Prussian Blue

FOURTEEN

“Well, he certainly wasn’t much help,” objected Kaspel. “The long streak of piss.”

It was three thirty in the morning and we were in the Berchtesgaden hospital dispensary, going through Flex’s personal effects, which I’d already photographed, collectively, several times. Kaspel had compiled a list of the dead man’s possessions, which I now had in my hand.

“It’s cold fish like him that give the SS a bad name, right enough,” I said. “But as it happens, Dr. Brandt was a lot more help than you might think.”

“How? It was you who found the entry wound, wasn’t it?”

“Not for what he told us, but maybe for what he didn’t tell us. For example, Flex had a bad case of gonorrhea. Brandt didn’t mention that, although if it was obvious to me then it must have been obvious to him.”

“So that’s why you took a photograph of his cock. And I thought it was for your own personal smut collection.”

“You mean the pictures I keep of your wife and sister?”

“So you’re the Fritz who’s got them.”

“A bad dose of jelly would certainly explain the presence of a bottle of Protargol on the list of Flex’s personal effects. Except that there’s no Protargol here now. It would seem that someone’s already removed it. That and the Pervitin, which also appears on your list. On the other hand, the dead man’s money clip—rather a lot of money, several hundred marks, wasn’t it?—that’s still here. Along with all his other valuables.”

“Oh, yes. You’re right. The drugs are gone, aren’t they? Pity. I was going to have that Pervitin myself.”

“My guess is that Brandt removed them. Certainly he had more than enough opportunity while he was waiting for us to get here. Obviously he didn’t know that like any good copper, you’d already compiled this list.” I took one of Kaspel’s cigarettes and let him light me with Flex’s lighter. “Now, as far as the Protargol is concerned, it may just be that as Flex’s friend he wanted to spare him the embarrassment of us discovering the deceased was taking silver proteinate for a venereal disease. I suppose I can understand that. Just. I might do the same for someone I knew. If he was married, perhaps.”

“I can explain the meth,” offered Kaspel. “There used to be a plentiful supply of the magic potion here in Berchtesgaden. They used to give it to the local P&Z workers to help them meet their construction deadlines. But lately the supply seems to have dried up. At least for anyone who isn’t in a uniform. I’ve heard that right now there are lots of civilians in Berchtesgaden who are desperate for some magic potion. Like I said, Pervitin can be quite addictive.”

“So why has the supply dried up?”

“Unofficially the word around Hitler’s mountain is that they’re stockpiling the stuff for our armed forces, in case there’s a war. That the German military is going to need methamphetamine to stay awake long enough to beat the Poles. And presumably the Ivans when they come in on the Polack side.”

I nodded. “Then that would also explain the presence of Losantin and natron in this clinic.” I pointed these out on the shelves and, when Kaspel shrugged, I added: “Losantin is used to treat skin burns caused by poison gas. Natron is used to neutralize chlorine gas. At least it was when I was in the trenches. It looks like someone is preparing for the worst, even in Berchtesgaden.”

“I’ll tell you something else that’s missing,” said Kaspel. “At least according to the list I made yesterday morning with Major Högl. There was a little blue notebook and a small set of keys on a little gold chain that was around his neck. They’re gone, too.”

“Can you remember what was in the book?”

“Numbers. Just numbers.”

“So let’s see what’s left. Packet of Turkish 8—”

“Everyone in the Leader’s Territory smokes them. Me included.”

“A set of house keys, some loose change, a tortoiseshell comb, a pair of reading glasses, a leather wallet, civilian driving license, weapons permit, employment identification document, hunting permit, NSDAP Personal Identity Document, Aryan Family Tree Record, a Party badge, some business cards, a gold signet ring, a gold Imco lighter, a little gold hip flask, a gold wristwatch—this is a Jaeger-LeCoultre, which is really expensive—a pair of gold cuff links, gold Pelikan fountain pen—”

“Karl Flex liked his gold, didn’t he? Even the money clip is eighteen carat.” Kaspel unscrewed the top of the hip flask and sniffed the contents.

“And then there’s this Ortgies .32 automatic,” I said. “Where was he keeping this, anyway? Under his waistband? In his sock? Around his neck on a gold chain?”

“It was in his jacket pocket,” said Kaspel.

I tugged out the magazine and inspected it. “Loaded, too. It would seem that our tall friend may have been expecting some trouble after all. You wouldn’t carry this little hedge trimmer unless you thought you might actually need it.”

“Especially up here. If he’d been found carrying that at the Berghof he’d have been arrested, even with the civilian permit. Bormann’s orders. Only the RSD are allowed to carry weapons in the Leader’s Territory. And never inside the Berghof or the Kehlstein, where the only person allowed to carry a gun is Bormann himself. Check it out if you want. There’s always a lump in the right-hand pocket of his jacket.”

I pointed at the hip flask. “What’s the poison?”

Kaspel took a bite from the hip flask and nodded his smiling appreciation. “That’s the good stuff. Same as Bormann drinks.”

I took a bite myself and then a deep breath. Grassl has that effect on you. On top of the methamphetamine it felt like a dose of electric current running down my insides. “I do love a job that lets me drink the best schnapps when I’m on duty.”

Kaspel laughed and pocketed the hip flask. “I think we’d better make sure this doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“A Hermann Scherrer suit, Lingel shoes, cashmere socks, silk underwear, a plutocrat’s watch, and more gold than King Solomon’s temple—he lived well, didn’t he? For a civil engineer.” I shrugged. “What does a civil engineer do, anyway?”

“He does very well, that’s what he does.” Kaspel pulled a face. “At least until he gets shot in the back of the head. That’s right, isn’t it? He was shot in the back of the head, not the front like everyone thought before. Which means the shooter could have been in the woods at the back of the Berghof, like everyone thought.” He shook his head. “Beats me how we didn’t find anything.”

“You were there? In the woods?”

“I commanded the search detail. You wouldn’t get Rattenhuber or Högl getting their boots dirty. No, that was me and my men.”

“I’m going back there. Now that I’ve seen the body I want to read all the witness statements in my new office—supposing that I do have an office—and then take a closer look at that terrace.”

“I don’t know what you expect to find. But I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t you want to go home, Kaspel? It’s three thirty in the morning.”

“I do. But I’m flying now, since I snorted the magic potion. Like I was in an Me 109. It’ll be ages before I can even close my eyelids, let alone get some sleep. Besides, we’re Bolle boys, right? From Pankow. We keep going until one of us collapses or gets thrown in jail. That’s the way this thing works now. I’ll drive you back up the mountain to the Berghof and along the way I’ll give you a few hard lumps of truth about this place.”