Prussian Blue

TWENTY-TWO

“If the gardener was cutting wood with that chain saw,” I said, “and that was what covered up the sound of the shots, then would the shooter have risked him seeing the rifle when he came back down from the Villa Bechstein roof?”

Kaspel was driving us to the P-Barracks, at the Gartenauer Insel, in Unterau. He shook his head.

“It’s not the sort of thing you could fail to notice,” admitted Kaspel. “Equally, the gardener would surely have noticed someone other than Rolf Müller coming down from that roof. That’s what he said. Unless they’re in it together.”

“No. I can’t believe that, either.”

“You sound very sure about that. Why?”

“You get a feel for these things, Hermann. Neither man was particularly nervous about answering our questions. Most of the witnesses I ever questioned, I knew within seconds if they were on the level or not. Didn’t you?”

“You’re the commissar, not me.”

“A man can go from being an innocent witness to being your number one suspect in the space of five seconds. Even Doctor Jekyll couldn’t manage a transformation that fast.” I shook my head. “I’d have left the rifle up on the roof. And just made my escape. For all we know he’s across the border by now and hiding somewhere in Austria. Besides, you said the RSD searched almost everyone in the vicinity immediately after the shooting. If they had found someone with a rifle they’d have arrested him and I wouldn’t be enjoying this mountain air.”

“But if he’d left the rifle up on the roof of the Villa Bechstein, we’d have found it. And we didn’t. Just the shooter’s used brass.”

“Then maybe he tossed it off the villa’s roof, into the woods. And picked it up later. Or maybe it’s buried in a snowdrift. Or—or, I don’t know.”

“In which case we should probably organize a search of the Villa Bechstein’s grounds. I’ll sort it out the minute we come back from Unterau.” Kaspel paused. “Why are we going to the P-Barracks anyway? The girls are all French and Italian. Not to mention the fact that they’re whores. They’re not going to tell us a damn thing.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But let me and Heydrich’s money do the talking. Besides, I like talking to whores. Most of them have the kind of degree that you can’t get from the Humboldt University of Berlin.”

At the foot of the mountain we turned right toward the Austrian border and Salzburg, and drove north along a flat road that always stayed close to the course of the River Ache, meandering through a giant landscape designed by God to make a man—most men, anyway—feel small and insignificant. Maybe that’s why men build churches; God must seem a little friendlier and more likely to listen to prayers in a nice warm church than on top of a cold jagged mountain. Besides, a church is a lot easier to get to on a winter’s Sunday morning. Unless you’re Hitler, of course. The air was a curious mixture of wood smoke and hops from the chimney of the Hofbräuhaus, which we soon passed on our left. A collection of large yellow buildings with green shutters and proud red-and-blue banners—none of them Nazi—it looked more like the headquarters of some rival political party than the local brewery, although in Germany beer is more than just politics, it’s a religion. My kind of religion, anyway.

“Another thing. Rolf Müller. My guess is that he’s heard people in that beer house wishing Bormann and some of his men dead on several occasions before. And he just didn’t want to say who they were. Men who might also have overheard him mentioning his doctor’s appointment.”

“Then it was lucky it was you who was questioning him and not Rattenhuber or Högl, otherwise right now they’d be trying to beat some names out of him in the cells underneath the Türken Inn.”

“That’s the former hotel between Hitler’s house and Bormann’s—where the local RSD is garrisoned, right?”

“Right. I’ve got a desk there. But I prefer to stay as far away from Bormann as possible.”

“Would they really do that? I mean, beat some names out of him?”

“In the name of the Leader’s security? They’d do anything.” He shrugged. “Might save a bit of time if we leaned on him just a little. If Bruno Schenk does come up with some names of his own, we might have Müller look them over and see if we can’t narrow it down. You never know.”

“I’ve never been one for the strong-arm stuff myself,” I said. “Not even in the name of a good cause. Like the Leader’s all-important safety.”

“You say that like you don’t mean it.”

“Me? Whatever gave you that idea, Hermann? God bless and keep the Leader, that’s what I say.” I smiled because for once I didn’t add my usual under-the-voice coda to this thought, which was common enough in left-wing Berlin but best not uttered in Berchtesgaden: God bless and keep the Leader, far away from us.

“Look, Gunther, I may have lost some of my naïve optimism about the Nazis and what they’re capable of, but I still believe in the new Germany. I want you to know that.”

“From what you were telling me, I somehow gathered the impression that the new Germany is just as corrupt as the old one.”

“With one important difference. No one kicks us around now. Especially not the French. Or the Tommies. Being German—it means something again.”

“Very soon it will mean we’ve started another European war. That’s what it means. And Hitler knows that. My opinion is that he wants another war. That he needs one.”

Kaspel didn’t answer, so I changed the subject. “This must be on the way to St. Leonhard, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because there’s a guest house in St. Leonhard called the Schorn Ziegler where I’m supposed to meet Heydrich’s man, Neumann, if I’ve got something interesting to tell him. So he can give the general a report on what’s happening here without Martin Bormann knowing all about it.”

“I know the place. It’s about seven or eight kilometers farther up the road from Unterau. Family place. Good food.” He paused and then added, “And what are you going to tell him?”

“That all depends on what kind of state I’m in.” I glanced at my wristwatch and sighed. “It’s thirty hours since I was in a bed. But I feel like my blood has been replaced by luminous plasma. When I take a leak I half-expect to see Saint Elmo’s fire. By tonight I could be a nightmare walking and liable to say all kinds of things best not said in Germany. This meth stuff makes you kind of gabby, doesn’t it? You have to watch out for that with a man like Heydrich, or his dark elves and dwarves. Like you said before, the greatest mystery on this magic mountain is how I’m going to break this case without getting myself broken permanently.”

A wide oxbow on the fast-moving Ache had created Gartenauer Island, which was mostly trees and a monastic, gray-granite building sitting immediately on the riverbank; west of the island was a deep forest reached by a small stone bridge. Across the bridge and several hundred meters along a narrow track, and almost completely hidden by the thick forest canopy, was a long, single-story, dirty-white wooden hut with blue shutters. This was P-Barracks and in the snow it was perfectly camouflaged, which, I supposed, was the way Bormann preferred it. There were no painted girls on show, no signs, no music, not even a brightly colored lightbulb—nothing to indicate what went on inside; it was probably the most anonymous brothel I’d ever seen. We pulled up in a small parking lot and stepped out of the car. We were just about to go inside when a small truck arrived in a spray of gravel and a group of four workers got out. Two of them were carrying thermos flasks, but from the smell of them they’d all been drinking something stronger than coffee.

“They’re coming here now?” I said. “Christ, it’s not even lunchtime.”

“These men from P&Z end their shifts at all times of day. This lot have probably been working through the night.”

“Look, I want a few answers here, only I’m not about to wait in line behind some local Heinrich and his hard-on.” I took out my warrant disc and held it up. “Police,” I said. “Come back in an hour, boys. I need to ask these whores some questions. And I’d prefer not smelling your fish soup while I’m doing it.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Kaspel. “These lads have got their hearts set on some female company. Their pricks, too. What’s more, in case you hadn’t noticed, this place is deliberately remote. People have gone missing out here.”

It was good advice and in normal circumstances I’d have probably taken it, especially after my remarks about not being one for the strong-arm stuff. But the men who’d gotten out of the truck showed no inclination to get back in and leave; what’s more, they regarded me and my beer token with contempt. I couldn’t blame them for that. Another time I might have left and come back myself, but this wasn’t one of those. The largest of the workers spat and then wiped his unshaven chin with the back of a powerful hand.

“We’re not leaving,” he said. “We just pulled a fifteen-hour shift and now we’re going to have some fun with these ladies. Maybe you’re the ones who should leave, copper. Just ask your boyfriend in black. Not even the SS gets between us and our pleasures.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “And it’s lucky for you I understand that the beer and schnapps are what’s talking, not you. I speak it pretty good myself sometimes. Besides, this is the only friend I need when I’m yakking to you, Fritz.” I unholstered my Walther, thumbed back the hammer, and fired the round that was already in the breech. The automatic pistol jumped in my hand like a living thing. Who needs a dog when you have a Walther PPK? “So get back in your truck and wait your turn before you find an extra hole in your head. And don’t think I wouldn’t do it. I haven’t slept since yesterday morning and my judgment is worse than the Kaiser’s right now. It’s been six months since I shot anyone. But I really don’t think I’m going to miss any sleep about shooting you.”

The workers turned away, grumbling but quiet, and climbed back in their truck. One of them lit his pipe, which is always a good sign when you’re a copper. It’s a deliberate, thoughtful sort of man who smokes a pipe; I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged blows with a man who had a briar in his mouth.

The warning shot I’d fired had summoned a couple of girls to the barracks’ door. At least they looked like whores. One of them wasn’t much more than twenty, wearing a gray astrakhan coat, high-heeled shoes, and very little else. The official German football team’s black shorts she had on under the coat were an interesting touch; I expect she wanted to demonstrate a bit of loyalty to her adopted country. The other girl was older and dressed in an army Red Cross officer’s greatcoat, but the blue stockings and garters, and enough crimson lipstick to supply the Moscow State Circus, persuaded me that she probably wasn’t a doctor. Hardly able to contain his distaste, Kaspel pushed gently past these women and I stamped the snow off my boots and followed him inside.

The entrance area held a few battered leather armchairs and an upright piano, with a threadbare carpet on a linoleum floor, and a dilapidated sideboard with a choice of liquor bottles. There were also several showers for the customers, and shards of soap lay on the mildewed tile floor. The whole place smelled strongly of cigarettes and cheap perfume. A large wood-burning stove occupied a central place among the chairs. The hut was at least warm—warmer than the unwelcoming woman who ran the place. She wasn’t anyone’s idea of a madam but then her clients were rough untutored men who had no more idea of what passed for a proper house of love than the archbishop of Munich. Unlike the others, she wore a thick woolen dress, a white collarless shirt, a traditional green velvet gilet, and a warm beige shawl, but the main reason I knew she was in charge was the Tet biscuit tin under her arm that I supposed was full not of biscuits but of cash. She had quick, rapacious eyes and I knew the minute I saw them that she had the answers to all of my questions. But for a minute or two I left them all unasked. Sometimes, if you’re wise, it’s better to hear answers to the questions that you wouldn’t ever have thought of asking. Maybe Plato wouldn’t like that kind of dialogue, but it always worked at the Alex.