Prussian Blue

FORTY-FIVE

At the P-Barracks, on Gartenauer Insel in Unterau, the business was brisk and Captain Neumann and I had to wait until Aneta had finished satisfying one of her rock-faced clients before she was able to meet with us in the car. She was wearing a strong perfume but you could still smell the sweat of the man who’d been with her, and probably much else from him besides that I didn’t care to think about. I had no idea what was on Neumann’s mind until he opened his tight mouth and started to speak. Aneta sat in the backseat of the Mercedes with her hands in her lap, clutching a small handkerchief as if she was about to start crying. She was a slight but pretty girl, probably in her mid-twenties, blond, and green eyed, with a cute dimple in her trembling chin; she was scared, of course. Terrified actually, but I couldn’t blame her for that. It’s not every day a black angel asks you to step into his car, and to his credit Neumann did his best to try to reassure her. He gave her a cigarette, ten marks, his limp hand—no wonder he needed the English punch—and his most winning smile. It was a charming side to the man I hadn’t seen before.

“It’s all right, my dear,” he said, lighting her cigarette with a silver Dunhill. “You’re not in any trouble. But there’s something I’d like you to do for me. An important service.” He frowned, and then solicitously moved a strand of yellow hair from her recently—and perhaps, hurriedly—lipsticked mouth. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in you in that way, Aneta, I can assure you. I’m a happily married man with three children. Isn’t that right, Commissar?”

“If you say so.”

“Well, I am. Now then, Aneta. I’m sorry—what’s your surname?”

“Husák.”

“Your German is very good. Where did you learn it?”

“Mostly here, sir. In Berchtesgaden.”

“Really? By the way—do you have your papers with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Aneta opened her bag and handed over a gray German State Visitors Pass. Neumann inspected the pass and then handed it to me.

“Keep that for now,” he said.

I opened the pass and looked at it. Aneta Husák was twenty-three years old. She looked younger in her picture. I put the pass in my pocket. I still had no idea what Neumann was planning.

“Have you ever done any photographic work? Any acting?”

“Acting? Yes. I was in a film once. A couple of years ago.”

“Excellent. What kind of film was it?”

“A Minette movie. In Vienna.”

A Minette movie was one featuring naked girls. I never minded looking at naked girls but the ones in Minette movies were always a little too uninhibited for my taste. A little inhibition is good for a man’s psychology; it makes him think the girl might not do what she’s doing with everyone.

“Even better,” said Neumann. “Perhaps you can remember the film’s title.”

“It was called Saucy Secretary. Please, sir, what’s all this about?”

“Aneta, if you do this favor for me, you will be paid, handsomely, in cash, and you will get some nice new clothes. Whatever you want. A whole new wardrobe of beautiful clothes. All I require from you is that you come with me now and do exactly what I tell you. An acting job. I want you to pretend to be someone else. A lady. Can you do that?”

“I think so.”

“It shouldn’t take more than a day—perhaps a day and a half. But you must ask no questions. Just do what you’re told. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir. May I ask, how much will I be paid, sir?”

“Good question. How does five hundred reichsmarks sound to you, Aneta?”

“It sounds wonderful, sir.”

“If you do this job well, there may be more. You could even be asked to Berlin, where you will get to stay in a nice expensive hotel and have whatever you want. Champagne. Delicious meals. You are Czech, aren’t you? From Carlsbad.”

“Yes, sir. Do you know Carlsbad?”

Neumann started the car’s engine.

“As a matter of fact I do,” he said. “Only I think, now that Czechoslovakia is part of the Greater German Reich—since last year—we must learn to start calling that part of the world Bohemia, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I like Bohemia better, don’t you? It sounds so much more romantic than Czechoslovakia.”

“Yes it does,” she agreed. “Like something from an old novel.”

“So do you like being part of the new Germany?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I went to the spa there once. And stayed at the Grandhotel Pupp. Marvelous place. Do you know it?”

“Everyone in Carlsbad knows the Pupp, sir. My mother worked there as a waitress for many years.”

“Then perhaps she and I met once.” Neumann smiled kindly. “It’s a small world, isn’t it, Aneta?”

From the P-Barracks we drove southwest, to a quiet address in north Berchtesgaden where we parked outside a neat three-story, Alpine-style villa. Some SS men were waiting on the front lawn and saluted smartly as Neumann walked up the snow-covered path, followed by me and then Aneta. On the elaborate wooden porch Neumann produced a set of shiny, new-looking keys and let himself in through the front door. As well as a large portrait of Adolf Hitler, the whitewashed walls in the hallway were home to several sets of dueling sabers and photographs of a Burschenschaft—a student society dedicated to the strange business of scarring the faces of young German men. As someone who’d spent most of the war avoiding injury, dueling was something I had never really understood; the only scar I had on my face was a small patch where a mosquito had bitten me. Inside the house, everything was of the best quality, expensive and heavy, as you might have expected in that part of the world and in a house that size. Evidently it was owned by someone important, which is to say, a Nazi. Nazis like to buy furniture by the ton.

In the split-level drawing room I picked up a framed photograph of a very tall, scar-faced senior SS officer—one of several placed on the grand piano—which explained the dueling sabers. I didn’t recognize him but I did recognize the two uniformed men he was standing behind; one was Heinrich Himmler, the other was Kurt Daluege, the chief of the HA-Orpo—the security police. In another photograph, the same scar-faced officer was pictured with the Reich governor of Bavaria, Franz Ritter von Epp. And in another, he was shaking hands with Adolf Hitler. The man with the scars on his face was obviously very well connected.

“Whose house is this, anyway?” I asked Neumann.

“I thought you were supposed to be a detective, Gunther.”

“That used to be true. Now I’m just a spanner like you. Someone for your master to use to twist a few stubborn nuts and bolts.”

“It’s Ernst Kaltenbrunner’s country house,” said Neumann.

“I take it he doesn’t know we’re here.”

“He’ll find out soon enough.”

“Which makes me wonder how you obtained the keys to the front door.”

“There’s not much that Heydrich can’t get hold of when he puts his mind to it. We had someone borrow them a while ago so that we could make copies.” Neumann looked at Aneta. “Why don’t you go upstairs and make yourself comfortable, my dear. In fact, why don’t you take a nice hot shower?”

“A shower?”

“Yes, you must be feeling a little grimy after—after, you know. I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t mean to embarrass you. Merely to make you feel as comfortable as possible. You’re going to be here for a while, Aneta. Meanwhile, I will find some of those lovely clothes I was talking about. There are dresses here by Schiaparelli. I think they’ll be your size. You’re a thirty-eight, aren’t you? I take it you do know about Elsa Schiaparelli.”

“Every woman in Europe knows Schiaparelli,” said Aneta. “And yes, I’m a thirty-eight.” She smiled happily at the prospect of wearing these expensive clothes.

“Splendid. You’ll find clean towels, soap, and lots of perfume in the bathroom. I’ll bring the dresses up to you in a minute and you can pick one that you like. As well as a change of underclothes, stockings.”

“Five hundred reichsmarks, you say?”

“Five hundred.” Neumann took out his wallet and showed her a good centimeter of banknotes.

Aneta went upstairs meekly, as asked, leaving me alone with Captain Neumann.

“I think I’m beginning to see what you’re up to,” I said. “A few pictures of the girl here, in Kaltenbrunner’s country house, holding his framed photograph fondly. A signed statement that she was having an affair with him, perhaps. After which Heydrich has him on a tight leash. Behave and keep in line or Hitler will see the evidence of your egregious adultery. It’s what you people are good at, isn’t it? Blackmail.”

“Something like that,” said Neumann. “Didn’t you know? I thought we told you in Berlin. Ernst Kaltenbrunner is a happily married man. It’s true, his wife, Elisabeth, knows everything about his affairs. That’s probably why he’s happily married. He has several mistresses. One of them is the Baroness von Westarp. Those dresses I was talking about belong to her. They’re in a closet upstairs. But it will be a surprise to both wife and mistress to learn of his fondness for the local whores. Not just that but the lowest kind of whores who work in a brothel frequented by construction workers. And it will be a surprise to Hitler, of course. The fact that Kaltenbrunner was having sex with a Slav prostitute will be especially offensive to the Leader. And the fact that she came from a local brothel run by Martin Bormann should make things even more interesting.”

Neumann lit a cigarette and then sniffed at a decanter on the sideboard. His hand was shaking a little, which surprised me. Perhaps his skills as a blackmailer weren’t quite as innate as I had imagined. “Would you care for a brandy? I’m going to have one. Kaltenbrunner likes very good brandy, I hear. Which this is. And which probably explains why he drinks so much of the stuff.”

“Sure. Why not?”

He poured us each a large one and then drained his glass in one, which persuaded me he must have needed it. Forgetting he had a cigarette burning in the ashtray, Neumann lit another. I tried to catch his eye in an attempt to fathom what was bothering him but he turned his back on me so I decided to leave him to it, whatever it was. I didn’t need to be present when the photographs were taken.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’ve got work to do. I’ll leave you to your work.”

Neumann pulled a face. “I have my orders. Just like you, Gunther. So don’t go all holy on me. Perhaps you forget that Kaltenbrunner planned to have you murdered. Whatever we have in the back of the shop for him I can assure you that bastard has got it coming. You can call it blackmail, if you like. I’d prefer to call it politics.”

“Politics?” I grinned.

“The use of power by one person to affect the behavior of another? I don’t know what else to call it. Anyway, none of this is your concern. Wait here a moment and then I’ll give you a lift back to the Villa Bechstein.”

I sipped my brandy—it was indeed excellent—and waited patiently while Neumann went upstairs. I had seldom met a more contradictory human being; in some ways he seemed courteous and kind while in others he was wholly without principle. Undoubtedly clever, he had hitched his wagon to Heydrich and was determined to serve him in every way he could, even if it meant running someone over and of course thereby gaining his own advancement. Sometimes that was all it took to be a real Nazi; the absolute and unscrupulous desire for preferment and promotion. Which was why I was never going to thrive in the new Germany. I just didn’t care enough about success to do it by standing on someone else’s face. I didn’t care about anything very much anymore. Except maybe the quaint idea that somehow doing my job and being a good cop—solving the occasional murder—might inspire others to have respect for the rule of law.

I was jolted from this naïve reverie by the sound of two gunshots on the floor above. I put down my glass and ran into the hall just as the captain was coming down the stairs. In his hand was a smoking Walther P38. His long face was tight with nerves, and there was blood on his cheek but otherwise he looked almost nonchalant, which, given the stopping power of the Walther was hardly a surprise; it’s a brave man who will argue with a still-cocked P38. A 9 mm bullet will put a good-size hole in your beer barrel. I barged past him as I ran upstairs and into the lavishly appointed bathroom. But I already knew what I was going to find. Aneta Husák lay naked in a pool of her own blood on the marble floor. She’d been shot in the head; her blood was still rolling down the white shower curtain as her leg twitched spasmodically, and suddenly everything was clear to me in a way it hadn’t been before. Blackmail was so much more serious when a dead girl was involved, especially one who was naked. This way—just as soon as those SS photographers had done their job, and perhaps the local police were called in—Heydrich could keep Kaltenbrunner under his cold, thin thumb forever. And I had helped him to do it. But for me informing Hans-Hendrik Neumann of the existence of the P-Barracks, poor Aneta Husák might still have been alive. But what shocked me almost as much was how kind and solicitous Neumann had seemed when he’d been talking to the girl. Putting the poor creature at her ease, no doubt. It was the Nazi way to catch people unawares—to lie to them and gain their trust and then to betray them, ruthlessly. And after all, she was just a Czech, a Slav, which counted for nothing in Hitler’s Germany. Certainly not since Munich.

I went back downstairs and found Neumann with the two SS men. He was pointing his pistol at me. I took out Aneta’s visitor’s pass and held it up like an exhibit in a courtroom. Not that there was any chance that this murder would ever get near a courtroom.

“She was just a kid,” I said. “Twenty-three years old. And you murdered her.”

“She was a whore,” said Neumann. “A common grasshopper for whom violent death is always an occupational hazard. You of all people should know that. Men have been murdering prostitutes in Berlin since time immemorial.”

“Blood and honor,” I said. “Now I know what that SS belt buckle means. I guess it’s supposed to be ironic, after all.” I threw the girl’s visitor’s pass at him. “Here. You’ll need this for the local police when they pretend to investigate her murder.”

“Please,” said Neumann. “No recriminations, Gunther. I’m not in the mood for your breathtaking hypocrisy. As you said a few minutes ago, we’re both like tools. Only I’m more of a hammer than a spanner.”

I went for him but before I got halfway to his throat someone hit me from behind, a third SS man I hadn’t seen before who must have been standing behind the drawing room door. The blow connected with the side of my head and knocked me across the room. I ended up near the sideboard where I’d left my brandy. And when at last I’d picked myself off the floor, my ear was singing like a kettle and my jaw felt like a bag of builder’s rubble; I collected the brandy and knocked it back in one, which helped to take my mind off the pain in my cheek.

“I think you’d best leave, Commissar,” said Neumann. “Before you get seriously hurt. There’s four of us.”

“But that’s still not enough guts to make one real man.”

I walked out the door before I was tempted to draw my own gun and shoot someone.