Garden of Beasts

visas. He compared all the names with those on the list of gun purchasers. He stopped at one entry.
    Janssen appeared in the doorway with the fingerprint kit and the Leica. Kohl held up the list. “It seems the deceased did buy the Modelo A last month, Janssen. Under the name of Artur Schmidt.”
    Which still didn’t preclude Schumann from beingMorgan’s killer; Taggert might simply have given or sold him the gun. “Proceed with the fingerprinting,” Kohl instructed. The young officer opened the briefcase and began his task.
    “I didn’t kill Reggie Morgan, I’m telling you. He did.”
    “Please, say nothing now, Mr. Schumann.”
    Reginald Morgan’s wallet was also here. Kohl looked through it. He paused and looked at the picture of the man at a social event, standing with two older people.
    We know something else about him . . . that he was somebody’s son. . . . And perhaps he was somebody’s brother. And maybe somebody’s husband or lover. . . . 
    The inspector candidate proceeded to dust powder on the gun and then took Taggert’s prints. The young man said to Schumann, “Sir, if you could sit forward please.” Kohl approved of his protégé’s polite tone.
    Schumann cooperated and the young man printed him then wiped the ink off his fingers with the astringent cleaner that was included in the kit. Janssen placed the gun and the two printed cards on a table for his boss’s inspection. “Sir?”
    Kohl pulled out his monocle. He examined the weapon and the men’s prints closely. He was no expert but his opinion was that the only prints on the pistol were Taggert’s.
    Janssen’s eyes narrowed and he nodded to the floor.
    Kohl followed the glance. A battered leather bag there. Ah, the telltale satchel! Kohl walked over and opened the clasp. He leafed through the contents—deciphering the English as best he could. There were many notes about Berlin, sports, the Olympics, a press pass in the name of Paul Schumann, dozens of innocuous clippings from American newspapers.
    So, the inspector thought, he’s been lying. The bag placed him at the murder scene.
    But as Kohl examined it carefully he noted that, while it was old, yes, the leather was supple, not flaking.
    Then he glanced at the body in front of them. Kohl set the case down and crouched over the dead man’s shoes. They were brown, worn, and shedding bits of leather. The color and shine were just like the ones they’d found on the cobblestones of Dresden Alley and on the floor of the Summer Garden restaurant. Schumann’s shoes were not shedding such flakes. The inspector’s face twisted in irritation at himself. Another erroneous assumption. Schumann had been telling the truth. Perhaps.
    “Search him now, Janssen,” Kohl said, rising. A nod toward the body.
    The inspector candidate dropped to his knees and began examining the corpse carefully.
    Kohl lifted an eyebrow at Janssen, who continued the search. He found money, a penknife, a packet of cigarettes. A pocket watch on a heavy gold chain. Then the young man frowned. “Look, sir.” He handed the inspector some silk clothing labels, undoubtedly cut from the garments Reginald Morgan had worn in Dresden Alley. They bore the names of German clothing manufacturers or stores.
    “I’ll tell you what happened,” Schumann said.
    “Yes, yes, you may talk in a minute. Janssen, contact headquarters. Have someone there get in touch with the American embassy. Ask about this Robert Taggert. Tell them he’s in possession of a diplomatic identity card. Say nothing about his death at this time.”
    “Yes, sir.” Janssen located the phone, which Kohl noted was disconnected from the wall, a common sight nowadays.The Olympic flag on the building, unaccompanied by the National Socialist banner, told him the place was owned or managed by a Jew or someone else in disfavor; the phones might be tapped. “Call from the wireless in the DKW, Janssen.”
    The inspector candidate nodded and left the room again.
    “Now, sir, you may enlighten me. And please spare me no details.”
    Schumann said in German, “I came over here with the Olympic team. I’m a sportswriter. A freelance journalist. Do you—?”
    “Yes, yes, I am familiar with the term.”
    “I was supposed to meet Reggie Morgan and he’d introduce me to some people for the stories. I wanted what we call ‘color.’ Information about the livelier parts of the city, gamblers, hustlers, boxing clubs.”
    “And this Reggie