Prussian Blue

by Philip Kerr

  Werner kept smiling, but only on the outside. He was from Offenburg, which is a city in Baden-Württemberg on the French border, famous for burning witches and the home of a notorious metal chair with spikes that could be heated until it was hot. He had the face of a Swabian witch finder and I suspect he’d have cheerfully seen me burned to death.

  “I’m just joking.” I looked at Heydrich. “We’re just swelling necks here, like a couple of tough guys. I know he’s not a Sinti. He’s a smart fellow. I know he is. You’ve got a doctorate, too, haven’t you, Paul?”

  “Keep talking, Gunther,” said Werner. “One day you’ll talk yourself onto the guillotine at Plötzensee.”

  “He’s right, of course,” said Heydrich. “You’re an insolent fellow, Gunther. But as it happens this is all to the good. Your independent spirit bespeaks a certain resilience that will come in handy here. You see, there’s another reason Bormann wants you in preference to Werner, or even Arthur here. Since you’ve never been a Party member he believes that you’re not anyone’s man, and more importantly, that you’re not my man. Only, please don’t make that mistake yourself, Gunther. I own you. Like your last name was Faust and mine was Mephisto.”

  I let that one go; there was no arguing with Heydrich’s fat pants but it was still comforting to believe that God in his grace might yet persuade a few angels to interfere on my behalf.

  “Anything that you can find out about that bastard while you’re in Obersalzberg, I want to know about it.”

  “I take it you mean the Leader’s deputy chief of staff.”

  “He’s a megalomaniac,” said Heydrich.

  I didn’t offer an opinion on that one. I’d already let my mouth run a bit too much.

  “In particular I want you to see if there’s any truth in an intriguing rumor here in Berlin that he’s being blackmailed by his own brother, Albert. Albert Bormann is adjutant to Adolf Hitler and chief of the Leader’s Chancellery in Obersalzberg. As such he’s almost as powerful down there as Martin Bormann himself.”

  “Is that where I’m going sir? Obersalzberg?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’ll be nice. I could use a little Alpine air.”

  “You’re not going there for a holiday, Gunther.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any opportunity to get some dirt on that man—on either man—you take it. You’re not just a detective while you’re there, you’re my spy. Is that clear? When you’re there you’ll think that yours is a choice between pestilence and cholera. But it isn’t. You’re my Fritz, not Bormann’s.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And in case you might still be laboring under the misapprehension that your miserable soul is still your own, then you might like to know that the police in Hannover are investigating the discovery of a body in a forest near Hamelin. Remind me of the details, Arthur.”

  “He was a fellow called Kindermann—a doctor who ran a private clinic in Wannsee, and who was a colleague of our mutual friend Karl Maria Weisthor. It seems he was shot several times.”

  “Now, given Kindermann’s connection to Weisthor, I daresay he deserved it,” added Heydrich. “But all the same, it might be awkward if you were to have to explain your own acquaintance with this man to the police in Hannover.”

  “When am I leaving?” I asked brightly.

  “As soon as our meeting is concluded,” said Heydrich. “One of my men has already been to your apartment and packed some of your personal things. There’s a car waiting downstairs to drive you straight to Bavaria. My own car. It’s faster. You should be there well before midnight.”

  “So what’s it all about, sir? You mentioned a murder. Who’s dead? I assume it’s nobody important, otherwise we’d have heard the bad news on the radio this morning.”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. Bormann wasn’t too clear about that on the telephone when we spoke earlier. But you’re right, it was nobody important, thank God. A local civil engineer. No, it’s where this person was murdered that makes it important. The victim was shot with a rifle on the terrace of Hitler’s private home in Obersalzberg. The Berghof. The killer, who remains at large, must surely have been aware that the Leader was making a speech in Berlin last night. Which means it’s highly unlikely that this could have been a botched attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler. But naturally Bormann is worried how this will make him look in the Leader’s eyes. The very fact that anyone could be shot at Hitler’s own home away from home—the one place where he can go to relax and retreat from the cares of state—this will be a matter of great concern to everyone who has anything to do with the Leader’s security, which is why Bormann wants this killer apprehended as soon as possible.

  “It’s unthinkable that the Leader could go there until the assassin has been caught. If he’s not caught, this might even cost Bormann his job. Either way it’s a situation which is good for the SD and Kripo. If the murderer isn’t caught, then Martin Bormann will very likely be fired by Hitler, which will please Himmler enormously; and if he is caught, then Bormann will be substantially in my debt.”

  “It’s comforting to know that I can’t fail, sir,” I said.

  “Let me make one thing quite clear to you, Gunther: Obersalzberg is Martin Bormann’s domain. He controls everything there. But as a detective given the power to ask questions on Hitler’s mountain, you have a perfect opportunity to turn over a few rocks and see what crawls out from underneath. And you will certainly have failed me if you don’t come back here with some dirt on a stick about Martin Bormann. Clear?”

  “Clear. How much time do I have?”

  “Apparently Hitler plans to visit the Berghof immediately after his birthday,” said Nebe. “So there’s no time to lose.”

  “Remind me,” I said. “When is that? I’m not very good at remembering birthdays.”

  “April twentieth,” said Nebe patiently.

  “What about the local police? Gestapo? Will I be working with them? And if so, who’s in charge? Me or them?”

  “The local leather tops have not been informed. For obvious reasons Bormann wants this kept out of the newspapers. You’ll be in sole charge of the investigation. And you’ll report directly to Bormann. At least in principle.”

  “I see.”

  “Be careful of him,” said Heydrich. “He’s not half as dumb as he looks. Don’t trust the telephones at the Berghof. Life down there isn’t a place for riding miniature ponies. Quite possibly Bormann’s men will be listening to every word you say. I know because it was my men who installed the secret microphones in several of the rooms and all of the guest houses. The telex you can probably rely on; telegrams, too, but not the telephones. Neumann here will accompany you in the car as far as Munich. He’ll explain precisely how you can stay in touch with me. But I already have a spy in the RSD at Obersalzberg. Hermann Kaspel. He’s a good man. Just not very good at finding out things he shouldn’t know about. Unlike you. Anyway, I’ve provided you with a letter of introduction, signed by me. The letter states that he’s to assist you in every way he can.”

  I knew Hermann Kaspel. In 1932, I’d helped to get him fired from the police when I found out that he’d been leading an SA troop during his off-duty hours; this after a police sergeant called Friedrich Kuhfeld was murdered by Nazi thugs. We hadn’t been sending each other any Christmas cards since then.

  “I’ve heard of the SD, sir,” I confessed. “But I’m not sure what the RSD is.”

  “The Leader’s personal security guard. Affiliated to the SD but not under my command. They report directly to Himmler.”

  “I’d like to take along my own criminal assistant at the Alex, sir. Friedrich Korsch. He’s a good man. You might remember that he was very helpful with the Weisthor case last November. If solving this case is as urgent as you say it is, then I might have need of a good criminal assistant. Not to mention someone I can trust. Herman
n Kaspel and I have a little bit of ancient history that goes back to his time as a Schupoman, before the government of von Papen. In 1932, he was the leader of a Nazi cell at Station 87 here in Berlin, which was a matter about which we disagreed.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” said Heydrich. “But you can rest assured. Whatever feelings of antipathy you might have for each other, Kaspel will carry out my instructions to the letter.”

  “All the same, sir. Korsch is a proper detective. A bull with a good head on his shoulders. And two heads are better than one with an urgent case like this.”

  He glanced at Nebe who nodded back. “I know Korsch,” said Nebe. “He’s a bit of a thug, but still, a Party member. Might make inspector one day. But he’ll never make commissar.”

  “Bormann won’t like it,” said Heydrich, “and you may have to persuade the deputy chief of staff to let you keep the man, but take him, yes.”

  “One more thing, sir,” I said. “Money. I might need some. I know fear is the Gestapo’s proven method. But in my experience a bit of cash works better than the Offenburg hot stool. It helps to loosen tongues when people get a smell of it. Especially when you’re trying to work discreetly. Besides, it’s easier to carry money about than instruments of torture.”

  Heydrich nodded. “All right, but I want receipts. Lots of receipts. And names. If you bribe anyone I shall want to know who, so I can use them again.”

  “Of course.”

  Heydrich looked at Nebe. “Is there anything else we need to tell him, Arthur?”

  “Yes. Kaltenbrunner.”

  “Oh yes. Ernst Kaltenbrunner. We mustn’t forget him.”

  I shook my head. This was another name I hadn’t heard before.

  “Nominally at least, he’s the head of the SS and the police in Austria,” explained Nebe. “He’s also a member of the Reichstag. It seems he has a weekend home in Berchtesgaden, just down the hill from Obersalzberg. Neumann will provide you with the address.”

  “It’s nothing more than a crude attempt to put himself within the Leader’s inner circle,” said Heydrich. “Nevertheless I should like to know more about what that lard-assed subaltern is up to. Let me explain. Until recently Kaltenbrunner and some others were trying to create an island of governmental autonomy in Austria. That could not be allowed. Austria is soon to disappear altogether as a political concept. Practically, all key police functions have already been brought under the control of this office. Two men loyal to me—Franz Huber and Friedrich Polte—have been appointed as Gestapo and SD leaders in Vienna, but it remains doubtful if Kaltenbrunner has quite accepted this new administrative reality. In fact, I’m more or less certain he hasn’t. So his influence in Austria requires that he be subject to constant scrutiny. Even when he’s in Germany.”

  “I think I get the picture. You want some dirt on him, too. If there is any.”

  “There is,” said Heydrich. “There most certainly is.”

  “Kaltenbrunner has a wife,” explained Nebe. “Elisabeth.”

  “That doesn’t sound so dirty.”

  “He also enjoys the favors of two aristocratic Upper Austrian women.”

  “Ah.”

  “One of them is the Countess Gisela von Westarp,” said Heydrich. “It’s uncertain if any of their liaisons take place at the house in Berchtesgaden but if they do it’s certain the Leader would take a very dim view of this. Which is why I want to know about it. Hitler places great store on family values and on the personal morality of senior Party men. Find out if this Gisela von Westarp is ever at the house in Berchtesgaden. Also if any other women go there. Their names. It shouldn’t be beyond your powers of investigation. That’s how you used to make a living, isn’t it? As a private detective, one of those shabby little men who snoop around hotel corridors and peer through keyholes looking for evidence of adultery.”

  “In retrospect it doesn’t seem so shabby,” I said. “As a matter of fact I used to quite enjoy snooping around hotel corridors. Especially the good hotels, like the Adlon, where there are thick carpets. It’s easier on the feet than goose-stepping across a parade ground. And there’s always a bar close at hand.”

  “Then this should be easy for you. And now you may go.”

  I grinned and got to my feet.

  “Something amusing you?” asked Heydrich.

  “It was only something Goethe once said. That everything is hard before it’s easy.” I got up and walked to the door but not before nodding Paul Werner’s way. “I might not have a doctorate. A real one. But I do read, Paul. I do read.”

  EIGHT

  April 1939

  It was 750 kilometers from Berlin to Berchtesgaden, but in the rear seat of Heydrich’s own car—a shiny black Mercedes 770K—with an SS-monogrammed cashmere rug across my knees, I hardly noticed either the distance or the cold. The car was as big as a U-boat and almost as powerful. The eight-cylinder supercharged engine throbbed like rush hour at Potsdamer Platz and even with snow on the autobahn the Mercedes just rolled up the road; it felt as if I were riding into the afterlife Hall of the Slain with a chorus line of Valkyries, only in rather finer style. I’m not sure that Mercedes has ever made a better automobile. Certainly never one as big or as comfortable. A couple of hours in that limousine and I was ready to take charge of Germany myself. In the front seat, behind the enormous steering wheel, sat Heydrich’s Easter Island statue of a driver, and next to him Friedrich Korsch, my criminal assistant from the Alex. Alongside me in the back of the car was Hans-Hendrik Neumann, Heydrich’s pointy-faced adjutant. The rear seats were more like a pair of leather armchairs in the Herrenklub and during some of the journey, I dozed off. We made Schkeuditz, just west of Leipzig, in under two hours—which seemed remarkable to me—and Bayreuth in less than four, but with darkness falling and more than four hundred kilometers still to go, we were obliged to stop and refuel in Pegnitz, north of Nuremberg. Filling the tanks of KMS Bismarck would have been quicker and cheaper . . .

  1956

  I could have used a big, powerful car like the Mercedes 770K on my escape through France. Certainly I could have used a nap. The Citroën was an 11 CV Traction Avant—which is French for an underpowered front-wheel-drive rust bucket; the eleven probably referred to the amount of horsepower the thing had. It was uncomfortable and slow and, driving it, I needed all my wits about me. After six hours behind the wheel I was exhausted; my neck and eyes hurt and I had a head that ached worse than Ptolemy’s botched craniotomy. I wasn’t any farther north than Mâcon but I knew I was going to have to stop and take a rest, and thinking it might be better if I stayed under the radar, avoiding all hotels and even pensions, I pulled into a jolly-looking camping site. There are two million campers in France, a large proportion of whom are motorists. I had neither a tent nor a caravan but this hardly seemed to matter since I was planning to sleep in the car and, in the morning, to use the showers and cafeteria in that order. What I wouldn’t have given for a hot bath and a dinner at the Hotel Ruhl. But when I offered the individual in the site office—a man with hooded eyes and a perfumer’s fastidious nose—the fifty-francs charge for the space he asked to see my camping license and I was reluctantly obliged to confess that I was unaware that such a thing even existed.

  “I’m afraid it is a legal requirement, monsieur.”

  “I can’t camp here without one?”

  “You can’t camp anywhere without such a license, monsieur. Not in France, anyway. It was created to give people insurance against damage caused to any third party by camping. Up to twenty-five million francs for damages arising from fire, and five million for damages arising from accident.”

  “So wait, I don’t need insurance to drive a car in France but do need it to pitch a tent?”

  “That’s correct. But you can easily get a camping license from any automobile club.”

  I glanced at my watch. “I think it’s a litt
le late for that, don’t you?”

  He shrugged, indifferent to my fate. I daresay he was less than keen to have a suspicious character like me staying on his campsite; a man with a foreign accent wearing a scarf in October and sunglasses after dark isn’t the type of carefree camper who encourages trust in the heart of Vichy. Even Cary Grant couldn’t have pulled that off.

  So I left the campsite and drove on for a few kilometers and found myself a nice quiet country lane under some tall poplars and then a field where I could shut my sore eyes for a while. But it was hard to sleep knowing that Friedrich Korsch and the Stasi were already on my trail. Almost certainly they would have hired some self-drive cars at the Europcar rental office next to the railway station in Marseilles and very likely they were only a couple of hours behind me on the N7. Eventually I managed to sleep a little on the backseat of the Citroën but not without Friedrich Korsch appearing in a dream that took place somewhere at the back of the double pain I now called my eyes.

  It was strange the way he’d entered my world again after all these years, and yet not strange at all, perhaps. If you live long enough you realize that everything that happens to us is all the same illusion, the same shit, the same celestial joke. Things don’t really end, they just stop for a while and then they start up again, like a bad record. There are no new chapters in your book, there’s just the one long fairy story—the same stupid story we tell ourselves and which, mistakenly, we call life. Nothing is ever really over until we’re dead. And what else could a man do who’d worked for the Reich Security Office except carry on working for the same lousy department under the communists? Friedrich Korsch was a natural policeman. Such continuity made perfect sense to the communists; the Nazis had been good at law enforcement. And with a different book—Marx instead of Hitler—a slightly different uniform, and a new national anthem, “Risen from the Ruins,” everything could carry on as before. Hitler, Stalin, Ulbricht, Khrushchev—they were all the same, the same monsters from the neurological abyss we call our own subconscious. Me and Schopenhauer. Sometimes being German seems to come with some serious disadvantages.