A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2) Read online

  ALSO BY FRANK GOLDAMMER

  Max Heller, Dresden Detective Series

  The Air Raid Killer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 dtv Verlagsgesellschaft GmbH & Co. KG, Munich/Germany

  Translation copyright © 2018 by Steve Anderson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Tausend Teufel by dtv Verlagsgesellschaft in Germany in 2016. Translated from German by Steve Anderson. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2018.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503904323 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1503904326 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781503904095 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1503904091 (paperback)

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  First edition

  CONTENTS

  February 6, 1947: Morning

  February 6, 1947: Late Morning

  February 6, 1947: Late Afternoon

  February 7, 1947: Early Morning

  February 7, 1947: Midmorning

  February 7, 1947: Afternoon

  February 8, 1947: Morning

  February 8, 1947: Late Morning

  February 8, 1947: Midday

  February 8, 1947: Early Afternoon

  February 8, 1947: Afternoon

  February 8, 1947: Evening

  February 8, 1947: Night

  February 9, 1947: Morning

  February 9, 1947: Late Morning

  February 9, 1947: Midday

  February 9, 1947: Early Afternoon

  February 9, 1947: Evening

  February 9, 1947: Late Evening

  February 10, 1947: Early Morning

  February 10, 1947: Late Morning

  February 10, 1947: Early Afternoon

  February 10, 1947: Early Afternoon

  February 10, 1947: Late Afternoon

  February 10, 1947: Night

  February 11, 1947: Early Morning

  February 11, 1945: Midday

  February 11, 1947: Afternoon

  February 11, 1947: Evening

  February 11, 1947: Shortly Before Midnight

  February 12, 1947: After Midnight

  February 12, 1947: Early Morning

  February 12, 1947: Late Afternoon

  February 12, 1947: Late Afternoon

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  February 6, 1947: Morning

  Max Heller climbed out of the car and shoved his hands into the pockets of his long overcoat. His breath froze, his eyes watering from the cold. The days-old snow along the path was packed down and slick, and the cardboard cutouts serving as his shoe insoles couldn’t stop the chill from creeping into his feet. His face was red. He had shaved using hard soap and water that was far too cold despite the pains he’d taken to thaw it. His stomach was rumbling. He had saved the slice of bread Karin had left him for breakfast so he could eat it at lunchtime with the thin soup served by the public kitchens. At least he’d have one real meal that way instead of two meager ones. This evening, Karin was making gruel yet again—as she did nearly every night. The stuff downright disgusted Heller by now, though he knew he should be thankful. Frau Marquart, who’d taken them in after they were bombed out of their home in ’45, happened to know a milkman.

  He leaned forward to look back inside the black Ford Eifel, then grunted with annoyance and slammed the door shut. He had been in such a hurry that he’d left his scarf on his desk. So he pushed up the collar of his overcoat and pulled his flat cap down tight. It really was bitterly cold. If their kitchen window thermometer was to be believed, it had been −13 degrees before sunrise. No wonder the pipes were frozen. The ice had spread across their bedroom windows overnight.

  Heller took a few careful steps on the slick road. A throng of people blocked his view. A Russian military truck blocked Bautzner Strasse, which ran parallel to the Elbe River, so that even the streetcar had come to a standstill. Many of the riders had exited the overcrowded cars to gawk. Yet no one dared complain to the Russians.

  Werner Oldenbusch climbed out of the Ford. He slammed the driver’s door shut, rubbed his hands, and jumped from one foot to the other.

  “Comrade Oberkommissar!” a cop called out to Heller. A member of the new People’s Police, the cop wore a German Army overcoat dyed brown. He shoved through the crowd gathered on the steep slope above the Elbe, then saluted Heller.

  Heller saluted by briefly raising his fingers to his flat cap. He’d steadfastly refused to wear a peaked cap. He was a police detective, not a military man. He’d gladly accepted his new overcoat, on the other hand. Karin could now wear his old one, something sorely needed even in their apartment.

  Snow-covered meadows stretched below the slope. The snow wasn’t very deep, and tips of grass blades poked up out of the white. Out on the Elbe, a little over two hundred yards away, little ice floes drifted by.

  “How long have they been here?” Heller asked, glancing at the truck with the red star on the driver’s door.

  “Just arrived. Won’t be much left for you, I’m afraid.” The cop added an apologetic shrug.

  Heller had figured as much. He still wanted to get a better look at the victim. “Clear a path for me. Werner, come on.”

  “Out of the way!” the cop shouted at the crowd. “Get a move on, pronto!”

  The onlookers shoved each other out of the way.

  “Wait!” Heller shouted at two Soviet Army soldiers about to remove a body with a stretcher. The deceased wore a Soviet Armed Forces uniform, his face covered by a uniform jacket.

  Heller raised a hand and blocked the soldiers’ path. “Stoi! Police detective.”

  The two Russians stood still and looked to their superior, a young man with Asian features who forcefully waved a hand and ordered the dead man onto the truck. He turned to Heller.

  “Not your job, Comrade. Our job. Do svidaniya!”

  Heller let it go. There was no point in arguing.

  “Where was the corpse found?” he asked the cop instead.

  “I’ll show you,” the cop said in a helpful tone, then walked toward the slope along the river. He pointed at a cluster of bushes about three yards below them.

  “That’s why no one found him sooner,” Heller said, thinking aloud.

  “A man went to relieve himself, found this instead. It was already good and light by then. Around eight or so. He was lying headfirst, and his legs—”

  “One second,” Heller said, barely stopping the cop from climbing down to the crime scene to describe it all. He needed Oldenbusch, his forensics man.

  Heller used his official voice. “Kommissar Oldenbusch, come over here, please.” He pointed at a few drops of blood in the snow. “Think you can get a photo in this cold?”

  Oldenbusch nodded. “I think so.”

  Heller looked around, frowning at the crowd that refused to disperse. The Russian truck was still there. Restrained amusement was spreading among the onlookers. Heller turned his attenti
on back to the bushes, warily eyeing the steep incline covered with the Soviet soldiers’ footprints. They’d carelessly trampled all over the blood-soaked snow.

  “A great deal of blood loss,” Heller said. Dark tracks led down to the bush. Heller took a few steps back from the top of the slope to determine whether a person could only see the bushes from the street if they were standing right at the edge.

  “The man who found the body—where is he?” Heller asked the cop.

  “He’s gone; he had to get to work. We got his personal details.”

  Heller looked at a dark patch in the snow. “Were you able to see the corpse? Could you tell the cause of death?”

  The truck still hadn’t started. Heller considered taking a look, but that young Soviet officer had expressly forbidden it.

  The policeman nodded. “A stab to the carotid artery. Nothing could’ve saved him. I used to see that kind of thing a lot.”

  Heller knew what he meant. During the war.

  “Russians having a dispute, I’m guessing,” the cop said. “See it every day. Get drunk and start brawling. Sometimes it doesn’t stop there.”

  Heller nodded impatiently—he wasn’t asking for the man’s opinion.

  The truck’s engine started, then died again. The soldiers were bickering while the officer stood next to the truck and smoked.

  “Do their officers do it too?” Oldenbusch said. “Seeing how the dead man’s an officer.”

  “Why not?” The cop shrugged. “Hey, get away from there!” he shouted at a couple of boys trying to climb down the slope to catch a glimpse of the large pool of blood that had frozen into the snow.

  Heller pulled out his notebook and pencil and did a brief sketch, just in case. He didn’t always trust Oldenbusch’s old camera to work in these temperatures.

  “I’m assuming someone attacked him here along the street. He stumbled, then fell down and bled to death in the bushes. Werner, you should try looking for clues regardless.”

  Oldenbusch sniffled, felt his way down the slope a few yards, snapped a few more photos. It took him some effort to climb back up. “If we at least had a footprint from the dead man, I could try to figure out what direction he was coming from.”

  Heller took another look at the army truck. “Couldn’t you get a shot of his boot soles? They’re still there.”

  “I’ll go ask our Russian comrades,” Oldenbusch muttered and marched off. Heller shoved his hands back into his overcoat pockets and took a long look at the river valley. The early-morning sun was shining on the city ruins on the other side of the Elbe, making the snow-dusted remains of the walls and mountains of bricks glow pink.

  “It’s almost pretty,” the cop said.

  Heller looked at him, eyebrows raised. The cop pointed at the ruins to clarify. Heller wasn’t sure if he should feel angry or amused, so he just shook his head. People said the strangest things.

  “That was pointless,” Oldenbusch told Heller when he returned. Right then the truck’s engine started behind them with a roar, and a cloud of black fumes shot from the exhaust pipe. Some onlookers applauded, practically mocking their occupiers. The Soviets weren’t exactly well liked and never bothered to try. They were perfectly entitled to that, Heller knew, but that didn’t make it right. While waiting in line at the central exchange recently, a woman had whispered to him, “With Adolf, we always had butter.” He didn’t respond. Where would he even start? There was too much to say.

  The truck was now driving away, and the streetcar driver rang his bell for the passengers to climb back on.

  “The Russians never try to understand,” Oldenbusch said, sounding resigned. “No point wasting another second here. There’s that coal dealer who was held up. Maybe we go look into that instead?”

  “I guess you’re probably right, Werner.”

  “I said get away from there!” the cop shouted again. “Snotty little brats.”

  Heller looked down the slope. Farther below, where the bushes got thicker, a couple of curious boys were hiding out. Heller could see a few people gathering kindling among the bushes. Every twig and scrap of wood was needed for making fires. People were even stealing railings and display cases, garden chairs, fencing. Heller had seen others cutting down trees in Grosser Garten park. And winter still had a long way to go. Down at the bottom, along Körnerweg path and the broad meadow along the river, more people were scouring the snow, hoping to find clover or dandelions. The sight depressed him.

  “Come on, Werner, let’s get out of here. Once the streetcar’s gone.”

  “Should I keep guarding the crime scene?” asked the cop.

  Heller thought for a moment, then shook his head. The Soviets always played their cards close to their chests. They hadn’t even let them take a photo of the dead man’s boot soles.

  “Either report back to your precinct or continue your beat,” he told the cop. “Have a nice day. Dismissed!”

  The man saluted and headed off. Heller went to the car and climbed in. Oldenbusch landed on the driver’s seat with all his weight and started the engine.

  Heller glared at a few onlookers who had rushed over to the spot where the body was found just as soon as the cop left.

  “As if they haven’t seen enough misery,” he muttered, though lately he’d been trying to refrain from such comments.

  “Well, at least the sun’s shining,” Oldenbusch said, hoping to brighten his boss’s mood, and put the car into gear.

  Heller placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s wait till the streetcar’s gone.”

  Oldenbusch leaned back, crossing his arms. They waited. The first streetcar had filled up again. Another one had arrived behind it, and a third coming the other direction had halted at the specified stop, according to schedule. Many riders got out, and most of them stopped to stare at the people gathered at the edge of the slope.

  Suddenly Heller noticed a person who at first looked to be pushing aimlessly through the throngs but upon closer inspection was heading straight for the slope. The individual clearly wasn’t interested in the crowd. The person wore an overcoat that must have been German Army issue, and he moved with surprising agility despite his corpulent appearance. But the coat was simply stuffed, it seemed. Heller tapped Oldenbusch’s shoulder and pointed.

  It turned out to be a young woman, practically a girl. She passed right by their unmarked car, and Heller had to turn all the way around to track her. She soon stopped and glanced down the slope. Then she descended the incline with careful steps.

  Heller opened the car door and stepped out. The young woman had already climbed down ten yards, passing the bush where the dead man had lain, and stood near a hedge. She bent down and tried to drag something out. It was a backpack. One of the shoulder straps was caught on the thorny twigs.

  “Halt!” Heller shouted. The woman looked up, startled.

  “Drop it!” Heller ordered.

  Oldenbusch had stepped next to him. “Think it belongs to the Russian?”

  “Could be,” Heller said as he rushed down the slope.

  “Police! Leave that where it is.” When Heller reached the woman, he grabbed at the backpack, but she wouldn’t give it up. She pulled and tugged and eventually got the pack free; Heller’s numb fingers couldn’t hold on. She tried to hurry farther down the slope, but she slipped and fell. Oldenbusch caught up to Heller, sliding on the snow-crusted soil as he tried to keep balance. The woman had gotten back up, but Oldenbusch reached her and yanked the backpack.

  With a furious snarl, the woman let go and stumbled down the steep terrain, half sliding, half running. Once she reached the bottom, she looked around, then ran down Körnerweg path toward the city center. Oldenbusch followed her for a good hundred yards, the backpack flailing in his hand, but it was clear that he wasn’t going to catch her.

  “Let her go, Werner,” Heller shouted. It annoyed him that his junior partner hadn’t been able to apprehend the girl. He would’ve liked to know who she was.

  Ol
denbusch returned and sighed after he made it back up the steep and slippery elevation. Still panting, he handed the backpack to the patiently waiting Heller.

  Its weight surprised Heller. He set the pack down and pulled open the drawstring. He gasped.

  Two dull eyes stared at him. He saw a blood-encrusted nose, thin hair, and ears leaking blood that had coagulated some time ago. It was the head of a man.

  Heller let out a long, deep breath. Then he pulled the pack all the way open and took a closer look at the head without touching it.

  Oldenbusch, watching over his shoulder, let out a low whistle. Heller glared at him.

  “Sorry,” Oldenbusch said.

  “Is this backpack Soviet in origin?”

  Oldenbusch shook his head, bent down, held up the underside of the top flap, and pointed to a patch showing a hand with a raised index finger and the word “Deuter.”

  “It’s German.”

  “Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” Heller stood, looking around.

  “And look here, Max, it’s got initials sewn on the tag. ‘LK,’ maybe ‘SK.’”

  Heller pulled out his notebook and wrote that down, though he knew that such a detail could mean little these days, when everyone either stole or took whatever they could find only to trade it soon after for something to eat.

  “He could have lost it when he fell,” Oldenbusch surmised. “And the backpack kept rolling.”

  “There any blood on it, from the Russian?” Heller asked.

  Oldenbusch inspected the pack on all sides before shaking his head. “Maybe he dropped it when he was attacked.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “She happens to be passing by, spots the pack, tries to take it,” Oldenbusch offered.

  Heller took a good look at the backpack, carefully lifting it. No fresh blood had seeped into the fabric even though the head wasn’t wrapped. He put the pack back down. Why would a Soviet officer be out on the streets at night, carrying a severed head in a backpack? Why was he killed too? And why had the murderer left the backpack lying there? Could he have not known what was inside? Or could the two things simply have ended up in the same place by chance—one dead Soviet officer and a backpack with a severed head? Hard to accept that.