March Violets

3

The following morning was grey and wet. I woke with a whore’s drawers in my mouth, drank a cup of coffee and went through the morning’s Berliner Borsenzeitung, which was even more difficult to understand than usual, with sentences as long and as hard-to-incomprehensible as a speech from Hess.

Shaved and dressed and carrying my laundry bag, I was at Alexanderplatz, the chief traffic centre of east Berlin, less than an hour later. Approached from Neue Königstrasse, the square is flanked by two great office blocks: Berolina Haus to the right, and Alexander Haus to the left, where I had my office on the fourth floor. I dropped off my laundry at Adler’s Wet-Wash Service on the ground floor before going up.

Waiting for the lift, it was hard to ignore the small noticeboard that was situated immediately next to it, to which were pinned an appeal for contributions to the Mother and Child Fund, a Party exhortation to go and see an anti-Semitic film and an inspiring picture of the Fuhrer. This noticeboard was the responsibility of the building’s caretaker, Herr Gruber, a shifty little undertaker of a man. Not only is he the block air-defence monitor with police powers (courtesy of Orpo, the regular uniformed police), he is also a Gestapo informer. Long ago I decided that it would be bad for business to fall out with Gruber and so, like all the other residents of Alexander Haus, I gave him three marks a week, which is supposed to cover my contributions to whichever new money-making scheme the DAF, the German Labour Front, has dreamed up.

I cursed the lift’s lack of speed as I saw Gruber’s door open just enough to permit his peppered-mackerel of a face to peer down the corridor.

‘Ah, Herr Gunther, it’s you,’ he said, coming out of his office. He edged towards me like a crab with a bad case of corns.

‘Good morning, Herr Gruber,’ I said, avoiding his face. There was something about it that always reminded me of Max Schreck’s screen portrayal of Nosferatu, an effect that was enhanced by the rodent-like washing movements of his skeletal hands.

‘There was a young lady who came for you,’ he said. ‘I sent her up. I do hope that was convenient, Herr Gunther.’

‘Yes—’

‘If she’s still there, that is,’ he said. ‘That was at least half an hour ago. Only I knew Fraulein Lehmann is no longer working for you, so I had to say that there was no telling when you would turn up, you keeping such irregular hours.’ To my relief the lift arrived and I drew open the door and stepped in.

‘Thank you, Herr Gruber,’ I said, and shut the door.

‘Heil Hitler,’ he said. The lift started to rise up the shaft. I called: ‘Heil Hitler.’ You don’t miss the Hitler Salute with someone like Gruber. It’s not worth the trouble. But one day I’m going to have to beat the crap out of that weasel, just for the sheer pleasure of it.

I share the fourth floor with a ‘German’ dentist, a ‘German’ insurance broker, and a ‘German’ employment agency, the latter having provided me with the temporary secretary who I now presumed was the woman seated in my waiting room. Coming out of the lift I hoped that she wasn’t battle-scarred ugly. I didn’t suppose for a minute that I was going to get a juicy one, but then I wasn’t about to settle for any cobra either. I opened the door.

‘Herr Gunther?’ She stood up, and I gave her the once-over: well, she wasn’t as young as Gruber had led me to believe (I guessed her to be about forty-five) but not bad, I thought. A bit warm and cosy maybe (she had a substantial backside), but I happen to prefer them like that. Her hair was red with a touch of grey at the sides and on the crown, and tied back in a knot. She wore a suit of plain grey cloth, a white high-necked blouse and a black hat with a Breton brim turned up all around the head.

‘Good morning,’ I said, as affably as I could manage on top of the mewling tomcat that was my hangover. ‘You must be my temporary secretary.’ Lucky to get a woman at all, and this one looked half-reasonable.

‘Frau Protze,’ she declared, and shook my hand. ‘I’m a widow.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, unlocking the door to my office. ‘What part of Bavaria are you from?’ The accent was unmistakable.

‘Regensburg.’

‘That’s a nice town.’

‘You must have found buried treasure there.’ Witty too, I thought; that was good: she’d need a sense of humour to work for me.

I told her all about my business. She said it all sounded very exciting. I showed her into the adjoining cubicle where she was to sit on that backside.

‘Actually, it’s not so bad if you leave the door to the waiting room open,’ I explained. Then I showed her the washroom along the corridor and apologized for the shards of soap and the dirty towels. ‘I pay seventy-five marks a month and I get a tip like this,’ I said. ‘Damn it, I’m going to complain to that son-of-a-bitch of a landlord.’ But even as I said it I knew I never would.

Back in my office I flipped open my diary and saw that the day’s only appointment was Frau Heine, at eleven o’clock.

‘I’ve an appointment in twenty minutes,’ I said. ‘Woman wants to know if I’ve managed to trace her missing son. He’s a Jewish U-Boat.’

‘A what?’

‘A Jew in hiding.’

‘What did he do that he has to hide?’ she said.

‘You mean apart from being a Jew?’ I said. Already I could see that she had led quite a sheltered life, even for a Regensburger, and it seemed a shame to expose the poor woman to the potentially distressing sight of her country’s evil-smelling arse. Still, she was all grown-up now, and I didn’t have the time to worry about it.

‘He just helped an old man who was being beaten up by some thugs. He killed one of them.’

‘But surely if he was helping the old man—’

‘Ah, but the old man was Jewish,’ I explained. ‘And the two thugs belonged to the SA. Strange how that changes everything, isn’t it? His mother asked me to find out if he was still alive and still at liberty. You see, when a man is arrested and beheaded or sent to a KZ, the authorities don’t always bother to inform his family. There are a lot of MPs—missing persons—from Jewish families these days. Trying to find them is a large part of my business.’ Frau Protze looked worried.

‘You help Jews?’ she said.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It’s perfectly legal. And their money is as good as anyone’s.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Listen, Frau Protze,’ I said. ‘Jews, gypsies, Red Indians, it’s all the same to me. I’ve got no reason to like them, but I don’t have any reason to hate them either. When he walks through that door, a Jew gets the same deal as anyone else. Same as if he were the Kaiser’s cousin. But it doesn’t mean I’m dedicated to their welfare. Business is business.’

‘Certainly,’ said Frau Protze, colouring a little. ‘I hope you don’t think I have anything against the Jews.’

‘Of course not,’ I said. But of course that is what everybody says. Even Hitler.

‘Good God,’ I said, when the U-Boat’s mother had left my office. ‘That’s what a satisfied customer looks like.’ The thought depressed me so much that I decided to get out for a while.

At Loeser & Wolff I bought a packet of Murattis, after which I cashed Six’s cheque. I paid half of it into my own account; and I treated myself to an expensive silk dressing-gown at Wertheim’s just for being lucky enough to land as sweet an earner as Six.

Then I walked south-west, past the railway station from which a train now rumbled forth heading towards the Jannowitz Bridge, to the corner of Königstrasse where I had left my car.

Lichterfelde-Ost is a prosperous residential district in south-west Berlin much favoured by senior civil servants and members of the armed forces. Ordinarily it would have been way out of a young couple’s price league, but then most young couples don’t have a multi-millionaire like Hermann Six for a father.

Ferdinandstrasse ran south from the railway line. There was a policeman, a young Anwärter in the Orpo, standing guard outside Number 16, which was missing most of the roof and all of its windows. The bungalow’s blackened timbers and brickwork told the story eloquently enough. I parked the Hanomag and walked up to the garden gate, where I flipped out my identification for the young bull, a spotty-looking youth of about twenty. He looked at it carefully, naively, and said redundantly: ‘A private investigator, eh?’

‘S’right. I’ve been retained by the insurance company to investigate the fire.’ I lit a cigarette and watched the match suggestively as it burned towards my fingertips. He nodded, but his face appeared troubled. It cleared all of a sudden as he recognized me.

‘Hey, didn’t you used to be in Kripo up at the Alex?’ I nodded, my nostrils trailing smoke like a factory chimney. ‘Yes, I thought I recognized the name—Bernhard Gunther. You caught Gormann, the Strangler, didn’t you? I remember reading about it in the newspapers. You were famous.’ I shrugged modestly. But he was right. When I caught Gormann I was famous for a while. I was a good bull in those days.

The young Anwärter took off his shako and scratched the top of his squarish head. ‘Well, well,’ he said; and then: ‘I’m going to join Kripo. That is, if they’ll have me.’

‘You seem a bright enough fellow. You should do all right.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Hey, how about a tip?’

‘Try Scharhorn in the three o’clock at the Hoppegarten.’ I shrugged. ‘Hell, I don’t know. What’s your name, young fellow?’

‘Eckhart,’ he said. ‘Wilhelm Eckhart.’

‘So, Wilhelm, tell me about the fire. First of all, who’s the pathologist on the case?’

‘Some fellow from the Alex. I think he was called Upmann or Illmann.’

‘An old man with a small chin-beard and rimless glasses?’ He nodded. ‘That’s Illmann. When was he here?’

‘Day before yesterday. Him and Kriminalkommissar Jost.’

‘Jost? It’s not like him to get his flippers dirty. I’d have thought it would take more than just the murder of a millionaire’s daughter to get him off his fat arse.’ I threw my cigarette away, in the opposite direction from the gutted house: there didn’t seem any point in tempting fate.

‘I heard it was arson,’ I said. ‘Is that true, Wilhelm?’

‘Just smell the air,’ he said.

I inhaled deeply, and shook my head.

‘Don’t you smell the petrol?’

‘No. Berlin always smells like this.’

‘Maybe I’ve just been standing here a long time. Well, they found a petrol can in the garden, so I guess that seals it.’

‘Look, Wilhelm, would you mind if I just took a quick look around? It would save me having to fill out some forms. They’ll have to let me have a look sooner or later.’

‘Go right ahead, Herr Gunther,’ he said, opening the front gate. ‘Not that there’s much to see. They took bags of stuff away with them. I doubt there’s anything that would be of interest to you. I don’t even know why I’m still here.’

‘I expect it’s to watch out in case the murderer returns to the scene of the crime,’ I said tantalizingly.

‘Lord, do you think he might?’ breathed the boy.

I pursed my lips. ‘Who knows?’ I said, although personally I had never heard of such a thing. ‘I’ll take a look anyway, and thanks, I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

He was right. There wasn’t much to see. The man with the matches had done a proper job. I looked in at the front door, but there was so much debris I couldn’t see anywhere for me to step. Round to the side I found a window that gave onto another room where the going wasn’t so difficult underfoot. Hoping that I might at least find the safe, I climbed inside. Not that I needed to be there at all. I just wanted to form a picture inside my head. I work better that way: I’ve got a mind like a comic book. So I wasn’t too disappointed when I found that the police had already taken the safe away, and that all that was left was a gaping hole in the wall. There was always Illmann, I told myself.

Back at the gate I found Wilhelm trying to comfort an older woman of about sixty, whose face was stained with tears.

‘The cleaning woman,’ he explained. ‘She turned up just now. Apparently she’s been away on holiday and hadn’t heard about the fire. Poor old soul’s had a bit of a shock.’ He asked her where she lived.

‘Neuenburger Strasse,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m all right now, thank you, young man.’ From her coat pocket she produced a small lace handkerchief which seemed as improbable in her large, peasant hands as an antimacassar in those of Max Schmelling, the boxer, and quite inadequate for the task which lay before it: she blew her pickled-walnut of a nose with the sort of ferocity and volume that made me want to hold my hat on my head. Then she wiped her big, broad face with the soggy remnant. Smelling some information about the Pfarr household, I offered the old pork chop a lift home in my car.

‘It’s on the way,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ I insisted.

‘Well, if you are sure, that would be very kind of you. I have had a bit of a shock.’ She picked up the box that lay at her feet, each one of which bulged over the top of its well-polished black walking shoe like a butcher’s thumb in a thimble. Her name was Frau Schmidt.

‘You’re a good sort, Herr Gunther,’ said Wilhelm.

‘Nonsense,’ I said, and so it was. There was no telling what information I might glean from the old woman about her late employers. I took the box from her hands. ‘Let me help you with that,’ I said. It was a suit-box, from Stechbarth’s, the official tailor to the services, and I had the idea that she might have been bringing it for the Pfarrs. I nodded silently at Wilhelm, and led the way to the car.

‘Neuenburger Strasse,’ I repeated as we drove off. ‘That’s off Lindenstrasse, isn’t it?’ She confirmed that it was, gave me some directions and was silent for a moment. Then she started weeping again.

‘What a terrible tragedy,’ she sobbed.

‘Yes, yes, it’s most unfortunate.’

I wondered how much Wilhelm had told her. The less the better, I thought, reasoning that the less shocked she was, at least at this stage, the more I would get out of her.

‘Are you a policeman?’ she asked.

‘I’m investigating the fire,’ I said evasively.

‘I’m sure you must be too busy to drive an old woman like me across Berlin. Why don’t you drop me on the other side of the bridge and I’ll walk the rest. I’m all right now, really I am.’

‘It’s no trouble. Anyway, I’d quite like to talk to you about the Pfarrs—that is, if it wouldn’t upset you.’ We crossed the Landwehr Canal and came onto Belle-Alliance Platz, in the centre of which rises the great Column of Peace. ‘You see, there will have to be an inquest, and it would help me if I knew as much about them as possible.’

‘Yes, well I don’t mind, if you think I can be of assistance,’ she said.

When we got to Neuenburger Strasse, I parked the car and followed the old woman up to the second floor of an apartment building that was several storeys high.

Frau Schmidt’s apartment was typical of the older generation of people in this city. The furniture was solid and elaborate—Berliners spend a lot of money on their tables and chairs—and there was a big porcelain-tiled stove in the living room. A copy of an engraving by Dürer, which was as common in the Berliner’s home as an aquarium in a doctor’s waiting room, hung dully above a dark red Biedermeier sideboard on which were placed various photographs (including one of our beloved Führer) and a little silk swastika mounted in a large bronze frame. There was also a drinks tray, from which I took a bottle of schnapps and poured a small glassful.

‘You’ll feel better after you’ve drunk this,’ I said, handing her the glass, and wondering whether or not I dared take the liberty of pouring myself one too. Enviously, I watched her knock it back in one. Smacking her fat lips she sat down on a brocaded chair by the window.

‘Feel up to answering a few questions?’

She nodded. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Well for a start, how long had you known Herr and Frau Pfarr?’

‘Hmm, let’s see now.’ A silent movie of uncertainty flickered on the woman’s face. The voice emptied slowly out of the Boris Karloff mouth, with its slightly protruding teeth, like grit from a bucket. ‘It must be a year, I suppose.’ She stood up again and removed her coat, revealing a dingy, floral-patterned smock. Then she coughed for several seconds, tapping herself on the chest as she did so.

All this time I stood squarely in the middle of the room, my hat on the back of my head and my hands in my pockets. I asked her what sort of couple the Pfarrs had been.

‘I mean, were they happy? Argumentative?’ She nodded to both of these suggestions.

‘When I first went to work there, they were very much in love,’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t long after that that she lost her job as a schoolteacher. Quite cut up about it, she was. And before long they were arguing. Not that he was there very often when I was. But when he was, then more often than not they’d have words, and I don’t mean squabbles, like most couples. No, they had loud, angry arguments, almost as if they hated each other, and a couple of times I found her crying in her room afterwards. Well, I really don’t know what it was they had to be unhappy about. They had a lovely home—it was a pleasure to clean it, so it was. Mind you, they weren’t flashy. I never once saw her spending lots of money on things. She had lots of nice clothes, but nothing showy.’

‘Any jewellery?’

‘I believe she had some jewellery, but I can’t say as I remember her wearing it, but then I was only there in the daytime. On the other hand, there was an occasion when I moved his jacket and some earrings fell onto the floor, and they weren’t the sort of earrings that she would have worn.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘These were for pierced ears, and Frau Pfarr only ever wore clips. So I drew my own conclusions, but said nothing. It was none of my business what he got up to. But I reckon she had her suspicions. She wasn’t a stupid woman. Far from it. I believe that’s what drove her to drink as much as she did.’

‘Did she drink?’

‘Like a sponge.’

‘What about him? He worked at the Ministry of the Interior, didn’t he?’

She shrugged. ‘It was some government place, but I couldn’t tell you what it was called. He was something to do with the law—he had a certificate on the wall of his study. All the same, he was very quiet about his work. And very careful not to leave papers lying around so that I might see them. Not that I would have read them, mind. But he didn’t take the chance.’

‘Did he work at home much?’

‘Sometimes. And I know he used to spend time at that big office building on Bülowplatz—you know, the one that used to be the headquarters for them Bolsheviks.’

‘You mean the DAF building, the headquarters of the German Labour Front. That’s what it is now that the Kozis have been thrown out of it.’

‘That’s right. Now and again Herr Pfarr would give me a lift there, you see. My sister lives in Brunenstrasse and normally I’d catch a Number 99 to Rosenthaler Platz after work. Now and then Herr Pfarr was kind enough to run me as far as Bülowplatz, where I’d see him go in the DAF building.’

‘You saw them last—when?’

‘It’s two weeks yesterday. I’ve been on holiday, see. A Strength Through Joy trip to Rugen Island. I saw her, but not him.’

‘How was she?’

‘She seemed quite happy for a change. Not only that, but she didn’t have a drink in her hand when she spoke to me. She told me that she was planning a little holiday to the spas. She often went there. I think she got dried out.’

‘I see. And so this morning you went to Ferdinandstrasse via the tailors, is that correct, Frau Schmidt?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I often did little errands for Herr Pfarr. He was usually too busy to get to the shops, and so he’d pay me to get things for him. Before I went on holiday there was a note asking me to drop his suit off at his tailors and that they knew all about it.’

‘His suit, you say.’

‘Well, yes, I think so.’ I picked up the box.

‘Mind if I take a look?’

‘I don’t see why not. He’s dead after all, isn’t he?’

Even before I had removed the lid I had a pretty good idea of what was in the box. I wasn’t wrong. There was no mistaking the midnight black that echoed the old elitist cavalry regiments of the Kaiser’s army, the Wagnerian double-lightning flash on the right collar-patch and the Roman-style eagle and swastika on the left sleeve. The three pips on the left collar-patch denoted the wearer of the uniform as a captain, or whatever the fancy rank that captains were called in the S S was. There was a piece of paper pinned to the right sleeve. It was an invoice from Stechbarth’s, addressed to Hauptsturmführer Pfarr, for twenty-five marks. I whistled.

‘So Paul Pfarr was a black angel.’

‘I’d never have believed it,’ said Frau Schmidt.

‘You mean you never saw him wearing this?’

She shook her head. ‘I never even saw it hanging in his wardrobe.’

‘Is that so.’ I wasn’t sure whether I believed her or not, but I could think of no reason why she should lie about it. It was not uncommon for lawyers—German lawyers, working for the Reich—to be in the S S: I imagined Pfarr wearing his uniform on ceremonial occasions only.

It was Frau Schmidt’s turn to look puzzled. ‘I meant to ask you how the fire started.’

I thought for a minute and decided to let her have it without any of the protective padding, in the hope that the shock would stop her asking some awkward questions that I couldn’t answer.

‘It was arson,’ I said quietly. ‘They were both murdered.’ Her jaw dropped like a cat-flap, and her eyes moistened again, as if she had stepped into a draught.

‘Good God,’ she gasped. ‘How terrible. Whoever could do such a thing?’

‘That’s a good question,’ I said. ‘Do you know if either of them had any enemies?’ She sighed deeply and then shook her head. ‘Did you ever overhear either of them arguing with someone other than each other? On the telephone, perhaps? Somebody at the door? Anything.’ She continued to shake her head.

‘Wait a minute, though,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, there was one occasion, several months ago. I heard Herr Pfarr arguing with another man in his study. It was pretty heated and, I can tell you, some of the language they used was not fit to be heard by decent folk. They were arguing about politics. At least I think it was politics. Herr Six was saying some terrible things about the Fuhrer which—’

‘Did you say Herr Six?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was the other man. After a while he came storming out of the study and through the front door with a face like pig’s liver. Nearly knocked me over he did.’

‘Can you remember what else was said?’

‘Only that each accused the other of trying to ruin him.’

‘Where was Frau Pfarr when all this happened?’

‘She was away, on one of her trips, I think.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been most helpful. And now I must be getting back to Alexanderplatz.’ I turned towards the door.

‘Excuse me,’ said Frau Schmidt. She pointed to the tailor’s box. ‘What shall I do with Herr Pfarr’s uniform?’

‘Mail it,’ I said, putting a couple of marks on the table. ‘To Reichsführer Himmler, Prinz Albrecht Strasse, Number 9.’