by Philip Kerr
His makeshift laboratory was easily identifiable from the BMW motorcycle parked immediately outside. It was one of the larger huts on the outer perimeter of army headquarters at Krasny Bor. I knew Buhtz had an even larger and far better-equipped laboratory in the town hospital on Hospitalstrasse near the city’s main railway station, but he felt safer working at Krasny Bor, on account of the fact that the previous autumn some German doctors working in the hospital at Vitebsk had been kidnapped, genitally mutilated, and then murdered by partisans.
To my surprise, I found the professor in the company of Martin Quidde, whose dead body was now lying in an open coffin on the wooden floor. A crude Y-shaped stitch ran the length of his torso like the track for a small boy’s electric train set, and the top of his skull displayed the tell-tale purple line of having been removed and then replaced as if it had been the lid on a tea caddy. But it wasn’t Quidde that Buhtz had summoned me to discuss in confidence; at least not right away.
‘Sorry to interrupt your lunch, Gunther,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to discuss this in front of everyone in the mess.’
‘You’re probably right, sir. It’s never a good idea to discuss forensics when other men are trying to eat lunch.’
‘Well, this is rather urgent. And not to say sensitive. And I’m not talking about the stomachs of our fellow officers.’
‘What is it?’ I asked coolly.
He took off his leather apron and then led me to a microscope by a frosted window. ‘You remember the skull I took away from Katyn Wood? Your dead Polack?’
‘How could I forget? Outside of a play by William Shakespeare it’s not often you see a man with a decomposing head under his arm.’
‘That Polish officer wasn’t – as you might have expected he would have been – shot with a Russian pistol like a Tokarev or a Nagant.’
‘I’d have thought the hole was too small to be from a rifle,’ I muttered.
Buhtz switched on a light near the microscope and invited me to take a look at the shell casing.
‘No, indeed, you’re quite right,’ he said as I peered through the eyepiece. ‘Quite right. On the bottom of the shell casing that your Russian friend Dyakov found in the mass grave you’ll see that the trademark and calibre are clearly visible on the brass.’
He was pulling on his army tunic while he spoke. I dare say that slicing open Corporal Quidde meant he’d worked up an appetite.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Geco 7.65. Bloody hell, that’s the Gustav Genschow factory in Durlach, isn’t it?’
‘You really are a detective, aren’t you?’ said Buhtz. ‘Yes, it’s a German shell. A 7.65 won’t fit a Tokarev or a Nagant. Those pistols only take 7.62-calibre ammo. But 7.65 does fit a Walther like the one I bet you’re wearing under your arm.’
I shrugged. ‘So what are you saying? That they were shot by Germans after all?’
‘No, no. I’m saying they were shot by German weapons. You see, I happen to know that before the war, the factory exported weapons and ammunition to the Ivans in the Baltic states. The Tokarev and the Nagant are all right as far as they go. The Nagant you can actually use with a sound-suppressor, unlike any other pistol, and a lot of NKVD murder squads like to use it where silence is required. It really is very quiet. But if you want to get the job done as efficiently and quickly as possible and you don’t mind about the noise – and I can’t see that they would have minded, particularly, in the middle of Katyn Wood – then the Walther is your weapon of choice. I’m not being patriotic. Not in the least. The Walther doesn’t jam, and it doesn’t misfire. If you’re shooting four thousand Polacks in one weekend then you need German pistols to get the job done. And my guess is that you’ll find that all four thousand of these fellows were topped in the same way.’
Now I remembered Batov describing a briefcase full of automatic pistols, and I guessed that these must have been Walthers.
‘Makes it a hell of a lot harder to argue that these fellows were all shot by the Ivans,’ I said. ‘There’s a delegation of prominent Polacks arriving here from Warsaw, Krakow and Lublin next week, including two fucking generals, and we’re going to have to tell them that their comrades were shot with German pistols.’
‘You know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the NKVD used Walthers for another reason too. Other than their reliability. I think they might have used them to help cover their tracks. To make it look like we did it. Just in case anyone ever discovered this grave.’
I groaned, loudly. ‘The minister is going to love this,’ I said. ‘On top of everything else.’
I told him about Batov and the documentary evidence that no longer was.
‘Sorry,’ said Buhtz. ‘All the same I’m going to ask the ministry to telephone the Genschow factory and see what their export records say. It’s possible they can locate a batch of similar ammunition.’
‘But you said this is standard German issue, didn’t you?’
‘Yes and no. I’ve been working in the field of ballistics since 1932, and even though I say so myself, I’m something of an expert in this field. I can tell you Gunther that while the calibre remains standard, over the years the trace metallurgy of ammunition can change quite a bit. Some years there’s a bit more copper; other years there might be a bit more nickel. And depending on how old this ammunition is, we might be able to get an idea about when it was made, which would help to substantiate the export record. If we can do that we might be able to say for sure that this bullet was part of a batch of ammo exported to the Baltic Ivans in say 1940, when we had the non-aggression pact with Comrade Stalin. Or even before the Nazis were in power, when we had those Red-loving bastards in the SPD running the show. That would be documentary proof that they did do it, and almost as good as finding a Russian-made bullet.’
I saw little point in mentioning my own former allegiance to the SPD, so I nodded silently and stood away from the microscope.
‘So then,’ said Buhtz, ‘perhaps we’ll just tell the Polish delegation what we know about the bodies that we’ve found so far, and leave it at that for now. No point in speculating unnecessarily. Under the circumstances I think we should let them take over as much of the actual work at the site as possible.’
‘Suits me.’
‘By the way, do you speak any Polish?’ asked Buhtz. ‘Because I don’t.’
‘I thought you were at the University of Breslau?’
‘For only three years,’ said Buhtz. ‘Besides, that’s very much a German-speaking university. My Polish is fine for ordering a shitty meal in a restaurant, but when it comes to forensics and pathology it’s a different story. What about Johannes Conrad?’
‘No Polish. Just Russian. He and some field police are busy interrogating people in Gnezdovo to see what more the locals can tell us about what happened. I’ve an idea that Peshkov speaks French as well as German and Russian, so he might be of assistance. But the ministry are also sending us a reserve officer from Vienna who speaks good Polack. Lieutenant Gregor Sloventzik.’
‘Sounds about right,’ said Buhtz.
‘He used to be a journalist. Which is how the ministry knows him, I think. I believe he speaks several other languages, too.’
‘Including diplomacy, I hope,’ said Buhtz. ‘I’ve never been very fluent in that.’
‘You and me both, professor. And certainly not since Munich. Anyway, Sloventzik is going to handle all the translations for you.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it. I don’t need more confusion right now. I’m afraid it’s been that kind of a morning. This signaller that the field police found. Martin Quidde.’ He pointed at the corpse lying in a coffin on the floor near the back door. ‘I understand from Lieutenant Voss that you and he both thought his death was a suicide.’
‘Well, yes. We did.’ I shrugged. ‘There was an automatic with the hammer down still in his hand. Short of a poem clutched to his breast it looked pretty clear-cut, I thought.’
‘You would think so, wouldn’t you?’ Buhtz grinn
ed proudly. ‘But I’m afraid not. I’ve fired a whole clip from that weapon, and there’s not one of the bullets that’s the same as the one I gouged out of the victim’s helmet. It’s as I was telling you earlier. About the metallurgy? The slug that went through his skull was standard 7.65 mill, yes. But it was a significantly heavier load, with a bit more nickel in it. The corporal was shot with a seventy-three-grain load as opposed to the normal sixty-grain load that’s in his pistol’s magazine and which is standard issue to the 537th Signals. The seventy-three-grain load is normally issued only to the police units and the Gestapo.’
He was right, of course; and – a long time ago – I’d known this, but not lately. You see enough lead flying through the air and it soon ceases to matter where it comes from and how much it weighs on a set of scales.
‘So someone just tried to make it look like a suicide, is that what you’re saying?’ I asked, as if I really didn’t know.
‘That’s right.’ Buhtz’s grin widened. ‘And I doubt that there’s another man in this whole damned country could have told you that.’
‘Well, that is fortunate. Although I don’t imagine Lieutenant Voss is going to be all that pleased. He still hasn’t solved the murders of those other two signallers.’
‘Nevertheless it does establish a sort of pattern. I mean, someone really does have it in for those poor bastards in the 537th, don’t you think?’
‘Have you tried making a telephone call out here? It’s impossible. There’s your motive, I shouldn’t wonder. Still, I don’t suppose an Ivan would have bothered to make it look like a suicide, would he?’
‘I hadn’t considered that.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, that is reassuring for the Germans in this city, I suppose.’
‘All the same, sir, if a German was responsible for the murder it might be a good idea not to mention any of this to the Gestapo. Just in case they go and string up more of the locals in retaliation. I mean, you know what they’re like, sir. The last thing we want is an international commission arriving in Smolensk to find a makeshift gallows with some Russian pears growing on it.’
‘A man – a German – has been murdered, Captain Gunther. That really can’t be ignored.’
‘No, of course not, sir. But perhaps, until this whole thing with the international commission is over, it might be to Germany’s political advantage to hide this under some hay in the barn, so to speak. For appearances’ sake.’
‘Yes, I can see that, of course. I tell you what, captain. You used to be a police commissar at the Alex, didn’t you?’
I nodded.
‘Very well then. I promise to keep the murder of Corporal Quidde quiet, Gunther, if you promise to find his murderer. Does that sound fair?’
I nodded. ‘Fair enough, sir. Although I’m not sure how. He’s done a pretty good job so far of concealing his tracks.’
‘Well, do your best. And if all else fails we can have each man with a police load in his pistol fire a round into a sandbag. That should help to narrow it down for you quite a lot.’
‘Thank you, sir. I might take you up on that offer.’
‘Please do. You’ve got until the end of the month. And then I really will have to tell the Gestapo. Is that agreed?’
‘All right. It’s a deal.’
‘Good. Then let’s go and get some lunch. I hear it’s Königsberger Klopse on the menu today.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve already eaten,’ I said.
But in truth, what with the smell of formaldehyde and the dead body and the prospect of investigating a murder that I’d committed myself, I had lost my appetite.
CHAPTER 6
Wednesday, April 7th 1943
In Smolensk’s Glinka Concert Hall – where else? – I attended a piano and organ recital at the invitation of Colonel von Gersdorff. On the programme was Bach, Wagner, Beethoven and Bruckner, and it was supposed to make everyone feel good about the fatherland, but it only made us all sick that we weren’t at home and, in my own case, back in Berlin listening to some more cheerful music on the wireless: I could even have withstood a couple of numbers from Bruno and his Swinging Tigers. Of course being an aristocrat Von Gersdorff had an Iron Cross in classical music. He even brought along an antiquarian leather-bound score that he followed during Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, which not only struck me as redundant but a bit flashy too – a bit like taking The Laws of the Game to a football match.
After the recital we went for a drink at the officers’ bar in Offizierstrasse, where in a quiet corner that felt as if it were a million kilometres from the bowling alley at the German Club in Berlin, the colonel told me he’d received a telemessage that Hans von Dohnanyi and Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer had finally been arrested by the Gestapo and were now being held at Prinz Albrechtstrasse.
‘If they torture Hans he could tell them about the Cointreau bomb and me and General von Tresckow and everything,’ he said uncomfortably.
‘Yes, he could,’ I said. ‘In fact it’s highly likely. It’s not many men who can withstand a Gestapo interrogation.’
‘Do you suppose they’re being tortured?’ he asked.
‘Knowing the Gestapo?’ I shrugged. ‘It all depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how powerful their friends are. You have to understand, the Gestapo are cowards. They won’t put a man through a performance like that if he’s especially well-connected. Not until they’ve read the score as thoroughly as you did back in the concert hall.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t know much about the pastor—’
‘His sister Christel is married to Hans. His mother is Countess Klara von Hase. Who was the grand-daughter of Karl von Hase, who was pastor to Kaiser Wilhelm the second.’
‘That’s not the kind of connections I was referring to,’ I said, politely. ‘How close is your friend Hans von Dohnanyi to Admiral Canaris?’
‘Close enough for it to hurt them both. Canaris has been on an SD list of enemies for some time now; so has Hans’s boss, Major General Oster.’
‘That figures. The RSHA never did like sharing responsibility for intelligence-gathering and security. Well then, what about the ministry of justice? Von Dohnanyi used to work there, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he did. He was Reich Minister Gürtner’s special adviser, from 1934 to 1938, and got to know Hitler, Goebbels, Göring and Himmler – the whole infernal crew.’
‘Then that will certainly help. You don’t torture someone who was on nodding terms with the leader until you’re really very sure of what you’re doing. Maybe this Gürtner fellow can help him, too.’
‘I’m afraid not. He died a couple of years ago. But Hans knows Erwin Bumke very well. He’s a senior Nazi judge, but I’m sure he’ll try to help Hans, if he can.’
I shrugged. ‘Then he’s not completely without friends. So that will deter the Gestapo, for sure. Besides, Von Dohnanyi is an aristocrat and he’s army and the army looks after its own. Chances are the army will insist on a military court.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Von Gersdorff, with a palpable look of relief on his handsome face. ‘There are senior figures in the Wehrmacht who will try to speak for him, albeit quietly. General von Tresckow’s uncle, Field Marshal von Bock, for example. And Field Marshal von Kluge, of course.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t count on Clever Hans at all.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘Von Kluge can be a bit Prussian in his sense of duty and honour, but I firmly believe Günther is a good man. Henning von Tresckow has been his chief operations officer for over a year now and—’
I shook my head. ‘Let’s get some air.’
We stepped outside and walked up Grosse Kronstädter Strasse as far as the Smolensk Kremlin wall. Against a purple sky full of stars, the fortress looked as if it was made of gingerbread, like the sort of edible house I’d eaten every Christmas as a boy. There, in the cold silence, I struck a match against the brick, we lit some cigarettes, and I told him what Martin Quidde had told me.
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br /> ‘I can’t believe it,’ protested Von Gersdorff. ‘Not of a man like Günther von Kluge. He comes from a very distinguished family.’
I laughed. ‘You really think that makes a difference, don’t you? The old aristocratic code?’
‘Of course. It has to. Yes, I can see you think that’s very funny, but this is what I’ve lived my whole life by. And I firmly believe it’s the one thing that’s going to save Germany from absolute disaster.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I’m still right about Von Kluge. You can’t trust him.’
‘No, you’re wrong. He knows my father. They’re from the same part of West Prussia. Lubin and Posen aren’t so very far away from each other. This corporal of yours must be mistaken.’
‘He’s not mistaken,’ I said. ‘Not in the least.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. I haven’t heard it myself, but he says there’s a tape recording of Hitler’s conversation here in Smolensk with Von Kluge. At Krasny Bor.’
‘My God, where?’
‘It’s quite safe.’ I took the tape out of my coat pocket and handed it to him.
Von Gersdorff looked at it blankly for a moment and shook his head. Finally he said: ‘Well, if it’s true, that would explain a lot. Why Günther changed his mind about us all shooting Hitler, at the very last minute. All of his prevarications are now explained. All his nit-picking objections. It’s true, Henning still hasn’t forgiven him for that. But this: this is something else. Something quite despicable.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘The fucking bastard. And to think that Henning vetoed a bomb at Krasny Bor so as to spare Günther’s life. We could have nailed Hitler there, without a shadow of a doubt. You see the problem is always the same: getting Hitler away from his headquarters, where he’s well protected. I can’t imagine we’ll ever get him on his own like that again. Damn it all.’