March Violets

9

It was in a grave close to the north wall of the Nikolai Cemetery on Prenzlauer Allee, and only a short distance away from the memorial to National Socialism’s most venerated martyr, Horst Wessel, that the bodies were buried, one on top of the other, following a short service at Nikolai Kirche on nearby Molken Market.

Wearing a stunning black hat that was like a grand piano with the lid up, Ilse Rudel was even more beautiful in mourning than she was in bed. A couple of times I caught her eye, but tight-lipped, like she had my neck between her teeth, she looked straight through me as if I was a piece of dirty glass. Six himself maintained an expression that was more angry than grief-stricken: with eyebrows knotted and head bowed, he stared down into the grave as though he were trying by a supernatural effort of will to make it yield up the living body of his daughter. And then there was Haupthandler, who looked merely thoughtful, like a man for whom there were other matters that were more pressing, such as the disposal of a diamond necklace. The appearance on the same sheet of paper in Jeschonnek’s wastepaper basket of Haupthändler’s home telephone number with that of the Adlon Hotel, my own name and that of the bogus princess, demonstrated a possible chain of causation: alarmed by my visit, and yet puzzled by my story, Jeschonnek had telephoned the Adlon to confirm the existence of the Indian princess, and then, having done so, he had telephoned Haupthandler to confront him with a set of facts regarding the ownership and theft of the jewels which was at variance with that which might originally have been explained to him.

Perhaps. At least, it was enough to be going on with.

At one point Haupthandler stared impassively at me for several seconds; but I could read nothing in his features: no guilt, no fear, no ignorance of the connection I had established between him and Jeschonnek, nor any suspicion of it either. I saw nothing that made me think he was incapable of having committed a double murder. But he was certainly no cracksman; so had he somehow persuaded Frau Pfarr to open it for him? Had he made love to her in order to get at her jewels? Given Use Rudel’s suspicion that they might have been having an affair, it had to be counted as one possibility.

There were some other faces that I recognized. Old Kripo faces: Reichskriminaldirektor Arthur Nebe; Hans Lobbe, the head of Kripo Executive; and one face which, with its rimless glasses and small moustache, looked more as if it belonged to a punctilious little schoolmaster than to the head of the Gestapo and Reichsfuhrer of the S S. Himmler’s presence at the funeral confirmed Bruno Stahlecker’s impression—that Pfarr had been the Reichsfuhrer’s star pupil, and that he wasn’t about to let the murderer get away with it.

Of a woman on her own, who might have been the mistress that Bruno had mentioned as having been kept by Paul Pfarr, there was no sign. Not that I really expected to see her, but you never can tell.

After the burial Haupthandler was ready with a few words of advice from his, and my employer, ‘Herr Six sees little need for you to have concerned yourself in what is essentially a family affair. I’m also to remind you that you are being remunerated on the basis of a daily fee.’

I watched the mourners get into their big black cars, and then Himmler and the top bulls in Kripo get into theirs. ‘Look, Haupthandler,’ I said. ‘Forget the sledge ride. Tell your boss that if he thinks he’s getting a cat in a sack, then he can cut me loose now. I’m not here because I like fresh air and eulogies.’

‘Then why are you here, Herr Gunther?’ he said.

‘Ever read The Song of the Niebelungen?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Then you’ll remember that the Niebelung warriors wished to avenge the murder of Siegfried. But they couldn’t tell who they should hold to account. So the trial of blood was begun. The Burgundian warriors passed one by one before the bier of the hero. And when it was the murderer Hagen’s turn, Siegfried’s wounds flowed with blood again, so revealing Hagen’s guilt.’

Haupthändler smiled. ‘That’s hardly the stuff of modern criminal investigation, is it?’

‘Detection should observe the little ceremonies, Herr Haupthandler, be they apparently anachronistic. You might have noticed that I was not the only person involved in finding a solution to this case who attended this funeral.’

‘Are you seriously suggesting that someone here could have killed Paul and Grete Pfarr?’

‘Don’t be so bourgeois. Of course it is possible.’

‘It’s preposterous, that’s what it is. All the same, do you have someone in mind for the role of Hagen yet?’

‘It’s under consideration.’

‘Then I trust you will be able to report your having identified him to Herr Six before very long. Good day to you.’

I had to admit one thing. If Haupthändler had killed the Pfarrs then he was as cool as a treasure chest in fifty fathoms of water.

I drove down Prenzlauer Strasse on to Alexanderplatz. I collected my mail and went up to the office. The cleaning woman had opened the window, but the smell of booze was still there. She must have thought I washed in the stuff.

There were a couple of cheques, a bill and a hand-delivered note from Neumann telling me to meet him at the Café Kranzler at twelve o’clock. I looked at my watch. It was almost 11.30.

In front of the German War Memorial a company of Reichswehr were making trade for chiropodists to the accompaniment of a brass band. Sometimes I think that there must be more brass bands in Germany than there are motor-cars. This one struck up with The Great Elector’s Cavalry March and set off at a lick towards the Brandenburger Tor. Everyone who was watching was getting in some arm exercise, so I hung back, pausing in a shop doorway to avoid having to join them.

I walked on, following the parade at a discreet distance and reflecting on the last alterations to the capital’s most famous avenue: changes that the Government has deemed to be necessary to make Unter den Linden more suitable for military parades like the one I was watching. Not content with removing most of the lime trees which had given the avenue its name, they had erected white Doric columns on top of which sat German eagles; new lime trees had been planted, but these were not even as tall as the street lamps. The central lane had been widened, so that military columns might march twelve abreast, and was strewn with red sand so that their jackboots did not slip. And tall white flagpoles were being erected for the imminent Olympiad. Unter den Linden had always been flamboyant, without much harmony in its mixture of architectural designs and styles; but that flamboyance was now made brutal. The bohemian’s fedora had become a Pickelhaube.

The Café Kranzler, on the corner of Friedrichstrasse, was popular with the tourists and prices were accordingly high; so it was not the sort of place that I would have expected Neumann to have chosen for a meet. I found him twitching over a cup of mocha and an abandoned piece of cake.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said, sitting down. ‘Lost your appetite?’

Neumann sneered at his plate. ‘Just like this Government,’ he said. ‘It looks damn good, but tastes of absolutely nothing. Lousy ersatz cream.’ I waved to the waiter and ordered two coffees. ‘Look, Herr Gunther, can we make this quick? I’m going over to Karlshorst this afternoon.’

‘Oh? Got a tip, have you?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact—’

I laughed. ‘Neumann, I wouldn’t bet on a horse that you were going to back if it could out-pace the Hamburg Express.’

‘So fuck off, then,’ he snapped.

If he was a member of the human race at all, Neumann was its least attractive specimen. His eyebrows, twitching and curling like two poisoned caterpillars, were joined together by an irregular scribble of poorly matched hair. Behind thick glasses that were almost opaque with greasy thumbprints, his grey eyes were shifty and nervous, searching the floor as if he expected that at any moment he would be lying flat on it. Cigarette smoke poured out from between teeth that were so badly stained with tobacco they looked like two wooden fences.

‘You’re not in trouble, are you?’ Neumann’s face adopted a phlegmatic expression.

‘I owe some people some flea, that’s all.’

‘How much?’

‘Couple of hundred.’

‘So you’re going to Karlshorst to try and win some of it, is that it?’

He shrugged. ‘And what if I am?’ He put out his cigarette and searched his pockets for another. ‘You got a nail? I’ve run out.’ I tossed a packet across the table.

‘Keep it,’ I said, lighting us both. ‘A couple of hundred, eh? You know, I just might be able to help you out there. Maybe even leave you some on top. That is, if I get the right information.’

Neumann raised his eyebrows. ‘What sort of information?’

I drew on my cigarette, and held it deep within my lungs. ‘The name of a puzzler. A first class professional nutcracker who might have done a job about a week ago; stolen some bells.’

He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. ‘I haven’t heard anything, Herr Gunther.’

‘Well, if you do, make sure you let me know.’

‘On the other hand,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘I could tell you something that would put you well in with the Gestapo.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I know where a Jewish U-Boat is hiding out.’ He smiled smugly.

‘Neumann, you know I’m not interested in that crap.’ But as I spoke, I thought of Frau Heine, my client, and her son. ‘Hold on a moment,’ I said. ‘What’s the Jew’s name?’ Neumann gave me a name, and grinned, a disgusting sight. His was an order of life not much higher than the calcareous sponge. I pointed my finger squarely at his nose. ‘If I get to hear that U-Boat’s been pulled in, I won’t have to know who informed on him. I promise you, Neumann, I’ll come round and tear your fucking eyelids off.’

‘What’s it to you?’ he whined. ‘Since when have you been the knight in Goldberg armour?’

‘His mother is a client of mine. Before you forget you ever heard about him, I want the address where he is so I can tell her.’

‘All right, all right. But that’s got to be worth something, hasn’t it?’ I took out my wallet and gave him a twenty. Then I wrote down the address that Neumann gave me.

‘You’d disgust a dung-beetle,’ I said. ‘Now, what about this nutcracker?’

He frowned exasperatedly at me. ‘Look, I said I didn’t have anything.’

‘You’re a liar.’

‘Honest, Herr Gunther, I don’t know nothing. If I did, I’d tell you. I need the money, don’t I?’ He swallowed hard and wiped the sweat from his brow with a public health-hazard of a handkerchief. Avoiding my eyes, he stubbed out his cigarette, which was only half-smoked.

‘You don’t act like someone who knows nothing,’ I said. ‘I think you’re scared of something.’

‘No,’ he said flatly.

‘Ever hear of the Queer Squad?’ He shook his head. ‘You might say they used to be colleagues of mine. I was thinking that if I found out you’d been holding out on me, I’d have a word with them. Tell them you were a smelly little para 175.’ He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and outrage.

‘Do I look like I suck lemons? I’m not queer, you know I’m not.’

‘Yes, but they don’t. And who are they going to believe?’

‘You wouldn’t do that.’ He grabbed my wrist.

‘From what I hear of it, left-handers don’t have too good a time of it in the K Zs.’ Neumann stared glumly into his coffee.

‘You evil bastard,’ he sighed. ‘A couple of hundred you said, and a bit more.’

‘A hundred now, and two more if it’s on the level.’ He started to twitch.

‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Herr Gunther. There’s a ring involved. They’d kill me for sure if they found out I’d fingered them.’ Rings were unions of ex-convicts, dedicated officially to the rehabilitation of criminals; they had respectable club names, and their rules and regulations spoke of sporting activities and social gatherings. Not infrequently, a ring would host a lavish dinner (they were all very rich) at which defence lawyers and police officials would appear as guests of honour. But behind their semi-respectable façades the rings were nothing more than the institutions of organized crime in Germany.

‘Which one is it?’ I asked.

‘The “German Strength”.’

‘Well, they won’t find out. Anyway, none of them are as powerful as they used to be. There’s only one ring that’s doing good business these days and that’s the Party.’

‘Vice and drugs may have taken a bit of a hammering,’ he said, ‘but the rings still run the gambling, the currency rackets, the black market, new passports, loan-sharking and dealing in stolen goods.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Believe me, Herr Gunther, they’re still strong. You don’t want to get in their way.’ He lowered his voice and leaned towards me. ‘I’ve even heard a strong whisper that they canned some old Junker who was working for the Prime Minister. How do you like that, eh? The bulls don’t even know that he’s dead yet.’

I racked my brain and came across the name that I had copied from Gert Jeschonnek’s address book. ‘This Junker’s name; it wouldn’t have been Von Greis, would it?’

‘I didn’t hear no name. All I know is that he’s dead, and that the bulls are still looking for him.’ He flicked his ash negligently at the ashtray.

‘Now tell me about the nutcracker.’

‘Well, it seems like I did hear something. About a month ago, a fellow by the name of Kurt Mutschmann finishes two years’ cement at Tegel Prison. From what I’ve heard about him, Mutschmann is a real craftsman. He could open the legs of a nun with rigor mortis. But the polyps don’t know about him. You see, he got put inside because he clawed a car. Nothing to do with his regular line of work. Anyway, he’s a German Strength man, and when he came out the ring was there to look after him. After a while they set him up with his first job. I don’t know what it was. But here’s the interesting part, Herr Gunther. The boss of German Strength, Red Dieter, has now got a contract out on Mutschmann, who is nowhere to be found. The word is that Mutschmann double-crossed him.’

‘Mutschmann was a professional, you say.’

‘One of the best.’

‘Would you say murder was part of his portfolio?’

‘Well,’ said Neumann, ‘I don’t know the man myself. But from what I’ve heard, he’s an artist. It doesn’t sound like his number.’

‘What about this Red Dieter?’

‘He’s a right bastard. He’d kill a man like someone else would pick their nose.’

‘Where do I find him?’

‘You won’t tell him it was me who told you, will you, Herr Gunther? Not even if he were to put a gun to your head.’

‘No,’ I lied; loyalty goes only so far.

‘Well, you could try the Rheingold Restaurant on Potsdamer Platz. Or the Germania Roof. And if you take my advice you’ll carry a lighter.’

‘I’m touched by your concern for my well-being, Neumann.’

‘You’re forgetting the money,’ he said, correcting me. ‘You said I’d get another 200 if it checked out.’ He paused, and then added: ‘And a hundred now.’ I took out my wallet again and thumbed him a couple of fifties. He held the two notes up to the window to scrutinize the watermarks.

‘You must be joking.’

Neumann looked at me blankly. ‘What about?’ He pocketed the money quickly.

‘Forget it.’ I stood up and dropped some loose change onto the table. ‘One more thing. Can you remember when you heard about the contract on Mutschmann?’ Neumann looked as thoughtful as he could manage.

‘Well, now that I come to think of it, it was last week, about the time that I heard about this Junker getting killed.’

I walked west down Unter den Linden towards Pariser Platz and the Adlon.

I went through the hotel’s handsome doorway and into the sumptuous lobby with its square pillars of dark, yellow-clouded marble. Everywhere there were tasteful objets d’art; and in every corner there was the gleam of yet more marble. I went into the bar, which was full of foreign journalists and embassy people, and asked the barman, an old friend of mine, for a beer and the use of his telephone. I called Bruno Stahlecker at the Alex.

‘Hallo, it’s me, Bernie.’

‘What do you want, Bernie?’

‘How about Gerhard Von Greis?’ I said. There was a long pause. ‘What about him?’ Bruno’s voice sounded vaguely challenging, as if he was daring me to know more than I was supposed to.

‘He’s just a name on a piece of paper to me at the moment.’

‘That all?’

‘Well, I heard he was missing.’

‘Would you mind telling me how?’

‘Come on, Bruno, why are you being so coy about it? Look, my little song-bird told me, all right? Maybe if I knew a bit more I might be able to help.’

‘Bernie, there are two hot cases in this department right now, and you seem to be involved in both of them. That worries me.’

‘If it will make you feel better, I’ll have an early night. Give me a break, Bruno.’

‘This makes two in one week.’

‘I owe you.’

‘You’re damn right you do.’

‘So what’s the story?’

Stahlecker lowered his voice. ‘Ever heard of Walther Funk?’

‘Funk? No, I don’t think I have. Wait a minute, isn’t he some big noise in the business world?’

‘He used to be Hitler’s economic advisor. He’s now Vice-President of the Reich Chamber of Culture. It would seem that he and Herr Von Greis were a bit warm on each other. Von Greis was Funk’s boyfriend.’

‘I thought the Führer couldn’t stand queers?’

‘He can’t stand cripples either, so what will he do when he finds out about Joey Goebbels’s club foot?’ It was an old joke, but I laughed anyway.

‘So the reason for tiptoes is because it could be embarrassing for Funk, and therefore embarrassing for the Government, right?’

‘It’s not just that. Von Greis and Goering are old friends. They saw service together in the war. Goering helped Von Greis get his first job with I. G. Farben Chemicals. And lately he’d been acting as Goering’s agent. Buying art and that sort of thing. The Reichskriminaldirektor is keen that we find Von Greis as soon as possible. But it’s over a week now, and there’s been no sign of him. He and Funk had a secret love-nest on Privatstrasse that Funk’s wife didn’t know about. But he hasn’t been there for days.’ From my pocket I removed the piece of paper on which I had copied down an address from the book in Jeschonnek’s desk drawer: it was a number in Derfflingerstrasse.

‘Privatstrasse, eh? Was there any other address?’

‘Not as far as we know.’

‘Are you on the case, Bruno?’

‘Not any more I’m not. Dietz has taken over.’

‘But he’s working on the Pfarr case, isn’t he?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Well, doesn’t that tell you something?’

‘I don’t know, Bernie. I’m too busy trying to put a name to some guy with half a billiard cue up his nose to be a real detective like you.’

‘Is that the one they fished out of the river?’

Bruno sighed irritatedly. ‘You know, one time I’m going to tell you something you don’t already know about.’

‘Illmann was talking to me about it. I bumped into him the other night.’

‘Yeah? Where was that?’

‘In the morgue. I met your client there. Good-looking fellow. Maybe he’s Von Greis.’

‘No, I thought of that. Von Greis had a tattoo on his right forearm: an imperial eagle. Look, Bernie, I’ve got to go. Like I said a hundred times, don’t hold out on me. If you hear anything, let me know. The way the boss is riding me, I could use a break.’

‘Like I said, Bruno, I owe you one.’

‘Two. You owe me two, Bernie.’

I hung up and made another call, this time to the governor of Tegel Prison. I made an appointment to see him and then ordered another beer. While I was drinking it I did some doodling on a piece of paper, the algebraic kind that you hope will help you think more clearly. When I finished doing that, I was more confused than ever. Algebra was never my strong subject. I knew I was getting somewhere, but I thought I would worry about where that was only when I arrived.