Garden of Beasts

on his first full day in Berlin, murder a man, visit several different places in the city on a mission of some sort, then return without arousing suspicion. “I am doubting this man is an athlete.”
    “So. I can’t be much help, I’m afraid.” The coach crossed his arms. “You know, Officer, I’ll bet your immigration department has information on visitors’ addresses. They keep track of everybody entering and leaving the country, don’t they? I heard you fellows in Germany are real good at that.”
    “Yes, yes, I was considered that. But, unfortunate, the information does not present a person’s address in his home. Only his nationality.”
    “Oh, tough break.”
    Kohl persisted. “What I am also been hoping: perhaps a manifest of the ship, the Manhattan passenger list? Often it is giving addresses.”
    “Ah, yeah. That I’ll bet we do have. Although you realize there were close to a thousand people on board.”
    “Please, I am understanding. But still I would most hopefully like to see it.”
    “You bet. Only . . . I sure hate to be difficult, Officer, but I think this dorm . . . you know, I think we might have diplomatic status. Sovereign territory. So, I think you’d need a search warrant.”
    Kohl remembered when a judge needed to approve the search of a suspect’s house or the demand to turn over evidence. The Weimar Constitution, creating the Republic of Germany after the War, had many such protections, most borrowed from the American. (It contained a single, rather significant flaw, though, one that Hitler seized upon immediately: the right of the president to indefinitely suspend all civil rights.)
    “Oh, I’m merely looking at a few matters here. I am having no warrant.”
    “I’d really feel better if you got one.”
    “This is a matter of certain urgency.”
    “I’m sure it is. But, hey, it might be better for you too. We sure don’t want to ruffle any feathers. Diplomatically. ‘Ruffle feathers,’ you know what I mean?”
    “I am understanding the words.”
    “So how ’bout if your boss called the embassy or the Olympic Committee. They give me the okay, then whatever you want, I’ll hand it to you on a silver platter.”
    “The okay. Yes, yes.” The U.S. embassy probably would agree, Kohl reflected, if he handled the request properly. The Americans would not want the story to circulate that akiller had gotten into Germany with their Olympic team.
    “Very good, sir,” Kohl said politely. “I am be contacting the embassy and the committee as you suggest.”
    “Good. You take care now. Hey, and good luck at the Games. Your boys’re going to give us a run for our money.”
    “I will be in attendance,” Kohl said. “I am having my tickets for more than a whole year.”
    They said good-bye and Kohl and the inspector candidate stepped outside. “We will call Horcher from the radio in the car, Janssen. He can contact the American embassy, I am sure. This could be—” Kohl stopped speaking. He’d detected a pungent smell. Something familiar, yet out of place. “Something’s wrong.”
    “What do—?”
    “This way. Quickly!” Kohl began walking fast, around the back of the main American building. The smell was of smoke, not cooking smoke, which one detected often in the summer from grilling braziers, but wood smoke from a stove, rare in July.
    “What is that word, Janssen? On the sign? I cannot make out the English.”
    “It says Showers/steam room. ”
    “No!”
    “What’s the matter, sir?”
    Kohl ran through the door into a large tiled area. The lavatory was to the left, showers to the right, and a separate door led to the steam room. It was this door that Kohl ran to. He flung it open. Inside was a stove on top of which was a large tray filled with rocks. Nearby were buckets of water, which could be ladled onto the hot rocks to produce steam. Two young Negroes in navy blue cotton exercising outfits stood at the stove, in which a fire was blazing. One, bending down to the door, had a round, handsome facewith a high hairline, the other was leaner and had thicker hair that came down farther on his forehead. The round-faced one stood and closed the metal stove door. He turned around, cocking his eyebrow toward the inspector with a pleasant smile.
    “Good afternoon, sirs,” Kohl said, once again in dreaded English. “I am being—”
    “We heard. How are you doing, Inspector? Grand place you fellows made for us here. The village, I mean.”
    “I