Greeks Bearing Gifts

NINE

It went to plan, almost. Even with four bottles of good Spätburgunder inside of him, Schramma still managed to find a gun in his pocket to try to shoot me—it was the one he’d been planning to use on me all along, after I’d shot the two dead men with the .38—and I was obliged to render him completely unconscious with a quick uppercut. After we’d taken his photograph with the dead men, we dragged him upstairs and out into the garden, where we loaded him onto the wheelbarrow and transported him back to his car. It was dark and snowing heavily and no one saw us. In Bogenhausen we could probably have carried him out of the house in the middle of a summer’s day and no one would have noticed.

With Merten following I drove the BMW across the bridge to the English Garden and abandoned it and Schramma in a quiet spot close to the Monopteros, which is a sort of hilltop Greek temple to Apollo, one of the more popular gods in Munich. He is after all the god of prophecy, and the Bavarians like a bit of that. Hitler certainly thought so.

“Suppose he freezes to death,” said Merten.

“I doubt that’ll happen.”

“I wouldn’t like to have any man’s death on my conscience.”

“Don’t worry about it. He’ll be fine. When I was pounding the beat in Berlin I came across many a drunk who’d survived a colder night than Schramma’ll have in that BMW. Besides, this is my idea, not yours. So even if he does die, you needn’t blame yourself. I can live with it after what he had in mind for me.”

“I need a drink.”

“Me too.”

“Somewhere jolly, I think. Those two dead men are stuck on my retinas. Come on. I’m buying.”

Merten drove us south to the Hofbräuhaus on Platzl, a three-floor beer hall that dates back to the sixteenth century and where Hitler once made an important speech in the upstairs hall, only no one mentions that now. These days people are more appreciative of a small brass band. We took a corner table with a window ledge as wide as a coffin lid and ordered beers that were as tall as umbrella stands. I tried to keep count of the lawyer’s smokes, not from bland curiosity but out of a desire to feel better about my own habit; sitting beside Merten I felt better than I’ve felt in a long time. I even managed to convince myself I was in the peak of health. The man smoked like the Ruhr Valley. For a while we just drank and smoked and spoke not at all but gradually the music and the beer got to us and eventually I said, “Speaking as a Berliner, there’s a lot that’s wrong with Munich but it certainly doesn’t include the beer. Nowhere on earth has beer like this. Not even Asgard. At one time or another I must have sampled every beer in this place. Not much of a hobby, I know, but it beats collecting stamps. Tastes better, too.”

“Do you ever miss Berlin, Bernie?”

“Sure. But right now Berlin’s Amelia Earhart, isn’t it? Marooned on an island in the middle of a vast and hostile sea of red. So there’s no point in wishing we were with her.”

“Yes, but there’s something about Munich that’s not as good as Berlin. Only I’m not sure what that is.”

“If Berlin is Amelia Earhart, then Munich is Charles Lindbergh: rich, private, vain, and with a very questionable history.”

Merten smiled into a beer that was the color of a good night already enjoyed and soon to be flushed away. “I owe you,” he said.

“You said that. And you needn’t say it again. Just keep buying me beers.”

“No, but really I’d like to help you, Bernie. For old times’ sake. You said you’re a mortuary attendant at the Schwabing Hospital?”

“Did I?”

“A man of your special skills is wasted doing that.”

“To what skills are you referring, Max? Covering up a murder scene? Knocking a man out? Managing not to get shot?”

“Being a cop, of course. Something you did for a great many years.”

“That must be why I’m on such a generous police pension now.”

“I happen to know of a job that’s going, here in Munich. You might be very good at it.”

“I have a job I’m very good at. Looking after the dead. So far I’ve had no complaints. They don’t mind me and I don’t mind them.”

“I mean a regular job. A job with a few prospects.”

“All of a sudden everyone’s offering me work. Listen, Max, cops are not good people. All of our best qualities get poured into the job and life gets the dregs. Don’t ever mistake me for a decent guy. Nobody else does.”

“Look, just listen to me, will you?”

“All right. I’m listening.”

“A respectable job.”

“Ah. That lets me out then. I’ve not been respectable for a great many years. Probably never will be again.”

“I’m talking about a job in insurance.”

“Insurance. That’s when people pay money for peace of mind. I wouldn’t mind some of that myself. Only I doubt I could afford the premium.”

“Munich RE is the largest firm in Germany. A friend of mine, Philipp Dietrich, is head of their claims adjustment department. It so happens he’s looking for a new claims investigator. An adjustor. And it strikes me you’d be very good at that.”

“It’s true I know plenty about risks—I’ve been taking them all my life—but I know nothing about insurance, except that I don’t have any.”

“‘Claims adjustor’ is just a polite way of describing someone who’s paid to find out if people are lying. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that what you used to do at the Alex? You were a seeker after the truth, were you not? You were good at it, too, if memory serves.”

“Best leave those memories alone. If you don’t mind. They belonged to a man with a different name.”

“The splash around the Alex was that for a while you were the best detective in the Murder Commission. An expert.”

“I certainly saw a lot of murders. But take my advice, if you’re looking for truth, don’t ask an expert on anything. What you’ll get is an opinion, which is something very different. Besides, cops and detectives aren’t experts, Max, they’re gamblers. They deal in probabilities, just like that French fellow Pascal. This guy is probably guilty and this guy is probably innocent, and then we leave it to you lawyers. The only people who will always say they’re telling you the truth are priests and witnesses in court, which gives you a pretty good idea of what truth is worth.”

“Working for MRE has more of a future than working in a mortuary, I’d have thought.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Max. We’re all going to end up there sooner or later.”

“I’m serious. Look, give me a few days to speak to Dietrich about you. And let me stake you to a new suit. Yes, why not? For an interview. It’s the least I can do after what you’ve done for me. Tell me that you’ll consider this. And give me an answer in the morning. But don’t leave it any longer than that. Like the saying goes, the morning has gold in its mouth.”

“All right, all right. Just as long as you stop being so damned grateful to me. Kindness might seem like the golden chain that holds society together but it breaks me up. I can’t take it. Not anymore. I know just where I am when people are cruel or indifferent. That never disappoints. But for Christ’s sake don’t be kind to me. Not without a parachute.”