Prussian Blue

SEVEN

I took a cigarette from the silver box, fired it up, crossed my legs, and directed my smoke at the moldings on the high ceiling of Heydrich’s office. I’d said enough for the moment. When you sit down with the devil it’s wise not to insult him more than you have to. The devil was wearing a uniform that was the same color as his heart: black. So were the others. It was only me who was wearing a lounge suit, which helped to persuade me that somehow I was different from them—better, perhaps. It was only later on, in the war, that I formed the conclusion that perhaps I wasn’t much better after all. For me, prudence and good intentions always seemed to take precedence over conscience.

“Correctly, you assume a certain license because of your presence here in my office,” said Heydrich. “I daresay you have already formed the conclusion that you are about to be useful to me again.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I wouldn’t make too much of that, Gunther. I find I have a very short memory where favors are concerned.”

Heydrich’s voice was quite high-pitched for so large a man, almost as if his riding breeches were too tight.

“I’ve found it’s generally wise to forget quite a bit I used to believe was important, myself, General. In fact, more or less everything I used to believe in, now I come to think about it.”

Heydrich smiled his thinnest smile, which was almost as narrow as his pale blue eyes. Otherwise his long face remained so devoid of expression he resembled a burn victim at the Charité.

“You’ll have to forget quite a bit after this job, Gunther. Almost everything. With the exception of the men in this room you’ll be forbidden to discuss this case with anyone. Yes, I think we must now call this a case. Don’t you agree, Arthur?”

“Yes, sir. I do. After all, a crime has been committed. A murder. A very uncommon kind of murder, given the place where it has occurred and the absolute importance of the person to whom he will be reporting.”

“Oh? Who’s that?” I asked.

“No less a figure than the Leader’s deputy chief of staff, Martin Bormann himself,” said Nebe.

“Martin Bormann, eh? Can’t say that I’ve heard of him. But I assume he must be someone important, given the man he works for.”

“Please don’t allow that ignorance to interfere with your appreciation of the paramount importance of this case,” explained Heydrich. “Bormann may not occupy any governmental position, but his close proximity to the Leader makes him one of the most powerful men in Germany. He has asked me to send him my best detective. And since Ernst Gennat is not well enough to travel any distance, right now that would appear to be you.”

I nodded. My old mentor, Gennat, had cancer and was rumored to have less than six months to live although, given my present situation, that was beginning to seem like a long time; Heydrich was not someone who had a tolerance of failure. Once before, he’d sent me to Dachau, and he could easily do it again. It was time for my body-swerve. “What about Georg Heuser?” I asked. “Aren’t you forgetting him? He’s a good detective. And altogether better qualified than I am. For one thing, he’s a Party member.”

“Yes, he is a good detective,” agreed Nebe. “But right now Heuser has some explaining to do about those qualifications he’s claimed. Something to do with pretending to have a PhD in law.”

“Really?” I tried to tamp down a smile. I was one of the few detectives at the Alex who was not a doctor of law, and so this news was rather satisfying to someone who only had his Abitur. “You mean he’s not a doctor after all?”

“Yes, I thought that would please you, Gunther. He’s suspended, pending an inquiry.”

“That is a pity, sir.”

“We could hardly send a man like that to Martin Bormann,” said Nebe.

“Of course, I could send Werner here,” said Heydrich. “It’s true his skills lie more in crime prevention than in detection. But I shouldn’t like to lose him if he screws this up. The plain fact of the matter is you’re expendable and you know it. Werner is not. He’s essential to the development of radical criminology in the new Germany.”

“Since you put it like that, sir, I can see your point.” I looked at Werner and nodded. He was the same rank as me—a commissar, which meant I could speak to him with greater license. “I think I read your paper, Paul. Juvenile delinquency as the product of criminal heredity—wasn’t that your last offering?”

Werner removed the cigarette from his mouth and smiled. With his dark, shifty eyes, swarthy features, and trophy-handle ears, he looked no less criminal than almost anyone I’d ever arrested.

“So you do read these things in the Murder Commission? I’m surprised. Actually, I’m surprised you read anything at all.”

“Sure I do. Your papers on criminology are essential reading. Only, I seem to remember that most of the juvenile delinquents you identified were Gypsies, not ethnic Germans.”

“And you disagree with that?”

“Maybe.”

“On what basis?”

“It’s not been my experience, that’s all. Berlin criminals come in all shades and sizes. In my eyes, poverty and ignorance always seemed to be a better explanation for the reason why one Fritz picks the pocket of another than his race, or how big his nose might be. Besides, you look like you’ve got a touch of the Gypsy yourself, Paul. How about it? You a Sinti?”

Werner kept smiling, but only on the outside. He was from Offenburg, which is a city in Baden-Württemberg on the French border, famous for burning witches and the home of a notorious metal chair with spikes that could be heated until it was hot. He had the face of a Swabian witch finder and I suspect he’d have cheerfully seen me burned to death.

“I’m just joking.” I looked at Heydrich. “We’re just swelling necks here, like a couple of tough guys. I know he’s not a Sinti. He’s a smart fellow. I know he is. You’ve got a doctorate, too, haven’t you, Paul?”

“Keep talking, Gunther,” said Werner. “One day you’ll talk yourself onto the guillotine at Plötzensee.”

“He’s right, of course,” said Heydrich. “You’re an insolent fellow, Gunther. But as it happens this is all to the good. Your independent spirit bespeaks a certain resilience that will come in handy here. You see, there’s another reason Bormann wants you in preference to Werner, or even Arthur here. Since you’ve never been a Party member he believes that you’re not anyone’s man, and more importantly, that you’re not my man. Only, please don’t make that mistake yourself, Gunther. I own you. Like your last name was Faust and mine was Mephisto.”

I let that one go; there was no arguing with Heydrich’s fat pants but it was still comforting to believe that God in his grace might yet persuade a few angels to interfere on my behalf.

“Anything that you can find out about that bastard while you’re in Obersalzberg, I want to know about it.”

“I take it you mean the Leader’s deputy chief of staff.”

“He’s a megalomaniac,” said Heydrich.

I didn’t offer an opinion on that one. I’d already let my mouth run a bit too much.

“In particular I want you to see if there’s any truth in an intriguing rumor here in Berlin that he’s being blackmailed by his own brother, Albert. Albert Bormann is adjutant to Adolf Hitler and chief of the Leader’s Chancellery in Obersalzberg. As such he’s almost as powerful down there as Martin Bormann himself.”

“Is that where I’m going sir? Obersalzberg?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll be nice. I could use a little Alpine air.”

“You’re not going there for a holiday, Gunther.”

“No, sir.”

“Any opportunity to get some dirt on that man—on either man—you take it. You’re not just a detective while you’re there, you’re my spy. Is that clear? When you’re there you’ll think that yours is a choice between pestilence and cholera. But it isn’t. You’re my Fritz, not Bormann’s.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in case you might still be laboring under the misapprehension that your miserable soul is still your own, then you might like to know that the police in Hannover are investigating the discovery of a body in a forest near Hamelin. Remind me of the details, Arthur.”

“He was a fellow called Kindermann—a doctor who ran a private clinic in Wannsee, and who was a colleague of our mutual friend Karl Maria Weisthor. It seems he was shot several times.”

“Now, given Kindermann’s connection to Weisthor, I daresay he deserved it,” added Heydrich. “But all the same, it might be awkward if you were to have to explain your own acquaintance with this man to the police in Hannover.”

“When am I leaving?” I asked brightly.

“As soon as our meeting is concluded,” said Heydrich. “One of my men has already been to your apartment and packed some of your personal things. There’s a car waiting downstairs to drive you straight to Bavaria. My own car. It’s faster. You should be there well before midnight.”

“So what’s it all about, sir? You mentioned a murder. Who’s dead? I assume it’s nobody important, otherwise we’d have heard the bad news on the radio this morning.”

“I’m not sure, exactly. Bormann wasn’t too clear about that on the telephone when we spoke earlier. But you’re right, it was nobody important, thank God. A local civil engineer. No, it’s where this person was murdered that makes it important. The victim was shot with a rifle on the terrace of Hitler’s private home in Obersalzberg. The Berghof. The killer, who remains at large, must surely have been aware that the Leader was making a speech in Berlin last night. Which means it’s highly unlikely that this could have been a botched attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler. But naturally Bormann is worried how this will make him look in the Leader’s eyes. The very fact that anyone could be shot at Hitler’s own home away from home—the one place where he can go to relax and retreat from the cares of state—this will be a matter of great concern to everyone who has anything to do with the Leader’s security, which is why Bormann wants this killer apprehended as soon as possible.

“It’s unthinkable that the Leader could go there until the assassin has been caught. If he’s not caught, this might even cost Bormann his job. Either way it’s a situation which is good for the SD and Kripo. If the murderer isn’t caught, then Martin Bormann will very likely be fired by Hitler, which will please Himmler enormously; and if he is caught, then Bormann will be substantially in my debt.”

“It’s comforting to know that I can’t fail, sir,” I said.

“Let me make one thing quite clear to you, Gunther: Obersalzberg is Martin Bormann’s domain. He controls everything there. But as a detective given the power to ask questions on Hitler’s mountain, you have a perfect opportunity to turn over a few rocks and see what crawls out from underneath. And you will certainly have failed me if you don’t come back here with some dirt on a stick about Martin Bormann. Clear?”

“Clear. How much time do I have?”

“Apparently Hitler plans to visit the Berghof immediately after his birthday,” said Nebe. “So there’s no time to lose.”

“Remind me,” I said. “When is that? I’m not very good at remembering birthdays.”

“April twentieth,” said Nebe patiently.

“What about the local police? Gestapo? Will I be working with them? And if so, who’s in charge? Me or them?”

“The local leather tops have not been informed. For obvious reasons Bormann wants this kept out of the newspapers. You’ll be in sole charge of the investigation. And you’ll report directly to Bormann. At least in principle.”

“I see.”

“Be careful of him,” said Heydrich. “He’s not half as dumb as he looks. Don’t trust the telephones at the Berghof. Life down there isn’t a place for riding miniature ponies. Quite possibly Bormann’s men will be listening to every word you say. I know because it was my men who installed the secret microphones in several of the rooms and all of the guest houses. The telex you can probably rely on; telegrams, too, but not the telephones. Neumann here will accompany you in the car as far as Munich. He’ll explain precisely how you can stay in touch with me. But I already have a spy in the RSD at Obersalzberg. Hermann Kaspel. He’s a good man. Just not very good at finding out things he shouldn’t know about. Unlike you. Anyway, I’ve provided you with a letter of introduction, signed by me. The letter states that he’s to assist you in every way he can.”

I knew Hermann Kaspel. In 1932, I’d helped to get him fired from the police when I found out that he’d been leading an SA troop during his off-duty hours; this after a police sergeant called Friedrich Kuhfeld was murdered by Nazi thugs. We hadn’t been sending each other any Christmas cards since then.

“I’ve heard of the SD, sir,” I confessed. “But I’m not sure what the RSD is.”

“The Leader’s personal security guard. Affiliated to the SD but not under my command. They report directly to Himmler.”

“I’d like to take along my own criminal assistant at the Alex, sir. Friedrich Korsch. He’s a good man. You might remember that he was very helpful with the Weisthor case last November. If solving this case is as urgent as you say it is, then I might have need of a good criminal assistant. Not to mention someone I can trust. Hermann Kaspel and I have a little bit of ancient history that goes back to his time as a Schupoman, before the government of von Papen. In 1932, he was the leader of a Nazi cell at Station 87 here in Berlin, which was a matter about which we disagreed.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” said Heydrich. “But you can rest assured. Whatever feelings of antipathy you might have for each other, Kaspel will carry out my instructions to the letter.”

“All the same, sir. Korsch is a proper detective. A bull with a good head on his shoulders. And two heads are better than one with an urgent case like this.”

He glanced at Nebe who nodded back. “I know Korsch,” said Nebe. “He’s a bit of a thug, but still, a Party member. Might make inspector one day. But he’ll never make commissar.”

“Bormann won’t like it,” said Heydrich, “and you may have to persuade the deputy chief of staff to let you keep the man, but take him, yes.”

“One more thing, sir,” I said. “Money. I might need some. I know fear is the Gestapo’s proven method. But in my experience a bit of cash works better than the Offenburg hot stool. It helps to loosen tongues when people get a smell of it. Especially when you’re trying to work discreetly. Besides, it’s easier to carry money about than instruments of torture.”

Heydrich nodded. “All right, but I want receipts. Lots of receipts. And names. If you bribe anyone I shall want to know who, so I can use them again.”

“Of course.”

Heydrich looked at Nebe. “Is there anything else we need to tell him, Arthur?”

“Yes. Kaltenbrunner.”

“Oh yes. Ernst Kaltenbrunner. We mustn’t forget him.”

I shook my head. This was another name I hadn’t heard before.

“Nominally at least, he’s the head of the SS and the police in Austria,” explained Nebe. “He’s also a member of the Reichstag. It seems he has a weekend home in Berchtesgaden, just down the hill from Obersalzberg. Neumann will provide you with the address.”

“It’s nothing more than a crude attempt to put himself within the Leader’s inner circle,” said Heydrich. “Nevertheless I should like to know more about what that lard-assed subaltern is up to. Let me explain. Until recently Kaltenbrunner and some others were trying to create an island of governmental autonomy in Austria. That could not be allowed. Austria is soon to disappear altogether as a political concept. Practically, all key police functions have already been brought under the control of this office. Two men loyal to me—Franz Huber and Friedrich Polte—have been appointed as Gestapo and SD leaders in Vienna, but it remains doubtful if Kaltenbrunner has quite accepted this new administrative reality. In fact, I’m more or less certain he hasn’t. So his influence in Austria requires that he be subject to constant scrutiny. Even when he’s in Germany.”

“I think I get the picture. You want some dirt on him, too. If there is any.”

“There is,” said Heydrich. “There most certainly is.”

“Kaltenbrunner has a wife,” explained Nebe. “Elisabeth.”

“That doesn’t sound so dirty.”

“He also enjoys the favors of two aristocratic Upper Austrian women.”

“Ah.”

“One of them is the Countess Gisela von Westarp,” said Heydrich. “It’s uncertain if any of their liaisons take place at the house in Berchtesgaden but if they do it’s certain the Leader would take a very dim view of this. Which is why I want to know about it. Hitler places great store on family values and on the personal morality of senior Party men. Find out if this Gisela von Westarp is ever at the house in Berchtesgaden. Also if any other women go there. Their names. It shouldn’t be beyond your powers of investigation. That’s how you used to make a living, isn’t it? As a private detective, one of those shabby little men who snoop around hotel corridors and peer through keyholes looking for evidence of adultery.”

“In retrospect it doesn’t seem so shabby,” I said. “As a matter of fact I used to quite enjoy snooping around hotel corridors. Especially the good hotels, like the Adlon, where there are thick carpets. It’s easier on the feet than goose-stepping across a parade ground. And there’s always a bar close at hand.”

“Then this should be easy for you. And now you may go.”

I grinned and got to my feet.

“Something amusing you?” asked Heydrich.

“It was only something Goethe once said. That everything is hard before it’s easy.” I got up and walked to the door but not before nodding Paul Werner’s way. “I might not have a doctorate. A real one. But I do read, Paul. I do read.”