Garden of Beasts

Morgan did what? As a profession, I mean.”
    “He was just an American businessman I’d heard about. He’d lived here for a few years and knew the place pretty well.”
    Kohl pointed out, “You came over with the Olympic team and yet they seemed unwilling to tell me anything about you. That’s curious, don’t you think?”
    Schumann laughed bitterly. “You live in this country and you ask me why anyone would be reluctant to answer a policeman’s questions?”
    It is a matter of state security. . . . 
    Willi Kohl allowed no expression to cross his face but he was momentarily embarrassed at the truth of this comment. He regarded Schumann closely. The American appeared at ease. Kohl could detect no signs of fabrication,which was one of the inspector’s particular talents.
    “Continue.”
    “I was to meet with Morgan yesterday.”
    “That would have been when? And where?”
    “Around noon. Outside a beer hall on Spener Street.”
    Right next to Dresden Alley, Kohl reflected. And around the time of the shooting. Surely, if he had something to hide, he would not place himself near the scene of the killing. Or would he? The National Socialist criminals were by and large stupid and obvious. Kohl sensed he was in the presence of a very smart man, though whether he was a criminal or not, the inspector could not tell. “But, as you contend, the real Reginald Morgan did not show up. It was this Taggert.”
    “That’s right. Though I didn’t know it at the time. He claimed he was Morgan.”
    “And what happened at this meeting?”
    “It was very brief. He was agitated. He pulled me into this alley, said something had come up and I was supposed to meet him later. At a restaurant—”
    “The name?”
    “The Summer Garden.”
    “Where the wheat beer was not to your liking.”
    Schumann blinked, then replied, “Is it to anyone’s liking?”
    Kohl refrained from smiling. “And you met Taggert again, as planned, at the Summer Garden?”
    “That’s right. A friend of his joined us there. I don’t recall his name.”
    Ah, the laborer.
    “He whispered something to Taggert, who looked worried and said we ought to beat it.” A frown at the literal German translation of what would be an English idiom. “Imean, leave quickly. This friend thought there were some Gestapo or something around, and Taggert agreed. We slipped out the side door. I should’ve guessed then that something wasn’t right. But it was kind of an adventure, you know. That’s just what I was looking for, for my stories.”
    “Local color,” Kohl said slowly, reflecting that it is so much easier to make a big lie believable when the liar feeds you small truths. “And did you meet this Taggert at any other times?” A nod toward the body. “Other than today, of course?” Kohl wondered if the man would admit going to November 1923 Square.
    “Yes,” Schumann said. “Some square later that day. A bad neighborhood. Near Oranienburger Station. By a big statue of Hitler. We were going to meet some other contact. But that guy never showed up.”
    “And you ‘beat it’ from there as well.”
    “That’s right. Taggert got spooked again. It was clear something was off. That’s when I decided I better cut things off with the guy.”
    “What happened,” Kohl asked quickly, “to your Stetson hat?”
    A concerned look. “Well, I’ll be honest, Detective Kohl. I was walking down the street and saw some young . . .” A hesitation as he sought a word. “Beasts . . . toughs?”
    “Yes, yes, thugs.”
    “In brown uniforms.”
    “Stormtroopers.”
    “Thugs,” Schumann said with some disgust. “They were beating up a bookseller and his wife. I thought these men were going to kill them. I stopped them. The next thing I knew there were a dozen of them after me. I threw someclothes away, down the sewer, so they wouldn’t recognize me.”
    This is a wiry man, Kohl thought. And clever.
    “Are you going to arrest me for beating up some of your Nazi thugs?”
    “That doesn’t interest me, Mr. Schumann. But what does very much interest me is the purpose of this whole masquerade orchestrated by Mr. Taggert.”
    “He was trying to fix some of the Olympic events.”
    “Fix?”
    The American thought for a moment. “To have a player lose intentionally. That’s what he’d been doing here over the past several months, putting together gambling pools in Berlin. Taggert’s colleagues were going to place bets against some of the