The torqued man, p.27
The Torqued Man, page 27
I would have been relieved, but two things unnerved me. First, how had my blackout curtain been raised a week ago when I hadn’t been there in months? And second, why had the Kripo and perhaps the Gestapo become involved in a basic ordinance infraction that should have been a matter for the Ordnungspolizei? They must have suspected me of hiding someone.
“Forgive me, Officers. I must have raised it to clean the windows last time I was there, which, come to think of it, was probably closer to a week than two weeks ago. I’m duly embarrassed that I could have been so careless but will gladly pay the fine to compensate the Volk for my unintended thoughtlessness.”
“Three infractions carry a mandatory ten-day period in custody,” said one of them, as though challenging me to have a witty repartee to that. Then, after the threat had hung in the air long enough: “You’re quite lucky that only two reports were filed.”
“Yes, Officer. Very lucky indeed. I promise I’ll see to the curtain immediately and remit payment to the Wannsee constabulary precinct posthaste.”
Just when I thought my bluff had worked and they were losing interest, the young Kripo detective, who had been quiet and smiling all the while, piped up.
“Do you remember me, Herr De Groot? You were going by ‘Herr Fluss’ at the time. I don’t suppose you have anything more to tell me about the disappearance of Archibald Crean now, do you?”
I flexed my toes as hard as I could to channel the blood away from my head and keep my expression mild. “Detective, I’m sure you can understand that I was obligated, for reasons of state security, to present to you under my required alias, but I assure you I spoke the truth. I had nothing to do with Mr. Crean or whatever happened to him.”
“And what about Frank Finn?”
“Like I told you, the man took a trip to Copenhagen, and I haven’t heard from him since. Let’s just say, gentlemen,” I said, chancing another bluff, “Mr. Finn traveled there on confidential matters of intelligence, and, unless you wish to undermine the war effort, I urge you to desist from inquiring further.”
The young detective looked down at his notes, which I took as a sign of victory.
“Your niece died at the Brandenburg State Welfare Institute in December 1940, yes?”
His question knocked all the feigned bluster right out of me. They saw the confusion blossom across my face.
“She was in the care of Dr. Hans Heinze,” he said. “The same doctor who was murdered almost a year ago, along with his nurse.” Did I happen to know anything about that, he asked in a pleasant tone.
I told them I vaguely recalled reading of the nurse killings and that a doctor had also been killed as collateral damage, though I hadn’t realized it was the same doctor as Gretchen’s. But wasn’t I angry about my niece’s death, he suggested.
“I was upset, if that’s what you mean. The way people are upset when a loved one dies.”
They all smiled at one another—a gesture more chilling and sinister than any form of interrogation.
“Of course,” said the young detective, his eyes twinkling into mine.
“Are we all done here, Lipke?” asked one of the twins.
The detective nodded. “For the moment.”
The other birdman told me to stay nearby in case they had more questions for me in the coming days. Then, as a parting shot: “In the meantime, lower that blackout curtain.”
Something is wrong. Deeply wrong. They will soon uncover the truth of my connection to Pike and figure out what happened to Crean. But can they really believe I had something to do with the death of the doctor who murdered Gretchen?
Oh, but that’s not all! My God, how could I forget? This is the madness of narrative. What an illusory sense of order! As though we experience life as a meaningful unfolding, when in fact it is a never-ending series of trapdoors.
I drove out to Wannsee to shut the stupid blackout curtain and erase any lingering signs of Pike’s occupancy, in case they decided to search the house. I was glad I had gotten rid of my father’s collection when I did. Many of the roads had been blocked for weeks on account of the rubble, but thankfully the Potsdamer Chaussee had been repaired enough for use.
When I arrived at the cottage, it was untouched, save for the raised curtain. I was usually meticulous about such things and couldn’t understand how I could have neglected to lower it. As far as I could tell, there was no trace of Pike’s inhabitance. I had been anxious that he might have left behind his false identity papers, but there was nothing there. Nothing in the closet or under the bed. The only things in the pantry were a pile of Vitamult bars, which seemed to have bred and multiplied on the shelf.
I surveyed my sister’s home, host to so many deaths in recent years, and my eye caught at the urn on the mantel. I don’t know what compelled me, since I had no reason to suspect that it contained anything other than the dregs of my niece’s short and unlucky life. Perhaps its position on the mantel was slightly different from how I last remembered it.
In any event, something drew me to it, and I lifted the urn. It was surprisingly heavy. Too heavy. I opened the lid and peered inside. In it was a rolled manuscript, wrapped in wax paper like fresh meat from the butcher, lying on a bed of Gretchen’s ashes. I undid the wrapping and read the title page: Finn McCool in the Bowels of Teutonia: Concerning His Murderous Exploits in Berlin.
What in God’s name has Frank Pike left me?
Finn McCool in the Bowels of Teutonia
42
Eine Spritze
All was quiet at Villa Morell. Presumably, the good doctor and his wife were abed. After all, it was almost midnight, and Finn could well imagine how tending to the Führer’s corporeal upkeep tuckered a man out.
He surveyed the property. The animal-secretions business had been good to Morell. It was an Italianate monstrosity, no doubt built by a nineteenth-century sewing-machine mogul or mattress king who fancied himself a doge. With pedimented windows, a rooftop balustrade, and a belvedere for taking in the private lakefront view from on high, the only thing that broke the spell of Venetian splendor was the swastika flapping limply above the front lawn.
But security at his palazzo was remarkably lax. No halberd-hefting sentries, no ferocious mastiffs prowling the grounds. Not even a light, save for a dim glow on the second floor. A hallway night-light perhaps.
Finn, giddy with thoughts of plunging his dagger into the fattest belly of the Reich, went to the French doors facing the lake and set to work with his pick.
It took a few fumbling tries to revive the muscle memory, but as all things learned in childhood can never be forgotten, he soon heard the click of the latch.
Just then the floodlight switched on.
Finn jumped back into the dark.
A minute later, the door opened. “You’re early!” snapped a woman’s voice at him in Teutonian.
Finn remained frozen, unsure whether he should acknowledge his existence.
“Alright, let me have a look at you,” said the voice.
Whoever she was expecting, thought Finn, it certainly wasn’t him.
“Well, hurry up, then. I haven’t got all night.” As she spoke, her face came into the light. She was a comely woman, the doctor’s wife. As comely as they come, in fact—silk wrap falling off her shoulders, hair up in a seductive heap, and the haughty, well-preserved face of a wealthy actress, with dark eyes, fine lips, and a nose he wanted to suck.
Finn stepped into the light, bracing himself for the inevitable confusion and screams he would have to stifle.
But instead of a scream, the woman only let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Alright,” she said. “I suppose you’ll do. Though you hardly look like a ‘Mediterranean Brigand.’”
And with that, she harried him inside, leading him through darkened rooms and up a grand staircase.
“I’m taking twenty percent off the price, and you can tell the service if they don’t like it, then they should stop the phony advertising. What’s your name, anyhow?”
“Francisco,” mumbled Finn, still trying to find his bearings in this strange game, though he was beginning to catch the scent.
“Well, at least the name’s believable. But if you’re a Sicilian pirate, then I’m Hermann Göring.”
Finn assured her she wasn’t, though he could speak to her in Iberian tongues if she wished.
“Please do. Your German gives me a headache.”
He followed her into a sumptuous bedroom, where two large candles were burning beside the canopy bed.
“Now, take off your clothes and put these on.” She handed Finn a silk tunic and a red satin neckerchief and disappeared behind a Japanese screen.
Events were not unfolding as Finn had envisioned. His mind was set on justice. He had a foe to vanquish, a war to win.
Mrs. Morell tossed her wrap over the edge of the screen.
But wasn’t this a plausible step in that direction? After all, he could use her to get close to Morell.
“What about your husband?” he asked, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Away at war,” came the reply from behind the screen.
Finn frowned. Had his intelligence been wrong? But surely as reputable an organ as the Völkischer Beobachter printed only the truth. If Hitler was back in Berlin, Morell must have come with him. Perhaps he hadn’t informed the missus?
“Come on, let’s see what you’re working with,” said the doctor’s wife, who now stood before him in all her glory, save for a pair of black boots that laced so far past the knee, they grazed the curls of her crotch. She was a ferocious beauty, such that it defied Finn’s powers of cognition to picture her mounted by that fat slob husband of hers. No wonder she sought the comforts of a gigolo.
Never one to disobey a woman in such circumstances, Finn did as instructed. He sloughed off his trousers and let her admire his horn, which began to crack and sway with vital sap.
“Not half bad,” she said, biting her fingers. “A bit gnarly, but not bad at all.”
She helped Finn tie the neckerchief round his head, and then brought out a length of nautical rope.
“And what’s that for?” he asked.
“To tie you up,” said the doctor’s wife, like it was a stupid question.
Finn eyed the rope warily. Images of vile smut along with memories from the Spanish pit flooded his vision.
“Oh, don’t tell me this is your first time,” she scoffed. “Now, give me those hands.”
Finn held out his hands tentatively. “Just so long as we’re clear, I don’t go in for laceration, suffocation, or—and I’m sure I need not mention it here—defecation.”
“Well, you’ll just have to hope I honor your wishes, won’t you?” she said, securing Finn’s hands and tying them expertly to the tall canopy bedpost he stood beside. “Because now you’re my pirate prisoner. And you are currently held fast belowdecks while my husband, the captain, is asleep. You’re being transported back to the imperial court to stand trial for the hundreds of men you killed and the many thousands of women you raped. But not before I’ve had a chance to have my way with you. Understood?”
“Todo entendido,” said Finn, jumping into the role. He was a quick study in these arts, and, before long, he and Mrs. Morell were sniffing and licking each other in all the choice spots.
Finn cut a swath through her fur with his tongue while she stood on the bed. Then she got down on the floor and blew a fair tune on his horn. But, ever the actress, it was the sound of her own voice and sight of her own reflection that brought her the most pleasure. She told him how angry the captain would be if he found out what a terrible slut his wife was. How fallen she was for enjoying his reprobate cock, his terrible cock, which had punctured countless maidenheads and ripped through the guts of so many innocent girls. How she would sooner kill herself than bear a miscreant sired from his infernal seed, a swarthy degenerate for whom the gallows were too good. And she did this all while staring at an image of herself in the full-length mirror. Finn humored her by muttering amorous threats about splitting her in twain and filling her so full of pox she’d rot from the inside out. These played well enough, and she took no undue advantage of his vulnerability, save for a few bum slaps and scrotal tugs. All was shaping up to be a most agreeable, albeit kitschy, bout of coitus.
He was hilt deep in the doctor’s wife, bringing matters to a climax, when a man appeared in the doorway.
Mrs. Morell let out a shriek and uncorked herself. “Who the hell are you?” she cried.
“I am Stefanos? From the service?” said a bronze, curly-headed Greek with a confused smile. “Sorry, I knock at the back door like you said, but no one answer and the door is no lock, so I just follow the sound here.”
“What on earth are you talking about? I only ordered one of you.”
“Yes, that was me,” said Stefanos. “Lotte says to me you are in mood for Sicilian bandit.”
His gaze, followed by Mrs. Morell’s, fell on Finn. “Then who the hell are you?” she asked, facing her erstwhile pirate ravager and his drooping horn.
“Sorry, is this still part of the role play?” asked Finn. But Mrs. Morell failed to find the humor in it. He was trying to assure her this was all a silly little misunderstanding, one he could clear up if only she’d untie him and let him fetch his wallet, when the doctor’s wife cut him off and screamed at the top of her lungs: “Theo!! Komm raus! Schnell!!”
Just then, the door behind the full-length mirror flew open and out stomped the blubberous, exposed form of Dr. Theodor Morell.
It was really him. Face-to-face. The Poisonous Mushroom.
“Theo, this asshole’s an impostor! A pretty good one, but an impostor all the same!”
Morell narrowed his eyes at Finn.
“I’m calling the police!” said Mrs. Morell, who now felt genuinely violated.
“No, no, dear. Let’s not be rash. We don’t need to bother the police with this. Besides, that would create difficulties for the service, and we don’t want to make trouble for Stefanos here. Isn’t that right, young man?”
Stefanos nodded uncertainly. His mind was no doubt clouded by the numerous rolls of flesh that poured out from Morell’s open robe—identical to his wife’s and yet a study in contrast. Beneath it was a pair of sweat-soaked women’s knickers, all but hidden in the overhang of his gut.
“Liebchen, why don’t you take Stefanos downstairs and pay him for his trouble. Meanwhile, I’ll have a word with our impostor here.”
Mrs. Morell gathered her robe and left with the Greek gigolo.
“Oh,” he called after her. “And bring up some of that Baumkuchen when you come back. With cream!”
Morell shut the door and approached Finn, who had been fingering the knots of his bindings to no avail.
“So,” said Morell, with evident satisfaction. “I saw you fucking my wife.”
The man smelled rancid. A film of sweat shone on his face and chest, no doubt from all the furious wanking he’d been doing behind the mirror.
“That seems to have been by mutual design, sir. Though, technically speaking, I did not ejaculate, so I’m not sure it counts as a proper cornute.”
“But you didn’t come here to fuck my wife, did you?”
“Truth be told, I did not,” said Finn. “Though I was more than happy to oblige. In fact, I won’t even charge you for the service, like that strapping Hellene surely would have.”
“If you did not come here to fuck my wife,” asked the doctor, tilting his head at Finn like a curious Hund, “then why did you come?”
“I’m collecting donations for the orphan fund.”
Morell chuckled, as he went to pour himself a drink from the boudoir’s sideboard. “After midnight?”
Finn strained against his bindings, but there was no loosening them. The doctor’s wife had lashed him tight to the mast. “Charity never sleeps, Herr Doktor.”
Morell, who was chipping at a block of ice, paused. “So, you know who I am?”
“But of course,” said Finn, looking him squarely in the eyes. “You are the Master of Injections. Der Spritzenmeister. The most important physician in all of Teutonia.”
Morell gave a slight bow. “And whom do I have the honor of receiving into my home and into the warmest recesses of my wife? And, please,” he said, twirling the ice pick between his fingers, “let’s dispense with the raillery.”
“The name’s Crean, sir, Archibald Crean. A native son of Éire, as you might have sussed from my distinctive grasp of Teutonian. I apologize for the violation and subterfuge. I assure you they were unintended. I simply found myself swept up into your good wife’s theatrics and didn’t want to disappoint. In truth, I came here in the dead of night because I had heard rumor of your return and wanted to seize the opportunity to put to you a business proposition. You see, I’ve had a number of dealings with your colleagues in the medical profession, men of discerning taste, who spoke of you in only the highest terms.”
Morell squinted at Finn, looking for the deceit. But his curiosity had been piqued. “Go on.”
“I’ll get right to it, Herr Doktor. I deal in erotic photographs. And I had it on good authority that you are an aficionado of such pleasures. And, well, understanding that you are usually busy attending to your—if I may speak frankly—illustrious patient, in what I can only imagine are highly secure environs with few material comforts or sensual delights, I thought perhaps you would be interested in taking some of my wares with you. I now realize I went about things far too rashly, and again I apologize, but my judgment was clouded by a sense of urgency and a fanatical enthusiasm to be of service to you and the Reich.”
Morell took in this torrent of speech, mulling it over as he scratched his chins with the ice pick. Then, surveying his captive, who still sported the silk neckerchief and tunic and stood naked from the waist down, said, “So, you are the Irishman I have been hearing about.”
“Precisely, sir. At your service.”
“And these wares, as you call them, I suppose you have them here?”
“Of course. They’re in the breast pocket of my coat, just over there on the far side of the bed.”
