by Philip Kerr
‘We found this man’s name and address in Stahlecker’s pocket,’ he said. ‘There’s a bayonet wrapped in newspaper in the kitchen. It’s covered in blood, and from the look of it I’d say it was the knife that killed him. There’s also a bloodstained shirt that Hering was probably wearing at the time.’
‘Anything else?’ said Nebe.
‘Stahlecker’s shoulder-holster was empty, General,’ said Strunck. ‘Perhaps Gunther might like to tell us if this was his gun or not. We found it in a paper bag with the shirt.’
He handed me a Walther PPK. I put the muzzle to my nose and sniffed the gun-oil. Then I worked the slide and saw that there wasn’t even a bullet in the barrel, although the magazine was full. Next I pulled down the trigger-guard. Bruno’s initials were scratched neatly on the black metal.
‘It’s Bruno’s gun, all right,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t look like he even got his hand on it. I’d like to see that shirt please.’
Strunck glanced at his Reichskriminaldirektor for approval.
‘Let him see it, Inspector,’ said Nebe.
The shirt was from C & A, and heavily bloodstained around the stomach area and the right cuff, which seemed to confirm the general set-up.
‘It does look as though this was the man who murdered your partner, Herr Gunther,’ said Heydrich. ‘He came back here and, having changed his clothes, had a chance to reflect upon what he’d done. In a fit of remorse he hanged himself.’
‘It would seem so,’ I said, without much uncertainty. ‘But if you don’t mind, General Heydrich, I’d like to take a look round the place. On my own. Just to satisfy my curiosity about one or two things.’
‘Very well. Don’t be too long, will you?’
With Heydrich, Nebe and the police gone from the apartment, I took a closer look at Klaus Hering’s body. Apparently he had tied a length of electrical cord to the banister, slipped a noose over his head, and then simply stepped off the stair. But only an inspection of Hering’s hands, wrists and neck itself could tell me if that had really been what happened. There was something about the circumstances of his death, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, that I found questionable. Not least was the fact that he had chosen to change his shirt before hanging himself.
I climbed over the banister on to a small shelf that was made by the top of the stairwell’s wall, and knelt down. Leaning forward, I had a good view of the suspension point behind Hering’s right ear. The level of tightening of the ligature is always higher and more vertical with a hanging than with a case of strangulation. But here there was a second and altogether more horizontal mark just below the noose which seemed to confirm my doubts. Before hanging himself, Klaus Hering had been strangled to death.
I checked that Hering’s shirt collar was the same size as the bloodstained shirt I had examined earlier. It was. Then I climbed back over the banister and stepped down a few stairs. Standing on tiptoe I reached up to examine his hands and wrists. Prising the right hand open I saw the dried blood and then a small shiny object, which seemed to be sticking into the palm. I pulled it out of Hering’s flesh and laid it carefully on to the flat of my hand. The pin was bent, probably from the pressure of Hering’s fist, and although encrusted with blood, the death’s-head motif was unmistakable. It was an SS cap badge.
I paused briefly, trying to imagine what might have happened, certain now that Heydrich must have had a hand in it. Back in the garden at the Prinz Albrecht Palais, had he not asked me himself what my answer to his proposition would be if ‘the obstacle’ that was my obligation to find Bruno’s murderer, were ‘removed’? And wasn’t this as completely removed as it was possible to achieve? No doubt he had anticipated what my answer would be and had already ordered Hering’s murder by the time we went for our stroll.
With these and other thoughts I searched the apartment. I was quick but thorough, lifting mattresses, examining cisterns, rolling back rugs and even leafing through a set of medical textbooks. I managed to find a whole sheet of the old stamps commemorating the fifth anniversary of the Nazis coming to power which had consistently appeared on the blackmail notes to Frau Lange. But of her son’s letters to Dr Kindermann there was no sign.
6
Friday, 9 September
It felt strange being back in a case-meeting at the Alex, and even stranger hearing Arthur Nebe refer to me as Kommissar Gunther. Five years had elapsed since the day in June 1933 when, no longer able to tolerate Goering’s police purges, I had resigned my rank of Kriminalinspektor in order to become the house detective at the Adlon Hotel. Another few months and they would have probably fired me anyway. If anyone had said then that I’d be back at the Alex as a member of Kripo’s upper officer class while a National Socialist government was still in power, I’d have said that he was crazy.
Most of the people seated round the table would almost certainly have expressed the same opinion, if their faces were anything to go by now: Hans Lobbes, the Reichskriminaldirektor’s number three and head of Kripo Executive; Count Fritz von der Schulenberg, deputy to Berlin’s Police President, and representing the uniformed boys of Orpo. Even the three officers from Kripo, one from Vice and two from the Murder Commission who had been assigned to a new investigating team that was, at my own request, to be a small one, all regarded me with a mixture of fear and loathing. Not that I blamed them much. As far as they were concerned I was Heydrich’s spy. In their position I would probably have felt much the same way.
There were two other people in attendance at my invitation, which compounded the atmosphere of distrust. One of these, a woman, was a forensic psychiatrist from the Berlin Charite Hospital. Frau Marie Kalau vom Hofe was a friend of Arthur Nebe, himself something of a criminologist, and attached officially to police headquarters as a consultant in matters of criminal psychology. The other guest was Hans Illmann, Professor of Forensic Medicine at the Friedrich Wilhelm University in Berlin, and formerly senior pathologist at the Alex until his cool hostility to Nazism had obliged Nebe to retire him. Even by Nebe’s own admission, Illmann was better than any of the pathologists currently working at the Alex, and so at my request he had been invited to take charge of the forensic medical aspects of the case.
A spy, a woman and a political dissident. It needed only the stenographer to stand and sing ‘The Red Flag’ for my new colleagues to believe that they were the subject of a practical joke.
Nebe finished his long-winded introduction of me and the meeting was in my hands.
I shook my head. ‘I hate bureaucracy,’ I said. ‘I loathe it. But what is required here is a bureaucracy of information. What is relevant will become clear later on. Information is the lifeblood of any criminal investigation, and if that information is contaminated then you poison the whole investigative body. I don’t mind if a man’s wrong about something. In this game we’re nearly always wrong until we’re right. But if I find a member of my team knowingly submitting wrong information, it won’t be a matter for a disciplinary tribunal. I’ll kill him. That’s information you can depend on.
‘I’d also like to say this. I don’t care who did it. Jew, nigger, pansy, stormtrooper, Hitler Youth Leader, civil servant, motorway construction worker, it’s all the same to me. Just as long as he did do it. Which leads me to the subject of Josef Kahn. In case any of you have forgotten, he’s the Jew who confessed tea the murders of Brigitte Hartmann, Christiane Schulz, and Zarah Lischka. Currently he’s a Paragraph Fifty-one in the municipal lunatic asylum at Herzeberge, and one of’ the purposes of this meeting is to evaluate that confession in the light of the fourth murdered girl, Lotte Winter.
‘At this point let me introduce you to Professor Hans Illmann, who has kindly agreed to act as the pathologist in this case. For those of you who don’t know him, he’s one of the best pathologists in the country, so we’re very fortunate to have him working with us.’
Illmann nodded by way of acknowledgement, and carried on with his perfect roll-up. He was a slight man with thin, dark hair,
rimless glasses and a small chin beard. He finished licking the paper and poked the roll-up into his mouth, as good as any machine-made cigarette. I marvelled quietly. Medical brilliance counted for nothing beside this kind of subtle dexterity.
‘Professor Illmann will take us through his findings after Kriminalassistant Korsch has read the relevant case note.’ I nodded at the dark, stocky young man sitting opposite me. There was something artificial about his face, as if it had been made up for him by one of the police artists from Sipo Technical Services, with three definite features and very little else: eyebrows joined in the middle and perched on his overhanging brows like a falcon preparing for flight; a wizard’s long, crafty chin; and a small, Fairbanks-style moustache. Korsch cleared his throat and began speaking in a voice that was an octave higher than I was expecting.
‘Brigitte Hartmann,’ he read. ‘Aged fifteen, of German parents. Disappeared 23 May 1938. Body found in a potato sack on an allotment in Siesdorf, 10 June. She lived with her parents on the Britz Housing Estate, south of Neukölln, and had walked from her home to catch the U-Bahn at Par-chimerallee. She was going to visit her aunt in Reinickdorf. The aunt was supposed to meet her at Holzhauser Strasse station, only Brigitte never arrived. The station master at Parchimer didn’t remember her getting on the train, but said that he’d had a night on the beer and probably wouldn’t have remembered anyway.’ This drew a guffaw from along the table.
‘Drunken bastard,’ snorted Hans Lobbes.
‘This is one of the two girls who have since been buried,’ said Illmann quietly. ‘I don’t think there’s anything I can add to the findings of the autopsy there. You may proceed, Herr Korsch.’
‘Christiane Schulz. Aged sixteen, of German parents. Disappeared 8 June 1938. Body found 2 July, in a tramway tunnel that connects Treptower Park on the righthand bank of the Spree, with the village of Stralau on the other. Half way along the tunnel there’s a maintenance point, little more than a recessed archway. That’s where the trackman found her body, wrapped in an old tarpaulin.
‘Apparently the girl was a singer and often took part in the BdM, the League of German Girls, evening radio programme. On the night of her disappearance she had attended the Funk-turm Studios on Masuren-Strasse, and sang a solo — the Hitler Youth song — at seven o’clock. The girl’s father works as an engineer at the Arado Aircraft Works in Brandenburg-Neuendorf, and was supposed to pick her up on his way home, at eight o‘clock. But the car had a flat tyre and he was twenty minutes late. By the time he got to the studios Christiane was nowhere to be seen and, supposing that she had gone home on her own, he drove back to Spandau. When by 9.30 she still hadn’t arrived, and having contacted her closest friends, he called the police.’
Korsch glanced up at Illmann, and then myself. He smoothed the vain little moustache and turned to the next page in the file that lay open in front of him.
‘Zarah Lischka,’ he read. ‘Aged sixteen, of German parents. Disappeared 6 July 1938, body found I August, down a drain in the Tiergarten, close to the Siegessaule. The family lived in Antonstrasse, Wedding. The father works at the slaughterhouse on Landsbergerallee. The girl’s mother sent her down to some shops located on Lindowerstrasse, close to the S-Rahn station. The shopkeeper remembers serving her. She bought some cigarettes, although neither one of her parents smokes, some Blueband and a loaf of bread. Then she went to the pharmacy next door. The owner also remembers her. She bought some Schwarzkopf Extra Blonde hair colourant.’
Sixty out of every hundred German girls use it, I told myself almost automatically. It was funny the sort of junk I was remembering these days. I don’t think I could have told you much of what was really important in the world other than what was happening in the German Sudeten areas — the riots, and the nationality conferences in Prague. It remained to be seen whether or not what was happening in Czechoslovakia was the only thing that really mattered after all.
Illmann stubbed out his cigarette and began to read his findings.
‘The girl was naked, and there were signs that her feet had been bound. She had sustained two knife wounds to the throat. Nevertheless there existed strong indications that she had also been strangled, probably to silence her. It is likely that she was unconscious when the murderer cut her throat. The bruising bisected by the wounds suggests as much. And this is interesting. From the amount of blood still in her feet, and the crusted blood found inside her nose and on her hair, as well as the fact that the feet had been very tightly bound, it is my finding that the girl was hanging upside down when her throat was cut. Like a pig.’
‘Jesus,’ said Nebe.
‘From my examination of the case notes of the previous two victims, it seems highly probable that the same modus operandi was applied there too. The suggestion made by my predecessor that these girls had their throats cut while they lay flat on the ground is patently nonsense, and takes no account of the abrasions to the ankles, or the amount of blood left in the feet. Indeed, it seems nothing short of negligent.’
‘That is noted,’ said Arthur Nebe, writing. ‘Your predecessor is, in my opinion also, an incompetent.’
‘The girl’s vagina was undamaged and not penetrated,’ continued Illmann. ‘However, the anus gaped wide, permitting the passage of two fingers. Tests for spermatozoa proved positive.’
Somebody groaned.
‘The stomach was flacid and was empty. Apparently Brigitte ate apfelkraut and bread-and-butter for lunch before going to the station. All food had been digested at the time of death. But apple is not easily digested, absorbing water as it does. Thus I would put this girl’s death at between six and eight hours after she ate lunch, and therefore a couple of hours after she was reported missing. The obvious conclusion is that she was abducted and then later killed.’
I looked at Korsch. ‘And the last one please, Herr Korsch.’
‘Lotte Winter,’ he said. ‘Aged sixteen, of German parents. Disappeared 18 July 1938, her body found 25 August. She lived in Pragerstrasse, and attended the local grammar school where she was studying for her Middle Standard. She left home to have a riding lesson with Tattersalls at the Zoo, and never arrived. Her body was found inside the length of an old canoe in a boathouse near Muggel Lake.’
‘Our man gets around, doesn’t he?’ said Count von der Schulenberg quietly.
‘Like the Black Death,’ said Lobbes.
Illmann took over once again.
‘Strangled,’ he said. ‘Resulting in fractures of voice box, hyoid, thyroid cornua and alae, indicating a greater degree of violence than in the case of the Schulz girl. This girl was stronger, being more athletically inclined in the first place. She may have put up more of a fight. Suffocation was the cause of death here, although the carotid artery on the right side of her neck had been slashed. As before, the feet showed signs of having been tied together, and there was blood in the hair and nostrils. Undoubtedly she was hanging upside down when her throat was cut, and similarly her body was almost drained of blood.’
‘Sounds like a fucking vampire,’ exclaimed one of the detectives from the Murder Commission. He glanced at Frau Kalau vom Hofe. ‘Sorry,’ he added. She shook her head.
‘Any sexual interference?’ I asked.
‘Because of the disagreeable odour, the girl’s vagina had to be irrigated,’ announced Illmann to more groans, ‘and so no sperm could be found. However, the vaginal entrance did show scratch marks, and there was a trace of bruising to the pelvis, indicating that she had been penetrated — and forcibly.’
‘Before her throat was cut?’ I asked. Illmann nodded. The room was silent for a moment. Illmann set about fixing another roll-up.
‘And now another girl has disappeared,’ I said. ‘Is that not correct, Inspector Deubel?’
Deubel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was a big, blond fellow with grey, haunted eyes that looked as though they had seen too much late-night police-work of the kind that requires you to wear thick leather protective gloves.
> ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Her name is Irma Hanke.’
‘Well, since you are the investigating officer, perhaps you would care to tell us something about her.’
He shrugged. ‘She’s from a nice German family. Aged seventeen, lives in Schloss Strasse, Steglitz.’ He paused as his eye flicked down his notes. ‘Disappeared Wednesday, 24 August, having left the house to collect for the Reich Economy Programme, on behalf of the BdM.’ He paused again.
‘And what was she collecting?’ said the count.
‘Old toothpaste tubes, sir. I believe that the metal is — ’
‘Thank you, Inspector, I know what the scrap value of toothpaste tubes is.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He glanced at his notes again. ‘She was reported as having been seen on Feuerbachstrasse, Thorwaldsenstrasse, and Munster Damm. Munster Damm runs south beside a cemetery, and the sexton there says he saw a BdM girl answering Irma’s description walking there at about 8.30 p.m. He thought she was heading west, in the direction of Bismarck-strasse. She was probably returning home, having said to her parents that she would be back at around 8.45. She never arrived, of course.’
‘Any leads?’ I asked.
‘None, sir,’ he said firmly.
‘Thank you, Inspector.’ I lit a cigarette, and then held the match to Illmann’s roll-up. ‘Very well then,’ I puffed. ‘So what we have are five girls, all of them about the same age, and all of them conforming to the Aryan stereotype that we know and love so well. In other words, they all had blonde hair, naturally or otherwise.
‘Now, after our third Rhine maiden is murdered, Josef Kahn gets himself arrested for the attempted rape of a prostitute. In other words, he tried to leave without paying.’
‘Typical Jew,’ said Lobbes. There were a few laughs at that.
‘As it happened, Kahn was carrying a knife, quite a sharp one at that, and he even has a minor criminal record for small theft and indecent assault. Very convenient. So the arresting officer at Grolmanstrasse Police Station, namely one Inspector Willi Oehme, decides to turn a few cards and see if he can’t make twenty-one. He has a chat with young Josef, who’s a bit soft in the head, and what with his honey-tongue and his thick knuckles, Willi manages to persuade Josef to sign a confession.