Garden of Beasts

look clearly but I believe he walked inside about twenty minutes ago.”
    “He’s still there?”
    “He hasn’t come out, not that I saw.”
    Janssen stiffened like a beagle on a scent. “Sir, shall we call the Orpo?”
    These were the uniformed Order Police, housed in barracks, ready, as the name suggested, to keep order by use of rifles, machine pistols and truncheons. But Kohl thought again of the mayhem that could erupt if they were summoned, especially against an armed suspect in a restaurant filled with patrons. “No, I think we won’t, Janssen. We’ll be more subtle. You go around the back of the restaurant and wait at the door. If anyone comes out, whether in a hat or not, detain him. Remember—our suspect is armed. Now move surreptitiously.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The young man stopped at the alley and, with an extremely unsurreptitious wave, turned the corner and vanished.
    Kohl casually started forward and paused, as if perusing the posted menu. Then he moved closer, feeling uneasiness, feeling too the weight of his revolver in his pocket. Until the National Socialists came to power few Kripo detectives carried weapons. But several years ago, when then Interior Minister Göring had expanded the many police forces in the country, he’d ordered every policeman to carry a weapon and, to the shock of Kohl and his colleagues in the Kripo, to use them liberally. He’d actually issued an edict saying that a policeman would be reprimanded for failing to shoot a suspect, but not for shooting someone who turned out to be innocent.
    Willi Kohl hadn’t fired a weapon since 1918.
    Yet, picturing the shattered skull of the victim in Dresden Alley, he now was pleased that he had the gun with him. Kohl adjusted his jacket, made sure he could grab the gun quickly if he needed to and took a deep breath. He pushed through the doorway.
    And froze like a statue, panicked. The interior of the Summer Garden was quite dark and his eyes were used to the brilliant sunlight outside; he was momentarily blinded. Foolish, he thought angrily to himself. He should have considered this. Here he stood with “Kripo” written all over him, a clear target for an armed suspect.
    He stepped further inside and closed the door behind him. In his cottony vision, people moved throughout the restaurant. Some men, he believed, were standing. Someone was moving toward him.
    Kohl stepped back, alarmed. His hand went toward the pocket containing his revolver.
    “Sir, a table? Sit where you like.”
    He squinted and slowly his vision began returning.
    “Sir?” the waiter repeated.
    “No,” he said. “I’m looking for someone.”
    Finally the inspector was able to see normally again.
    The restaurant contained only a dozen patrons. None was a large man with a brown hat and light suit. He started into the kitchen.
    “Sir, you can’t—”
    Kohl displayed his identification card to the waiter.
    “Yes, sir,” the man said timidly.
    Kohl walked through the stupefyingly hot kitchen and to the back door. He opened it. “Janssen?”
    “No one came through the door, sir.”
    The inspector candidate joined his boss and they returned to the dining room.
    Kohl motioned the waiter over to them.
    “Sir, what is your name?”
    “Johann.”
    “Well, Johann, have you seen a man in here, within the past twenty minutes, wearing a hat like this?” Kohl nodded at Janssen, who displayed the picture of Göring.
    “Why, yes, I have. He and his companions just left moments ago. It seemed rather suspicious. They left by the side door.”
    He pointed to the empty table. Kohl sighed with disgust. It was one of the two tables next to the windows. Yes, the curtain was thick but he noted a tiny gap at the side; their suspect had undoubtedly seen them canvassing the patrons on the patio.
    “Come, Janssen!” Kohl and the inspector candidate rushed out the side door and through an anemic garden typical of the tens of thousands throughout the city; Berliners loved growing flowers and plants but land was at such a premium that they were forced to use any scraps of dirt they could find for their gardens. There was only oneroute out of the patch; it led to Rosenthaler Street. They trotted to it and looked up and down the congested street. No sign of their suspect.
    Kohl was furious. Had he not been distracted by Krauss they would likely have had more of a chance to intercept the large man in the hat. But mostly he was angry with himself for his carelessness on