Prussian Blue

FORTY-ONE

I almost couldn’t believe it when Karl Krauss turned the little handle and opened a heavy steel door that creaked like a lock-up in the basement of the Alex.

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Joe proudly. “My brother Karl is an artist. That man could top the bill at the German Opera. Just look at that door, Commissar, and then remember what it means to crack a nut like this. Drilled or puzzled, this is difficult. You appreciate that now, don’t you?”

Joe Krauss was right about the mechanism. The inside of the door looked like a complicated toy or maybe even the workings of my own coin-operated mind. Not that I was paying much attention to that or even to what he said. I was too busy looking at all the money stacked in the safe. Even the ledger I could see on the bottom shelf didn’t distract me as much as the cash. I selected a thick wad of twenties and held it up to my nose and riffled it like a pack of playing cards. I shook my head and said, “There must be a thousand reichsmarks in this little bundle alone.”

“You have a keen sense of smell,” said Karl Krauss.

His brother Joe was already counting up the other bundles.

“I make it twenty thousand marks,” he said. “A tidy little sum.”

“It’s not so little,” murmured his brother. “With money like this a man could buy himself a new life. Several new lives. One after the other. And all of them good.”

I tossed the wad of cash I’d been sniffing like a cocaine addict to Korsch, grabbed the ledger from the safe, and began to turn the marbled pages as if the money were of no account. There were names, alphabetically listed, and there were addresses, and there were records of what looked like payments made over several years. A few names I even recognized; they belonged to people I’d met, which augured well. I guessed that the contents were the long form of the notebook Hermann Kaspel had listed among Flex’s personal effects, and which had been stolen.

“And did you find what you were looking for, Commissar?” asked Joe Krauss.

“To be honest, I’m not sure yet.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

It wasn’t the kind of evidence that provides a neat library finish to a good detective story. Even though I say so myself, it lacked drama—real evidence rarely looks at all significant—and it wasn’t the sort of thing to fill a man with much professional pride, but still, what was in the ledger had the look of something important. Although not as important as the money. That’s the thing about money, especially a large quantity of money: it commands not just respect but attention. The cash in the safe was on everyone’s mind now. The Krauss brothers were looking at me suspiciously, each asking himself if I was going to keep my end of the bargain. Friedrich Korsch was thinking exactly the same thing. He took me by the elbow and led me to the opposite end of the garage, where he spoke in the sort of hushed tones that would only have made the brothers even more certain that they were going to be double-crossed by the police. And they didn’t look as if they were going to take this quietly.

“When you told them they could keep any cash in the safe,” he said, “I thought it might be a few hundred reichsmarks. A thousand at the most.”

“So did I.”

“But twenty thousand reichsmarks, boss. That’s serious money.”

“I always thought so. It’s just as well it’s not mine to give away, otherwise I might be feeling seriously depressed now at the prospect.”

He lit us both a cigarette, handed me one, and smoked his own nervously.

“You’re not seriously considering actually handing it over? To them?”

“I am, Friedrich. Don’t you think they could use a fresh start? After Dachau? A good meal and new suits at the very least. Nice clothes cost money in Italy. To say nothing of new lives. I wouldn’t mind one of those myself. Maybe I can persuade them to take me with them. I could use a nice holiday in Italy.”

“Be serious, boss. Have you considered the possibility that some of this cash—I don’t know, maybe most of it—that it belongs to Martin Bormann? I mean, it stands to reason some of it might be Bormann’s, doesn’t it? If Karl Flex was his bagman? This might be the proceeds of some of his local rackets. In which case—”

“That’s very true,” I said.

“Bormann’s not going to be very pleased when he finds out that you gave this money to—to anyone, let alone a couple of heebs.”

“So we’d best not tell him. In my limited experience he’s not the kind of man who takes bad news at all well.”

“All right. Well, then, please consider this, boss. If that ledger contains evidence of any corrupt payments, and Bormann finds out you have it, then he’ll conclude that maybe you also have all the money. Money that’s maybe recorded in there. He’ll figure you kept it for yourself. That we kept it. You and me. We could get into a lot of trouble here. They send bent cops to Dachau these days. I’ve just been there and I’m not at all keen to go back.”

“Then we’d better make sure it stays a secret, hadn’t we? Look, Friedrich, a deal’s a deal in my book. Without these two heebs, we’d be picking our teeth. I don’t care about Bormann’s money. I almost hope he does ask me about it. I want to see his farmer’s fat face if he does. Maybe I’ll tough it out and tell him the safe was open when we got here. That someone else must have stolen it. That there was no money in here. And then what will he do? Torture me?”

“It’s not you I mind being tortured. It’s me.”

“Spoken like a true German. But with any luck this ledger will help us find the murderer and Martin Bormann will be so damned grateful he’ll forget all about this money. Keep in mind that it’s Hitler’s birthday soon. And by the way, remind me to buy him a nice gift.”

Korsch sighed with exasperation and looked away for a moment. It was my turn to grab him by the arm.

“Look, Friedrich, twenty thousand is nothing beside what they already spent on that goddamn tea house. From what I heard from Hermann Kaspel, it was hundreds of millions. The place looks like a pocket version of Neuschwanstein Castle and is almost as crazy. If Hitler gets spooked about coming back here because of what happened on the Berghof terrace, then all those millions they spent on the tea house and new roads and underground tunnels and compulsory purchases were wasted. And Bormann’s career as the Leader’s number one Obersalzberg sycophant is over. Honestly? Twenty thousand is the riches of Croesus to you and me but to Bormann, it’s yesterday’s sauerkraut. So yes, I’m going to keep my word. It’s about time someone did in Berchtesgaden.”

I went back to the Krauss brothers, who had collected the money into an old leather satchel and were anxiously awaiting the outcome of my discussion with Korsch. I expect they would have fought us to the death for all that cash; I know I would have done. That was another consideration I hadn’t mentioned to Korsch. They might have been in Dachau but each brother was still as strong as a bull. With big money like that to be had and a getaway vehicle parked just outside, I didn’t doubt that in a fight these two career criminals could easily beat two unarmed policemen. Maybe even kill us. With three other murders in Berchtesgaden and Obersalzberg, another two wouldn’t look out of place. In a way, that would end up suiting everyone; they’d be arrested eventually, and all five murders would be pinned on them. A couple of Jewish criminals? In Nazi Germany they were tailor-made to take the rap for something like that. I almost felt like suggesting it.

“So,” said Karl. “Do the Jews get screwed by the Nazis again? Or is the handl we made before still good?”

“The money’s yours,” I said. “And the beer truck.”

“We’ve talked it over,” said Joe, “and we’re going to leave behind two thousand reichsmarks. For the sake of appearances. We’ve decided we wouldn’t like you to get into trouble. Of course, what you do with that cash is your own affair.”

I smiled at the insolence of what was being suggested. “Just get the hell out of here before I change my mind. I hate to see so much cash walking out of here in such bad company.”

“We also want to give you this,” said Joe, and handed me a manila envelope. “It was hidden behind the money.”

“What is it?”

“Two passbooks for a Swiss bank,” said Joe. “We were going to keep them if you didn’t let us have the money. But since you did, they’re yours. I hope they help you find what you’re looking for.”

I glanced inside the envelope and nodded. “Thanks.”

“I won’t say you’re a good man, Commissar,” said Karl Krauss, “but you’re a man of your word. Who can say such a thing in Berchtesgaden these days? One word of advice. From one German to another. What you were saying earlier? About not believing in a moral order? Just remember this, Commissar Gunther. A righteous man falls down seven times, and gets up again. You persevere. That’s Torah.”