Garden of Beasts

nose, Jew eyes.” The Stormtrooper brushed at the stain on his shirt and swaggered away.
    “Cretin,” Janssen muttered, glancing cautiously at Kohl, who said, “To be kind.” The inspector was looking up and down the alleys, musing, “Despite his own strainof blindness, though, I believe what ‘commandant’ Felstedt told us. Our suspect was cornered but managed to escape—and from dozens of SA. We will look in the trash containers in the alleys, Janssen.”
    “Yes, sir. You think he discarded some clothing or the satchel to escape?”
    “It is logical.”
    They inspected each of the alleys, looking into the trash bins: nothing but old cartons, papers, cans, bottles, rotting food.
    Kohl stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, glancing around and then asked, “Who does your shirts, Janssen?”
    “My shirts?”
    “They are always impeccably washed and pressed.”
    “My wife, of course.”
    “Then my apologies to her for having to clean and mend the one you are presently wearing.”
    “Why should she need to clean and mend my shirt?”
    “Because you are going to lie down on your belly and fish into that sewer grating.”
    “But—”
    “Yes, yes, I know. But I’ve done so, many times. And with age, Janssen, comes some privilege. Now off with your jacket. It’s lovely silk. No need to repair that as well.”
    The young man handed Kohl his dark green suit jacket. It was quite nice. Janssen’s family was well off and he had some money independent of his monthly inspector candidate salary—which was fortunate, considering the paltry compensation Kripo detectives received. The young man knelt on the cobblestones and, supporting himself with one hand, reached into the dark opening.
    As it turned out, though, the shirt was not badly soiledafter all, for the young man called out only a moment later, “Something here, sir!” He stood up and displayed a crumpled brown object. Göring’s hat. And a bonus: Inside it was the tie, indeed gaudy green.
    Janssen explained that they’d been resting on a ledge only a half meter below the sewer opening. He searched once more but found nothing else.
    “We have some answers, Janssen,” Kohl said, examining the inside of the hat. The manufacturer’s label read, Stetson Mity-Lite. Another had been stitched inside by the store. Manny’s Men’s Wear, New York City.
    “More to add to our portrait of the suspect.” Kohl took the monocle from his vest pocket, squinted it into his eye and examined some hairs caught in the sweatband. “He has medium-length dark brown hair with a bit of red in it. Not black or ‘crinkly’ at all. Straight. And there are no stains from cream or hair oil.”
    Kohl handed the hat and tie to Janssen, licked the tip of his pencil and jotted these latest observations into his notebook, which he then folded closed.
    “Where to now, sir? Back to the Alex?”
    “And what would we do there? Eat biscuits and sip coffee, as our Stormtrooper comrades think we do all day long? Or watch the Gestapo siphon off our resources as they round up every Russian in town? No, I think we’ll go for a drive. I hope the DKW doesn’t overheat again. The last time Heidi and I took the children to the country we sat outside Falkenhagen for two hours with nothing to do but watch the cows.”

Chapter Eleven
    The taxi he’d taken from the Olympic Village dropped him at Lützow Plaza, a busy square near a brown, stagnant canal south of the Tiergarten.
    Paul stepped out, smelling fetid water, and stood for a moment, orienting himself as he looked about slowly. He saw no lingering eyes peering at him over newspapers, no furtive men in brown suits or uniforms. He began walking east. This was a quiet, residential neighborhood, with some lovely houses and some modest. Recalling perfectly Morgan’s directions, he followed the canal for a time, crossed it and turned down Prince Heinrich Street. He soon came to a quiet road, Magdeburger Alley, lined with four- and five-story residential buildings, which reminded him of the quainter tenements on the West Side of Manhattan. Nearly all of the houses flew flags, most of them National Socialist red, white and black, and several with banners bearing the intertwined rings of the Olympics. The house he sought, No. 26, flew one of the latter. He pressed the doorbell. A moment later footsteps sounded. The curtain in a side window wafted as if in a sudden breeze. Then a pause. Metal snapped and the door opened.
    Paul