Alone in Berlin (Penguin Modern Classics)
47
Monday, Inspector Escherich’s Great Day
This time, Inspector Escherich had worked quickly and efficiently.
No sooner had news reached him that two postcards had been found in the eighty-man shop of the furniture makers Krause & Co. than he knew: this was the moment he had been waiting for for so long. At long last, the Hobgoblin had made a mistake. Now he was going to get him!
Within five minutes he had ordered up enough personnel to seal off the entire factory and he was rushing towards it in a Mercedes, with the Obergruppenführer himself at the wheel.
Once there, Prall was in favour of pulling all eighty men out of the shop immediately and questioning every one of them until they had established the truth, but Escherich said, ‘First get me a list of all the employees with their addresses. How soon can I have that?’
‘In five minutes. What about the men? They’re due to knock off in five minutes’ time.’
‘At the end of their shift, tell them they have to carry on working. No explanations. I want two men on every door. No one leaves the room. I want it all done as discreetly as possible; I don’t want the men to grow alarmed!’
The secretary comes back with the list. ‘The author of the cards must live in one of three streets: Chodowiecki, Jablonski, or Christburger Strasse. Which of the eighty men lives there?’
They go through the list: None! Not one!
It seemed as though Otto Quangel’s luck was holding. He was on the afternoon shift, so his name did not appear on the list.
Inspector Escherich thrust out his lower lip, quickly retracted it, and bit hard on his moustache, which he had just previously been stroking. He had been perfectly sure of himself, and he was now distinctly unnerved.
Apart from the assault on his dearly loved moustache, he showed no trace of his disappointment, saying coolly, ‘All right, let’s go through them one by one. Which of you can confirm information? Are you the head of personnel here? Okay, let’s go, Abeking, Hermann… What about him?’
They proceeded incredibly slowly. After an hour and a quarter they had got to H.
Obergruppenführer Prall kept lighting cigarettes and immediately putting them out. He began whispered conversations that trailed off after a sentence or two. He drummed on the windowpanes. Suddenly he burst out, ‘This is stupid! Why don’t I just…’
Inspector Escherich didn’t even look up. His fear of his superior had finally left him. He was going to find his man, but admitted to himself that drawing a blank on the street addresses had set him back. He didn’t care how impatient Prall got, he wasn’t going to conduct a general questioning of everyone.
‘Carry on!’
‘Kampfer, Eugen – he’s the foreman!’
‘I’m sorry, but we can rule him out. This morning at nine he hurt his hand on the planer. We called in Otto Quangel to replace him…’
‘Okay, carry on: Krull, Otto…’
‘Excuse me again, but Foreman Quangel doesn’t appear on the inspector’s list…’
‘Will you stop interrupting! How long are we going to sit here for? Quangel, that old donkey, we can forget about him!’
But Escherich, a spark of hope lighting up in him, asks, ‘Where does this Quangel live?’
‘We’ll have to check; he’s not on this shift.’
‘Well, check him then, for God’s sake! And get a move on! I thought I’d asked you for a comprehensive list!’
‘Of course we’ll check right away. But I can tell you, Inspector, Quangel’s not your man. He’s an almost senile old guy, who’s worked here for ever. We know him inside out…’
The inspector gestured dismissively. He knew how many mistakes were made by people claiming to know someone inside out.
‘Well?’ he asked the returning office boy. ‘Well!’
Not without a little ceremony, the young man intoned, ‘Foreman Quangel lives at Jablonski Strasse number…’
Escherich jumped up. With wholly uncharacteristic excitement he shouted, ‘It’s him! That’s our Hobgoblin!’
And Obergruppenführer Prall screamed, ‘All right, bring the bastard in here, and we’ll rough him up!’
Everyone was excited.
Quangel! Who would have thought it – Quangel? That old fool – it couldn’t be. But then he was the first to pick up the postcards! No wonder, if he was the one who dropped them! But why would he be such a fool as to entrap himself? Quangel – no!
And above them all, Prall’s hysterical screams, ‘Get me the son of a bitch! I want him roughed up!’
Inspector Escherich was the first to recover his composure.
‘If I might have a word with you, Obergruppenführer! Might I suggest that we first conduct a search of Quangel’s apartment?’
‘Why go to those lengths, Escherich? In the end the fellow will slip through our fingers again!’
‘No one can get out of here! But what if we find some piece of evidence in his apartment that convicts him straight off, that makes it impossible for him to deny his guilt? That would save us a lot of work. And this is the moment for that! Now, while the man and his family have no idea that he’s under suspicion…’
‘I’d have thought it was simpler to twist the man’s guts out of his body till he confesses. But do it your way: we’ll pick up his wife at the same time. I tell you this, though, Escherich, if the man tries any funny business, if he throws himself into some machinery or something, then I’ll have your guts for garters! I want to see the fellow strung up!’
‘And so you shall! I’ll have someone keep an eye on Quangel secretly through the door. The shift is to carry on, gentlemen, until we’re back – I expect we’ll be an hour or so…’