Prussian Blue

ELEVEN

Bormann leaned forward and poured me another drink. “I would have preferred a Bavarian up here. The Leader thinks Bavarians have a better understanding of how things work on this mountain. I think you’re probably just another Prussian bastard, but you’re my kind of bastard. I like a man with some blood in his veins. You’re not like a lot of these albino Gestapo types that Heydrich and Himmler grow on a petri dish in some fucking science lab. Which means you’ve got the job. You are acting with my full authority. At least until you screw up.”

I steadied the glass as he filled it to the top, which is the way I like my schnapps served, and tried to look like I was taking a compliment.

“Either way, when this is all over and you’ve caught this bastard, it never happened, do you hear? The last thing I want is for the German people to think that security here is so lax that every Krethi and Plethi can just stroll up the hill from Berchtesgaden and take a potshot at their beloved Leader outside his own front door. So you’ll sign a confidentiality agreement, and you’ll like it.”

Bormann nodded at the man next to him, who produced a sheet of printed paper and a pen and placed them in front of me. I glanced over it quickly. “What’s this?” I asked. “Next of kin?”

“What it says,” said Bormann.

“I don’t have a next of kin.”

“No wife.”

“Not anymore.”

“Then put your girlfriend down.” Bormann grinned unpleasantly. “Or the name and address of someone you really care about in case you’ve screwed up or you’re about to open your trap and we have to threaten to take it out on someone else.”

He made it sound entirely reasonable that this was how things were done—how a policeman who failed to catch a murderer would be treated by the state. I thought for a moment and then wrote down the name of Hildegard Steininger and her address in Berlin’s Lepsiusstrasse. It had been six months since she’d been my girlfriend and I hadn’t liked it very much when I found out that she was seeing someone else—some shiny-looking major in the SS. I hadn’t liked it at all so I suppose I didn’t give a damn if Bormann ever decided to punish her for my shortcomings. It was small-minded, even vindictive, and I’m not proud of what I did. But I wrote her name down all the same. Sometimes true love comes with a black ribbon on the box.

“So to find the hammer and the nails,” said Bormann, “let’s get to the reason why you’ve been brought all the way from Berlin.”

“I’m one big ear, sir.”

At this moment the SS waiter arrived back at the table with a tray bearing the food, and the coffee, for which I was especially grateful since the armchair was extremely comfortable.

“This morning at eight o’clock, there was a breakfast meeting at the Berghof. That’s the Leader’s own house. Which is next to mine, a few meters farther down the mountain. The people present at this meeting were largely architects, engineers, and civil servants, and the purpose of the meeting was to consider what further improvements might be made at the Berghof and in Obersalzberg for the convenience, enjoyment, and security of the Leader. I suppose there must have been about ten or fifteen men who were present. Perhaps a few more. After breakfast, at about nine o’clock, these men went out onto the terrace that overlooks the area. At nine fifteen a.m., one of these men—Dr. Karl Flex—collapsed onto the terrace, bleeding profusely from a head wound. He’d been shot, most probably with a rifle, and died at the scene. No one else was wounded, and curiously, no one seems to have heard a thing. As soon as it was established that he had been shot, the RSD cleared the building and conducted an immediate search of the woods and mountainsides that directly overlook the Berghof terrace. But so far no trace of the assassin has been found. Can you believe it? All these SS and RSD and they can’t find a single clue.”

I nodded and kept eating my sausage, which was delicious.

“I don’t have to tell you how serious this is,” said Bormann. “Having said that, I don’t think this was connected with the Leader, whose movements today and yesterday have been widely reported in the newspapers. But until the killer is apprehended, it will be quite impossible for Hitler to go near that terrace. And as you will doubtless be aware, it’s his fiftieth birthday on April twentieth. He always comes here to Obersalzberg on or just after his birthday. This year will be no exception. Which means you have seven days to solve this crime. Do you hear? It’s imperative that this murderer is caught before April twentieth because I certainly don’t want to be the man who tells him he can’t go outside because there’s an assassin on the loose.”

I put down my sausage, wiped my mouth clean of mustard, and nodded. “I’ll do my best, sir,” I said firmly. “You can rely on that.”

“I don’t want your best,” shouted Bormann. “I want better than your best, whatever that particular heap of shit amounts to. You’re not in Berlin now, you’re in Obersalzberg. Your best may be good enough for that Jew Heydrich but you’re working for me now and that’s as good as working for Adolf Hitler. Is that clear? I want this man under a falling ax before the end of the month.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded again. Where Bormann was concerned, nodding silently was probably the best response. “You have my word that I’ll give it everything I’ve got. Rest assured, sir, I’ll catch him.”

“That’s more like it,” said Bormann.

“First thing in the morning,” I added, stifling a yawn, “I’ll get right on it.”

“Fuck that,” yelled Bormann, banging the tabletop. My white china cup jumped on the monogrammed blue saucer as if the Kehlstein had been hit by an avalanche. “You’ll get on it right now. That’s why you’re here. Every hour that we don’t catch this swine is an hour too long.” Bormann looked around for the waiter and then at one of the men seated around the table. “Bring this man some more hot coffee. Better still, give him a packet of Pervitin. That should help to keep him on his toes.”

The object of Bormann’s command reached into his jacket pocket and took out a little metallic blue-and-white tube, which he handed to me. I glanced at it briefly, but all I saw was the manufacturer’s name—Temmler, which was a Berlin pharmaceutical company.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Up here it’s what we call Hermann Temmler’s magic potion,” said Bormann. “German Coca-Cola. Helps the workforce at the Obersalzberg keep up with the construction schedule. You see, they are only permitted to work when Hitler’s not here—so as not to disturb him—which means that when he’s somewhere else, they have to work twice as long and twice as hard. That stuff helps. Göring’s considering giving it to bomber crews to help them stay awake. So. Take two with your coffee. That should put a bit more spring in your Hitler salute. Which looked like shit, by the way. I know you’ve had a long journey and you’re tired but round here that’s just not good enough, Gunther. Next time I’ll kick your arse myself.”

I swallowed two of the tablets uncomfortably and apologized, but he was right, of course; my Hitler salute was always a bit slack. That’s what comes of not being a Nazi, I suppose.

“Have there been any previous shooting incidents at the Berghof?”

Bormann glanced at the man wearing an SS colonel’s uniform. “What’s the story, Rattenhuber?”

The colonel nodded. “There was an incident about six months ago. A Swiss called Maurice Bavaud came up here planning to shoot the Leader. But he abandoned it at the last moment and made his escape. He was finally apprehended by the French police, who turned him over to us. He’s now in a Berlin prison, awaiting trial and execution.”

But Bormann was shaking his head. “That was nothing like a serious attempt,” he said scornfully, and then looked at me. “Colonel Rattenhuber is head of the RSD with responsibility for securing the Leader’s person, wherever he is. At least that’s the theory. In point of fact, Bavaud was armed only with a pistol, not a rifle. And he planned to shoot Hitler when he came down to the bottom of his drive to greet some well-wishers. But Bavaud lost his nerve. So, Herr Gunther, I think the simple answer to your question is no. This is the first time someone has fired a shot at anyone in this vicinity. Nothing like this has ever happened here before. This is a harmonious community. This is not Berlin. This is not Hamburg. Berchtesgaden and Obersalzberg constitute a peaceful rural idyll in which decent family values and a strong sense of morality prevail. That’s why the Leader has always enjoyed coming here.”

“All right. Tell me a bit more about the dead man. Did he have any enemies that anyone knows of?”

“Flex?” Bormann shook his head. “He worked for Bruno Schenk, one of my most trusted people on the mountain. Both men were employees of Polensky & Zöllner, a Berlin company that handles most of the construction work in Obersalzberg and Berchtesgaden. Karl Flex wasn’t RSD or political, he was a civil engineer. A diligent and much-admired servant who had lived here for several years.”

“Possibly there was someone who didn’t admire him quite as much as you did, sir.” While Bormann was absorbing my jab I followed up quickly with a couple of punches to his body. “Like the man who shot him, for instance. Then again, perhaps there was more than one man involved. To get past all the security up here must have taken some planning and organization. Which is to say we might be talking about a conspiracy.”

For once Bormann stayed silent as he considered this possibility. Me, I just hoped I’d spoiled the cozy concept of his tea house with its monogrammed china and its expensive Gobelin tapestry. How much had it cost to build this Nazi folly? Millions, probably. Money that could have been spent on something more important than the comfort of the madman who now ruled Germany.

“Witness statements?” I asked. “Have they been taken?”

“I’ve had them roneoed for you,” said Högl. “The originals have already been sent to Berlin. For the attention of the Reichsführer-SS. He’s taking a personal interest in this case.”

“I shall want to read them all. And where is the body? I’ll need to take a look at it.”

“At the local hospital,” said Rattenhuber. “Down in Berchtesgaden.”

“There will need to be an autopsy, of course,” I added. “With photographs. The sooner, the better.”

“The man was shot,” said Bormann. “Surely that’s obvious. What more could an autopsy tell you?”

“A thing can remain unknown even though it’s obvious. Or, put another way, nothing evades our attention as persistently as that which we take for granted. That’s just philosophy, sir. Nothing is obvious until it’s obvious. So I shall have to insist on an autopsy if I’m to do my job properly. Is there a doctor at this hospital who might carry out such a procedure?”

“I doubt it,” said Rattenhuber. “The Dietrich Eckart is set up to look after the living, not to take care of the dead.”

“No matter,” I said. “I suggest you get Dr. Waldemar Weimann, from Berlin. Frankly, he’s the best there is. And from what you’ve already told me I can’t imagine we want anything less than that for a case like this.”

“That’s quite impossible,” said Bormann. “As I said, I want to keep a tight lid on this. I don’t trust doctors from Berlin. I shall ask one of the Leader’s own physicians to carry out an autopsy. Dr. Karl Brandt. I’m sure he’s equal to the task. If you really think it’s necessary.”

“I do. I shall have to be present, of course.” I was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, but in truth I was just assessing the effect that the Pervitin was now having on me. Already I felt more alert and energetic, and bolder, too—bold enough to start taking charge and making demands. Bormann wasn’t the only one who could sound as if he knew what he wanted.

“I should also like to visit the crime scene tonight. So you’d better arrange some arc lights and a tape measure. And I shall want to speak to everyone who was on the terrace this morning. As soon as is convenient. Also, I will need an office with a desk with two telephones. A filing cabinet with a lock. A car and a driver on permanent call. Coffee-making facilities. A large map of the area. Some lengths of dowel—the longer, the better. A camera. A Leica IIIa with a 50 mm F2 retractable Summar lens should be just fine. And several rolls of black-and-white film—the slower, the better. Not color. Takes too long to process.”

“Why do you need a camera?” asked Bormann.

“With more than a dozen witnesses on the terrace when Dr. Flex was shot, it will help me if I can put some faces to the names.” I could feel the stuff surging through me now. Suddenly I really wanted to find and catch the Berghof killer, and maybe tear his head off. “And I’ll need plenty of cigarettes. I can’t work without them, I’m afraid. Cigarettes help me think. I appreciate that it’s forbidden to smoke anywhere that the Leader is likely to be, so I shall smoke outside, of course. What else? Yes, some winter boots. I’ve only come with shoes, I’m afraid, and I may need to do some walking in snow. Size forty-three, please. And a coat. I’m freezing.”

“Very well,” said Bormann, “but I shall want all of the prints and negatives to be handed over when you leave.”

“Of course.”

“Speak to Arthur Kannenberg at the Berghof,” Bormann told the man sitting next to him. “Tell him that Commissar Gunther is going to use one of the guest rooms as his office. Zander? Högl? Make sure that everything else he wants is made available to him. Kaspel? You show him the Berghof terrace.”

Bormann stood up, which was everyone’s cue to do the same. Except me. I stayed put in my armchair for a long moment, as if I were still lost in thought, but of course it was nothing more than dumb insolence, paying him back in kind for his bad manners. I already hated Martin Bormann as much as I’d hated any Nazi, including Heydrich and Goebbels. There is evil in the best of us, of course; but perhaps just a little bit more in the worst of us.