Pale Horse Riding

by Chris Petit

  He explained what he had in mind.

  She sat for a long time, stood up and said, ‘Schlegel will never forgive us.’

  Schlegel woke unable to breathe, with something pressing hard against his face and on his chest. He saw black, shot with red. He thought it was panic, causing a huge convulsion, and his unconscious body was being invaded by the terror his waking mind refused to process. He could not tell if his eyes were open. Explosions detonated in his head. He worked out he was being smothered. A dry drowning. He had no idea who his would-be killer was; not a doctor, who would have just stuck a needle in. The weight on his chest grew heavier as his lungs used up the last of their air. He attempted to struggle. His legs started to thrash. His brain was shutting down. Useless fury coursed through him. Then suddenly he could breathe again, huge gasping lungfuls.

  The room spun and Schlegel saw stars. The sight that greeted him made no sense. Fegelein, jade cigarette holder in his mouth but cigaretteless, was talking to a pretty nurse, who looked more charmed than bothered. It was like finding normal service resumed after a massive signal failure. Fegelein showed no sign of exertion. A pillow lay on the floor. Fegelein looked at Schlegel while saying to the nurse, ‘I was passing in the corridor and this man was having some kind of fit. I tried to steady him. It seems to have worked. Good to see you’re feeling better.’

  The man’s nerve was such that the nurse would think Schlegel mad if he announced Fegelein had just tried to kill him. Or perhaps he hadn’t; a sense of indolent play suggested it didn’t matter whether Schlegel lived or died. Looking at the man smiling, Schlegel decided he wouldn’t bother to try again because the message would get to Morgen.

  More disconcerting was the notion of Fegelein as Frau Hoess’s emissary, she his angel of death, and all the rigmarole of placing his hand up her skirt was a prelude to the smothering, the inference being Fegelein was acting for her.

  Fegelein strolled out with the pretty nurse without so much as a backward glance.

  Schlegel was woken by Morgen the next morning, telling him to get dressed, he was needed, they had a busy day ahead. He had with him Schlegel’s other suit, a change of clothes and his gun, which had been left in his room.

  ‘Are you up to it?’ Morgen asked.

  It wasn’t really a question. Besides, Schlegel was bored of lying in bed.

  He dressed with agonising slowness and told about Fegelein.

  Morgen grunted, not even surprised, and said, ‘Your word against his. First off, you can watch him get his comeuppance. A taxi’s waiting.’

  Schlegel gave an edited version of his encounter with Frau Hoess.

  Morgen exclaimed, ‘A jade mine near Breslau! And she’s running the show to keep everyone sweet?’

  He paced the room in wonder, lit up, blew out a plume of smoke. ‘It sounds exactly the sort of crackpot scheme they would all fall for, a grown-up version of kids sticking their hands in the sweet jar.’

  Schlegel moved with a slow deliberation that he could see already annoyed Morgen who, by contrast, ran downstairs and called back up, ‘First we sort out Fegelein. Then we have the Kattowice Gestapo coming to turn the place upside down. I will spare no one, not even the commandant and his wife. As for Fegelein, who agreed to present himself at ten o’clock, he has a driver booked for Kattowice airport at eight.’

  Morgen had his usual taxi waiting. They picked up their witness, the local councillor, who used the journey to bombard them with complaints about garrison behaviour.

  Schlegel tuned the man out. Another deadly bright day. His beating may have left him a mess and turned his brain to mud, but it let him see more clearly the filth beneath.

  He broke the unwritten code, asking the fussy councillor if he knew what went on in the garrison.

  It was obvious now they all did, even the taxi driver.

  The councillor hummed and hawed then said, ‘Thousands upon thousands are sent but the numbers always remain the same.’

  ‘Yes, an enormous feat of management,’ said Morgen sourly.

  They arrived early at the airport – little more than a field and a few huts – and waited for Fegelein, whose plane was turning over on the runway.

  There were no other passengers. Schlegel stared at the flaccid windsock and thought it must be important if Fegelein had the plane to himself.

  Fegelein strolled in alone, ten minutes later, toting his valise, light of footstep, like a man whose business was successfully completed.

  Schlegel saw the recoil of horror, followed by a second of collapse before the lie slid easily into place.

  Fegelein announced he had been called away early. Morgen turned to the councillor and asked if this was the man he had seen. Fegelein rocked like a boxer taking a punch then grinned and held out his hands, inviting Morgen to handcuff him.

  Morgen said he was taking him in for questioning.

  Fegelein showed his teeth. ‘Stop wasting my time. I am here conducting personal business on behalf of the Führer.’

  With a dramatic flourish he produced an impressively embossed document that said in unequivocal terms the bearer must be allowed to proceed unhindered by all parties.

  ‘All parties,’ said Fegelein, with a self-satisfied air.

  Morgen stepped aside. ‘A postponement, then. I will see you in Berlin with a formal summons.’

  He pointed to Schlegel and said, ‘You can add attempted homicide to the list and trading in stolen property.’

  For a second the man’s aplomb deserted him. Schlegel suspected the loss of face lay in recognising Morgen’s relentlessness, which would not stop until one of them was destroyed.

  The moment was followed by a flare of hatred before the man’s equilibrium was restored.

  ‘I can recommend the seamstress,’ Fegelein said as he sauntered off.

  Schlegel asked Morgen what was meant by that. Morgen had no answer and Schlegel saw something he had never expected to see in Morgen, the look of a guilty man.

  He asked again. The question was brushed aside. Morgen said trucks from Kattowice were due at nine hundred hours.

  ‘Time to roll up the carpet.’

  The garrison went about the start of its day unawares. Kattowice provided a good turnout of men and dogs. Their leader was a rotund man, quick to laugh, who reminded Schlegel of old-school cops with their amiable veneer hiding a mean spirit and casual expertise in the infliction of pain. Schlegel’s beaten-up appearance provoked no comment.

  The man cast around with a knowing eye and said to Morgen, ‘Ready to go?’

  Grabner was first. They passed him on his morning run, kitted out in a tracksuit, puffing away, running with high knees and sharp elbows.

  By the time he came home a tidy pile of unaccountable goods had been assembled and his wife was hysterical. Grabner hissed like a tyre deflating and looked so little-boy-lost Schlegel thought he might ask for his mother.

  Dr Wirths was still at home. They went in with dogs, one of which attacked the doctor’s runt. Wirths, visibly upset, telephoned the vet as men moved through the house. There was nothing to look in apart from the stove, which yielded another cache of morphine. Wirths protested to Morgen that it was a crude fit-up.

  A call came from upstairs that cash had been found. The Gestapo man came down waving French francs.

  Morgen, implacable, stared at the doctor with controlled aggression and stroked the injured dog until a knock on the door revealed a surprised vet, introducing a level of unreality to the proceedings. Wirths seemed almost tearful, in terms of all his good work being undone. In some ways, he struck Schlegel as the worst of the lot in terms of bargains made with himself.

  The day’s noises shaped themselves: the clang of a lorry’s dropped tailgate, banging of doors, slamming of lockers, dogs straining their leashes, all fangs, drool and mad eyes. Schlegel sensed panicky telephone calls going on all over.

  Schlegel was sure the Gestapo man was planting evidence, with Morgen’s knowledge. He didn’t even bother t
o ask himself if he cared. It was wrong but not as wrong as everything else.

  Palitsch’s shed produced its expected haul. They had a locksmith with them by then.

  Schlegel felt rotten. His cough persisted, irritating everyone.

  The location of the contraband store where all confiscated goods were taken afforded Morgen a certain amusement. It was in the offices of the security police, whose staff were taking the heaviest hits. Schlegel escorted several consignments and signed them in with Broad, in charge of the desk, with teams behind already cataloguing and storing the goods in the barred area known as the cage.

  At the rate they were going the garrison would have to shut down. As for Morgen giving the Gestapo man carte blanche, carelessness was not a quality Schlegel associated with him.

  The Gestapo broke for lunch, after agreeing with Morgen the bulk of the work was done. Schlegel wondered how much they had all been helping themselves.

  Morgen accompanied Schlegel to the cage to survey the morning’s haul. What lay before them was both pathetic, for the rubbish people bothered to steal, and astonishing in its sheer volume. Who hadn’t been at it? Schlegel asked himself.

  They were joined by Broad, who was quick to take them aside.

  ‘You had better come and see. It has only just been reported.’

  He led them to the adjoining main security building and up to its attic where the smell of death was palpable.

  The huge space ran the length of the building and was piled high with junk, except for a cleared space the size of a boxing ring. The floor looked like someone had thrown paint all over it. Dried blood, Schlegel presumed. Haas’s naked body hung by its knees and wrists from a horizontal pole suspended between two trestles. The exposed scrotum and buttocks were a livid, bloody mess.

  Morgen inspected the body and said, ‘Haas was a victim of his own medicine. Someone stuck a syringe in his neck. It’s still there.’

  He flicked it idly and addressed Broad.

  ‘How come he has only just been found?’

  ‘The boys up here work irregular hours. Besides, they’re probably all clearing their lockers before you lot can come and turn them upside down.’

  He laughed.

  Haas had died an agonising death. Pearls of white lay on the floor: his smashed teeth. Morgen told Broad he was going to need a photographer with a flash gun. Broad left them to it. Schlegel thought Haas’s last photograph, with him the subject, would make a pretty picture.

  So this was where they did it, he thought. He associated torture more with cellars and basements.

  He asked whether Morgen believed the security police were behind it.

  ‘From the state of him, it looks like knowledge was extracted, but I doubt if the police would report a job it was responsible for.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘I expect Haas got greedy and tried to blackmail Fegelein.’

  Which was only what Schlegel had suggested. He couldn’t decide if he felt bad about that.

  Morgen said, ‘You can buy death for pocket money.’

  Irked by his conscience, Schlegel found himself saying loudly that he supposed Fegelein went to Groenke, that was how things worked, but at no point could the chain be linked.

  ‘There’s one way to find out,’ he finished.

  He took Morgen to the photography club where Haas’s negatives, contact sheets and copies were gone from his locker, a crude break-in involving a crowbar.

  Morgen left the Gestapo to get on with it after lunch and told Schlegel they had an appointment with the commandant.

  Schlegel saw a repeat of the furtive look he had noticed at the airport.

  ‘Well?’

  Morgen, reluctant, said, ‘You won’t like it. I can only ask you to trust me.’

  He refused to elaborate other than they needed to get a move on.

  The commandant thought the meeting was a report on the morning’s proceedings and the Tanner case.

  Instead Morgen said they had uncovered a trail of corruption that reached Berlin and the main suspect was responsible for the hit-and-run accident. Tanner, also in the car, was involved in the illegal acquisition of goods from Canada and passing them on to Berlin. She had also participated in sex parties, a feature of the previous summer.

  ‘What!’ exclaimed the commandant.

  ‘A combination of an unexpected influx of goods and the enforced confinement of the epidemic led to a breakdown in morals.’

  The commandant clutched his head. ‘Sex parties?’

  ‘Palitsch organised them,’ Morgen said.

  ‘No surprise there.’

  The commandant blamed a lack of brothels. Before quarantine the men had used local military ones.

  ‘The biological urge.’ He gestured helplessly.

  Schlegel thought if prisoners had a brothel why didn’t garrison men.

  Morgen said they had questioned Palitsch about Tanner’s death and thought him not guilty.

  ‘Is the other Fegelein?’

  Morgen nodded.

  The commandant added, ‘The man is an unprincipled womaniser.’

  Morgen said, ‘I will go to Berlin to deal with him.’

  Schlegel found the clarity of Morgen’s account very different from his own. He saw only overlapping ambiguities. He still couldn’t picture Tanner’s death. Fegelein, Krick, the commandant, all appeared in his mind’s eye as possible wielders of the hammer.

  He was in a daze after the morning’s events. His dry cough annoyed him as much as it did everyone else and he cursed every tickle that prefaced it. He ought really to be in hospital still. He wondered about checking back in after they were done. He must look a mess yet no one said.

  Morgen gave Schlegel the same ambiguous glance as before, with something extra that appeared like regret.

  The commandant made to stand, thinking they were done.

  Morgen went to the door. Schlegel was unprepared for what happened next. The commandant struggled too and had to use the table to steady himself.

  Schlegel, his mind in turmoil, realised the commandant would think he was seeing a ghost because as far as he knew the woman was dead.

  Sybil stood, head downcast, hands clasped, an unwilling object of inspection.

  Schlegel was no less surprised than the commandant. Anger followed shock, directed at Morgen for exposing Sybil.

  He could read nothing from her expression and feared she was being used with no thought for her safety.

  ‘Tell us,’ Morgen ordered Sybil.

  In a voice barely audible she said, ‘The commandant forced me to have sex with him.’

  Again the commandant had to steady himself.

  ‘Tell us,’ Morgen prompted again.

  Sybil whispered, ‘I am Jewish.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Schlegel.

  The commandant rounded on him, telling him not to use such language in front of a woman.

  He shouted at Morgen, ‘She can’t be Jewish. My wife won’t have them in the house.’

  His face quivered. His arms flailed and he looked about to attack her. Morgen hustled Sybil from the room. Schlegel caught a glimpse of Broad in the background. Sybil had ignored him throughout.

  The commandant raved on at Schlegel about his inappropriate language under the circumstances, then demanded of Morgen, ‘Are you the destroyer of the temple?’

  ‘You brought it on yourself.’

  The commandant shouted in a cracked voice, ‘I remain faithful to my leader and my wife. You are the traitor. I will address the Reichsführer on this matter.’

  He saluted, insisted Morgen salute him back, and marched out.

  Morgen stood smoking, nervous and shifty.

  Schlegel, almost as unhinged as the commandant, asked, ‘Do I get an explanation?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I will protect her.’

  ‘I presume it is a frame.’

  Morgen appeared desperate. ‘We hold bad cards.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘We go
and talk to Groenke.’

  ‘Groenke!’

  Groenke was in the leather factory where it looked like it had been a flustered morning. He wanted to take them upstairs to his office until Morgen said he would prefer outside.

  Groenke looked uncertain.

  They stood in the street. Morgen composed himself and said to Schlegel, ‘Your turn.’

  Schlegel’s head spun with dizziness as he said, ‘I want only to know about the seamstress. Tell us about her and we will overlook the rest, the short cuts, the scrounging, the stealing, provision of stolen goods to the commandant’s house.’

  Morgen nodded. Groenke paled.

  They watched him calculate the odds.

  ‘I speak to a man in Berlin who calls himself only Werther.’

  ‘Call him now.’

  ‘I have no way of returning his calls.’

  ‘No guess as to who Werther is?’

  ‘All I know is he holds my call-up papers and failure to comply would mean the Eastern Front line.’

  Groenke looked stricken at the thought.

  ‘And Werther spoke to you about the seamstress?’

  ‘He said when she came she was to be found immediate employment in the commandant’s household. When I pointed out she was ineligible on racial grounds I was told the central record would be altered and to make sure her camp work card conformed.’

  What a train wreck, Schlegel thought. He was disgusted with Morgen. Wild, out-of-control images assaulted him, of Sybil forced into sex with the commandant. Was that part of the plot or had the plot caught up? Until then Schlegel had presumed Morgen insisted she lie. Either way, the man had grown diabolical.

  Morgen walked away without a word. When Schlegel caught up Morgen did his best to make everything appear normal.

  ‘However unclear the specific reason, we know Kammler sent us. Sybil’s presence is probably connected to that, which means she is part of Kammler’s plan. Groenke acts for Kammler, though I suspect not entirely, and Werther is either Kammler or a close associate.’

  ‘Is any of this justified?’ Schlegel wondered aloud.

  ‘To deal with the devil one has to become like the devil or even the devil himself.’

  Schlegel asked if Sybil had been lying on Morgen’s behalf, meaning had she or had she not had sex with the commandant.