Prussian Blue

THIRTY-ONE

“So ask it, Frau Troost. I have no idea why, but the schnapps has made me accommodating.”

The terrace at the back of the Berghof was less lethal than the one at the front; the most dangerous thing that happened here was smoking too much. Gerdy Troost shrugged and threw away her cigarette. Under the black beret her light brown hair was bushy and gathered behind her head, which seemed to accentuate the woman’s ears; like her nose, these belonged properly to an elf. But she wasn’t a small elf. I guessed she was probably a head taller than Martin Bormann. It was a shrewd, clever head, too, that much was obvious. Cleverer than Bormann. The voice was educated and accustomed to being listened to, the eyes dark and inquisitive, the chin pugnacious and determined, the mouth just a little petulant; you might almost have assumed she was Jewish but for the violent anti-Semitism of her infamous patron. It seemed safer to assume that she was a bluestocking, only this had nothing to do with the color of her stockings, which were black.

“Gerdy. Short for Gerhardine. My parents christened me Sophie but I never took to the name.”

Looking at her, I figured there was quite a lot about being a girl she didn’t take to, not just an old-fashioned name. You get a feeling for that kind of thing.

I toasted her with the glass in my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Gerdy.”

“The fact is, I know who you are,” she said. “More importantly, I know what you are. No, I don’t mean that you’re a policeman. I’m talking about your character. I believe you’re a man of some courage and integrity.”

“No one’s accused me of being that in a long time. Besides, if I really was what you say I am, then I’d be somewhere else.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Herr Gunther. One day soon this country is going to need a few good men.” She rubbed her chest and her face turned anxious as if she had a pain.

“You all right?”

“I get a little angina sometimes. When I’m under pressure. It’ll pass.”

“Are you under pressure?”

“Everyone here is under pressure of one kind or another. Even Hitler. Everyone except Martin Bormann.”

“He’s a busy man, isn’t he?”

Gerdy smiled. “Busy looking out for himself, almost certainly.”

“There’s a lot of it about.”

“For some. Now listen, do you remember a man called Hugo Brückmann?”

I frowned as I recalled the name. Then I stared at the ground, noticing her largish feet and her black shoes, which had little straps across the ankles. “Brückmann,” I said evasively. “Let me see. No, I don’t think so.”

“Then let me refresh your memory, Commissar. In 1932, Hugo Brückmann and his wife went to stay at Berlin’s Adlon Hotel. He is a German publisher and was a great friend of my late husband’s. Married to Princess Elsa Cantacuzene of Romania. Now do you remember?”

I hadn’t forgotten either of them. Nor was I likely to. But like anyone else in Germany I was a little cautious about admitting to knowing someone who had deliberately thwarted the Nazis, especially to a member of Hitler’s intimate circle. While Hugo Brückmann was a Nazi, he was a decent Nazi and a friend of Bernhard Weiss, the former head of Kripo and a Jew whom I and Lorenz Adlon had helped to hide from the Nazis in the last days of the Weimar Republic. But it had been Hugo Brückmann and his wife, Elsa, who had paid for Weiss and his wife, Lotte, to escape to London, where the former detective was now running a printing and stationery business.

“If they’re friends of yours, then yes, I remember them both.”

“I want that man—the principled young detective from the Alex who helped Hugo Brückmann to help Bernhard Weiss escape from Germany—to help me find someone who’s gone missing, in Munich.”

“I’m not saying I did help them. That wouldn’t be healthy. But lots of people go missing these days. It’s one of the challenges of life in modern Germany.”

“This man’s a Jew, too.”

“For them most of all. But yes, I’ll help. If I can. What’s his name?”

“Wasserstein. Dr. Karl Wasserstein. He’s an ophthalmologist and a surgeon who treated my late husband. But he lost his position and his pension in 1935, and then his license to practice medicine in 1938. I spoke to the Leader about his case last year and Dr. Wasserstein’s license was restored, allowing him to continue in private practice. But when I went to see Wasserstein in Munich the other day, he had gone and no one seemed to know or even care where. He left no forwarding address and I was wondering if you might find him for me. I just want to know that he’s all right and that he’s not short of money. But I get the feeling I’ve already asked enough questions around here on his behalf. There’s a limit to what even I can achieve on anyone’s behalf. Especially when they’re Jewish.”

“Maybe he’s left Germany for good.”

“He just got his license back. Why would he leave Germany?”

“The best people do. On the other hand, a lot of Jews have left Munich and Vienna to go and live in Berlin. They think that things are a bit easier for Jews there.”

“And are they?”

“A little, perhaps. Berliners have never made good Nazis. It’s a metropolitan thing, I guess. People in big cities don’t care much about race and religion. Most of them don’t even believe in God. Not since that other German madman. They’re a little cynical to be wholly enthusiastic acolytes.”

“I’m beginning to see why you’re expendable.”

“But give me Wasserstein’s last address and I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thanks. Commissar Gunther, I want you to know that I’m loyal to the Leader.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“You’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Look, it isn’t him who’s at fault. It’s the people around him. People like Martin Bormann. He’s so corrupt. He runs this whole mountain like it’s his personal fiefdom. And Karl Flex was just one of his more loathsome creatures. Him and Zander, and that awful man Bruno Schenk. Those are the kind of people who give our movement a bad name. But if I’m going to help you I have to do it in my own way.”

“Sure. Whatever you say. And that’s just the way I was going to handle it.”

“I don’t want to hear any lectures about police procedure and withholding evidence.”

“All that stuff means nothing now, anyway.”

“So here’s what I’m offering. I’ve been coming here for almost a decade and I’m often in this house. Sometimes on my own. Sometimes not on my own. I see things. And I hear things. More than I should, perhaps. By the way, there are listening devices all over the Berghof so be very careful what you say and where you say it.”

I nodded, hardly wanting to interrupt Gerdy Troost by telling her I already knew about the listening devices.

“That’s another reason why this terrace—the smoking room—is so popular. It’s safe to talk here.”

“So what have you got to tell me now?”

“Nothing that might reflect badly on Hitler,” she said carefully. “He’s a man of great vision. But if you ask me a question, I’ll do what no one else on this mountain will do, Commissar Gunther, I’ll try to give you a straight answer. You tell me what you think you know and, if I’m able to, I’ll confirm it. Clear?”

“Clear enough. You’re going to be my own oracle at Obersalzberg. And it will be up to me to make sense of what you tell me.”

She nodded. “If you like.”

“How much of what Flex was doing did Bormann know about?”

“Everything that happens on this mountain happens because Martin Bormann wants it that way. Flex was merely carrying out his master’s orders. Sure, he was an engineer with lots of letters after his name, but he was just a button that Bormann could press. Once for this and twice for that. Bormann’s difficulty is that he desperately needs this man caught or the Leader will never come back; but in order for that man to be caught he risks the exposure of all his local rackets. Which means you’re right about that police medal. You solve this case, you might not live to collect it.”

“I figured as much.” I lit another cigarette. “Dr. Brandt. Is he one of Bormann’s buttons, too?”

“Brandt’s in debt,” she said. “A massive amount of debt. Because of his lavish lifestyle. He used to rent part of the Villa Bechstein but now he has a house in Buchenhohe. Not to mention an expensive apartment in Berlin, on Altonaerstrasse. All on a doctor’s salary of three hundred and fifty reichsmarks a month. And because he’s in debt he has to make ends meet by being part of Bormann’s rackets. He might seem honorable. But he’s not. Don’t trust him.”

“Capable of covering up a murder, do you think?”

Gerdy nodded. “Not just of covering one up. Capable of committing one, too. Tell me. You’ve lifted a few rocks already. And seen what slithered out. Why do you think Flex was killed?”

“Because someone bore him a grudge, because of a compulsory purchase—perhaps.”

“Maybe. But that’s just fifty or sixty people. And quite a narrow sample of people on the Berg with a substantial grievance. You’re going to need to cast your net much wider than that to get a proper idea of what’s been going on here. You do that and you’ll have a much better idea of who killed Karl Flex.”

“The P-Barracks. The brothel? Does Bormann get a cut of that as well?”

“Bormann gets a cut of everything. But I’m disappointed. You’re still thinking like a policeman. The money generated by fifteen or twenty girls is tiny. No, there are much bigger rackets than that in Obersalzberg, and at Berchtesgaden. You need to expand your horizons, Commissar, to think on a more grandiose scale, to build your ideas of what one man can achieve if he has the resources of an entire country at his disposal.”

I thought for a moment. “Construction,” I said. “The Obersalzberg Administration. Polensky & Zöllner.”

“Now you’re getting warmer.”

“Is Bormann getting a kickback from OA?”

Gerdy Troost stood a little closer to me and lowered her voice.

“On every contract. Roads, tunnels, the tea house, the Platterhof Hotel, you name it, Martin Bormann is getting a cut. Think of it. All those jobs. All those workers. All that money. More money than you could imagine. There’s nothing that happens around here he doesn’t take his cut from.

“It’s going to take you a while to find out just what he’s been getting away with. You’re going to need to build a case, carefully. And when you do you’re going to need not just my help, but the help of someone close to the Leader who’s as honest as I am.”

“And who might that be?”

“Martin Bormann’s brother, Albert.”

“Where can I find him?”

“At the Reichs Chancellery building, in Berchtesgaden. Up here on the mountain might be Martin Bormann’s territory, but down there, in the town, that definitely belongs to Albert. In case you didn’t know, they hate each other.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to ask Albert.”

“Maybe I should go and see him.”

“He won’t talk to you. Not yet. But he knows you’re here, of course. And he’ll see you when he’s ready. Or when you’ve got something concrete on his brother. But you haven’t got that yet. Have you?”

“No. Not yet. And I get the feeling I’m crazy even to try.”

“Perhaps.”

“You could speak to Albert Bormann. Tell him to see me now.”

“You’d be fishing. Wasting his time.”

“How will I know when I’m close to the truth? Will you tell me?”

“I probably won’t have to. The closer to the truth you get, the more your own life is going to be in danger.”

“That’s a comforting thought.”

“If you wanted comfort you’d have stayed at home.”

“You haven’t seen my home.” I sighed. “But from what you’ve told me, I’m going to be lucky if I ever see it again.”