by Chris Petit
The commandant looked embarrassed. ‘The thing is, we still don’t know who she is.’
She had been found on the road into town but her papers corresponded to nobody in the garrison. Schlegel presumed not much of a search had gone on. He asked if garrison vehicles had been checked for damage. The commandant didn’t know.
‘Was anyone in charge of these cases?’ asked Morgen.
‘I was, in as much as there was time, but it is only now we are seeing them in a possibly different light.’
Morgen looked sceptical. ‘Why leave a body this time if he is such a surreptitious killer?
‘Perhaps he was disturbed.’
‘Then what is the motive? This latest doesn’t look like a sex attack.’
‘Palitsch would be a suspect in my book.’ It was said as if the commandant had just thought of it. ‘He was all right until his wife died.’
‘Are there any other names you would care to pluck out of the hat?’
Morgen’s irony was lost on the commandant.
‘Start with Palitsch. You get an instinct for a wrong ’un. Not at first, but he has let himself go, grown coarse and no longer decent. None of this must get out. That would be unthinkable.’
‘If no one can know what we are investigating, why would we be asking questions?’
‘Ha-ha, of course. Say you are still following up on the dentist, and this Tanner woman is a suspected accomplice and you are trying to locate her. Start with Palitsch.’
‘And what is the conclusion of our case, once Palitsch has confessed?’
‘Ha-ha, yes, of course. You’ll think of something.’
‘And if it’s not Palitsch?’ ventured Morgen.
‘No more garrison women killed, full stop. That’s your responsibility. Palitsch can go in the clean-up. My wife and I are having a garden party this afternoon. Come at four. Free beer and cigarettes! And food. A barbecue. Palitsch will be there. You can observe him at close quarters.’
Morgen was not impressed.
‘Why call us back when he was so desperate to get rid of us, just to waste our time. You heard him. We’re not even supposed to be seen to be investigating.’
Schlegel was cheered at the thought of still trying to subpoena Sybil.
Their bags had been dropped at the hotel. Morgen said he was going back to make some calls. Schlegel thought he saw early signs of Morgen’s mysteriousness, a period of elusiveness, which prefaced another of his disappearances.
It was a working Saturday morning. Schlegel wasn’t sure how to approach Elizabeth Schulze. It turned out to be straightforward: hers was a big office with its own reception where he asked for her. The walls featured large photographs of sturdy industrial buildings.
She came out a couple of minutes later, a little reserved, as if self-conscious of being seen in uniform. Apart from tilting her head in enquiry, she showed no surprise at him being there, as if expecting him sooner or later.
Schlegel said he was trying to locate a prisoner. He didn’t know who else to ask as he still didn’t know the form.
Schulze said she could spare five minutes.
‘We can go to the central prisoner file down the corridor.’
She said there were two registers, one listed by name, a second by profession.
Sybil’s name was not in either.
‘You say she works in the commandant’s house.’
From the tinge of exasperation in her voice, Schlegel feared she took him for a time-waster.
‘Yes. A seamstress.’
They checked again in the professional file.
‘She has to be here.’ Schulze paused. ‘Do you know Erich Groenke?’
Schlegel said he had been shooting with him. She looked mildly impressed.
‘You do get around.’ He couldn’t tell if she was mocking. ‘Ask him. He acts as an unofficial foreman for the commandant’s wife. We could have asked Ilse, too.’
‘Ilse?’
Ilse was the works supervisor for staff in the commandant’s house.
‘She’s on leave. Try Monday.’
Schulze’s professional manner was brisk, almost as though they had never met.
He went and sought out Groenke at his factory, which was in the process of closing for the day.
Groenke, upbeat as usual, took Schlegel up to his office, perched on a gantry, beyond a tiny room where an ostentatiously pretty secretary sat.
An electric fan blew sweet cool air in a rotating arc. Groenke addressed the secretary as darling, and ordered coffees. He added he would have a beer too and asked if Schlegel wanted one.
Schlegel mumbled that he would stick to coffee, knowing he would regret it. He waited for the occasional moments of cool breeze that blew in his direction. The fan had a paper streamer attached, which fluttered hypnotically.
Groenke said, ‘I am not supposed to talk to you.’
‘Who says?’
‘The Old Man. You make him nervous.’
‘That was yesterday. He just invited us back.’
That was news to Groenke.
Schlegel took advantage to say, ‘It has been suggested we talk to a seamstress employed in the commandant’s house.’
‘Name of?’
‘We thought you might be able to help with that. She’s a favourite of the commandant’s wife. She apparently leads a well-off life, with her own room, which they helped furnish.’
Groenke viewed Schlegel with suspicion. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I was advised to talk to you. As you say, our presence makes the commandant nervous . . . even if we have been invited back.’
Groenke gave a big laugh. ‘Of course it does if you sign his wife’s fucking visitors’ book using a couple of false names! That went down really well!’
He saluted with his beer bottle, which looked enviably cold. Eyes that had seen everything, Schlegel thought, from which no mystery of life had been withheld.
The coffee was a weak substitute, a sign probably of how Groenke regarded him. The man was bound to have bags of the real stuff.
Groenke volunteered, ‘I would have vetted this woman for the commandant’s wife.’
‘How come?’
‘It would be unseemly for her to go down to the labour exchange. Anyway, it’s too late by then. The best skilled workers get picked off before even getting there. Seamstresses are especially in demand. If you’re not quick someone else gets them. Frau Hoess’s selection is limited as it is.’
‘How so?’
‘She won’t employ some of the best seamstresses.’
Groenke clearly meant Jews. Schlegel could hardly say he had heard the woman was a Jew.
‘Out of tact,’ Groenke went on. ‘She feels it would compromise her husband as commandant.’
He supposed Sybil’s Jewishness had somehow been overlooked but that didn’t make sense either; her card would be stamped to say exactly what she was. An accident of bureaucracy? It didn’t work like that in Schlegel’s experience.
Groenke said, ‘You could go through the labour exchange or the woman’s block warden or her work supervisor. But they will want a request submitted in writing. On the other hand . . . Here’s the thing. The commandant’s wife believes you have actually been sent to help her.’
‘Excuse me? Help how?’
‘She said to me, “I think these are the men who have been sent to help.” ’
Schlegel didn’t know what to make of any of it.
‘That was all she said, other than adding she believed it in a biblical sense, as in what had been ordained.’
The garden was full of the fatty smell of sizzling meat. The commandant had changed into a white suit with white shoes.
Schlegel arrived wondering what it meant, the commandant’s wife believing they had been sent to help. Morgen was none the wiser, other than to wonder whether the woman, rather than her husband, was behind their recall.
‘Welcome to hell,’ Morgen said, pointing to the barbecue where a slender fig
ure stood prodding sausages with a fork.
The floppy chef’s hat distracted Schlegel from seeing who it was, then, sure enough, slaughterhouse Sepp grinned nastily at him through the paraffin haze.
Morgen grunted. ‘We should add him to the list of suspects for Tanner’s killer if we can name anyone we want.’
‘She was hit from behind,’ Schlegel offered; Sepp’s preferred method.
Morgen went over and asked Sepp what he was doing.
‘Catering,’ said Sepp smugly.
Morgen came back shaking his head. ‘Does it really surprise you when a convicted killer turns up at the commandant’s garden party?’
‘Not really, given the strange levels of fraternisation in this place.’
Schlegel looked around. Everyone dressed in civilian best. Sixty or seventy guests going through the motions of social exchange. Everyone knocking it back. Getting drunk seemed to be the point. Behind the bonhomie he sensed glumness, as though the party were a ghost of livelier ones, apart from a buzz around Fegelein, who attracted young women with his indolent, inviting smile.
Palitsch drifted past wearing a nice, short-sleeved, open-neck shirt, looking relaxed and non-homicidal. Schulze came through the garden gate, accompanied by Krick. The swept-back hair had been replaced by a crewcut showing new grey, and a moustache had been added. Krick looked leaner, with long grooves down the sides of his mouth. Schlegel noted his watchfulness. Krick’s gaze quickly passed over him, despite a flicker of recognition. Had Schulze told Krick about him? She was gesturing and laughing with another guest. He saw Broad with his perpetual accordion and the tall figure of Dr Wirths, conspicuous for being the only one in uniform and drinking mineral water.
Morgen smoked and said he didn’t understand what was going on.
‘Kammler sent us. We failed and have been immediately recalled on quite another matter. I can’t decide if the two are connected, and whether the commandant’s request is genuine, or a decoy, or a countermove against Kammler. By the way, I assume that is the eldest of the commandant’s brats in the process of getting the family dog drunk.’
A supercilious boy of thirteen or so, dressed in military khaki, was encouraging a woozy shepherd to drink out of a bowl.
Morgen went on. ‘What a charming cameo. There are too many loose ends. Including her.’
Frau Hoess had appeared on the patio, wearing a green satin cloak with a hood. Schlegel watched her survey the party, pausing to note them.
Morgen said, ‘I suspect we’re the real loose ends. I am sure there is a logic to everything else, unavailable to us. The depressing thing about history is the way it shows us leading our lives all wrong, so why should it be different now?’
Fegelein had moved on to talk to Groenke, who had swapped his artisan outfit for smart slacks and a silk shirt. Fegelein, wearing an expensive hacking jacket, flicked ash and greeted whatever Groenke said with his most charming smile.
‘There’s a likely pair,’ Morgen said, just as they were accosted by Dr Wirths, telling them in his friendly way that they had forgotten to come and see him. Schlegel suspected Wirths was a buttonholer. Wirths asked who they knew.
Morgen said no one really, apart from the obvious. Wirths pointed to the crowd Schulze was part of, presided over by a burly, beetle-browed man of around fifty, which made him older than most. He said they were the construction team and the man was their boss.
‘Nothing they build works.’
Wirths pointed to the tall chimney over the garden wall. ‘They spent ages replacing that and almost immediately it had to be closed for repairs and has since been discontinued.’
Schlegel asked, ‘Is that why the morgue is hot instead of cool?’
‘You know about that? They messed up the heating and the ventilation.’
Schlegel watched the party notch up a gear. A woman gave a couple of whoops. The beetle-browed man said something that caused him to double up with mirth. His cronies joined in. Schlegel was pleased to see Schulze did not. She seemed to note him watching and he supposed the friendly look was meant for him. He couldn’t see Krick anywhere.
Dr Wirths continued to list at length the construction department’s shortcomings. He blamed overspending and underperforming.
Schlegel stopped listening. He was vaguely aware of the doctor telling them to avoid the new camp. The construction department again was responsible.
‘Absurdly grandiose schemes. I reserve my greatest contempt for it, given the shoddiness of the goods delivered. I keep telling anyone who will listen, money gets spent on the wrong things. What I could have done with a fraction of its crematoria budget. I am afraid everyone regards me as a grinding bore, I am sure you do too.’
Schlegel was surprised by such unlikely self-awareness.
‘They could have saved a fortune and countless lives, had they looked after the living, instead of just thinking of how to get rid of the dead.’
Morgen asked who was responsible.
‘Dr Kammler. They are his follies.’
Wirths stopped like a wound-down gramophone and Morgen and Schlegel extricated themselves without him seeming to notice. He remained smiling politely, watching the party’s signs of disarray – the now staggering dog and a woman who sat down hard on her bottom.
Morgen said, ‘Perhaps we have underestimated Dr Kammler. A construction pharaoh as well as lord of all slaves.’
Seeing Schulze in the company of Broad, he suggested they go over.
Schlegel was surprised Broad and Schulze knew each other.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Schulze. ‘The security police always has a long litany of complaints to address to the construction department.’
They had the easy manner of people who got on. Broad complained that Schulze had yet to return the last book he had lent her.
‘What was that?’ asked Schlegel.
‘Lermontov,’ said Schulze.
‘A Hero of Our Time?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Get to know thine enemy,’ said Broad.
Morgen said, ‘Tell us about Dr Wirths.’
Wirths was now lecturing several wives who were looking around for their escape.
Broad gave a sneaky grin. ‘Not popular, which is why he can’t get any building supplies or workers for his new home.’
He caught Schulze’s eye.
‘How come?’ asked Morgen in surprise.
Broad said, ‘An interesting alliance of my boss, her boss, and . . .’
He pointed to Groenke, still in conversation with Fegelein and a group of adoring young women. ‘You have to admit it’s funny, the man hasn’t a clue. That’s how it works.’
Broad pointed to the pond in front of the summerhouse and said, ‘Ask Schulze about the pond.’
‘Go on, tell us,’ said Morgen. ‘We are impressed by the quality of your gossip.’
It had happened just after she just arrived, she said, when she found herself being cultivated by the commandant’s wife, invited to tea and so forth, then landed with the responsibility of providing her with the pond she so wanted.
‘For the kiddies. Off the books and not paid for. Baptism by fire,’ said Broad.
‘How did you manage?’ asked Morgen, intrigued.
‘I asked around who the camp’s top organisers were.’
She pointed towards Groenke.
‘And you didn’t even have to sleep with him,’ offered Broad.
‘I wouldn’t have anyway. He was all right. He organised it without a word to her and let me take the credit.’
‘Why is the doctor so unpopular?’ Morgen asked.
Broad said, ‘One of the bleeding hearts, and we sail a leaky boat, thanks to Dr Wirths being so manipulated by the prisoner underground. It causes us a lot of headaches. Big security crackdowns, arrests left, right and centre, a lot of overcrowded cells, and one mighty angry garrison doctor.’ He glanced up. ‘Look scarce. Here comes the Old Man.’
The commandant was waving his arms, encouraging everyone to ci
rculate.
Schlegel and Morgen gravitated to Groenke and Fegelein, who was saying, ‘As a matter of fact, I am dating the sister of Adolf’s companion. Monastic, vegetarian, teetotal Adolf. Actually, he’s more fun than he lets on.’
The man moved through the gears of social interchange as expertly as any racing driver, and the throwaway manner contrived not to sound like boasting. Groenke lapped it up.
Fegelein turned to Schlegel. ‘Actually, we were discussing philately.’
Schlegel’s lack of answer was taken for ignorance.
‘Stamp collecting,’ Fegelein prompted.
‘Are you a connoisseur?’ Schlegel asked, floundering.
‘A bit. Martin is the one who is.’
‘Martin?’
‘Bormann.’
Of course, who else? thought Schlegel, depressed. Number two in the land.
Morgen said with false joviality, ‘You are the most epic name-dropper.’
Fegelein chose to take the remark as a compliment.
‘Erich has philatelists on his books.’
‘We have a dealer offering one of the Baden 9 Kreuzer error stamps.’
Schlegel did his best to look knowledgeable.
‘Imagine the flurry of excitement over that,’ Fegelein added, before saying he needed to pay his respects to their hostess.
One of the commandant’s children ran past with a wooden rifle and he and Fegelein indulged in a gun battle. The proverbial life and soul of the party, thought Schlegel sourly.
‘How much is the stamp worth?’ asked Morgen.
‘A fortune if genuine,’ said Groenke. ‘But a lot are Jewish fakes.’
The party was in danger of falling flat, despite everyone getting drunk. The commandant carried out a windup gramophone onto the patio and put on a polonaise to liven the mood. People started to dance. A woman proudly sporting a black eye was telling people she had walked into a doorpost. ‘That third gin, darling,’ someone said, and laughed.
Frau Hoess summoned them over with a twist of her head. The cloak had been discarded. She wore heels but they were sinking into the lawn, making her appear to subside before their eyes.
She recited, ‘If the sun is shining, the music stirs and gladdens one’s heart, then this does not seem such a bad place after all.’