Greeks Bearing Gifts

FOURTEEN

Time passed, slowly, and then one freezing day near the middle of March, I got the summons to go upstairs for an audience with Mr. Alois Alzheimer himself—the kind of summons for which a bottle of oxygen might almost have been required, such was the rarefied atmosphere that existed on the fourth floor. When I got there Dietrich was already seated in a brown leather Biedermeier bergère and, for a moment, until I saw the bottle of Canadian Club in Alzheimer’s hand, I thought I was in some sort of trouble. That comes naturally to anyone who has as much to hide as I do.

“And here he is,” said Alzheimer, pouring me a large one in a crystal glass the size of a small goldfish bowl. “The man who saved us twenty thousand deutschmarks.”

Everything in the office was of the finest quality. There was so much oak paneling on the walls it was like being a Cuban cigar in a humidor, while the gray carpet under my feet felt like a mattress protector. In the stone fireplace a log the size of a trench mortar was smoking quietly. Next to a little Meissen desk set and an impressive photograph of Alzheimer with Konrad Adenauer in a silver frame was an RCA Victor clock radio, and among the many leather-bound volumes on the bookshelf were a Slim Jim portable TV and an Argus slide projector; outside the door, Alzheimer’s secretary’s fingers were busy on an IBM electric typewriter that sounded like a light machine gun. Clearly he was a man who had very simple tastes, for whom the best was probably quite good enough.

I glanced over at Dietrich, who was already nursing a glass. “They finally admitted it?”

“We just heard from the police. They both put their hands up to everything.”

“Took longer than I thought,” I said, raising my glass to the news. “In my day we’d have had a confession within forty-eight hours. And I’m not talking about any strong-arm stuff, either. You keep someone awake for twenty-four hours with a Kaiser lamp in their face and pretty soon they’ll forget even the most well-rehearsed story.”

“These days criminals have rights, unfortunately,” said Alzheimer.

“And don’t forget, Frau Dorpmüller suffered a heart attack,” said Dietrich. “The police weren’t allowed to question her until she was out of the hospital.”

I pulled a face and laughed.

“You think she was putting it on?” asked Alzheimer.

“There are plenty of ways to feign a heart attack,” I said. “Especially when you’re an experienced nurse like she was. I think she was stalling for time until she’d got her story straight. Or until she found an opportunity to escape. Probably both. I’m surprised the cops still have her in custody.”

“That’s right,” said Dietrich. “She was a nurse, wasn’t she?”

“As a matter of interest,” said Alzheimer, “how would you pull something like that off? I mean it sounds like something we ought to be aware of in our industry, don’t you think, Philipp?”

For a moment I hesitated to tell them the full story; it wasn’t one of my proudest moments as a Berlin detective, but then there weren’t many of us who’d lived through the war who didn’t have something to hide. According to Max Merten, Alois Alzheimer and MRE’s previous chairman, Kurt Schmitt, had been close friends of Hermann Göring and were both taken into custody by the Americans after the war; it was generally held that Schmitt had even been in the SS, so it really didn’t seem the moment to be coy about my own record. I swallowed the whiskey and prepared to open the ancient Gunther family crypt just a crack.

“I was once obliged to arrest a doctor for being a Quaker,” I said. “This would have been 1939, probably. He was a pacifist, you see. We had him in custody and then he had his heart attack, so-called. Very convincing he was, too. We were completely fooled and took him to hospital, where they confirmed our diagnosis. But he’d faked it. Mostly it’s down to your breathing. You breathe fast deep breaths through the mouth, not the nose, and you hyperventilate and poison yourself with too much CO2. Chances are you’ll faint, like he did. When you come to, you pretend to mix up your words, complain of a pain in the arm and the throat, but crucially not the chest, and maybe affect the paralysis of an eyelid, or even your tongue. Once he was in hospital, a doctor friend got hold of some adrenaline and used it to keep up the deception. At least until the doctor’s wife, who’d decided she didn’t like him or the Quakers anymore, showed us a paper he’d written on the subject of feigning a heart attack in order to avoid military service, which he’d been handing out to students at Humboldt University, in Berlin. Luckily for him we weren’t yet at war, which meant he narrowly escaped the death penalty, for which I admit I was relieved. As it was he got two years in prison. I wasn’t a Nazi myself but I fought in the trenches during the first lot and so I’ve always strongly disagreed with pacifism. When it comes to war I tend to think in terms of ‘my country, right or wrong.’”

Ignoring this mention of the Nazis—nobody ever mentioned the Nazis unless it was absolutely unavoidable, especially in Munich—Alzheimer said, “Your candor is very much appreciated. And may I say, admired. I had no idea that such a thing was even possible. Did you, Philipp?”

Dietrich smiled. “No, but I’m not surprised, sir. You know what a cynic I am. Still, people never cease to surprise me. The things they’ll do to make a quick mark. I was, however, surprised about Friedrich Jauch. The man came to my home on more than one occasion. I must say I feel very let down by him.”

“So do we all, Philipp, so do we all. His had been a most promising career. They’ll certainly miss him in sales.”

“To think I even offered him a job in claims. I thought I was a good judge of character.”

“But you are,” insisted Alzheimer. “It was you who found Herr Ganz, was it not?”

“I suppose so.”

“Which is in itself a subject for congratulation, given that Herr Ganz here has taken to the insurance business with such obvious alacrity. One door closes and another opens. It’s most opportune. You must certainly write something for the company magazine on this fake heart attack business. Don’t you think so, Philipp?”

“Absolutely he must, sir.”

“I’m asking myself if there is anything else we might learn from him. What do you say, Herr Ganz? Can you teach two old dogs like Dietrich and me something new?”

I swallowed more of the whiskey, let Alzheimer refill my glass, and lit one of his cigarettes.

“I wouldn’t presume to teach you your business, sir.”

“Presume away,” he said. “No one learns without making mistakes.”

“You might care to consider having all new life policies witnessed by a third party. Ursula Dorpmüller was paying her husband’s policy in cash, which was how he knew nothing about it, so you might also consider the use of direct debits in the future. To avoid the possibility of fraud.”

“Those are both good ideas,” said Alzheimer. “I’m beginning to wonder why we didn’t think to employ an ex-detective in the claims department before now. Are you a religious man, Herr Ganz?”

“Not really, no.”

“Good. Because that enables me to speak freely. As a businessman it always seems to me that every company needs its own Jesus. Not necessarily the man in charge but another man who gets things done, who works miracles, if you like. I’m beginning to think that you could be such a man, Herr Ganz. Wouldn’t you say so, Philipp?”

“I would, sir.”

“I was just doing my job.”

But Alzheimer was not to be denied his opportunity to talk and to be generous. “We should find some way of rewarding his vigilance, Philipp. But for him this company should be poorer to the tune of twenty thousand deutschmarks. Not to mention the fact that we would still be employing a murderer in sales.”

“I agree, sir. Perhaps a raise in pay.”

“By all means a raise in pay. Let’s say another five marks a week. And since Friedrich Jauch is no longer employed by us, let us also reward Herr Ganz by giving him the man’s company car. Plus expenses. How does that sound, Herr Ganz? I take it you can drive.”

“Yes, I can drive. And thank you. A car would be very welcome. Especially in this weather.”

We all looked at the window and at the snow that was once more blowing through the gray air outside; through the glass it looked like interference on a poorly tuned television set. But the thought of not having to walk or catch a tram to work again filled me and my shoe leather with joy.

“And tell me, do you speak any other languages?”

“Russian, French—fluently, English, and a bit of Spanish.”

“You don’t speak Greek, I suppose.”

“No.”

“Pity. Because I do believe a working holiday in Greece might also be in order. As a reward of sorts, for work very well done. It will be an opportunity for you to stay in a nice hotel and in a more agreeable climate. Perhaps even to enjoy yourself for a couple of days. We were thinking you might perform a routine investigative service for MRE at the same time. You may or may not know that one of our more important business sectors is in marine insurance. However, Walther Neff—our leading average adjustor—has been taken ill. Like I say, it’s a routine matter, more or less. A German vessel, the Doris, was lost off the coast of Greece after catching fire. We have a local man, Achilles Garlopis, who knows about ships and who will do most of the actual donkeywork, of course. And Dietrich will tell you what else has to be done, in detail. But we do urgently need someone to go down there to check out a few things—such as if the owner has appointed his own general average adjustor, if we’re looking at an actual total loss or a constructive total loss—to ensure that everything proceeds smoothly and according to our own guidelines, and to authorize any expenditure, of course, pending a final settlement. Someone trustworthy. Someone German.”

“Sir, the one thing I know about ships is that it only takes a small leak to sink a large one. After the Titanic and the Gustloff, I’m amazed that anyone will insure them at all.”

“That’s why the marine insurance business makes so much money. The larger the risk, the bigger the premium. Besides, it’s not ships that are giving us any cause for concern here, Herr Ganz, it’s the Greeks themselves. The plain fact of the matter is that when it comes to matters involving money—our money—the Greeks are not to be relied upon. These goat bangers are probably the most profligate race in Europe. With them, lying and dishonesty are ingrained habits. When Odysseus finally returns to Ithaca, so accustomed is he to lying that he lies to his own wife, Penelope, he lies to his elderly father, he even lies to the goddess Athena. And she herself is no less glibly tongued. They simply can’t help it. The possibilities for fraud are endless. But with a man with a keen eye such as yourself, MRE stands a good chance of adjusting this claim to our satisfaction.”

He refilled my glass with Canadian Club, only this time not as much, as if he’d already judiciously calculated my limit, which was more than I’d ever done myself; still, I thought it was nice to know he was looking out for my welfare. But later on, to celebrate my promotion, I bought a whole bottle of the stuff to celebrate and found out exactly why this whiskey was called Canadian Club.

“These are interesting times,” said Alzheimer, sitting on the edge of his desk in a way that made me think I was expected to listen. “MRE is expanding into Europe thanks to this new treaty Adenauer and Hallstein are about to sign in Rome in a few weeks’ time. It will result in the progressive reduction of customs duties throughout a new economic trading area comprising Belgium, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, West Germany, and France—so I think your French will be useful. Of course, the French think they are to become the dominant force in Europe but, as time will prove, their ridiculous attempts to maintain their ragged colonies in Algeria and Indochina will be a great disadvantage to them economically. This will leave modern Germany very much in the driving seat. Again. And all of this done without an army this time. Just some new European laws. Which will be a nice change, don’t you think? And very much cheaper for all concerned.”

I could raise my glass to that, just about. I supposed the treaty of wherever it was could be seen as a declaration of good intentions: Germany would try its best to be nice to everyone and, in the interests of making money, everyone else would try their best to forget what Germany had done during the war. Bureaucracy and trade were to be my country’s new method of conquering Europe, and lawyers and civil servants were to be its foot soldiers. But if Konrad Adenauer was anything to go by, it was really a coup d’état by a group of politicians who did not believe in democracy, and we were being guided toward a Soviet system of Europe without anyone understanding what was planned. Hitler could certainly have taken a lesson from the Old Man. It was not the men with guns who were going to rule the world but businessmen like Alois Alzheimer and Philipp Dietrich with their slide rules and actuarial tables, and thick books full of obscure new laws in three different languages.

Of course, what Alzheimer had said about the Greeks was unforgivable; I suppose his only excuse was—as I was about to discover for myself—that it was also true.