall and watched him run to the dogs, which were sniffing around the room,exploring. Hitler laughed, seeing the youngster hug the larger one and kiss him on top of the head. The animal licked Rudy with his huge tongue. With some difficulty, Göring bent down and petted the animals too, a childlike smile on his round face. Though he was heartless in many ways, the minister loved animals devoutly.
    The colonel then returned to the corridor and walked toward the outer door once again. He blew again at the plaster dust on his sleeve then paused in front of one of the large, south-facing windows and looked outside. The sun fell on him fiercely. He’d left his hat back in the press booth. Should he get it?
    No, he thought. It would—
    His breath was knocked from his lungs as he felt a jarring blow to his body and found himself tumbling to the drop cloth covering the marble, gasping in agony . . . confused, frightened. . . . But the one thought most prominent in his mind as he struck the floor was: Now I’ll get paint on my suit too! What will Gertrud say about this?

Chapter Twenty-Six
    The Munich House was a small restaurant ten blocks northwest of the Tiergarten and five from Dresden Alley.
    Willi Kohl had eaten here several times and recalled enjoying the Hungarian goulash, to which they added caraway seeds and raisins, of all things. He’d drunk a wonderful red Austrian Blaufrankisch wine with the meal.
    He and Janssen parked the DKW in front of the place and Kohl tossed the Kripo card onto the dashboard to fend off eager Schupos armed with their traffic offense booklets.
    Tapping spent tobacco from his meerschaum pipe, Kohl hurried toward the restaurant, Konrad Janssen close behind. Inside, the decor was Bavarian: brown wood and yellowing stucco plaster, with borders of wooden gardenias everywhere, clumsily carved and painted. The room was aromatic of sour spices and grilled meat. Kohl was instantly hungry; he had eaten only one breakfast that morning and it had consisted of nothing more than pastry and coffee. The smoke was dense, for the lunch hour was nearly over and people had exchanged empty plates for coffee and cigarettes.
    Kohl saw his son Günter standing with the young Hitler Youth leader, Helmut Gruber, and two other teenagers, dressed in the group’s uniform. The Youth had kept their army officer–style hats on, even though they were inside, either out of disrespect or ignorance.
    “I received your message, boys.”
    Extending his arm in a salute, the Hitler Youth leader said, “Detective-inspector Kohl, Hail Hitler. We have identified the man you are seeking.” He held up the picture of the body found in Dresden Alley.
    “Have you now?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Kohl glanced at Günter and saw contradictory feelings in his son’s face. He was proud to have elevated his status with the Youth but wasn’t happy that Helmut had preempted the restaurant search. The inspector wondered if this incident would be a double benefit—the identification of the body for him and a lesson about the realities of life among the National Socialists for his son.
    The maître d’ or owner, a stocky, balding man in a dusty black suit and shabby gold-striped waistcoat, saluted Kohl. When he spoke he was clearly uneasy. Hitler Youth were among the most energetic of denouncers. “Inspector, your son and his friends here were inquiring about this individual.”
    “Yes, yes. And you, sir, are . . . ?”
    “Gerhard Klemp. I am the manager and have been for sixteen years.”
    “Did this man eat lunch here yesterday?”
    “Please, yes, he did. And almost three days a week. He first came in several months ago. He said he liked it because we prepare more than just German food.”
    Kohl wanted the boys to