Garden of Beasts

do?”
    “Whatever we decide, it’s got to be fast; somebodymight make the connection between him”—a glance back at the body in the street—“and Ernst.”
    Morgan sighed and thought for a moment. “I don’t know anyone else close to Ernst. . . . But I do have a man in the information ministry.”
    “You have somebody inside there? ”
    “The National Socialists are paranoid but they have one flaw that offsets that: their ego. They have so many agents in place that it never occurs to them that somebody might infiltrate them. He’s just a clerk but he may be able to find out something.”
    They paused on a busy corner. Paul said, “I’m going to get my things at the Olympic Village and move to the boardinghouse.”
    “The pawnshop where we’re getting the rifle is near Oranienburger Station. I’ll meet you in November 1923 Square, under the big statue of Hitler. Say, four-thirty. Do you have a map?”
    “I’ll find it.”
    The men shook hands and, with a glance back at the crowd standing around the body of the unfortunate man, they started their separate ways as another siren filled the streets of a city that was clean and orderly and filled with polite, smiling people—and that had been the site of two killings in as many hours.
    No, Paul reflected, the unfortunate Max hadn’t betrayed him. But he realized that there was another implication that was far more troubling: These two cops or Gestapo agents had tracked Morgan or Paul or both of them from Dresden Alley to the Summer Garden on their own and come within minutes of capturing them. This was police work far better than any he’d seen in New York. Who the hell are they? he wondered.
    •   •   •
    “Johann,” Willi Kohl asked the waiter, “what exactly was this man with the brown hat wearing?”
    “A light gray suit, a white shirt and a green tie, which I found rather garish.”
    “And he was large?”
    “Very large, sir. But not fat. He was a bodybuilder perhaps.”
    “Any other characteristics?”
    “Not that I noticed.”
    “Was he foreign?”
    “I don’t know. But he spoke German flawlessly. Perhaps a faint accent.”
    “His hair color?”
    “I couldn’t say. Darker rather than lighter.”
    “Age?”
    “Not young, not old.”
    Kohl sighed. “And you said ‘companions’?”
    “Yes, sir. He arrived first. Then he was joined by another man. Considerably smaller. Wearing a black or dark gray suit. I don’t recall his tie. And then yet another, a man in brown overalls, in his thirties. A worker, it seemed. He joined them later.”
    “Did the big man have a leather suitcase or satchel?”
    “Yes. It was brown.”
    “His companions spoke German too?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you overhear their conversation?”
    “No, Inspector.”
    “And the man’s face? The man in the hat?” Janssen asked.
    A hesitation. “I didn’t see the face. Or his companions’.”
    “You waited on them but you did not see their faces?” Kohl asked.
    “I didn’t pay any attention. It’s dark in here, as you can see. And in this business . . . so many people. You look but you rarely see, if you understand.”
    That was true, Kohl supposed. But he also knew that since Hitler had come to power three years ago, blindness had become the national malady. People either denounced fellow citizens for “crimes” they hadn’t witnessed, or else were unable to recall the details of offenses they actually had seen. Knowing too much might mean a trip to the Alex—the Kripo headquarters—or the Gestapo’s on Prince Albrecht Street to examine endless pictures of known felons. No one would willingly go to either of those places; today’s witness could be tomorrow’s detainee.
    The waiter’s eyes swept the floor, troubled. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Kohl pitied him. “Perhaps in lieu of a description of his face, you could give us some other observations and we could dispense with a visit to police headquarters. If you happen to think of something helpful.”
    The man looked up, relieved.
    “I’ll try to assist you,” the inspector said. “Let’s start with some specifics. What did he eat and drink?”
    “Ah, that’s something. He at first ordered a wheat beer. He must not have ever drunk it before. He only sipped it and pushed it aside. But he drank all of the Pschorr ale that his companion ordered for him.”
    “Good.” Kohl never knew at first what these details about a suspect might ultimately reveal. Perhaps