by Philip Kerr
I took the cripple-cart and examined it. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about it; it was made of wood, with a worn leather seat and four wheels taken off an old pram. It was only very gradually that I began to see things a little differently. The platform, which was meant for a legless man, was actually an artfully designed box on wheels, about forty centimeters deep, so that its occupant might have sat back on his haunches and presented his knees to the world as if they’d been the stumps of severed legs. The more I looked at the cart, the more I began to understand that the person using it hadn’t been a cripple at all but a swindler, a yokel catcher, a zhulik, a man posing as a disabled veteran for gain. There was a name painted on the inside, Prussian Emil, which sounded like an underworld name, the kind Angerstein might have used himself. I decided to speak to the disabled veterans I’d seen begging outside the station on Wittenbergplatz.
* * *
—
IT WAS TOO EARLY for the whores, but the sausage salesman was in the station entrance and he waved me over.
“Hey, copper, I was hoping I’d see you again. I remembered something that might be useful to you. That girl who was scalped. The one who used to buy snow from me. Eva something. Couple of times she had a Fritz with her. Not a client, though.”
“How do you know he wasn’t?”
“He was queer, that’s how I know. Eva said his name was Rudi something. Geise, I think. That’s it, Rudi Geise. He came on his own a couple of times with a boy who looked like a girl with a prick and bought some dope himself. Said he worked at UFA Babelsberg and that some of the movie stars liked a bit of a lift when they were filming. Which was why he usually bought a lot of stuff from me. And carried quite a bit of money in his pocket. I asked him if it was safe carrying so much coal and he showed me a knife inside his coat. Not just any knife: a big fixed blade about twenty centimeters long, with a cross guard. Like he was planning to skin a bear or something. Said it was for show. But I don’t think it was the kind of show they have at the Wintergarten, know what I mean?”
“Yes, indeed. Thanks for the tip.”
“What’s with the wheels?”
“I was looking for the two legless wonders I saw here the last time.”
“Cops moved them on. For their own safety. Because of this killer who’s been preying on them.”
“Any idea where they went?”
“You could try outside the aquarium. That’s a popular pitch. Safer there, too. At least that’s what the Schupo men said.”
“How’d they work that out?”
“No trains there. Not much noise to cover the sound of a gunshot. Just the occasional bark of a sea lion.”
* * *
—
STILL CARRYING the cripple-cart I walked north up Ansbacher Strasse and onto Kurfürstenstrasse, at the western end of which was the recently built zoo and aquarium. The two disabled veterans I was looking for were on either side of the main entrance, each positioned under the relief of one of the ancient animals that embellished the exterior. Farther down the street was a life-size iguanodon. There was something about it that reminded me of the Reichsadler, the red-legged German imperial eagle; maybe it was the dinosaur’s beak-like snout, but it might have been the fact that both the iguanodon and Germany’s empire were extinct.
As well as being a dual amputee, the first man I spoke to was blind and a bit deaf, which made asking questions a more or less pointless endeavor; it seemed unlikely that he would have seen or heard anything of much interest to me. But the other man—a veteran staff sergeant with one leg and a pair of polished wooden crutches who was sitting underneath the stegosaurus relief—looked like a better bet. He was wearing a field cap with the canvas camouflage strip—safer than the previous red, and the transitional gray tunic that was typical of men from the early part of the war. On his remaining foot, he wore an ankle boot with puttees—a lot more comfortable than jackboots; the ribbon on his tunic was for the Prussian second-class Iron Cross, worn, correctly, in the second buttonhole, which was usually the quickest way of telling if a man was faking it. He had a thick white mustache that resembled a couple of sleeping polar bears, the kind of bright blue eyes that belonged in a German jeweler’s shop window, and two well-tanned ears that were almost as large as the Metzger biscuit tin now functioning as his begging bowl. I dropped several coins into the tin and then squatted down beside him. I lit a couple of Salem cigarettes and handed him one.
“I hope you’re not here to feel sorry for me,” he said.
“I’m not even going to try, sarge.”
“Or tell me I’m a disgrace to the uniform.”
“You’re not. Any fool can see that. You get around the city much?”
“Like a Canada goose. What do you think?”
“No, I can believe it.”
“You believe that, you believe anything, which is unusual in a cop. Listen, me and Joachim, my friend over there, we’ve already been moved once today. We’re not about to get up again.”
“I am a cop. But I don’t intend trying to move you on. Besides, I don’t imagine you’re so easy to move when you don’t want to move.”
“So I guess you want to talk about Dr. Gnadenschuss.”
I pointed to his companion. “What about him?”
“He doesn’t talk so well. Not since he got a bullet through his windpipe. But I don’t mind talking. I don’t mind talking at all.”
“You’re not afraid of Gnadenschuss?”
“Were you in the trenches yourself, young man?”
“Yes.”
“Then you already know the answer to that question. Besides. I’m not going to die today. I can’t.”
“You seem very sure about that.”
“They say that on the day you die you see your name written on the Spree. And since I already looked this morning, I’m not at all worried. I’d say I’m certain to outlive this government, wouldn’t you?”
He had a little tin mug on a piece of string that was tied to one of his crutches, into which I poured a generous measure of rum, before offering him a toast.
“I’ll drink to that.”
He took the drink and I sipped from my flask.
“Anyone wave a .25-caliber automatic in your direction, lately?”
“No.”
“Anyone else you know report anything like that?”
“No.”
“What about abuse? Respectable-citizen outrage. Get any of that?”
“Plenty. Just the other day I got bawled out by some right-wing prick who thought I was a disgrace to the uniform. And once or twice from some kids. Queers from up west.” He smiled. “These days, I come prepared for almost anything.” From his puttee he drew a trench dagger, which had been meant to replace an off-duty soldier’s bayonet. “I used to say to myself, ‘How low can you get?’ Then, in Berlin, I found out. What’s that you’ve got there, anyway? Looks like some Fritz’s klutz wagon.”
“That’s exactly what it is. I found it abandoned on Wormser Strasse just a short way south of Wittenbergplatz. There’s a name inside it. Prussian Emil. I was wondering if you knew who he was, and maybe why he might have left it behind.”
“The who is easy. Prussian Emil is a drug dealer, a burglar’s achtung—his lookout—and a very occasional beggar, for the sake of appearances. He carries a bugle and gives the brass a blow if the owner or the police should unexpectedly show up while the burglary is still in progress. He was in the army and was nearly shot for desertion, but he’s not crippled, which is one reason genuine beggars like me haven’t managed to put a stop to him; the other is that he’s a member of a ring. Only don’t ask me which one. He usually gives genuine schnorrers like me a few marks to help keep us sweet. But supposing we were to inform on him to the local police or take the law into our own hands—assuming we could get near him—then we’d soon find the ring had so
mething to say about it. The why is pure speculation. If he abandoned that klutz wagon, the chances are he was obliged to leg it for some reason. Come to think of it, it’s a while since I saw him around.”
“Does he work with one man in particular? Or just anyone who pays?”
“Anyone who pays, I think.”
“Can you give me a description?”
“I’ll say one thing for him, at least, he looks like the real thing. Standard 1910 uniform with Swedish cuffs. Brown corduroy trousers. If you asked him he’d swear he was with the 248th Regiment from Württemberg. That’s deliberate and clever because he knows that if he was wearing a Prussian military uniform, there’s always a chance he might run into trouble in this town. Also a Charlotte Cross ribbon and a silver military merit medal. Dark glasses, which make him look like he’s blind. Of course, that’s when he’s working. When he’s not working, he’s thin, painfully thin. Cadaverous, even. And completely hairless. Oh, and he has a port-wine stain on his neck, like a careless waiter spilt something down his shirt collar.”
“You know where I could find him? Or just look for him?”
“No. Besides, for a drink, a cigarette, and a few coins, I think you did pretty well out of me, copper.”
“Would it make any difference if I put some paper in your box?”
“Probably not. Look, there’s a club called Sing Sing, like the American prison. They say they’ve even got an electric chair, just for laughs. You could look for him there, if you dare. It’s the kind of place you need a steel undershirt. Just don’t say I mentioned it.”
I nodded and started to walk away. “There’s a password to get in,” he added. “That has to be worth a couple of marks.”
I put a couple of notes in his hand and he saluted me and told me the password.
“It was nice talking to you,” I said. “If you think of anything else, my name is Bernhard Gunther and I’m at the Alex.”
“Sergeant Johann Tetzel.”
* * *
—
ERNST ENGELBRECHT had left the Berlin police but he was frequently to be found behind his regular table at the Zum, in the arches of the S-Bahn station near the Alex. It was an atmospheric place. The owner, Lothar Kuckenburg, was an ex-cop and he’d decorated the walls with photographs of Schupo men and police athletic clubs. In pride of place, next to the till, was a picture of Lothar shaking hands with a previous Schupo commander, Hugo Kaupisch. Until he’d left, Engelbrecht had been an expert on local crime syndicates, and figuring he still was, I’d sought him out to ask what he knew about Angerstein. He might have disliked Jews and, of course, one Jew in particular, but he and I got on well enough and he never seemed to mind me picking his brains; indeed he always seemed to welcome it.
“Bernhard Gunther,” he said.
“Buy you a beer?”
“Sure. I’ll take a beer. And maybe an explanation.”
“About what?”
“The Schrader-Verband. What were you doing there?”
“I pay my dues.”
“Yes. But there’s the Schrader-Verband and then there’s a drinks party with the right wing of the Schrader-Verband. They’re very different things. One’s a union and the other’s a new way of looking at things.”
“Maybe I wanted to hear Arthur Nebe talk before I made up my mind about that.”
“And?”
“I’ll take a drink with more or less anyone. Listen to anyone, anywhere. Work with anyone if it gets the job done. But when it comes to politics, I’m a natural independent.”
“Fair enough. But very soon that will be a luxury you can’t afford.”
“I’m a cop. There are lots of luxuries I can’t afford. But that doesn’t include principles.”
“You know there are financial advantages for a cop in Berlin to be allied with the Nazis. A cop like you for instance. Expenses. Walking-around money.”
“Cops get paid to take risks not money.”
“Oh sure, but this isn’t a bribe. This is just a top up. I could speak to someone and work something out for you. A little dash of raspberry sauce in your beer, you might say.”
“I never did like the taste of that. I like my beer just the way it comes out of the tap. Talking of which.”
I went to the bar and brought back some beers.
“So what can I do for you, Bernie?”
“Tell me about the rings. And Herr Angerstein.”
“Any particular reason you mention him?”
“No reason other than he’s a gangster. Last I heard it’s men like him who are our client base.”
“There are at least eighty-five underworld clubs in Berlin,” he told me. “Strictly speaking, Angerstein—his given name, by the way, is Erich, in case you’re wondering—isn’t a member of any of them, for the simple reason that he’s part of a syndicate that supervises a large number of these clubs. The Middle German Ring. They impose rules on the clubs, control their activities, and exact a financial tribute that is supposed to provide legal assistance for club members. I haven’t met him myself; he’s very private. But from what I’ve heard, he’s to be feared, the kind of man other criminals would obey without question. That makes him very dangerous. Every year he hosts a banquet for the clubs at the Eden Hotel and over a thousand men and women attend. Even a few cops are invited. The Middle German maintains good relations with all the top police councilors and quite a few politicians. Which makes him a man of some influence. If you’re planning to have any dealings with him, son, be careful. That man has very sharp teeth.”
“Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Almost as sharp as Arthur Nebe’s.”
“Why should that worry me?”
“Just don’t get too independent, Bernie. When a cop gets too independent he’s got no friends. And when he’s got no friends, his luck runs out.”
* * *
—
“AND WHERE THE HELL have you been, Gunther?”
Ernst Gennat was wearing a new suit, but his temper was badly frayed. His eyes were bloodshot and restless, his face was red, and there was a whole shingle beach of sweat on his brow. As usual his pink fists were raised in front of his substantial belly, as if he was ready to fight someone off: me perhaps. His rasping, bass tenor voice was sounding just the one note, a sour one, as if he’d been gargling with vinegar.
“I’ve been looking for you, Gunther. According to your diary you should be here. And you weren’t. You know the way we work. If you’re out on a case you’re supposed to write it up on the chart outside my office. So that I can keep track of you bastards. At least that’s the theory.”
“Sorry, boss. I was scratching an itch. I wanted to take another look at the place where Eva Angerstein’s body was found.”
“Drinking in a bar more like. And didn’t you hear the chief’s order? We’re to lay off the Winnetou cases until we’ve caught Dr. Gnadenschuss. Besides, Winnetou hasn’t killed in a while.”
“You noticed that, too? As a matter of fact, he hasn’t killed since Dr. Gnadenschuss started work. Maybe that should tell us something.”
“It tells me you’re not listening to the orders. Now, listen—no, don’t interrupt, this is important—I want you to equip yourself with a criminalistics kit and then get over to the Mosse building in Friedrichstadt. Apparently the Tageblatt has received another letter from Dr. Gnadenschuss, and this time a medal, too. There’s a fingerprint on the letter and I want you to go and take a look at it before the world and his dog have contaminated any possible evidence. Ask for the editor in chief, Theodor Wolff. He’s expecting you. And for Christ’s sake suck some mints before you speak to him. Your breath smells like a brewery.”
“None of the other papers have received it?”
“Not as far as I’m aware.”
“Can I take a car from the pool?”
; “No. Take the tram. It’s quicker at this time of day. And probably safer for a soak like you. Then, as soon as you’re back here, I want you to interview some of these spinners who’ve walked in off the streets to claim responsibility for the Gnadenschuss murders. We’ve got at least five of them locked up in the cells right now.” He shrugged. “One day someone in this department is going to listen to me when I advise against doing something.”
I caught a number 8 from Alexanderplatz going west to Potsdam Station, where I got off and walked northeast. The Mosse publishing group owned a stable of magazines and newspapers, of which the Berliner Tageblatt, with a daily circulation of a quarter of a million, was easily the most important. Even if you didn’t buy it, nearly everyone in Berlin, including me, managed to read the Tageblatt; it was essential reading for anyone of a vaguely liberal disposition and only the fact that the paper’s owner—Hans Lachmann-Mosse—and editor—Theo Wolff—were both Jews probably prevented Germany’s conservative right wing from reading it, too.
The building where the Mosse group was headquartered was more like a fortress, complete with rusticated walls, enormous iron-bound oak gates, and stone balustrades, which probably explained why it had been taken over and fortified by the right-wing Freikorps during the Spartacist uprising of 1919. It was even said that several left-wingers had been executed in the courtyard where now there were dozens of bicycles awaiting the men who would deliver the papers to all corners of the city. Stacked nearby were several giant rolls of newsprint. Just to see the place was to conclude that a free press in Germany was something that needed to be defended at all costs.
I showed my warrant disc to the burly doormen at the castle gates and an elevator carried me to the upper floor where the Tageblatt was put together. In the enormous reception area, a messenger boy took my name and then went to find someone while I sat down on a bench along the back wall and amused myself by watching brass capsules drop out of a pneumatic tube into a net next to the main door. It made being a journalist look a lot easier than being a detective. Eventually the boy returned and led me down a long hall in which a whole crowd of trolls, gnomes, and goblins might have paid court to some urban mountain-king.