by Philip Kerr
“In the name of the Leader’s security? They’d do anything.” He shrugged. “Might save a bit of time if we leaned on him just a little. If Bruno Schenk does come up with some names of his own, we might have Müller look them over and see if we can’t narrow it down. You never know.”
“I’ve never been one for the strong-arm stuff myself,” I said. “Not even in the name of a good cause. Like the Leader’s all-important safety.”
“You say that like you don’t mean it.”
“Me? Whatever gave you that idea, Hermann? God bless and keep the Leader, that’s what I say.” I smiled because for once I didn’t add my usual under-the-voice coda to this thought, which was common enough in left-wing Berlin but best not uttered in Berchtesgaden: God bless and keep the Leader, far away from us.
“Look, Gunther, I may have lost some of my naïve optimism about the Nazis and what they’re capable of, but I still believe in the new Germany. I want you to know that.”
“From what you were telling me, I somehow gathered the impression that the new Germany is just as corrupt as the old one.”
“With one important difference. No one kicks us around now. Especially not the French. Or the Tommies. Being German—it means something again.”
“Very soon it will mean we’ve started another European war. That’s what it means. And Hitler knows that. My opinion is that he wants another war. That he needs one.”
Kaspel didn’t answer, so I changed the subject. “This must be on the way to St. Leonhard, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because there’s a guest house in St. Leonhard called the Schorn Ziegler where I’m supposed to meet Heydrich’s man, Neumann, if I’ve got something interesting to tell him. So he can give the general a report on what’s happening here without Martin Bormann knowing all about it.”
“I know the place. It’s about seven or eight kilometers farther up the road from Unterau. Family place. Good food.” He paused and then added, “And what are you going to tell him?”
“That all depends on what kind of state I’m in.” I glanced at my wristwatch and sighed. “It’s thirty hours since I was in a bed. But I feel like my blood has been replaced by luminous plasma. When I take a leak I half-expect to see Saint Elmo’s fire. By tonight I could be a nightmare walking and liable to say all kinds of things best not said in Germany. This meth stuff makes you kind of gabby, doesn’t it? You have to watch out for that with a man like Heydrich, or his dark elves and dwarves. Like you said before, the greatest mystery on this magic mountain is how I’m going to break this case without getting myself broken permanently.”
A wide oxbow on the fast-moving Ache had created Gartenauer Island, which was mostly trees and a monastic, gray-granite building sitting immediately on the riverbank; west of the island was a deep forest reached by a small stone bridge. Across the bridge and several hundred meters along a narrow track, and almost completely hidden by the thick forest canopy, was a long, single-story, dirty-white wooden hut with blue shutters. This was P-Barracks and in the snow it was perfectly camouflaged, which, I supposed, was the way Bormann preferred it. There were no painted girls on show, no signs, no music, not even a brightly colored lightbulb—nothing to indicate what went on inside; it was probably the most anonymous brothel I’d ever seen. We pulled up in a small parking lot and stepped out of the car. We were just about to go inside when a small truck arrived in a spray of gravel and a group of four workers got out. Two of them were carrying thermos flasks, but from the smell of them they’d all been drinking something stronger than coffee.
“They’re coming here now?” I said. “Christ, it’s not even lunchtime.”
“These men from P&Z end their shifts at all times of day. This lot have probably been working through the night.”
“Look, I want a few answers here, only I’m not about to wait in line behind some local Heinrich and his hard-on.” I took out my warrant disc and held it up. “Police,” I said. “Come back in an hour, boys. I need to ask these whores some questions. And I’d prefer not smelling your fish soup while I’m doing it.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Kaspel. “These lads have got their hearts set on some female company. Their pricks, too. What’s more, in case you hadn’t noticed, this place is deliberately remote. People have gone missing out here.”
It was good advice and in normal circumstances I’d have probably taken it, especially after my remarks about not being one for the strong-arm stuff. But the men who’d gotten out of the truck showed no inclination to get back in and leave; what’s more, they regarded me and my beer token with contempt. I couldn’t blame them for that. Another time I might have left and come back myself, but this wasn’t one of those. The largest of the workers spat and then wiped his unshaven chin with the back of a powerful hand.
“We’re not leaving,” he said. “We just pulled a fifteen-hour shift and now we’re going to have some fun with these ladies. Maybe you’re the ones who should leave, copper. Just ask your boyfriend in black. Not even the SS gets between us and our pleasures.”
“I can understand that,” I said. “And it’s lucky for you I understand that the beer and schnapps are what’s talking, not you. I speak it pretty good myself sometimes. Besides, this is the only friend I need when I’m yakking to you, Fritz.” I unholstered my Walther, thumbed back the hammer, and fired the round that was already in the breech. The automatic pistol jumped in my hand like a living thing. Who needs a dog when you have a Walther PPK? “So get back in your truck and wait your turn before you find an extra hole in your head. And don’t think I wouldn’t do it. I haven’t slept since yesterday morning and my judgment is worse than the Kaiser’s right now. It’s been six months since I shot anyone. But I really don’t think I’m going to miss any sleep about shooting you.”
The workers turned away, grumbling but quiet, and climbed back in their truck. One of them lit his pipe, which is always a good sign when you’re a copper. It’s a deliberate, thoughtful sort of man who smokes a pipe; I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged blows with a man who had a briar in his mouth.
The warning shot I’d fired had summoned a couple of girls to the barracks’ door. At least they looked like whores. One of them wasn’t much more than twenty, wearing a gray astrakhan coat, high-heeled shoes, and very little else. The official German football team’s black shorts she had on under the coat were an interesting touch; I expect she wanted to demonstrate a bit of loyalty to her adopted country. The other girl was older and dressed in an army Red Cross officer’s greatcoat, but the blue stockings and garters, and enough crimson lipstick to supply the Moscow State Circus, persuaded me that she probably wasn’t a doctor. Hardly able to contain his distaste, Kaspel pushed gently past these women and I stamped the snow off my boots and followed him inside.
The entrance area held a few battered leather armchairs and an upright piano, with a threadbare carpet on a linoleum floor, and a dilapidated sideboard with a choice of liquor bottles. There were also several showers for the customers, and shards of soap lay on the mildewed tile floor. The whole place smelled strongly of cigarettes and cheap perfume. A large wood-burning stove occupied a central place among the chairs. The hut was at least warm—warmer than the unwelcoming woman who ran the place. She wasn’t anyone’s idea of a madam but then her clients were rough untutored men who had no more idea of what passed for a proper house of love than the archbishop of Munich. Unlike the others, she wore a thick woolen dress, a white collarless shirt, a traditional green velvet gilet, and a warm beige shawl, but the main reason I knew she was in charge was the Tet biscuit tin under her arm that I supposed was full not of biscuits but of cash. She had quick, rapacious eyes and I knew the minute I saw them that she had the answers to all of my questions. But for a minute or two I left them all unasked. Sometimes, if you’re wise, it’s better to hear answers to the questions that you wouldn’t ever have thoug
ht of asking. Maybe Plato wouldn’t like that kind of dialogue, but it always worked at the Alex.
TWENTY-THREE
April 1939
“What’s your name, handsome?” she asked.
“My name’s Gunther. Bernhard Gunther. And this is Captain Kaspel, from the RSD.”
“That’s a relief. I thought it must be a cowboy. What was the shooting about, cowboy?”
“Martin Bormann sent me,” I said. “Your clients were very impatient for your company and didn’t seem to understand that I’m not accustomed to waiting in line. I felt it was all the explanation I owed them.” I shrugged. “They’re outside, in their truck. I told them to wait an hour.”
“Thoughtful of you, I’m sure.” She lit a cigarette and blew some of the smoke my way, which was generous. “They’ve been a bit cranky since the local supply of Pervitin dried up. That’s the local drug of choice. Poor man’s cocaine, if you ask me.”
“So I hear.”
“If you’re here from Martin Bormann, then I assume Flex must not be coming. Besides, he’s usually here by now with the hand out for his lordship’s share.”
“Dr. Flex won’t be coming anymore on account of the fact that he’s dead. Someone murdered him. Put a bullet in his head.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. I’ve seen the body. And believe me, it’s not funny at all. Half his head was gone. And his brains were piled on the floor.”
“I see.”
The woman said no more about Flex’s death, and her expression gave away nothing. It seemed she wasn’t going to miss him very much. I’d yet to meet anyone who was.
“Tall, aren’t you? Almost as tall as Flex.”
“I was a lot shorter until I started working for the deputy chief of staff. Couple of weeks ago I was carrying a pickax, looking out for six brothers and answering to the name of Grumpy.”
“That happens a lot around here. But you’re thinking of Doc, aren’t you? Grumpy just scowled a lot and looked out for himself.”
“Like I said, Doc’s dead. Besides, I’m not that clever. Just the one with the biggest nose and the worst temper.”
“I’ve seen worse. As you’ve already discovered, some of these local dwarves like to play rough. But I can usually take care of it.” She lifted her gilet a few centimeters and let me catch sight of a little automatic she was keeping warm under there. “You see? I make an excellent wicked stepmother when the need arises.”
“I’ll bet you do,” said Kaspel.
“He’s not as nice as you,” she told me. “I expect it’s the uniform.”
I shrugged. “Captain Kaspel? He always tells the truth, I’m afraid. Just like the slave of the magic mirror. So be careful what you ask him. You might not like the answer, your majesty.”
“Am I supposed to pay you from now on? Do tell.”
“I’m not here to discuss the new arrangements. Frau?”
“Lola,” she said. “They call me naughty Lola. Like Marlene Dietrich, you know?”
But there the similarity ended. I nodded all the same, hardly wanting to earn her displeasure by laughing in her face, which looked like a wax orange, there was so much paint covering it. On the way to some information there was still room for a bit of common courtesy and good manners, especially after pulling a gun on her customers and making free with Bormann’s name like some pompous Party official. Surrounded by so much ruthless efficiency in the name of the Leader, it now fell to someone like me to try to redress that balance. Perhaps. I shot Kaspel a look, hoping to dampen his contempt. Maybe Lola wasn’t the fairest of them all but she was still the queen of the hut and I needed her talking.
“Sure,” I said. “I know. The Blue Angel is one of my favorites.”
“Then you’re in the right place, Herr Gunther. Maybe I’ll come sit on your knee and sing you a nice song, if you’re a good boy.”
I managed not to laugh at that one, too, but Kaspel was finding it harder to keep a straight face. I needed to get rid of him, and quickly, before he could upset her. Outside the grimy window it had started snowing again. Undeterred, the four P&Z workers were still awaiting our departure. A part of me was already feeling sorry for all the girls who were trapped in this awful love hut in the forest. At least Snow White never had to sleep with the seven dwarves. Not in the version I’d read, anyway.
“Can we talk somewhere in private?” I asked her.
“You’d better come into my office.”
“Captain Kaspel,” I said, “would you mind keeping an eye on the car? I wouldn’t put it past those bastards in the truck to do something to our tires.”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
“Please.”
He frowned for a moment, probably considered arguing about it, and then remembered the inflexible reputation of the man who had sent me down to Berchtesgaden in the first place. “All right,” he said, and went outside.
Lola led me into a room with a bed, a shower, and a toilet, and closed the door. There were some religious prints on the walls and from these and from her accent I concluded that she might be Italian. On the bedside table was a bowlful of Gummis and I supposed she was not above handling a few clients herself, when things were busier. I sat on the only chair; she sat on the bed and finished her cigarette. The office part was probably the metal desk and the filing cabinet by the window. There was even an old candlestick phone. Meanwhile, Kaspel was walking back to the car.
“Sorry about him,” I said. “Von Ribbentrop he’s not.”
“If you mean he’s no diplomat, I’d say that’s true. But then Ribbentrop isn’t much of a diplomat, either. You’re different. Well, let’s just say we could have used you down here back in September, when Chamberlain came to eat Hitler’s shit. Maybe things would have turned out different. Then again, I’m Italian. We like everyone to be happy. That’s why we have Mussolini. He at least seems to enjoy his fascism in a way you Germans don’t.”
“You’ve been in Berchtesgaden for a while, then.”
“About a year. Seems a lot longer, especially when there’s snow on the ground. We get to keep half of what we earn on our backs. Flex used to take the rest, for our room and board, he said. If that’s what you can call this dump. I hope you’re not here to renegotiate that rate.”
“No, I’m not here to renegotiate anything. Look, Lola, I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I’m a police commissar from Berlin. A detective. I’ve come down here to investigate the murder of Dr. Flex. And I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“Beyond the fact that I’m glad he’s dead, I don’t know what to tell you, Herr Commissar. Karl Flex was a chiseling son of a bitch and deserved that bullet. I just hope he didn’t suffer—for any length of time shorter than several hours.”
“Those are strong words, Lola. And, if you’ll take my advice, perhaps best moderated, given who he worked for.”
“I don’t care. I’ve had enough of this place. You can arrest me and throw me in a cell and I’ll say the same thing. But of course you won’t because nobody wants to hear what I’ve got to say. In the beginning, when Bormann ordered this place to be built, we were handing over only twenty-five percent. But about three months ago, Flex told us it was now fifty. When I protested he told us to take it up with Bormann if we didn’t like it. Not that we could. We can’t even go into Berchtesgaden. Once we tried it and the locals almost stoned us. Of course, none of us are German, so that makes us easier to spot. And easier to control, too. Flex knew damn well that we didn’t really have any choice but to do whatever he told us. And I do mean whatever he told us.”
“Meaning what—that he enjoyed the favors of some of these girls himself?”
“Just the one girl, actually. Renata Prodi.”
“I’d like to speak with her, if I can.”
“Well, you can’t. She’s gone. Sent hom
e to Milan by the doctor. On account of the fact that Flex gave her gonorrhea. I’d catch a train home myself if I had enough money. But I don’t.”
“He gave it to her? Jelly?”
“Almost certainly.”
“When was this?”
“A few days ago. It almost closed us down. The doctor has got us all on silver proteinate.” She leaned forward and tugged open the bedside drawer to reveal the same Protargol that I’d seen before, on the list of Flex’s personal effects—the drug thoughtfully removed by Karl Brandt. “Not that there’s any real need. Renata was the only one affected. And she used Gummis with all her clients. All except Flex. He insisted on not wearing a raincoat. But you couldn’t argue with a man like that. He really was wicked, you know. Not like you.”
“I’m part of the same crummy football team.”
“But not in your heart. I can read men really quickly, you know, Commissar. There’s a kindness in your eyes, which is why you keep them narrowed and well-shaded by the brim of your hat, so that no one will notice that you’re not like the rest of the dwarves. No, you’re Humbert the Huntsman. I can tell. If the wicked queen told you to take Snow White into the woods and cut her heart out, you’d let her go and take a pig’s heart home with you in a nice box with a ribbon on it. Flex’s heart, probably. Assuming he had one.”
“Was it always Flex who came for the money?”
“No, once or twice it was another Fridolin. Fellow named Schenk. Cold bastard. Almost as bad as Flex. I expect he’ll be the one who we have to deal with now. Something else I’m not looking forward to.”
“Who gets the money from this little house of silk? Bormann, I suppose?”
“I imagine. There’s not much that happens around here his lordship doesn’t know about. Or from which he doesn’t take a nice fat cut. Based upon what the men who work building his hotels and his roads and his tunnels are telling me, he must be worth millions. But certainly he’s hated every bit as much as Flex was. Strikes me you’ve got your work cut out for you, Herr Gunther.”