by Philip Kerr
‘We see stuff like this all the time,’ said one of them, wrinkling his lips and shaking his head at the spread of pearls and brooches on the counter beneath him. ‘You see, we can’t put a price on sentimental value. I’m sure you understand that.’ He was a young fellow, half the age of the deflating old mattress of a woman before him, and good-looking too, although in need of a shave, perhaps. His colleague was less forthcoming with his indifference: he sniffed so that his nose took on a sneer, he shrugged a half shrug of his coathanger-sized shoulders, and he grunted unenthusiastically. Silently, he counted out five one-hundred-mark notes from a roll in his skinny miser’s hand that must have been worth thirty times as much. The old man he was buying from was undecided about whether or not he should accept what must have been a derisory offer, and with a trembling hand he pointed at the bracelet lying on the piece of cloth he had wrapped it up in.
‘But look here,’ said the old man, ‘you’ve got one just like it in the window for three times what you’re offering.’
The Coathanger pursed his lips. ‘Fritz,’ he said, ‘how long has that sapphire bracelet been in the window?’ It was an efficient double-act, you had to say that much.
‘Must be six months,’ responded the other. ‘Don’t buy another one, this isn’t a charity you know.’ He probably said that several times a day. Coathanger blinked with slow boredom.
‘See what I mean? Look, go somewhere else if you think you can get more for it.’ But the sight of the cash was too much for the old man, and he capitulated. I walked to the head of the line and said that I was looking for Herr Neumaier.
‘If you’ve got something to sell, then you’ll have to wait in line with all the rest of them,’ muttered Coathanger.
‘I have nothing to sell,’ I said vaguely, adding, ‘I’m looking for a diamond necklace.’ At that Coathanger smiled at me like I was his long-lost rich uncle.
‘If you’ll just wait one moment,’ he said unctuously, ‘I’ll just see if Herr Neumaier is free.’ He disappeared behind a curtain for a minute, and when he returned I was ushered through to a small office at the end of the corridor.
Peter Neumaier sat at his desk, smoking a cigar that belonged properly in a plumber’s tool-bag. He was dark, with bright blue eyes, just like our beloved Führer, and was possessed of a stomach that stuck out like a cash register. The cheeks of his face had a red, skinned look, as if he had eczema, or had simply stood too close to his razor that morning. He shook me by the hand as I introduced myself. It was like holding a cucumber.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Herr Gunther,’ he said warmly. ‘I hear you’re looking for some diamonds.’
‘That’s correct. But I should tell you that I’m acting on behalf of someone else.’
‘I understand,’ Neumaier grinned. ‘Did you have a particular setting in mind?’
‘Oh, yes indeed. A diamond necklace.’
‘Well, you have come to the right place. There are several diamond necklaces I can show you.’
‘My client knows precisely what he requires,’ I said. ‘It must be a diamond collet necklace, made by Cartier.’ Neumaier laid his cigar in the ashtray, and breathed out a mixture of smoke, nerves and amusement.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘That certainly narrows the field.’
‘That’s the thing about the rich, Herr Neumaier,’ I said. ‘They always seem to know exactly what they want, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, indeed they do, Herr Gunther.’ He leaned forwards in his chair and, collecting his cigar, he said: ‘A necklace such as you describe is not the sort of piece that comes along every day. And of course it would cost a great deal of money.’ It was time to stick the nettle down his trousers.
‘Naturally, my client is prepared to pay a great deal of money. Twenty-five per cent of the insured value, no questions asked.’
He frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘Come off it, Neumaier. We both know that there’s a lot more to your operation than the heart-warming little scene you’re putting on out front there.’
He blew some smoke and looked at the end of his cigar. ‘Are you suggesting that I buy stolen merchandise, Herr Gunther, because if you are -’
‘Keep your ears stiff, Neumaier, I haven’t finished yet. My client’s flea is solid. Cash money.’ I tossed the photograph of Six’s diamonds at him. ‘If some mouse walks in here trying to sell it, you give me a call. The number’s on the back.’
Neumaier regarded it and me distastefully and then stood up. ‘You are a joke, Herr Gunther. With a few cups short in your cupboard. Now get out of here before I call the police.’
‘You know, that’s not a bad idea,’ I said. ‘I’m sure they’ll be very impressed with your public spirit when you offer to open up your safe and invite them to inspect the contents. That’s the confidence of honesty, I suppose.’
‘Get out of here.’
I stood up and walked out of his office. I hadn’t intended to handle it that way, but I hadn’t liked what I’d seen of Neumaier’s operation. In the shop Coathanger was half-way through offering an old woman a price for her jewel-box that was less than she might have got for it at the Salvation Army hostel. Several of the Jews waiting behind her looked at me with an expression that was a mixture of hope and hopelessness. It made me feel about as comfortable as a trout on a marble slab, and for no reason that I could think of, I felt something like shame.
Gert Jeschonnek was a different proposition. His premises were on the eighth floor of Columbus Haus, a nine-storeyed building on Potsdamer Platz which has a strong emphasis on the horizontal line. It looked like something a long-term prisoner might have made, given an endless supply of matches, and at the same time it put me in mind of the nearly eponymous building near Tempelhof Airport that is Columbia Haus - the Gestapo prison in Berlin. This country shows its admiration for the discoverer of America in the strangest ways.
The eighth floor was home to a whole country-club of doctors, lawyers and publishers, who were only just getting by on 30,000 a year.
The double entrance doors to Jeschonnek’s office were made of polished mahogany, on which appeared in gold lettering, ‘GERT JESCHONNEK. PRECIOUS STONE MERCHANT’. Beyond these was an L-shaped office with walls that were a pleasant shade of pink, on which were hung several framed photographs of diamonds, rubies and various gaudy little baubles that might have stimulated the greed of a Solomon or two. I took a chair and waited for an anaemic young man sitting behind a typewriter to finish on the telephone. After a minute he said:
‘I’ll call you back, Rudi.’ He replaced the receiver and looked at me with an expression that was just a few centimetres short of surly.
‘Yes?’ he said. Call me old-fashioned, but I have never liked male secretaries. A man’s vanity gets in the way of serving the needs of another male, and this particular specimen wasn’t about to win me over.
‘When you’ve finished filing your nails, perhaps you’d tell your boss that I’d like to see him. The name’s Gunther.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’ he said archly.
‘Since when does a man who’s looking for some diamonds need to make an appointment? Tell me that, would you?’ I could see that he found me less amusing than a boxful of smoke.
‘Save your breath to cool your soup,’ he said, and came round the desk to go through the only other door. ‘I’ll find out if he can see you.’ While he was out of the room I picked up a recent issue of Der Stürmer from the magazine rack. The front page had a drawing of a man in angel’s robes holding an angel’s mask in front of his face. Behind him was his devil’s tail, sticking out from underneath his surplice, and his ‘angel’s’ shadow, except that this now revealed the profile behind the mask to be unmistakably Jewish. Those Der Stürmer cartoonists love to draw a big nose, and this one was a real pelican’s beak. A strange thing to find in a respectable businessman’s office, I thought. The anaemic young man emerging from the other
office provided the simple explanation.
‘He won’t keep you very long,’ he said, adding, ‘He buys that to impress the kikes.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’
‘We get a lot of Jewish custom in here,’ he explained. ‘Of course, they only want to sell, never to buy. Herr Jeschonnek thinks that if they see that he subscribes to Der Stürmer, it will help him to drive a harder bargain.’
‘Very shrewd of him,’ I said. ‘Does it work?’
‘I guess so. You’d better ask him.’
‘Maybe I will at that.’
There wasn’t much to see in the boss’s office. Across a couple of acres of carpet was a grey steel safe that had once been a small battleship, and a Panzer-sized desk with a dark leather top. The desk had very little on it except a square of felt, on which lay a ruby that was big enough to decorate a Maharajah’s favourite elephant, and Jeschonnek’s feet, wearing immaculate white spats, and these swung under the table as I came through the door.
Gert Jeschonnek was a burly hog of a man, with small piggy eyes and a brown beard cropped close to his sunburned face. He wore a light-grey double-breasted suit that was ten years too young for him, and in the lapel was a Scary Badge. He had March Violet plastered all over him like insect repellent.
‘Herr Gunther,’ he said brightly, and for a moment he was almost standing at attention. Then he crossed the floor to greet me. A purplish butcher’s hand pumped mine own, which showed patches of white when I let it go. He must have had blood like treacle. He smiled a sweet smile and then looked across my shoulder to his anaemic secretary who was about to close the door on us. Jeschonnek said:
‘Helmut. A pot of your best strong coffee please. Two cups, and no delays.’ He spoke quickly and precisely, beating time with his hand like a teacher of elocution. He led me over to the desk, and the ruby, which I figured was there to impress me, in the same way as the copies of Der Stürmer were there to impress his Jewish custom. I pretended to ignore it, but Jeschonnek was not to be denied his little performance. He held the ruby up to the light in his fat fingers, and grinned obscenely.
‘An extremely fine cabochon ruby,’ he said. ‘Like it?’
‘Red isn’t my colour,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t go with my hair.’ He laughed and replaced the ruby on the velvet, which he folded up and returned to his safe. I sat down on a big armchair in front of his desk.
‘I’m looking for a diamond necklace,’ I said. He sat down opposite me.
‘Well, Herr Gunther, I’m the acknowledged expert on diamonds.’ His head gave a proud little flourish, like a racehorse, and I caught a powerful whiff of cologne.
‘Is that so?’ I said.
‘I doubt if there’s a man in Berlin who knows as much about diamonds as I do.’ He thrust his stubbly chin at me, as if challenging me to contradict him. I almost threw up.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I said. The coffee arrived and Jeschonnek glanced uncomfortably after his secretary as he minced out of the room.
‘I cannot get used to having a male secretary,’ he said. ‘Of course, I can see that the proper place for a woman is in the home, bringing up a family, but I have a great fondness for women, Herr Gunther.’
‘I’d take a partner before I’d take on a male secretary,’ I said. He smiled politely.
‘Now then, I believe you’re in the market for a diamond.’
‘Diamonds,’ I said, correcting him.
‘I see. On their own, or in a setting?’
‘Actually I’m trying to trace a particular piece which has been stolen from my client,’ I explained, and handed him my card. He stared at it impassively. ‘A necklace, to be precise. I have a photograph of it here.’ I produced another photograph and handed it to him.
‘Magnificent,’ he said.
‘Each one of the baguettes is one carat,’ I told him.
‘Quite,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see how I can help you, Herr Gunther.’
‘If the thief should try and offer it to you, I’d be grateful if you would contact me. Naturally, there is a substantial reward. I have been authorized by my client to offer twenty-five per cent of the insured value for recovery, no questions asked.’
‘May one know the name of your client, Herr Gunther?’
I hesitated. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Ordinarily, a client’s identity is confidential. But I can see that you are the kind of man who is used to respecting confidentiality.’
‘You’re much too kind,’ he said.
‘The necklace is Indian, and belongs to a princess who is in Berlin for the Olympiad, as the guest of the Government.’ Jeschonnek began to frown as he listened to my lies. ‘I have not met the princess myself, but I am told that she is the most beautiful creature that Berlin has ever seen. She is staying at the Adlon Hotel, from where the necklace was stolen several nights ago.’
‘Stolen from an Indian princess, eh?’ he said, adding a smile to his features. ‘Well, I mean, why was there nothing in the newspapers about this? And why are the police not involved?’ I drank some of my coffee to prolong a dramatic pause.
‘The management of the Adlon is anxious to avoid a scandal,’ I said. ‘It’s not so very long ago that the Adlon suffered a series of unfortunate robberies committed there by the celebrated jewel-thief Faulhaber.’
‘Yes, I remember reading about that.’
‘It goes without question that the necklace is insured, but where the reputation of the Adlon is concerned, that is hardly the point, as I am sure you will understand.’
‘Well, sir, I shall certainly contact you immediately if I come across any information that may help you,’ said Jeschonnek, producing a gold watch from his pocket. He glanced at it deliberately. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must be getting on.’ He stood up and held out his pudgy hand.
‘Thanks for your time,’ I said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to ask that boy to step in here when you go out,’ he said.
‘Sure.’
He gave me the Hitler Salute. ‘Heil Hitler,’ I repeated dumbly.
In the outside office the anaemic boy was reading a magazine. My eyes caught sight of the keys before I’d finished telling him that his boss required his presence: they were lying on the desk next to the telephone. He grunted and wrenched himself out of his seat. I hesitated at the door.
‘Oh, do you have a piece of paper?’
He pointed to the pad on which the keys were lying. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, and went into Jeschonnek’s office.
‘Thanks, I will.’ The key-ring was labelled ‘Office’. I took a cigarette case out of my pocket and opened it. In the smooth surface of the modelling clay I made three impressions — two sides and a vertical — of both keys. I suppose that you could say I did it on impulse. I’d hardly had time to digest everything that Jeschonnek had said; or rather, what he hadn’t said. But then I always carry that piece of clay, and it seems a shame not to use it when the opportunity presents itself. You would be surprised how often a key that I’ve had made with that mould comes in useful.
Outside, I found a public telephone and called the Adlon. I still remembered lots of good times at the Adlon, and lots of friends, too.
‘Hello, Hermine,’ I said, ‘it’s Bernie.’ Hermine was one of the girls on the Adlon’s switchboard.
‘You stranger,’ she said. ‘We haven’t seen you in ages.’
‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ I said.
‘So’s the Führer, but he still manages to get around and wave to us.’
‘Maybe I should buy myself an open-top Mercedes and a couple of outriders.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘I need a small favour, Hermine.’
‘Ask.’
‘If a man telephones and asks you or Benita if there is an Indian princess staying at the hotel, would you please say that there is? If he wants to speak to her, say she’s not taking any calls.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes.’
/> ‘Does this princess have a name?’
‘You know the names of any Indian girls?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I saw a film the other week which had this Indian girl in it. Her name was Mushmi.’
‘Let it be Princess Mushmi then. And thanks, Hermine. I’ll be speaking to you soon.’
I went into the Pschorr Haus restaurant and ate a plate of bacon and broad beans, and drank a couple of beers. Either Jeschonnek knew nothing about diamonds, or he had something to hide. I’d told him that the necklace was Indian, when he ought to have recognized it as being by Cartier. Not only that, but he had failed to contradict me when I described the stones incorrectly as baguettes. Baguettes are square or oblong, with a straight edge; but Six’s necklace consisted of brilliants, which are round. And then there was the caratage; I’d said that each stone was a carat in weight, when they were obviously several times larger.
It wasn’t much to go on; and mistakes are made: it’s impossible always to pick up a stick by the right end; but all the same, I had this feeling in my socks that I was going to have to visit Jeschonnek again.
8
After leaving Pschorr Haus, I went into the Haus Vaterland, which as well as housing the cinema where I was to meet Bruno Stahlecker, is also home to an almost infinite number of bars and cafés. The place is popular with the tourists, but it’s too old-fashioned to suit my taste: the great ugly halls, the silver paint, the bars with their miniature rainstorms and moving trains; it all belongs to a quaint old European world of mechanical toys and music-hall, leotarded strong-men and trained canaries. The other thing that makes it unusual is that it’s the only bar in Germany that charges for admission. Stahlecker was less than happy about it.