The Pale Criminal

15

Monday, 17 October

The Ganz family, what remained of it following a second anonymous call to the Alex informing us where the body of Liza Ganz was to be found, lived south of Wittenau in a small apartment on Birkenstrasse, just behind the Robert Koch Hospital where Frau Ganz was employed as a nurse. Herr Ganz worked as a clerk at the Moabit District Court, which was also nearby.

According to Becker they were a hard-working couple in their late thirties, both of them putting in long hours, so that Liza Ganz had often been left by herself. But never had she been left as I had just seen her, naked on a slab at the Alex, with a man stitching up those parts of her he had seen fit to cut open in an effort to determine everything about her, from her virginity to the contents of her stomach. Yet it had been the contents of her mouth, easier of access, which had confirmed what I had begun to suspect.

‘What made you think of it, Bernie?’ Illmann had asked.

‘Not everyone rolls up as good as you, Professor. Sometimes a little flake will stay on your tongue, or under your lip. When the Jewish girl who said she saw our man said he was smoking something sweet-smelling, like bay-leaves or oregano, she had to be talking about hashish. That’s probably how he gets them away quietly. Treats them all grown-up by offering them a cigarette. Only it’s not the kind they’re expecting.’

Illmann shook his head in apparent wonder.

‘And to think that I missed it. I must be getting old.’

Becker slammed the car door and joined me on the pavement. The apartment was above a pharmacy. I had a feeling I was going to need it.

We walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. The man who opened it was dark and bad-tempered looking. Recognizing Becker he uttered a sigh and called to his wife. Then he glanced back inside and I saw him nod grimly.

‘You’d better come in,’ he said.

I was watching him closely. His face remained flushed, and as I squeezed past him I could see small beads of perspiration on his forehead. Further into the place I caught a warm, soapy smell, and I guessed that he’d only recently finished taking a bath.

Closing the door, Herr Ganz overtook and led us into the small sitting-room where his wife was standing quietly. She was tall and pale, as if she spent too much time indoors, and clearly she had not long stopped crying. The handkerchief was still wet in her hand. Herr Ganz, shorter than his wife, put his arm around her broad shoulders.

‘This is Kommissar Gunther, from the Alex,’ said Becker.

‘Herr and Frau Ganz,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid you must prepare yourselves for the worst possible news. We found the body of your daughter Liza early this morning. I’m very sorry.’ Becker nodded solemnly.

‘Yes,’ said Ganz. ‘Yes, I thought so.’

‘Naturally there will have to be an identification,’ I told him. ‘It needn’t be right away. Perhaps later on, when you’ve had a chance to draw yourselves together.’ I waited for Frau Ganz to dissolve, but for the moment at least she seemed inclined to remain solid. Was it because she was a nurse, and rather more immune to suffering and pain? Even her own? ‘May we sit down?’

‘Yes, please do,’ said Ganz.

I told Becker to go and make some coffee for us all. He went with some alacrity, eager to be out of the grief-stricken atmosphere, if only for a moment or two.

‘Where did you find her?’ said Ganz.

It wasn’t the sort of question I felt comfortable answering. How do you tell two parents that their daughter’s naked body was found inside a tower of car tyres in a disused garage on Kaiser Wilhelm Strasse? I gave him the sanitized version, which included no more than the location of the garage. At this there occurred a very definite exchange of looks.

Ganz sat with his hand on his wife’s knee. She herself was quiet, vacant even, and perhaps less in need of Becker’s coffee than I was.

‘Have you any idea who might have killed her?’ he said.

‘We’re working on a number of possibilities, sir,’ I said, finding the old police platitudes coming back to me once again. ‘We’re doing everything we can, believe me.’

Ganz’s frown deepened. He shook his head angrily. ‘What I fail to understand is why there has been nothing in the newspapers.’

‘It’s important that we prevent any copy-cat killings,’ I said. ‘It often happens in this sort of case.’

‘Isn’t it also important that you stop any more girls from being murdered?’ said Frau Ganz. Her look was one of exasperation. ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Other girls have been murdered. That’s what people are saying. You may be able to keep it out of the papers, but you can’t stop people from talking.’

‘There have been propaganda drives warning girls to be on their guard,’ I said.

‘Well, they obviously didn’t do any good, did they?’ said Ganz. ‘Liza was an intelligent girl, Kommissar. Not the kind to do anything stupid. So this killer must be clever too. And the way I see it, the only way to put girls properly on their guard is to print the story, in all its horror. To scare them.’

‘You may be right, sir,’ I said unhappily, ‘but it’s not up to me. I’m only obeying orders.’ That was the typically German excuse for everything these days, and I felt ashamed using it.

Becker put his head round the kitchen door.

‘Could I have a word, sir?’

It was my turn to be glad to leave the room.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said bitterly. ‘Forgotten how to boil a kettle?’

He handed me a newspaper cutting, from the Beobachter. ‘Take a look at this, sir. I found it in the drawer here.’

It was an advertisement for a ‘Rolf Vogelmann, Private Investigator, Missing Persons a Speciality’, the same advertisement that Bruno Stahlecker had used to plague me with.

Becker pointed to the date at the top of the cutting: ‘3 October,’ he said. ‘Four days after Liza Ganz disappeared.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time that people got tired waiting for the police to come up with something,’ I said. ‘After all, that’s how I used to make a comparatively honest living.’

Becker collected some cups and saucers and put them on to a tray with the coffee pot. ‘Do you suppose that they might have used him, sir?’

‘I don’t see any harm in asking.’

Ganz was unrepentant, the sort of client I wouldn’t have minded working for myself.

‘As I said, Kommissar, there was nothing in the newspapers about our daughter, and we saw your colleague here only twice. So as time passed we wondered just what efforts were being made to find our daughter. It’s the not knowing that gets to you. We thought that if we hired Herr Vogelmann then at least we could be sure that someone was doing his best to try and find her. I don’t mean to be rude, Kommissar, but that’s the way it was.’

I sipped my coffee and shook my head.

‘I quite understand,’ I said. ‘I’d probably have done the same thing myself. I just wish this Vogelmann had been able to find her.’

You had to admire them, I thought. They could probably ill-afford the services of a private investigator and yet they had still gone ahead and hired one. It might even have cost them whatever savings they had.

When we had finished our coffee and were leaving I suggested that a police car might come round and bring Herr Ganz down to the Alex to identify the body early the following morning.

‘Thank you for your kindness, Kommissar,’ said Frau Ganz, attempting a smile. ‘Everyone’s been so kind.’

Her husband nodded his agreement. Hovering by the open door, he was obviously keen to see the back of us.

‘Herr Vogelmann wouldn’t take any money from us. And now you’re arranging a car for my husband. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.’

I squeezed her hand sympathetically, and then we left.

In the pharmacy downstairs I bought some powders and swallowed one in the car. Becker looked at me with disgust.

‘Christ, I don’t know how you can do that,’ he said, shuddering.

‘It works faster that way. And after what we just went through I can’t say that I notice the taste much. I hate giving bad news.’ I swept my mouth with my tongue for the residue. ‘Well? What did you make of that? Get the same hunch as before?’

‘Yes. He was giving her all sorts of meaningful little looks.’

‘So were you, for that matter,’ I said, shaking my head in wonder.

Becker grinned broadly. ‘She wasn’t bad, was she?’

‘I suppose you’re going to tell me what she’d be like in bed, right?’

‘More your type I’d have thought, sir.’

‘Oh? What makes you say that?’

‘You know, the type that responds to kindness.’

I laughed, despite my headache. ‘More than she responds to bad news. There we are with our big feet and long faces and all she can do is look like she was in the middle of her period.’

‘She’s a nurse. They’re used to handling bad news.’

‘That crossed my mind, but I think she’d done her crying already, and quite recently. What about Irma Hanke’s mother? Did she cry?’

‘God, no. As hard as Jew Suss that one. Maybe she did sniff a little when I first showed up. But they were giving off the same sort of atmosphere as the Ganzes.’

I looked at my watch. ‘I think we need a drink, don’t you?’

We drove to the Cafe Kerkau, on Alexanderstrasse. With sixty billiard tables, it was where a lot of bulls from the Alex went to relax when they came off duty.

I bought a couple of beers and carried them over to a table where Becker was practising a few shots.

‘Do you play?’ he said.

‘Are you stretching me out? This used to be my sitting-room.’ I picked up a stick and watched Becker shoot the cue ball. It hit the red, banked off the cushion and hit the other white ball square.

‘Care for a little bet?’

‘Not after that shot. You’ve got a lot to learn about working a line. Now if you’d missed it–’

‘Lucky shot, that’s all,’ Becker insisted. He bent down and cued a wild one which missed by half a metre.

I clicked my tongue. ‘That’s a billiard cue you’re holding, not a white stick. Stop trying to lay me down, will you? Look, if it makes you happy, we’ll play for five marks a game.’

He smiled slightly and flexed his shoulders.

‘Twenty points all right with you?’

I won the break and missed the opening shot. After that I might just as well have been baby-sitting. Becker hadn’t been in the Boy Scouts when he was young, that much was certain. After four games I tossed a twenty on to the felt and begged for mercy. Becker threw it back.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You let me lay you down.’

‘That’s another thing you’ve got to learn. A bet’s a bet. You never ever play for money unless you mean to collect. A man that lets you off might expect you to let him off. It makes people nervous, that’s all.’

‘That sounds like good advice.’ He pocketed the money.

‘It’s like business,’ I continued. ‘You never work for free. If you won’t take money for your work then it can’t have been worth much.’ I returned my cue to the rack and finished my beer. ‘Never trust anyone who’s happy to do the job for nothing.’

‘Is that what you’ve learnt as a private detective?’

‘No, it’s what I’ve learnt as a good businessman. But since you mention it, I don’t like the smell of a private investigator who tries to find a missing schoolgirl and then waives his fee.’

‘Rolf Vogelmann? But he didn’t find her.’

‘Let me tell you something. These days a lot of people go missing in this town, and for lots of different reasons. Finding one is the exception, not the rule. If I’d torn up the bill of every disappointed client I had, I’d have been washing dishes by now. When you’re private, there’s no room for sentiment. The man who doesn’t collect, doesn’t eat.’

‘Maybe this Vogelmann character is just more generous than you were, sir.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t see how he can afford to be,’ I said, unfolding Vogelmann’s advertisement and looking at it again. ‘Not with these overheads.’

16

Tuesday, 18 October

It was her, all right. There was no mistaking that golden head and those well-sculpted legs. I watched her struggle out of Ka-De-We’s revolving door, laden with parcels and carrier-bags, looking like she was doing her last-minute Christmas shopping. She waved for a taxi, dropped a bag, bent down to retrieve it and looked up to find that the driver had missed her. It was difficult to see how. You’d have noticed Hildegard Steininger with a sack over your head. She looked as though she lived in a beauty parlour.

From inside my car I heard her swear and, drawing up at the curb, I wound down the passenger window.

‘Need a lift somewhere?’

She was still looking around for another taxi when she answered. ‘No, it’s all right,’ she said, as if I had cornered her at a cocktail party and she had been glancing over my shoulder to see if there might be someone more interesting coming along. There wasn’t, so she remembered to smile, briefly, and then added: ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble.’

I jumped out to help her load the shopping. Millinery stores, shoe shops, a perfumers, a fancy Friedrichstrasse dress-designer, and Ka-De-We’s famous food hall: I figured she was the type for whom a cheque-book provided the best kind of panacea for what was troubling her. But then, there are lots of women like that.

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ I said, my eyes following her legs as they swung into the car, briefly enjoying a view of her stocking tops and garters. Forget it, I told myself. This one was too pricey. Besides, she had other things on her mind. Like whether the shoes matched the handbag, and what had happened to her missing daughter.

‘Where to?’ I said. ‘Home?’

She sighed like I’d suggested the Palme doss-house on Frobelstrasse, and then, smiling a brave little smile, she nodded. We drove east towards Bülowstrasse.

‘I’m afraid that I don’t have any news for you,’ I said, fixing a serious expression to my features and trying to concentrate on the road rather than the memory of her thighs.

‘No, I didn’t think you did,’ she said dully. ‘It’s been almost four weeks now, hasn’t it?’

‘Don’t give up hope.’

Another sigh, rather more impatient. ‘You’re not going to find her. She’s dead, isn’t she? Why doesn’t somebody just admit it?’

‘She’s alive until I find out different, Frau Steininger.’ I turned south down Potsdamerstrasse and for a while we were both silent. Then I became aware of her shaking her head and breathing like she had walked up a flight of stairs.

‘Whatever must you think of me, Kommissar?’ she said. ‘My daughter missing, probably murdered, and here I am spending money as if I hadn’t a care in the world. You must think me a heartless sort of woman.’

‘I don’t think anything of the kind,’ I said, and started telling her how people dealt with these things in different ways, and that if a bit of shopping helped to take her mind off her daughter’s disappearance for a couple of hours then that was perfectly all right, and that nobody would blame her. I thought I made a convincing case, but by the time we reached her apartment in Steglitz, Hildegard Steininger was in tears.

I took hold of her shoulder and just squeezed it, letting her go a bit before I said, ‘I’d offer you my handkerchief if I hadn’t wrapped my sandwiches in it.’

Through her tears she tried a smile. ‘I have one,’ she said, and tugged a square of lace from out of her sleeve. Then she glanced over at my own handkerchief and laughed. ‘It does look as if you’d wrapped your sandwiches in it.’

After I’d helped to carry her purchases upstairs, I stood outside her door while she found her key. Opening it, she turned and smiled gracefully.

‘Thank you for helping, Kommissar,’ she said. ‘It really was very kind of you.’

‘It was nothing,’ I said, thinking nothing of the sort.

Not even an invitation in for a cup of coffee, I thought when I was sitting in the car once more. Lets me drive her all this way and not even invited inside.

But then there are lots of women like that, for whom men are just taxi-drivers they don’t have to tip.

The heavy scent of the lady’s Bajadi perfume was pulling quite a few funny faces at me. Some men aren’t affected by it at all, but a woman’s perfume smacks me right in the leather shorts. Arriving back at the Alex some twenty minutes later, I think I must have sniffed down every molecule of that woman’s fragrance like a vacuum cleaner.

I called a friend of mine who worked at Dorlands, the advertising agency. Alex Sievers was someone I knew from the war.

‘Alex. Are you still buying advertising space?’

‘For as long as the job doesn’t require one to have a brain.’

‘It’s always nice to talk to a man who enjoys his work.’

‘Fortunately I enjoy the money a whole lot better.’

It went on like that for another couple of minutes until I asked Alex if he had a copy of that morning’s Beobachter. I referred him to the page with Vogelmann’s ad.

‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that there are people in your line of work who have finally staggered into the twentieth century.’

‘That advertisement has appeared at least twice a week for quite a few weeks now,’ I explained. ‘What’s a campaign like that cost?’

‘With that many insertions there’s bound to be some sort of discount. Listen, leave it with me. I know a couple of people on the Beobachter. I can probably find out for you.’

‘I’d appreciate it, Alex.’

‘You want to advertise yourself, maybe?’

‘Sorry, Alex, but this is a case.’

‘I get it. Spying on the competition, eh?’

‘Something like that.’

I spent the rest of that afternoon reading Gestapo reports on Streicher and his Der Stürmer associates: of the Gauleiter’s affair with one Anni Seitz, and others, which he conducted in secret from his wife Kunigunde; of his son Lothar’s affair with an English girl called Mitford who was of noble birth; of Stürmer editor Ernst Hiemer’s homosexuality; of Stürmer cartoonist Philippe Rupprecht’s illegal activities after the war in Argentina; and of how the Stürmer team of writers included a man called Fritz Brand, who was really a Jew by the name of Jonas Wolk.

These reports made fascinating, salacious reading, of the sort that would no doubt have appealed to Der Stürmer’s own following, but they didn’t bring me any nearer to establishing a connection between Streicher and the murders.

Sievers called back at around five, and said that Vogelmann’s advertising was costing something like three or four hundred marks a month.

‘When did he start spending that kind of mouse?’

‘Since the beginning of July. Only he’s not spending it, Bernie.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s getting it for nothing.’

‘No, somebody else is picking up the bill.’

‘Oh? Who?’

‘Well that’s the funny thing, Bernie. Can you think of any reason why the Lange Publishing Company should be paying for a private investigator’s advertising campaign?’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That’s very interesting, Alex. I owe you one.’

‘Just make sure that if you ever decide to do some advertising it’s me you speak to first, all right?’

‘You bet.’

I put down the receiver and opened my diary. My account for work done on Frau Gertrude Lange’s behalf was at least a week overdue. Glancing at my watch I thought I could just about beat the westbound traffic.

They had the painters in at the house in Herbertstrasse when I called, and Frau Lange’s black maid complained bitterly about people coming and going all the time so that she was never off her feet. You wouldn’t have thought it to look at her. She was even fatter than I remembered.

‘You’ll have to wait here in the hall while I go and see if she’s available,’ she told me. ‘Everywhere else is being decorated. Don’t touch anything, mind.’ She flinched as an enormous crash echoed through the house and, mumbling about men with dirty overalls disrupting the place, she went off in search of her mistress, leaving me to tap my heels on the marble floor.

It seemed to make sense, their decorating the place. They probably did it every year, instead of spring cleaning. I ran my hand over an art-deco bronze of a leaping salmon that occupied the middle of a great round table. I might have enjoyed its tactile smoothness if the thing hadn’t been covered in dust. I turned, grimacing, as the black cauldron waddled back into the hall. She grimaced back at me and then down at my feet.

‘You see what your boots has gone and done to my clean floor?’ she said pointing at the several black marks my heels had left.

I tutted with theatrical insincerity.

‘Perhaps you can persuade her to buy a new one,’ I said. I was certain she swore under her breath before telling me to follow her.

We went along the same hallway that was a couple of coats of paint above gloomy, to the double doors of the sitting-room–office. Frau Lange, her chins and her dog were waiting for me on the same chaise longue, except that it had been recovered with a shade of material that was easy on the eye only if you had a piece of grit in there on which to concentrate. Having lots of money is no guarantee of good taste, but it can make the lack of it more glaringly obvious.

‘Don’t you own a telephone?’ she boomed through her cigarette smoke like a fog-horn. I heard her chuckle as she added: ‘I think you must have once been a debt-collector or something.’ Then, realizing what she had said, she clutched at one of her sagging jowls. ‘Oh God, I haven’t paid your bill, have I?’ She laughed again, and stood up. ‘I’m most awfully sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said, watching her go to the desk and take out her cheque-book.

‘And I haven’t yet thanked you properly for the speedy way in which you handled things. I’ve told all my friends about how good you were.’ She handed me the cheque. ‘I’ve put a small bonus on there. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to have done with that terrible man. In your letter you said that it appeared as if he had hanged himself, Herr Gunther. Saved somebody else the trouble, eh?’ She laughed again, loudly, like an amateur actress performing rather too vigorously to be wholly credible. Her teeth were also false.

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ I said. I didn’t see any point in telling her about my suspicion that Heydrich had had Klaus Hering killed with the aim of expediting my re-joining Kripo. Clients don’t much care for loose ends. I’m not all that fond of them myself.

It was now that she remembered that her case had also happened to cost Bruno Stahlecker his life. She let her laughter subside, and fixing a more serious expression to her face she set about expressing her condolences. This also involved her cheque-book. For a moment I thought about saying something noble to do with the hazards of the profession, but then I thought of Bruno’s widow and let her finish writing it.

‘Very generous,’ I said. ‘I’ll see that this gets to his wife and family.’

‘Please do,’ she said. ‘And if there’s anything else that I can do for them, you will let me know, won’t you?’

I said that I would.

‘There is something you can do for me, Herr Gunther,’ she said. ‘There are still the letters I gave you. My son asked me if those last few could be returned to him.’

‘Yes, of course. I’d forgotten.’ But what was that she said? Was it possible that she meant the letters I still held in the file back at my office were the only surviving letters? Or did she mean that Reinhard Lange already had the rest? In which case, how had he come by them? Certainly I had failed to find any more of the letters when I searched Hering’s apartment. What had become of them?

‘I’ll drop them round myself,’ I said. ‘Thank goodness he has the rest of them back safely.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ she said.

So there it was. He did have them.

I began to move towards the door. ‘Well, I’d better be getting along, Frau Lange.’ I waved the two cheques in the air and then slipped them into my wallet. ‘Thanks for your generosity.’

‘Not at all.’

I frowned as if something had occurred to me.

‘There is one thing that puzzles me,’ I said. ‘Something I meant to ask you about. What interest does your company have in the Rolf Vogelmann Detective Agency?’

‘Rolf Vogelmann?’ she repeated uncomfortably.

‘Yes. You see I learnt quite by accident that the Lange Publishing Company has been funding an advertising campaign for Rolf Vogelmann since July of this year. I was merely wondering why you should have hired me when you might with more reason have hired him?’

Frau Lange blinked deliberately and shook her head.

‘I’m afraid that I have absolutely no idea.’

I shrugged and allowed myself a little smile. ‘Well, as I say, it just puzzled me, that’s all. Nothing important. Do you sign all the company cheques, Frau Lange? I mean, I just wondered if this might be something your son could have done on his own without informing you. Like buying that magazine you told me about. Now what was its name? Urania.’

Clearly embarrassed, Frau Lange’s face was beginning to redden. She swallowed hard before answering.

‘Reinhard has signing power over a limited bank account which is supposed to cover his expenses as a company director. However, I’m at a loss to explain what this might relate to, Herr Gunther.’

‘Well, maybe he got tired of astrology. Maybe he decided to become a private investigator himself. To tell the truth, Frau Lange, there are times when a horoscope is as good a way of finding something out as any other.’

‘I shall make a point of asking Reinhard about this when I next see him. I’m indebted to you for the information. Would you mind telling me where you got it from?’

‘The information? Sorry, I make it a strict rule never to breach confidentiality. I’m sure you understand.’

She nodded curtly, and bade me good evening.

Back in the hall the black cauldron was still simmering over her floor.

‘You know what I’d recommend?’ I said.

‘What’s that?’ she said sullenly.

‘I think you should give Frau Lange’s son a call at his magazine. Maybe he can work up a magic spell to shift those marks.’

17

Friday, 21 October

When I first suggested the idea to Hildegard Steininger, she had been less than enthusiastic.

‘Let me get this straight. You want to pose as my husband?’

‘That’s right.’

‘In the first place, my husband is dead. And in the second you don’t look anything like him, Herr Kommissar.’

‘In the first place I’m counting on this man not knowing that the real Herr Steininger is dead; and in the second, I don’t suppose that he would have any more idea of what your husband might have looked like than I do.’

‘Exactly who is this Rolf Vogelmann, anyway?’

‘An investigation like this one is nothing more than a search for a pattern, for a common factor. Here the common factor is that we’ve discovered Vogelmann was retained by the parents of two other girls.’

‘Two other victims, you mean,’ she said. ‘I know that other girls have disappeared and then been found murdered, you know. There may be nothing about it in the papers, but one hears things all the time.’

‘Two other victims, then,’ I admitted.

‘But surely that’s just a coincidence. Listen, I can tell you that I’ve thought of doing it myself, you know, paying someone to look for my daughter. After all, you still haven’t found a trace of her, have you?’

‘That’s true. But it may be more than just a coincidence. That’s what I’d like to find out.’

‘Supposing that he is involved. What could he hope to gain from it?’

‘We’re not necessarily talking about a rational person here. So I don’t know that gain will come into the equation.’

‘Well, it all sounds very dubious to me,’ she said. ‘I mean, how did he get in touch with these two families?’

‘He didn’t. They got in touch with him after seeing his newspaper advertisement.’

‘Doesn’t that show that if he is a common factor, then it’s not been through his own making?’

‘Perhaps he just wants it to look that way. I don’t know. All the same I’d like to find out more, even if it’s just to rule him out.’

She crossed her long legs and lit a cigarette.

‘Will you do it?’

‘Just answer this question first, Kommissar. And I want an honest answer. I’m tired of all the evasions. Do you think that Emmeline can still be alive?’

I sighed and then shook my head. ‘I think she’s dead.’

‘Thank you.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘Is it dangerous, what you’re asking me to do?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Then I agree.’

Now, as we sat in Vogelmann’s waiting-room in his offices on Nürnburgerstrasse, under the eye of his matronly secretary, Hildegard Steininger played the part of the worried wife to perfection, holding my hand, and occasionally smiling at me smiles of the kind that are normally reserved for a loved one. She was even wearing her wedding-ring. So was I. It felt strange, and tight, on my finger after so many years. I’d needed soap to slide it on.

Through the wall could be heard the sound of a piano being played.

‘There’s a music school next door,’ explained Vogelmann’s secretary. She smiled kindly and added: ‘He won’t keep you waiting for very long.’ Five minutes later we were ushered into his office.

In my experience the private investigator is prone to several common ailments: flat feet, varicose veins, a bad back, alcoholism and, God forbid, venereal disease; but none of them, with the possible exception of the clap, is likely to influence adversely the impression he makes on a potential client. However, there is one disability, albeit a minor one, which if found in a sniffer must give the client pause for thought, and that is short-sightedness. If you are going to pay a man fifty marks a day to trace your missing grandmother, at the very least you want to feel confident that the man you are engaging to do the job is sufficiently eagle-eyed to find his own cuff-links. Spectacles of bottle-glass thickness such as those worn by Rolf Vogelmann must therefore be considered bad for business.

Ugliness, on the other hand, where it stops short of some particular and gross physical deformity, need be no professional disadvantage, and so Vogelmann, whose unpleasant aspect was something more general, was probably able to peck at some sort of a living. I say peck, and I choose my words carefully, because with his unruly comb of curly red hair, his broad beak of a nose and his great breast-plate of a chest, Vogelmann resembled a breed of prehistoric cockerel, and one that had positively begged for extinction.

Hitching his trousers on to his chest, Vogelmann strode round the desk on big policeman’s feet to shake our hands. He walked as if he had just dismounted a bicycle.

‘Rolf Vogelmann, pleased to meet you both,’ he said in a high, strangulated sort of voice, and with a thick Berlin accent.

‘Steininger,’ I said. ‘And this is my wife Hildegard.’

Vogelmann pointed at two armchairs that were ranged in front of a large desk-table, and I heard his shoes squeak as he followed us back across the rug. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture. A hat stand, a drinks trolley, a long and battered-looking sofa and, behind it, a table against the wall with a couple of lamps and several piles of books.

‘It’s good of you to see us this quickly,’ Hildegard said graciously.

Vogelmann sat down and faced us. Even with a metre of desk between us I could still detect his yoghurt-curdling breath.

‘Well, when your husband mentioned that your daughter was missing, naturally I assumed there would be some urgency.’ He wiped a pad of paper with the flat of his hand and picked up a pencil. ‘Exactly when did she go missing?’

‘Thursday, 22 September,’ I said. ‘She was on her way to dancing class in Potsdam and had left home – we live in Steglitz – at seven-thirty that evening. Her class was due to commence at eight, only she never arrived.’ Hildegard’s hand reached for mine, and I squeezed it comfortingly.

Vogelmann nodded. ‘Almost a month, then,’ he said ruminatively. ‘And the police–?’

‘The police?’ I said bitterly. ‘The police do nothing. We hear nothing. There is nothing in the papers. And yet one hears rumours that other girls of Emmeline’s age have also disappeared.’ I paused. ‘And that they have been murdered.’

‘That is almost certainly the case,’ he said, straightening the knot in his cheap woollen tie. ‘The official reason for the press moratorium on the reporting of these disappearances and homicides is that the police wish to avoid a panic. Also, they don’t wish to encourage all the cranks which a case like this has a habit of producing. But the real reason is that they are simply embarrassed at their own persistent inability to capture this man.’

I felt Hildegard squeeze my hand more tightly.

‘Herr Vogelmann,’ she said, ‘it’s not knowing what’s happened to her that is so hard to bear. If we could just be sure of whether or not–’

‘I understand, Frau Steininger.’ He looked at me. ‘Am I to take it then that you wish me to try and find her?’

‘Would you, Herr Vogelmann?’ I said. ‘We saw your advertisement in the Beobachter, and really, you’re our last hope. We’re tired of just sitting back and waiting for something to happen. Aren’t we, darling?’

‘Yes. Yes, we are.’

‘Do you have a photograph of your daughter?’

Hildegard opened her handbag and handed him a copy of the picture that she had earlier given to Deubel.

Vogelmann regarded it dispassionately. ‘Pretty. How did she travel to Potsdam?’

‘By train.’

‘And you believe that she must have disappeared somewhere between your house in Steglitz and the dancing school, is that right?’ I nodded. ‘Any problems at home?’

‘None,’ Hildegard said firmly.

‘At school, then?’

We both shook our heads and Vogelmann scribbled a few notes.

‘Any boyfriends?’

I looked across at Hildegard.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I’ve searched her room, and there’s nothing to indicate that she had been seeing any boys.’

Vogelmann nodded sullenly and then was subject to a brief fit of coughing for which he apologized through the material of his handkerchief, and which left his face as red as his hair.

‘After four weeks, you’ll have checked with all her relations and schoolfriends that she hasn’t been staying with them.’ He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.

‘Naturally,’ Hildegard said stiffly.

‘We’ve asked everywhere,’ I said. ‘I’ve been along every metre of that journey looking for her and found nothing.’ This was almost literally true.

‘What was she wearing when she disappeared?’

Hildegard described her clothes.

‘What about money?’

‘A few marks. Her savings were untouched.’

‘All right. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out. You had better give me your address.’

I dictated it for him, and added the telephone number. When he’d finished writing he stood up, arched his back painfully, and then walked around a bit with his hands thrust deep into his pockets like an awkward schoolboy. By now I had guessed him to be no more than forty.

‘Go home and wait to hear from me. I’ll be in touch in a couple of days, or earlier if I find something.’

We stood up to leave.

‘What do you think are the chances of finding her alive?’ Hildegard said.

Vogelmann shrugged dismally. ‘I’ve got to admit that they’re not good. But I will do my best.’

‘What’s your first move?’ I said, curious.

He checked the knot of his tie again, and stretched his Adam’s apple over the collar stud. I held my breath as he turned to face me.

‘Well, I’ll start by getting some copies made of your daughter’s photograph. And then put them into circulation. This city has a lot of runaways, you know. There are a few children who don’t much care for the Hitler Youth and that sort of thing. I’ll make a start in that direction, Herr Steininger.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and accompanied us to the door.

‘Thank you,’ said Hildegard. ‘You’ve been most kind, Herr Vogelmann.’

I smiled and nodded politely. He bowed his head, and as Hildegard passed out of the door in front of me I caught him glancing down at her legs. You couldn’t blame him. In her beige wool bolero, dotted foulard blouse and burgundy wool skirt, she looked like a year’s worth of war reparations. It felt good just pretending to be married to her.

I shook Vogelmann’s hand and followed Hildegard outside, thinking to myself that if I were really her husband I would be driving her home to undress her and take her to bed.

It was an elegantly erotic daydream of silk and lace that I was conjuring up for myself as we left Vogelmann’s offices and went out into the street. Hildegard’s sexual appeal was something altogether more streamlined than steamy imaginings of bouncing breasts and buttocks. All the same, I knew that my little husband fantasy was short on probability since, in all likelihood, the real Herr Steininger, had he been alive, would almost certainly have driven his beautiful young wife home for nothing more stimulating than a cup of fresh coffee before returning to the bank where he worked. The simple fact of the matter is that a man who wakes alone will think of having a woman just as surely as a man who wakes with a wife will think of having breakfast.

‘So what did you make of him?’ she said when we were in the car driving back to Steglitz. ‘I thought he wasn’t as bad as he looked. In fact, he was quite sympathetic, really. Certainly no worse than your own men, Kommissar. I can’t imagine why we bothered.’

I let her go on like that for a minute or two.

‘It struck you as perfectly normal that there were so many obvious questions that he didn’t ask?’

She sighed. ‘Like what?’

‘He never mentioned his fee.’

‘I dare say that if he thought we couldn’t have afforded it, then he would have brought it up. And by the way, don’t expect me to take care of the account for this little experiment of yours.’

I told her that Kripo would pay for everything.

Seeing the distinctive dark-yellow of a cigarette-vending van, I pulled up and got out of the car. I bought a couple of packs and threw one in the glove-box. I tapped one out for her, then myself and lit us both.

‘It didn’t seem strange that he also neglected to ask how old Emmeline was, which school she attended, what the name of her dancing teacher was, where I worked, that sort of thing?’

She blew smoke out of both nostrils like an angry bull. ‘Not especially,’ she said. ‘At least, not until you mentioned it.’ She thumped the dashboard and swore. ‘But what if he had asked which school Emmeline goes to? What would you have done if he’d turned up there and found out that my real husband is dead? I’d like to know that.’

‘He wouldn’t have.’

‘You seem very sure of that. How do you know?’

‘Because I know how private detectives operate. They don’t like to walk right in after the police and ask all the same questions. Usually they like to come at a thing from the other side. Walk round it a bit before they see an opening.’

‘So you think that this Rolf Vogelmann is suspicious?’

‘Yes, I do. Enough to warrant detailing a man to keep an eye on his premises.’

She swore again, rather more loudly this time.

‘That’s the second time,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Why should anything be the matter? No indeed. Single ladies never mind people giving out their addresses and telephone numbers to those whom the police believe to be suspicious. That’s what makes living on one’s own so exciting. My daughter is missing, probably murdered, and now I have to worry that that horrible man might drop round one evening for a little chat about her.’ She was so angry she almost sucked the tobacco out of the cigarette paper. But even so, this time when we arrived at her apartment in Lepsius Strasse, she invited me inside.

I sat down on the sofa and listened to the sound of her urinating in the bathroom. It seemed strangely out of character for her not to be at all self-conscious about such a thing. Perhaps she didn’t care if I heard or not. I’m not sure that she even bothered to close the bathroom door.

When she came back into the room she asked me peremptorily for another cigarette. Leaning forwards I waved one at her which she snatched from my fingers. She lit herself with the table lighter, and puffed like a trooper in the trenches. I watched her with interest as she paced up and down in front of me, the very image of parental anxiety. I selected a cigarette myself, and tugged a book of matches from my waistcoat pocket. Hildegard glanced fiercely at me as I bent my head towards the flame.

‘I thought detectives were supposed to be able to light matches with their thumbnails.’

‘Only the careless kind, who don’t pay five marks for a manicure,’ I said yawning.

I guessed that she was working up to something, but had no more idea of what it could be than I had of Hitler’s taste in soft-furnishings. I took another good look at her.

She was tall – taller than the average man, and in her early thirties, but with the knock-knees and turned-in toes of a girl half her age. There wasn’t much of a chest to speak of, and even less behind. The nose was maybe a bit too broad, the lips a shade too thick, and the cornflower-blue eyes rather too close together; and with the possible exception of her temper, there was certainly nothing delicate about her. But there was no doubting her long-limbed beauty which had something in common with the fastest of fillies out at the Hoppegarten. Probably she was just as difficult to hold on the rein; and if you ever managed to climb into the saddle, you could have done no more than hope that you got the trip as far as the winning-post.

‘Can’t you see that I’m scared?’ she said, stamping her foot on the polished wood floor. ‘I don’t want to be on my own now.’

‘Where is your son Paul?’

‘He’s gone back to his boarding-school. Anyway, he’s only ten, so I can’t see him coming to my assistance, can you?’ She dropped on to the sofa beside me.

‘Well I don’t mind sleeping in his room for a few nights,’ I said, ‘if you really are scared.’

‘Would you?’ she said happily.

‘Sure,’ I said, and privately congratulated myself. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘I don’t want it to be your pleasure,’ she said, with just a trace of a smile, ‘I want it to be your duty.’

For a moment I almost forgot why I was there. I might even have thought that she had forgotten. It was only when I saw the tear in the corner of her eye that I realized she really was afraid.

18

Wednesday, 26 October

‘I don’t get it,’ said Korsch. ‘What about Streicher and his bunch? Are we still investigating them or not?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But until the Gestapo surveillance throws up something of interest to us, there’s not a lot we can do in that direction.’

‘So what do you want us to do while you’re looking after the widow?’ said Becker, who was on the edge of allowing himself a smile I might have found irritating. ‘That is, apart from checking the Gestapo reports.’

I decided not to be too sensitive about the matter. That would have been suspicious in itself.

‘Korsch,’ I said, ‘I want you to keep your eye on the Gestapo inquiry. Incidentally, how’s your man getting on with Vogelmann?’

He shook his head. ‘There’s not a lot to report, sir. This Vogelmann hardly ever leaves his office. Not much of a detective if you ask me.’

‘It certainly doesn’t look like it,’ I said. ‘Becker, I want you to find me a girl.’ He grinned and looked down at the toe of his shoe. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult for you.’

‘Any particular kind of girl, sir?’

‘Aged about fifteen or sixteen, blonde, blue-eyed, BdM and,’ I said, feeding him the line, ‘preferably a virgin.’

‘That last part might be a bit difficult, sir.’

‘She’ll have to have plenty of nerve.’

‘Are you thinking of staking her out, sir?’

‘I believe it’s always been the best way to hunt tiger.’

‘Sometimes the goat gets killed though, sir,’ said Korsch.

‘As I said, this girl will have to have guts. I want her to know as much as possible. If she is going to risk her life then she ought to know why she’s doing it.’

‘Where exactly are we going to do this, sir?’ said Becker.

‘You tell me. Think about a few places where our man might notice her. A place where we can watch her without being seen ourselves.’ Korsch was frowning. ‘What’s troubling you?’

He shook his head with slow distaste. ‘I don’t like it, sir. Using a young girl as bait. It’s inhuman.’

‘What do you suggest we use? A piece of cheese?’

‘A main road,’ Becker said, thinking out loud. ‘Somewhere like Hohenzollerndamm, but with more cars, to increase our chances of him seeing her.’

‘Honestly, sir, don’t you think it’s just a bit risky?’

‘Of course it is. But what do we really know about this bastard? He drives a car, he wears a uniform, he has an Austrian or Bavarian accent. After that everything is a maybe. I don’t have to remind you both that we are running out of time. That Heydrich has given me less than four weeks to solve this case. Well, we need to get closer, and we need to do it quickly. The only way is to take the initiative, to select his next victim for him.’

‘But we might wait for ever,’ said Korsch.

‘I didn’t say that it would be easy. You hunt tiger and you can end up sleeping in a tree.’

‘What about the girl?’ Korsch continued. ‘You don’t propose to keep her at it night and day, do you?’

‘She can do it in the afternoons,’ said Becker. ‘Afternoons and early evenings. Not in the dark, so we can make sure he sees her, and we see him.’

‘You’re getting the idea.’

‘But where does Vogelmann fit in?’

‘I don’t know. A feeling in my socks, that’s all. Maybe it’s nothing, but I just want to check it out.’

Becker smiled. ‘A bull has to trust a few hunches now and then,’ he said.

I recognized my own uninspired rhetoric. ‘We’ll make a detective out of you yet,’ I told him.

She listened to her Gigli gramophone records with the avidity of someone who is about to go deaf, offering and requiring no more conversation than a railway ticket-collector. By now I had realized that Hildegard Steininger was about as self-contained as a fountain-pen, and I figured that she probably preferred the kind of man who could think of himself as little more than a blank sheet of writing paper. And yet, almost in spite of her, I continued to find her attractive. For my taste she was too much concerned with the shade of her gold-spun hair, the length of her fingernails and the state of her teeth, which she was forever brushing. Too vain by half, and too selfish twice over. Given a choice between pleasing herself and pleasing someone else she would have hoped that pleasing herself would have made everyone happy. That she should have thought that one would almost certainly result from the other was for her as simple a reaction as a knee jerking under a patella-hammer.

It was my sixth night staying at her apartment, and as usual she had cooked a dinner that was nearly inedible.

‘You don’t have to eat it, you know,’ she had said. ‘I was never much of a cook.’

‘I was never much of a dinner guest,’ I had replied, and eaten most of it, not for politeness’ sake, but because I was hungry and had learnt in the trenches not to be too fussy about my food.

Now she closed the gramophone cabinet and yawned.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said.

I tossed aside the book I was reading and said that I was going to turn in myself.

In Paul’s bedroom I spent a few minutes studying the map of Spain that was pinned to the boy’s wall, documenting the fortunes of the Condor Legions, before turning out the light. It seemed that every German schoolboy these days wanted to be a fighter-pilot. I was just settling down when there was a knock at the door.

‘May I come in?’ she said, hovering naked in the doorway. For a moment or two she just stood there, framed in the light from the hallway like some marvellous madonna, almost as if she were allowing me to assess her proportions. My chest and scrotum tightening, I watched her walk gracefully towards me.

Whereas her head and back were small, her legs were so long that she seemed to have been created by a draughtsman of genius. One hand covered her sex and this small shyness excited me very much. I allowed it for a short time while I looked upon the rounded simple volumes of her breasts. These were lightly, almost invisibly nippled, and the size of perfect nectarines.

I leant forwards, pushed that modest hand away, and then, taking hold of her smooth flanks, I pressed my mouth against the sleek filaments that mantled her sex. Standing up to kiss her I felt her hand reach down urgently for me, and winced as she peeled me back. It was too rough to be polite, to be tender, and so I responded by pushing her face first on to the bed, pulling her cool buttocks towards me and moulding her into a position that pleased me. She cried out at the moment when I plunged into her body, and her long thighs trembled wonderfully as we played out our noisy pantomime to its barnstorming denouement.

We slept until dawn came creeping through the thin material of the curtains. Awake before her, I was struck by her colour, which was every bit as cool as her awakening expression which changed not a bit as she sought to find my penis with her mouth. And then, turning on to her back, she pulled herself up the bed and laid her head on the pillow, her thighs yawning open so that I could see where life begins, and again I licked and kissed her there before acquainting it with the full rank of my ardour, pressing myself into her body until I thought that only my head and shoulders would remain unconsumed.

Finally, when there was nothing left in either of us, she wrapped herself round me and wept until I thought that she would melt.

19

Saturday, 29 October

‘I thought you’d like the idea.’

‘I’m not sure that I don’t. Just give me a second to swill it around my head.’

‘You don’t want her hanging around somewhere just for the hell of it. He’ll smell that shit in minutes and won’t go near her. It’s got to look natural.’

I nodded without a great deal of conviction and tried to smile at the BdM girl Becker had found. She was an extraordinarily pretty adolescent and I wasn’t sure what Becker had been more impressed with, her bravery or her breasts.

‘Come on, sir, you know what it’s like,’ he said. ‘These girls are always hanging around the Der Stürmer display cases on street corners. They get a cheap thrill reading about Jewish doctors interfering with mesmerized German virgins. Look at it this way. Not only will it stop her from getting bored, but also, if Streicher or his people are involved, then they’re more than likely going to take notice of her here, in front of one of these Sturmerkasten, than anywhere else.’

I stared uncomfortably at the elaborate, red-painted case, probably built by some loyal readers, with its vivid slogans proclaiming: ‘German Women: The Jews are your Destruction’, and the three double-page spreads from the paper under glass. It was bad enough to ask a girl to act as bait, without having to expose her to this kind of trash as well.

‘I suppose you’re right, Becker.’

‘You know I am. Look at her. She’s reading it already. I swear she likes it.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Ulrike.’

I walked over to the Sturmerkasten where she was standing, singing quietly to herself.

‘You know what to do, Ulrike?’ I said quietly, not looking at her now that I was beside her, but staring at the Fips cartoon with its mandatory ugly Jew. No one could look like that, I thought. The nose was as big as a sheep’s muzzle.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said brightly.

‘There are lots of policemen around. You can’t see them, but they are all watching you. Understand?’ I saw her head nod in the reflection on the glass. ‘You’re a very brave girl.’

At that she started to sing again, only louder, and I realized that it was the Hitler Youth song:

‘Our flag see before us fly,

Our flag means an age without strife,

Our flag leads us to eternity,

Our flag means more to us than life.’

I walked back to where Becker was standing and got back into the car.

‘She’s quite a girl, isn’t she, sir?’

‘She certainly is. Just make sure that you keep your flippers off her, do you hear?’

He was all innocence. ‘Come on, sir, you don’t think I’d try to bird that one, do you?’ He got into the driving seat and started the engine.

‘I think you’d fuck your great-grandmother, if you really want my opinion.’ I glanced over each shoulder. ‘Where are your men?’

‘Sergeant Hingsen’s on the first floor of that apartment building there,’ he said, ‘and I’ve got a couple of men on the street. One is tidying up the graveyard on the corner, and the other’s cleaning windows over there. If our man does show up, we’ll have him.’

‘Do the girl’s parents know about this?’

‘Yes.’

‘Rather public-spirited of them to give their permission, wouldn’t you say?’

‘They didn’t exactly do that, sir. Ulrike informed them that she had volunteered to do this in the service of the Fiihrer and the Fatherland. She said that it would be unpatriotic to try and stop her. So they didn’t have much choice in the matter. She’s a forceful sort of girl.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Quite a swimmer, too, by all accounts. A future Olympic prospect, her teacher reckons.’

‘Well, let’s just hope for a bit of rain in case she has to try and swim her way out of trouble.’

I heard the bell in the hall and went to the window. Pulling it up I leant out to see who was working the bell-pull. Even three storeys up I could recognize Vogelmann’s head of distinctive red hair.

‘That’s a very common thing to do,’ said Hildegard. ‘Lean out of a window like a fishwife.’

‘As it happens, I might just have caught a fish. It’s Vogelmann. And he’s brought a friend.’

‘Well, you had better go and let them in, hadn’t you?’

I walked out on to the landing and operated the lever that pulled the chain to open the street door, and watched the two men climb up the stairs. Neither one of them said anything.

Vogelmann came into Hildegard’s apartment wearing his best undertaker’s face, which was a blessing since the grim set to his halitosic mouth meant that, for a while at least, it stayed mercifully shut. The man with him was shorter than Vogelmann by a head, and in his mid-thirties, with fair hair, blue eyes and an intense, even academic air about him. Vogelmann waited until we were all seated before introducing the other man as Dr Otto Rahn, and promised to say more about him presently. Then he sighed loudly and shook his head.

‘I’m afraid that I have had no luck in the search for your daughter Emmeline,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked everyone I could possibly have asked, and looked everywhere I could possibly have looked. With no result. It has been most disappointing.’ He paused, and added: ‘Of course, I realize that my own disappointment must count as nothing besides your own. However, I thought I might at least find some trace of her.

‘If there was anything, anything at all, that gave some clue as to what might have become of her, then I would feel justified in recommending to you that I continue with my inquiries. But there’s nothing that gives me any confidence that I wouldn’t be wasting your time and money.’

I nodded with slow resignation. ‘Thank you for being so honest, Herr Vogelmann.’

‘At least you can say we tried, Herr Steininger,’ Vogelmann said. ‘I’m not exaggerating when I say that I have exhausted all the usual methods of inquiry.’ He stopped to clear his throat and, excusing himself, dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.

‘I hesitate to suggest this to you, Herr and Frau Steininger, and please don’t think me facetious, but when the usual has proved itself to be unhelpful, there can surely be no harm in resorting to the unusual.’

‘I rather thought that was why we consulted you in the first place,’ Hildegard said stiffly. ‘The usual, as you put it, was something that we expected from the police.’

Vogelmann smiled awkwardly. ‘I’ve expressed it badly,’ he said. ‘I should perhaps have been talking in terms of the ordinary and the extraordinary.’

The other man, Otto Rahn, came to Vogelmann’s assistance.

‘What Herr Vogelmann is trying to suggest, with as much good taste as he can in the circumstances, is that you consider enlisting the services of a medium to help you find your daughter.’ His accent was educated and he spoke with the speed of a man from somewhere like Frankfurt.

‘A medium?’ I said. ‘You mean spiritualism?’ I shrugged. ‘We’re not believers in that sort of thing.’ I wanted to hear what Rahn might have to say in order to sell us on the idea.

He smiled patiently. ‘These days it’s hardly a matter of belief. Spiritualism is now more of a science. There have been some quite amazing developments since the war, especially in the last decade.’

‘But isn’t this illegal?’ I asked meekly. ‘I’m sure I read somewhere that Count Helldorf had banned all professional fortune-telling in Berlin, why, as long ago as 1934.’

Rahn was smooth and not at all deflected by my choice of phrase.

‘You’re very well-informed, Herr Steininger. And you’re right, the Police President did ban them. Since then, however, the situation has been satisfactorily resolved, and racially sound practitioners in the psychic sciences are incorporated in the Independent Professions sections of the German Labour Front. It was only ever the mixed races, the Jews and the gypsies, that gave the psychic sciences a bad name. Why, these days the Führer himself employs a professional astrologer. So you see, things have come a long way since Nostradamus.’

Vogelmann nodded and chuckled quietly.

So this was the reason Reinhard Lange was sponsoring Vogelmann’s advertising campaign, I thought. To drum up a little business for the floating wine-glass trade. It looked like quite a neat operation too. Your detective failed to find your missing person, after which, through the mediation of Otto Rahn, you were passed on to an apparently higher power. This service probably resulted in your paying several times as much for the privilege of finding out what was already obvious: that your loved one slept with the angels.

Yes indeed, I thought, a neat piece of theatre. I was going to enjoy putting these people away. You can sometimes forgive a man who works a line, but not the ones who prey on the grief and suffering of others. That was like stealing the cushions off a pair of crutches.

‘Peter,’ said Hildegard, ‘I don’t see that we really have much to lose.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘I’m so glad you think so,’ said Vogelmann. ‘One always hesitates to recommend such a thing, but I think that in this case, there is really little or no alternative.’

‘What will it cost?’

‘This is Emmeline’s life we’re talking about,’ Hildegard snapped. ‘How can you mention money?’

‘The cost is very reasonable,’ said Rahn. ‘I’m quite sure you’ll be entirely satisfied. But let’s talk about that at a later date. The most important thing is that you meet someone who can help you.

‘There is a man, a very great and gifted man, who is possessed of enormous psychic ability. He might be able to help. This man, as the last descendant of a long line of German men of wisdom, has an ancestral-clairvoyant memory that is quite unique in our time.’

‘He sounds wonderful,’ Hildegard breathed.

‘He is,’ said Vogelmann.

‘Then I will arrange for you to meet him,’ said Rahn. ‘I happen to know that he is free this coming Thursday. Will you be available in the evening?’

‘Yes. We’ll be available.’

Rahn took out a notebook and started writing. When he’d finished he tore out the sheet and handed it to me.

‘Here is the address. Shall we say eight o‘clock? Unless you hear from me before then?’ I nodded. ‘Excellent.’

Vogelmann stood up to leave while Rahn bent and searched for something in his briefcase. He handed Hildegard a magazine.

‘Perhaps this might also be of interest to you,’ he said.

I saw them out and when I came back I found her engrossed in the magazine. I didn’t need to look at the front cover to know that it was Reinhard Lange’s Urania. Nor did I need to speak to Hildegard to know that she was convinced Otto Rahn was genuine.

20

Thursday, 3 November

The Resident Registration Office turned up an Otto Rahn, formerly of Michelstadt near Frankfurt, now living at Tiergartenstrasse 8a, Berlin West 35.

VC1, Criminal Records, on the other hand, had no trace of him.

Nor did VC2, the department that compiled the Wanted Persons List. I was just about to leave when the department director, an SS Sturmbannfuhrer by the name of Baum, called me over to his office.

‘Kommissar, did I hear you asking that officer about somebody called Otto Rahn?’ he asked.

I told him that I was interested in finding out everything I could about Otto Rahn.

‘Which department are you with?’

‘The Murder Commission. He might be able to assist us with an inquiry.’

‘So you don’t actually suspect him of having committed a crime?’

Sensing that the Sturmbannführer knew something about an Otto Rahn, I decided to cover my tracks a little.

‘Good grief, no,’ I said. ‘As I say, it’s just that he may be able to put us in contact with a valuable witness. Why? Do you know someone by that name?’

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘He’s more of an acquaintance really. There is an Otto Rahn who’s in the SS.’

The old Hotel Prinz Albrecht Strasse was an unremarkable four-storey building of arched windows and mock Corinthian pillars, with two long, dictator-sized balconies on the first floor, surmounted by an enormous ornate clock. Its seventy rooms meant that it had never been in the same league as the big hotels like the Bristol or the Adlon, which was probably how it came to be taken over by the SS. Now called SS-Haus, and situated next door to Gestapo headquarters at number eight, it was also headquarters to Heinrich Himmler in his capacity as Reichsführer-SS.

In the Personnel Records Department on the second floor, I showed them my warrant and explained my mission.

‘I’m required by the SD to obtain a security clearance for a member of the SS in order that he may be considered for promotion to General Heydrich’s personal staff.’

The SS corporal on duty stiffened at the mention of Heydrich’s name.

‘How can I help?’ he said eagerly.

‘I require to see the man’s file. His name is Otto Rahn.’

The corporal asked me to wait, and then went into the next room where he searched for the appropriate filing-cabinet.

‘Here you are,’ he said, returning after a few minutes with the file. ‘I’m afraid that I’ll have to ask you to examine it here. A file may be removed from this office only with the written approval of the Reichsführer himself.’

‘Naturally I knew that,’ I said coldly. ‘But I’m sure I’ll just need to take a quick look at it. This is only a formal security check.’ I stepped away and stood at a lectern on the far side of the office, where I opened the file to examine its contents. It made interesting reading.

SS Unterscharfiihrer Otto Rahn; born 18 February 1904 at Michelstadt in Odenwald; studied philology at the University of Heidelberg, graduating in 1928; joined SS, March 1936; promoted SS, Unterscharführer, April 1936; posted SS-Deaths Head Division ‘Oberbayern’ Dachau Concentration Camp, September 1937; seconded to Race and Resettlement Office, December 1938; public speaker and author of Crusade Against the Grail (1933) amd Lucifer’s Servants (1937).

There followed several pages of medical notes and character assessments, and these included an evaluation from one SS-Gruppenfuhrer Theodor Eicke which described Rahn as ‘diligent, although given to some eccentricities’. By my reckoning that could have covered just about anything, from murder to the length of his hair.

I returned Rahn’s file to the desk corporal and made my way out of the building. Otto Rahn.

The more I discovered about him, the less inclined I was to believe that he was merely working some elaborate confidence trick. Here was a man interested in something else besides money. A man for whom the word ‘fanatic’ did not seem to be inappropriate. Driving back to Steglitz, I passed Rahn’s house on Tiergartenstrasse, and I don’t thnk I would have been surprised to see the Scarlet Woman and the Great Beast of the Apocalypse come flying out the front door.

It was dark by the time we drove to Caspar-Theyss Strasse, which runs just south of Kurfurstendamm, on the edge of Grunewald. It was a quiet street of villas which stop only a little way short of being something more grand, and which are occupied largely by doctors and dentists. Number thirty-three, next to a small cottage-hospital, occupied the corner of Pauls-bornerstrasse, and was opposite a large florist where visitors to the hospital could buy their flowers.

There was a touch of the Gingerbread Man about the queer-looking house to which Rahn had invited us. The basement and ground-floor brickwork was painted brown, and on the first and second floors it was cream-coloured. A sep-tagonally shaped tower occupied the east side of the house, a timbered loggia surmounted by a balcony the centre portion, and on the west side, a moss-covered wooden gable overhung a couple of porthole windows.

‘I hope you brought a clove of garlic with you,’ I told Hildegard as I parked the car. I could see she didn’t much care for the look of the place, but she remained obstinately silent, still convinced that everything was on the level.

We walked up to a wrought-iron gate that had been fashioned with a variety of zodiacal symbols, and I wondered what the two S S men standing underneath one of the garden’s many spruce trees and smoking cigarettes made of it. This thought occupied me for only a second before I moved on to the more challenging question of what they and the several Party staff cars parked on the pavement were doing there.

Otto Rahn answered the door, greeting us with sympathetic warmth, and directed us into a cloakroom where he relieved us of our coats.

‘Before we go in,’ he said, ‘I should explain that there are a number of other people here for this seance. Herr Weisthor’s prowess as a clairvoyant has made him Germany’s most important sage. I think I mentioned that a number of leading Party members are sympathetic to Herr Weisthor’s work – inc-dentally, this is his home – and so apart from Herr Vogelmann and myself, one of the other guests here tonight will probably be familiar to you.’

Hildegard’s jaw dropped. ‘Not the Fuhrer,’ she said.

Rahn smiled. ‘No, not he. But someone very close to him. He has requested that he be treated just like anyone else in order to facilitate a favourable atmosphere for the evening’s contact. So I’m telling you now, in order that you won’t be too surprised, that it is the Reichsfuhrer-SS, Heinrich Himmler, to whom I am referring. No doubt you saw the security men outside and were wondering what was going on. The Reichsfuhrer is a great patron of our work and has attended many seances.’

Emerging from the cloakroom, we went through a door soundproofed in button-backed padded green leather, and into a large and simply furnished L-shaped room. Across the thick green carpet was a round table at one end, and a group of about ten people standing over a sofa and a couple of armchairs at the other. The walls, where they were visible between the light oak panelling, were painted white, and the green curtains were all drawn. There was something classically German about this room, which was the same thing as saying that it was about as warm and friendly as a Swiss Army knife.

Rahn found us some drinks and introduced Hildegard and me to the room. I spotted Vogelmann’s red head first of all, nodded to him and then searched for Himmler. Since there were no uniforms to be seen, he was rather difficult to spot in his dark, double-breasted suit. Taller than I had expected, and younger too – perhaps no more than thirty-seven or thirty-eight. When he spoke, he seemed a mild-mannered sort of man, and, apart from the enormous gold Rolex, my overall impression was of a man you would have taken for a headmaster rather than the head of the German secret police. And what was it about Swiss wristwatches that made them so attractive to men of power? But a wristwatch was not as attractive to this particular man of power as was Hildegard Steininger, it seemed, and the two of them were soon deep in conversation.

‘Herr Weisthor will come out presently,’ Rahn explained. ‘He usually needs a period of quiet meditation before approaching the spirit world. Let me introduce you to Reinhard Lange. He’s the proprietor of that magazine I left for your wife.’

‘Ah yes, Urania.’

So there he was, short and plump, with a dimple in one of his chins and a pugnaciously pendant lower lip, as if daring you to smack him or kiss him. His fair hair was well-receded, although somewhat babyish about the ears. He had hardly any eyebrows to speak of, and the eyes themselves were half-closed, slitty even. Both of these features made him seem weak and inconstant, in a Nero-like sort of way. Possibly he was neither of these two things, although the strong smell of cologne that surrounded him, his self-satisfied air, and his slightly theatrical way of speaking, did nothing to correct my first impression of him. My line of work has made me a rapid and fairly accurate judge of character, and five minutes’ conversation with Lange were enough to convince me that I had not been wrong about him. The man was a worthless little queer.

I excused myself and went to the lavatory I had seen beyond the cloakroom. I had already decided to return to Weisthor’s house after the seance and see if the other rooms were any more interesting than the one we were in. There didn’t appear to be a dog about the place, so it seemed that all I had to do was prepare my entry. I bolted the door behind me and set about releasing the window-catch. It was stiff and I had just managed to get it open when there was a knock at the door. It was Rahn.

‘Herr Steininger? Are you in there?’

‘I won’t be a moment.’

‘We’ll be starting in a moment or two.’

‘I’ll be right there,’ I said, and, leaving the window a couple of centimetres open, I flushed the toilet and went back to rejoin the rest of the guests.

Another man had come into the room, and I realized that this must be Weisthor. Aged about sixty-five, he wore a three-piece suit of light-brown flannel and carried an ornate, ivory-handled stick with strange carvings on its shaft, some of which matched his ring. Physically he resembled an older version of Himmler, with his small smudge of a moustache, hamster-like cheeks, dyspeptic mouth and receding chin; but he was stouter, and whereas the Reichsführer reminded you of a myopic rat, Weisthor had more of the beaver about his features, an effect that was accentuated by the gap between his two front teeth.

‘You must be Herr Steininger,’ he said, pumping my hand. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. I am Karl Maria Weisthor, and I am delighted to have already had the pleasure of meeting your lovely wife.’ He spoke very formally, and with a Viennese accent. ‘In that at least you are a very fortunate man. Let us hope that I may be of service to you both before the evening has ended. Otto has told me of your missing daughter Emmeline, and of how the police and our good friend Rolf Vogelmann have been unable to find her. As I said to your wife, I am sure that the spirits of our ancient German ancestors will not desert us, and that they will tell us what has become of her, as they have told us of other things before.’

He turned and waved at the table. ‘Shall we be seated?’ he said. ‘Herr Steininger, you and your wife will sit on either side of me. Everyone will join hands, Herr Steininger. This will increase our conscious power. Try not to let go, no matter what you might see or hear, as it can cause the link to be broken. Do you both understand?’

We nodded and took our seats. When the rest of the company had sat down, I noticed that Himmler had contrived to be sitting next to Hildegard, to whom he was paying close attention. It struck me that I would tell it differently, and that it would amuse Heydrich and Nebe if I told them I spent the evening holding hands with Heinrich Himmler. Thinking about it then I almost laughed, and to cover my half-smile I turned away from Weisthor and found myself looking at a tall, urbane, Siegfried-type wearing evening dress, with the kind of warm, sensitive manner that comes only of bathing in dragon’s blood.

‘My name is Kindermann,’ he said sternly. ‘Dr Lanz Kindermann, at your service, Herr Steininger.’ He glanced down at my hand as if it had been a dirty dishcloth.

‘Not the famous psychotherapist?’ I said.

He smiled. ‘I doubt that you could call me famous,’ he said, but with some satisfaction all the same. ‘Nevertheless, I thank you for the compliment.’

‘And are you Austrian?’

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘I like to know something about the men whose hands I hold,’ I offered, and grasped his own firmly.

‘In a moment,’ said Weisthor, ‘I shall ask our friend Otto to turn off the electric light. But first of all, I should like us all to close our eyes and to breathe deeply. The purpose of this is to relax. Only if we are relaxed will spirits feel comfortable enough to contact us and offer us the benefit of what they are able to see.

‘It may help you to think of something peaceful, such as a flower or a formation of clouds.’ He paused, so that the only sounds which could be heard were the deep breathing of the people around the table and the ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. I heard Vogelmann clear his throat, which prompted Weisthor to speak again.

‘Try and flow into the person next to you so that we may feel the power of the circle. When Otto turns off the light I shall go into trance and permit my body to be taken under the control of spirit. Spirit will control my speech, my every bodily function, so that I shall be in a vulnerable position. Make no sudden noise or interruption. Speak gently if you wish to communicate with spirit, or allow Otto to speak for you.’ He paused again. ‘Otto? The lights, please.’

I heard Rahn stand up as if rousing himself from a deep sleep and creep across the carpet.

‘From now on Weisthor will not speak unless he is under spirit,’ he said. ‘It will be my voice you hear speak to him in trance.’ He turned off the light, and after a few seconds I heard him return to the circle.

I stared hard into the darkness at where Weisthor was sitting, but try as I might, I could see nothing but the strange shapes which play on the back of the retina when it is deprived of light. Whatever Weisthor said about flowers or clouds, I found it helped me to think of the Mauser automatic at my shoulder, and the nice formation of 9mm ammunition in the grip.

The first change that I was aware of was that of his breathing, which became progressively slower and deeper. After a while it was almost undetectable and, but for his grip, which had slackened considerably, I might have said he had disappeared.

Finally he spoke, but it was in a voice that made my flesh creep and my hair prickle.

‘I have a wise king here from long, long ago,’ he said, his grip tightening suddenly. ‘From a time when three suns shone in the northern sky.‘ He uttered a long, sepulchral sigh.’ He suffered a terrible defeat in battle at the hands of Charlemagne and his Christian army.’

‘Were you Saxon?’ Rahn asked quietly.

‘Aye, Saxon. The Franks called them pagans, and put them to death for it. Agonizing deaths, that were full of blood and pain.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘It’s difficult to say this. He says that blood must be paid for. He says that German paganism is grown strong again, and must be revenged on the Franks and their religion, in the name of the old gods.’ Then he grunted almost as if he had been struck and went quiet again.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Rahn murmured. ‘Spirit can leave quite violently sometimes.’

After several minutes, Weisthor spoke again.

‘Who are you?’ he asked softly. ‘A girl? Will you tell us your name, child? No? Come now–’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Rahn. ‘Please come forward to us.’

‘Her name is Emmeline,’ said Weisthor.

I heard Hildegard gasp.

‘Is your name Emmeline Steininger?’ Rahn asked. ‘If so, then your mother and father are here to speak to you, child.’

‘She says that she is not a child,’ whispered Weisthor. ‘And that one of these two people is not her real parent at all.’

I stiffened. Could it be genuine after all? Did Weisthor really have mediumistic powers?

‘I’m her stepmother,’ said Hildegard tremulously, and I wondered if she had recognized that Weisthor should have said that neither of us was Emmeline’s real parent.

‘She says that she misses her dancing. But especially she misses you both.’

‘We miss you too, darling.’

‘Where are you, Emmeline?’ I asked. There was a long silence, and so I repeated the question.

‘They killed her,’ said Weisthor falteringly. ‘And hid her somewhere.’

‘Emmeline, you must try and help us,’ said Rahn. ‘Can you tell us anything about where they put you?’

‘Yes, I’ll tell them. She says that outside the window, there’s a hill. At the bottom of the hill is a pretty waterfall. What’s that? A cross, or maybe something else that’s high, like a tower is on top of the hill.’

‘The Kreuzberg?’ I said.

‘Is it the Kreuzberg?’ Rahn asked.

‘She doesn’t know the name,’ whispered Weisthor. ‘Where’s that? Oh how terrible. She says she’s in a box. I’m sorry, Emmeline, but I don’t think I can have heard you properly. Not in a box? A barrel? Yes, a barrel. A rotten smelly old barrel in an old cellar full of rotten old barrels.’

‘Sounds like a brewery,’ said Kindermann.

‘Could you be referring to the Schultheiss Brewery?’ said Rahn.

‘She thinks that it must be, although it doesn’t seem like a place where lots of people go. Some of the barrels are old and have holes in them. She can see out of one of them. No, my dear, it wouldn’t be very good for holding beer, I quite agree.’

Hildegard whispered something that I failed to hear.

‘Courage, dear lady,’ Rahn said. ‘Courage.’ Then more loudly: ‘Who was it that killed you, Emmeline? And can you tell us why?’

Weisthor groaned deeply. ‘She doesn’t know their names, but she thinks that it was for the Blood Mystery. How did you find out about that, Emmeline? That’s one of the many thousands of things you learn about when you die, I see. They killed her like they kill their animals, and then her blood was mixed with the wine and the bread. She thinks that it must have been for religious rites, but not the sort she had ever seen before.’

‘Emmeline,’ said a voice which I thought must be Himmler’s. ‘Was it the Jews who murdered you? Was it Jews who used your blood?’

Another long silence.

‘She doesn’t know,’ said Weisthor. ‘They didn’t say who or what they were. They didn’t look like any of the pictures she’s seen of Jews. What’s that, my dear? She says that it might have been but she doesn’t want to get anyone into trouble, no matter what they did to her. She says that if it was the Jews then they were just bad Jews, and that not all Jews would have approved of such a thing. She doesn’t want to say any more about that. She just wants someone to go and get her out of that dirty barrel. Yes, I’m sure someone will organize it, Emmeline. Don’t worry.’

‘Tell her that I shall personally see to it that it happens tonight,’ said Himmler. ‘The child has my own word on that.’

‘What’s that you said? All right. Emmeline says to thank you for trying to help her. And she says to tell mother and father that she loves them very much indeed, but not to worry about her now. Nothing can bring her back. You should both get on with your lives and put what has happened behind you. Try and be happy. Emmeline has to go now.’

‘Goodbye, Emmeline,’ sobbed Hildegard.

‘Goodbye,’ I said.

Once again there was silence, but for the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I was glad of the darkness because it hid my face, which must have shown my anger, and afforded me an opportunity to breathe my way back to a semblance of quiet sadness and resignation. If it hadn’t been for the two or three minutes that elapsed from the end of Weisthor’s performance and the raising of the lights, I think that I would have shot them all where they sat: Weisthor, Rahn, Vogelmann, Lange — shit, I’d have murdered the whole dirty lot of them just for the sheer satisfaction of it. I’d have made them take the barrel in their mouths and blown the backs of their heads on to each other’s faces. An extra nostril for Himmler. A third eye-socket for Kindermann.

I was still breathing heavily when the lights went up again, but this was easily mistaken for grief. Hildegard’s face was shiny with tears, which provoked Himmler to put his arm around her. Catching my eye he nodded grimly.

Weisthor was the last to get to his feet. He swayed for a moment as if he would fall, and Rahn took hold of him by the elbow. Weisthor smiled, and patted his friend’s hand gratefully.

‘I can see by your face, my dear lady, that your daughter came through.’

She nodded. ‘I want to thank you, Herr Weisthor. Thank you so much for helping us.’ She sniffed loudly and found her handkerchief.

‘Karl, you were excellent tonight,’ said Himmler. ‘Quite remarkable.’ There was a murmur of assent from the rest of the table, myself included. Himmler was still shaking his head in wonder. ‘Quite, quite remarkable,’ he repeated. ‘You may all rest assured that I shall contact the proper authorities myself, and order that a squad of police be sent immediately to search the Schultheiss Brewery for the unfortunate child’s body.’ Himmler was staring at me now, and I nodded dumbly in response to what he was saying.

‘But I don’t doubt for a minute that they will find her there. I have every confidence that what we have just heard was the child speaking to Karl in order that both your minds may now be put at rest. I think that the best thing for you to do now would be to go home and wait to hear from the police.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said and, walking round the table, I took Hildegard by the hand and led her away from the Reichsfuhrer’s embrace. Then we shook hands with the assembled company, accepted their condolences and allowed Rahn to escort us to the door.

‘What can one say?’ he said with great gravitas. ‘Naturally I am very sorry that Emmeline has passed on to the other side, but as the Reichsfuhrer himself said, it’s a blessing that now you can know for sure.’

‘Yes,’ Hildegard sniffed. ‘It’s best to know, I think.’

Rahn narrowed his eyes and looked slightly pained as he grasped me by the forearm.

‘I think it’s also best if for obvious reasons you were to say nothing of this evening’s events to the police if they should come to say that they have indeed found her. I’m afraid that they might make things very awkward for you if you seemed to know that she had been found before they did themselves. As I’m sure you will appreciate, the police aren’t very enlightened when it comes to understanding this sort of thing, and might ask you all sorts of difficult questions.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, we all have questions concerning what comes to us from the other side. It is indeed an enigma to everyone, and one to which we have very few answers at this stage.’

‘Yes, I can see how the police might prove to be awkward,’ I said. ‘You may depend on me to say nothing of what transpired this evening. My wife as well.’

‘Herr Steininger, I knew you would understand.’ He opened the front door. ‘Please don’t hesitate to contact us again if at some stage you would wish to contact your daughter. But I should leave it for a while. It doesn’t do to summon spirit too regularly.’

We said goodbye again, and walked back to the car.

‘Get me away from here, Bernie,’ she hissed as I opened the door for her. By the time I had started the engine she was crying again, only this time it was with shock and horror.

‘I can’t believe people could be so — so evil,’ she sobbed.

‘I’m sorry you had to go through that,’ I said. ‘Really I am. I’d have given anything for you to have avoided it, but it was the only way.’

I drove to the end of the street and on to Bismarkplatz, a quiet intersection of suburban streets with a small patch of grass in the middle. It was only now that I realized how close we were to Frau Lange’s house in Herbertstrasse. I spotted Korsch’s car, and pulled up behind it.

‘Bernie? Do you think that the police will find her there?’

‘Yes, I think they will.’

‘But how could he fake it and know where she is? How could he know those things about her? Her love of dancing?’

‘Because he, or one of those others, put her there. Probably they spoke to Emmeline and asked her a few questions before they killed her. Just for the sake of authenticity.’

She blew her nose, and then looked up. ‘Why have we stopped?’

‘Because I’m going back there to take a look around. See if I can find out what their ugly little game is. The car parked in front of us is driven by one of my men. His name is Korsch, and he’s going to drive you home.’

She nodded. ‘Please be careful, Bernie,’ she said breathlessly, her head dropping forwards on to her chest.

‘Are you all right, Hildegard?’

She fumbled for the door-handle. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’ She fell sideways towards the pavement, vomiting into the gutter and down her sleeve as she broke her fall with her hand. I jumped out of the car and ran round to the passenger door to help her, but Korsch was there before me, supporting her by the shoulders until she could draw breath again.

‘Jesus Christ,‘ he said, ‘what happened in there?’ Crouching down beside her I mopped the perspiration from Hildegard’s face before wiping her mouth. She took the handkerchief from my hand and allowed Korsch to help her sit up again.

‘It’s a long story,’ I said, ‘and I’m afraid that it’s going to have to wait awhile yet. I want you to take her home and then wait for me at the Alex. Get Becker there as well. I’ve a feeling we’re going to be busy tonight.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hildegard. ‘I’m all right now.’ She smiled bravely. Korsch and I helped her out and, holding her by the waist, we walked her to Korsch’s car.

‘Be careful, sir,’ he said as he got behind the driving wheel and started the engine. I told him not to worry.

After they had driven away, I waited in the car for half an hour or so, and then walked back down Caspar-Theyss Strasse. The wind was getting up a bit and a couple of times it rose to such a pitch in the trees that lined the dark street that, had I been of a rather more fanciful disposition, I might have imagined that it was something to do with what had taken place in Weisthor’s house. Disturbing the spirits and that sort of thing. As it was I was possessed of a sense of danger which the wind moaning across the cloud-tumbling sky did nothing to alleviate, and indeed, this feeling was if anything made all the more acute by seeing the gingerbread house again.

By now the staff cars were gone from the pavement outside, but I nevertheless approached the garden with caution, in case the two SS men had remained behind, for whatever reason. Having satisfied myself that the house was not guarded, I tiptoed round to the side of the house, and to the lavatory window I had left unlocked. It was well that I stepped lightly, because the light was on and from inside the small room could be heard the unmistakable sound of a man straining on the toilet-bowl. Flattening myself in the shadows against the wall, I waited until he finished, and finally, after what seemed like ten or fifteen minutes, I heard the sound of the toilet flushing, and saw the light go off.

Several minutes passed before I judged it safe to go to the window and push it up the sash. But almost immediately upon entering the lavatory, I could have wished to have been elsewhere, or at least wearing a gas-mask, since the fecal smell that greeted my nostrils was such as would have turned the stomachs of a whole clinicful of proctologists. I suppose that’s what bulls mean when they say that sometimes it’s a rotten job. For my money, having to stand quietly in a toilet where someone has just achieved a bowel-movement of truly Gothic proportions is about as rotten as it can get.

The terrible smell was the main reason I decided to move out into the cloakroom rather more quickly than might have been safe, and I was almost seen by Weisthor himself as he trudged wearily past the open cloakroom door and across the hallway to a room on the opposite side.

‘Quite a wind tonight,’ said a voice, which I recognized as belonging to Otto Rahn.

‘Yes,’ Weisthor chuckled. ‘It all added to the atmosphere, didn’t it? Himmler will be especially pleased with this turn in the weather. No doubt he will ascribe all sorts of supernatural Wagnerian notions to it.’

‘You were very good, Karl,’ said Rahn. ‘Even the Reichsfuhrer commented on it.’

‘But you look tired,’ said a third voice, which I took to be Kindermann’s. ‘You’d better let me take a look at you.’

I edged forward and looked through the gap between the cloakroom door and frame, Weisthor was taking off his jacket and hanging it over the back of a chair. Sitting down heavily, he allowed Kindermann to take his pulse. He seemed listless and pale, almost as if he really had been in contact with the spirit world. He seemed to hear my thoughts.

‘Faking it is almost as tiring as doing it for real,’ he said.

‘Perhaps I should give you an injection,’ said Kindermann. ‘A little morphine to help you sleep.’ Without waiting for a reply he produced a small bottle and a hypodermic syringe from a medical bag, and set about preparing the needle. ‘After all, we don’t want you feeling tired for the forthcoming Court of Honour, do we?’

‘I shall want you there of course, Lanz,’ said Weisthor, rolling back his own sleeve to reveal a forearm that was so bruised and scarred with puncture marks, that it looked as if he had been tattooed.

‘I shan’t be able to get through it without cocaine. I find it clarifies the mind wonderfully. And I shall need to be so transcendentally stimulated that the Reichsführer-SS will find what I have to say totally irresistible.’

‘You know, for a moment back there I thought you were actually going to make the revelation tonight,’ said Rahn. ‘You really teased him with all of that stuff about the girl not wanting to get anyone into trouble. Well, frankly, he more or less believes it now.’

‘Only when the time is right, my dear Otto,’ said Weisthor. ‘Only when the time is right. Think how much more dramatic it will be to him when I reveal it in Wewelsburg. Jewish complicity will have the force of spiritual revelation, and we will be done with this nonsense of his about respecting property and the rule of law. The Jews will get what’s coming to them and there won’t be one policeman to stop it.’ He nodded at the syringe and watched impassively as Kindermann thrust the needle home, sighing with satisfaction as the plunger was depressed.

‘And now, gentlemen, if you will kindly help an old man to his bed.’

I watched as they each took an arm and walked him up the creaking stairs.

It crossed my mind that if Kindermann or Rahn were planning to leave then they might want to put on a coat, and so I crept out of the cloakroom and went into the L-shaped room where the bogus seance had been staged, hiding behind the thick curtains in case either one of them should come in. But when they came downstairs again, they only stood in the hall and talked. I missed half of what they said, but the gist of it seemed to be that Reinhard Lange was reaching the end of his usefulness. Kindermann made a feeble attempt to apologize for his lover, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it.

The smell in the lavatory was a hard act to follow, but what happened next was even more disgusting. I couldn’t see exactly what took place, and there were no words to hear. But the sound of two men engaged in a homosexual act is unmistakable, and left me feeling utterly nauseated. When finally they had brought their filthy behaviour to its braying conclusion and left, chuckling like a couple of degenerate schoolboys, I felt weak enough to have to open a window for some fresh air.

In the study next door I helped myself to a large glass of Weisthor’s brandy, which worked a lot better than a chestful of Berlin air, and with the curtains drawn I even felt relaxed enough to switch on the desk-lamp and take a good long look around the room before searching the drawers and cabinets.

It was worth a look, too. Weisthor’s taste in decoration was no less eccentric than mad King Ludwig’s. There were strange-looking calendars, heraldic coats of arms, paintings of standing stones, Merlin, the Sword in the Stone, the Grail and the Knights Templar, and photographs of castles, Hitler, Himmler, and finally Weisthor himself, in uniform: first as an officer in some regiment of Austrian infantry; and then in the uniform of a senior officer in the S S.

Karl Weisthor was in the SS. I almost said it aloud, it seemed so fantastic. Nor was he merely an NCO like Otto Rahn, but judging from the number of pips on his collar, at least a brigadier. And something else too. Why had I not noticed it before — the physical similarity between Weisthor and Julius Streicher? It was true that Weisthor was perhaps ten years older than Streicher, but the description given by the little Jewish schoolgirl, by Sarah Hirsch, could just as easily have applied to Weisthor as to Streicher: both men were heavy, with not much hair, and a small moustache; and both men had strong southern accents. Austrian or Bavarian, she had said. Well Weisthor was from Vienna. I wondered if Otto Rahn could have been the man driving the car.

Everything seemed to fall in with what I already knew, and my overhearing the conversation in the hallway confirmed my earlier suspicion that the motive behind the killings was to throw blame on to Berlin’s Jews. Yet somehow there still seemed to be more to it. There had been Himmler’s involvement. Was I right in thinking that their secondary motive had been the enlistment of the Reichsführer-SS as a believer in Weisthor’s powers, thereby ensuring the latter’s power-base and prospects for advancement in the SS, perhaps even at the expense of Heydrich himself?

It was a fine piece of theorizing. Now all I needed to do was prove it, and the evidence would have to be watertight if Himmler was going to allow his own personal Rasputin to be sent up for multiple murder. The more so if it was likely to reveal the Reich’s chief of police as the gullible victim of an elaborate hoax.

I started to search Weisthor’s desk, thinking that even if I did find enough to nail Weisthor and his evil scheme, I wasn’t about to make a pen-pal out of the man who was arguably the most powerful man in Germany. This was not a comfortable prospect.

It turned out that Weisthor was a meticulous man with his correspondence, and I found files of letters which included copies of those he had sent himself as well as those he had received. Sitting down at his desk I started to read them at random. If I was looking for typed-out admissions of guilt I was disappointed. Weisthor and his associates had developed that talent for euphemism that working in security or intelligence seems to encourage. These letters confirmed everything I knew, but they were so carefully phrased, and included several code-words, as to be open to more than one interpretation.

K. M. Wiligut Weisthor

Caspar-Theyss Strasse 33,

Berlin W.

To SS-Unterscharführer Otto Rahn,

Tiergartenstrasse 8a,

Berlin W.

8 July 1938

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

Dear Otto,

It is as I had suspected. The Reichsfuhrer informs me that a press embargo has been imposed by the Jew Heydrich in all matters relating to Project Krist. Without newspaper coverage there will be no legitimate way for us to know who is affected as a result of Project Krist activities. In order for us to be able to offer spiritual assistance to those who are affected, and thereby bring about our objective, we must quickly devise another means of being enabled legitimately to effect our involvement.

Have you any suggestions?

Heil Hitler,

Weisthor

Otto Rahn

Tiergartenstrasse 8a,

Berlin W.

To SS-Brigadefiihrer K. M. Weisthor

Berlin Grunewald

10 July 1938

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

Dear Brigadeführer,

I have given considerable thought to your letter and, with the assistance of SS-Hauptsturmführer Kindermann and SS-Sturmbannführer Anders, I believe that I have the solution.

Anders has some experience of police matters and is confident that in a situation created out of Project Krist, it would not be unusual for a citizen to solicit his own private agent of inquiry, police efficiency being what it is.

It is therefore proposed that through the offices and finance of our good friend Reinhard Lange, we purchase the services of a small private investigation agency, and then simply advertise in the newspapers. We are all of the opinion that the relevant parties will contact this same private detective who, after a decent interval to apparently exhaust his putative inquiries, will himself bring about our entry into this matter, by whatever means is deemed appropriate.

In the main such men are motivated only by money, and therefore, provided that our operative is sufficiently remunerated, he will believe only what he wishes to believe, namely that we are a group of cranks. Should at any stage he prove troublesome, I am certain that we will need only to remind him of the Reichsführer’s interest in this matter to guarantee his silence.

I have drawn up a list of suitable candidates, and with your permission I should like to contact these as soon as possible.

Heil Hitler,

Yours,

Otto Rahn

K. M. Wiligut Weisthor

Caspar-Theyss Strasse 33, Berlin W.

To SS-Unterscharführer Otto Rahn

Tiergartenstrasse 8a, Berlin W.

30 July 1938

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

Dear Otto,

I have learnt from Anders that the police are holding a Jew on suspicion of certain crimes. Why did it not occur to any of us that the police being what they are, they would frame some person, albeit a Jew, for these crimes? At the right time in our plan such an arrest would have been most helpful, but right now, before we have had a chance to demonstrate our power for the benefit of the Reichsfuhrer, and hope to influence him accordingly, it is nothing short of a nuisance.

However, it occurs to me that we can actually turn this to our advantage. Another Project Krist incident while this Jew is incarcerated will not only effect this man’s release, but will accordingly embarrass Heydrich very badly indeed. Please see to it.

Heil Hitler,

Weisthor

SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Richard Anders,

Order of Knights Templar, Berlin

Lumenklub, Bayreutherstrasse 22 Berlin W.

To SS-Brigadeführer K. M. Weisthor

Berlin Grunewald

27 August 1938

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

Dear Brigadefiihrer,

My inquiries have confirmed that Police Headquarters, Alexanderplatz, did indeed receive an anonymous telephone call. Moreover a conversation with the Reichsführer’s adjutant, Karl Wolff, indicates that it was he, and not the Reichsfuhrer, who made the said call. He very much dislikes misleading the police in this fashion, but he admits that he can see no other way of assisting with the inquiry and still preserve the necessity of the Reichsführer’s anonymity.

Apparently Himmler is very impressed.

Heil Hitler,

Yours, Richard Anders

SS-Hauptstürmführer Dr Lanz Kindermann

Am Kleinen Wannsee

Berlin West

To Karl Maria Wiligut

Caspar-Theyss Strasse 33,

Berlin West

29 September

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

My dear Karl,

On a serious note first of all. Our friend Reinhard Lange has started to give me cause for concern. Putting aside my own feelings for him, I believe that he may be weakening in his resolve to assist with the execution of Project Krist. That what we are doing is in keeping with our ancient pagan heritage no longer seems to impress him as something unpleasant but none the less necessary. Whilst I do not for a moment believe that he would ever betray us, I feel that he should no longer be a part of those Project Krist activities which perforce must take place within this clinic.

Otherwise I continue to rejoice in your ancient spiritual heirloom, and look forward to the day when we can continue to investigate our ancestors through your autogenic clairvoyance.

Heil Hitler,

Yours, as ever,

Lanz

The Commandant,

SS-Brigadeführer Siegfried Taubert,

SS-School Haus,

Wewelsburg, near Paderborn,

Westphalia

To SS-Brigadeführer Weisthor

Caspar-Theyss Strasse 33,

Berlin Grunewald

3 October 1938

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL: COURT OF HONOUR PROCEEDINGS, 6 — 8 NOVEMBER 1938

Herr Brigadeführer,

This is to confirm that the next Court of Honour will take place here in Wewelsburg on the above dates. As usual security will be tight and during the proceedings, beyond the usual methods of identification, a password will be required to gain admittance to the school house. At your own suggestion this is to be GOSLAR.

Attendance is deemed by the Reichsfuhrer to be mandatory for all those officers and men listed below:

Reichsführer-SS Himmler

SS-Obergruppenführer Heydrich

SS-Obergruppenführer Heissmeyer

SS-Obergruppenführer Nebe

SS-Obergruppenführer Daluege

SS-Obergruppenführer Darre

SS-Gruppenführer Pohl

SS-Brigadeführer Taubert

SS-Brigadeführer Berger

SS-Brigadeführer Eicke

SS-Brigadeführer Weisthor

SS-Oberführer Wolff

SS-Sturmbannführer Anders

SS-Sturmbannführer von Oeynhausen

SS-Hauptsturmführer Kindermann

SS-Obersturmbannführer Diebitsch

SS-Obersturmbannführer von Knobelsdorff

SS-Obersturmbannführer Klein

SS-Obersturmbannführer Lasch

SS-Unterscharführer Rahn

Landbaumeister Bartels

Professor Wilhelm Todt

Heil Hitler,

Taubert

There were many other letters, but I had already risked too much by staying as long as I had. More than that, I realized that, for perhaps the first time since coming out of the trenches in 1918, I was afraid.

21

Friday, 4 November

Driving from Weisthor’s house to the Alex, I tried to make some sense out of what I had discovered.

Vogelmann’s part was explained, and to some extent that of Reinhard Lange. And perhaps Kindermann’s clinic was where they had killed the girls. What better place to kill someone than a hospital, where people were always coming and going feet first. Certainly his letter to Weisthor seemed to indicate as much.

There was a frightening ingenuity in Weisthor’s solution. After murdering the girls, all of whom had been selected for their Aryan looks, their bodies were hidden so carefully as to be virtually impossible to find: the more so when one took into account the lack of police manpower available to investigate something as routine as a missing person. By the time the police realized that there was a mass-murderer stalking the streets of Berlin, they were more concerned with keeping things quiet so that their failure to catch the killer did not look incompetent — for at least as long as it took to find a convenient scapegoat, such as Josef Kahn.

But what of Heydrich and Nebe, I wondered. Was their attendance at this SS Court of Honour deemed mandatory merely by virtue of their senior rank? After all, the S S had its factions just like any other organization. Daluege, for instance, the head of Orpo, like his opposite number Arthur Nebe, felt as ill-disposed to Himmler and Heydrich as they felt towards him. And quite clearly of course, Weisthor and his faction were antagonistic towards ‘the Jew Heydrich’. Heydrich, a Jew. It was one of those neat pieces of counter-propaganda that relies on a massive contradiction to sound convincing. I’d heard this rumour before, as had most of the bulls around the Alex, and like them I knew where it originated: Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr, German Military Intelligence, was Heydrich’s most bitter opponent, and certainly the most powerful one.

Or was there some other reason why Heydrich was going to Wewelsburg in a few days? Nothing to do with him was ever quite what it seemed to be, although I didn’t doubt for a minute that he would enjoy the prospect of Himmler’s embarrassment. For him it would be nice thick icing on the cake that had as its main ingredient the arrest of Weisthor and the other anti-Heydrich conspirators within the SS.

To prove it, however, I was going to need something else besides Weisthor’s papers. Something more eloquent and unequivocal, that would convince the Reichsfuhrer himself.

It was then that I thought of Reinhard Lange. The softest excrescence on the maculate body of Weisthor’s plot, it certainly wasn’t going to require a clean and sharp curette to cut him away. I had just the dirty, ragged thumbnail that would do the job. I still had two of his letters to Lanz Kindermann.

Back at the Alex I went straight to the duty sergeant’s desk and found Korsch and Becker waiting for me, with Professor Illmann and Sergeant Gollner.

‘Another call?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Gollner.

‘Right. Let’s get going.’

From the outside the Schultheiss Brewery in Kreuzberg, with its uniform red brick, numerous towers and turrets, as well as the fair-sized garden, made it seem more like a school than a brewery. But for the smell, which even at two a.m. was strong enough to pinch the nostrils, you might have expected to find rooms full of desks instead of beer-barrels. We stopped next to the tent-shaped gatehouse.

‘Police,’ Becker yelled at the nightwatchman, who seemed to like a beer himself. His stomach was so big I doubt he could have reached the pockets of his overalls, even if he had wanted to. ‘Where do you keep the old beer-barrels?’

‘What, you mean the empties?’

‘Not exactly. I mean the ones that probably need a bit of mending.’

The man touched his forehead in a sort of salute.

‘Right you are, sir. I know exactly what you mean. This way, if you please.’

We got out of the cars and followed him back up the road we had driven along. After only a short way we ducked through a green door in the wall of the brewery and went down a long and narrow passageway.

‘Don’t you keep that door locked?’ I said.

‘No need,’ said the nightwatchman. ‘Nothing worth stealing here. The beer’s kept behind the gate.’

There was an old cellar with a couple of centuries of filth on the ceiling and the floor. A bare bulb on the wall added a touch of yellow to the gloom.

‘Here you are then,’ said the man. ‘I guess this must be what you’re looking for. This is where they puts the barrels as needs repairing. Only a lot of them never get repaired. Some of these haven’t been moved in ten years.’

‘Shit,’ said Korsch. ‘There must be nearly a hundred of them.’

‘At least,’ laughed our guide.

‘Well, we’d better get started then, hadn’t we?’ I said.

‘What exactly are you looking for?’

‘A bottle-opener,’ said Becker. ‘Now be a good fellow and run along, will you?’ The man sneered, said something under his breath and then waddled off, much to Becker’s amusement.

It was Illmann who found her. He didn’t even take the lid off.

‘Here. This one. It’s been moved. Recently. And the lid’s a different colour from the rest.’ He lifted the lid, took a deep breath and then shone his torch inside. ‘It’s her all right.’

I came over to where he was standing and took a look for myself, and one for Hildegard. I’d seen enough photographs of Emmeline around the apartment to recognize her immediately.

‘Get her out of there as soon as you can, Professor.’

Illmann looked at me strangely and then nodded. Perhaps he heard something in my tone that made him think my interest was more than just professional. He waved in the police photographer.

‘Becker,’ I said.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I need you to come with me.’

On the way to Reinhard Lange’s address we called in at my office to collect his letters. I poured us both a large glass of schnapps and explained something of what had transpired that evening.

‘Lange’s the weak link. I heard them say so. What’s more, he’s a lemon-sucker.’ I drained the glass and poured another, inhaling deeply of it to increase the effect, my lips tingling as I held it on my palate for a while before swallowing. I shuddered a little as I let it slip down my backbone and said: ‘I want you to work a Vice-squad line on him.’

‘Yes? How heavy?’

‘Like a fucking waltzer.’

Becker grinned and finished his own drink. ‘Roll him out flat? I get the idea.’ He opened his jacket and took out a short rubber truncheon which he tapped enthusiastically on the palm of his hand. ‘I’ll stroke him with this.’

‘Well, I hope you know more about using that than you do that Parabellum you carry. I want this fellow alive. Scared shitless, but alive. To answer questions. You get it?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m an expert with this little india rubber. I’ll just break the skin, you’ll see. The bones we can leave until another time you give the word.’

‘I do believe you like this, don’t you? Scaring the piss out of people.’

Becker laughed. ‘Don’t you?’

The house was on Lutzowufer-Strasse, overlooking the Landwehr Canal and within earshot of the zoo, where some of Hitler’s relations could be heard complaining about the standard of accommodation. It was an elegant, three-storey Wilhelmine building, orange-painted and with a big square oriel window on the first floor. Becker started to pull the bell as if he was doing it on piecework. When he got tired of that he started on the door knocker. Eventually a light came on in the hall and we heard the scrape of a bolt.

The door opened on the chain and I saw Lange’s pale face peer nervously round the side.

‘Police,’ said Becker. ‘Open up.’

‘What is happening?’ he swallowed. ‘What do you want?’

Becker took a step backwards. ‘Mind out, sir,’ he said, and then stabbed at the door with the sole of his boot. I heard Lange squeal as Becker kicked it again. At the third attempt the door flew open with a great splintering noise to reveal Lange hurrying up the stairs in his pyjamas.

Becker went after him.

‘Don’t shoot him, for Christ’s sake,’ I yelled at Becker.

‘Oh God, help,’ Lange gurgled as Becker caught him by the bare ankle and started to drag him back. Twisting round he tried to kick himself free of Becker’s grip, but it was to no avail, and as Becker pulled so Lange bounced down the stairs on his fat behind. When he hit the floor Becker gripped at his face and stretched each cheek towards his ears.

‘When I say open the door, you open the fucking door, right?’ Then he put his whole hand over Lange’s face and banged his head hard on the stair. ‘You got that, queer?’ Lange protested loudly, and Becker caught hold of some of his hair and slapped him twice, hard across the face. ‘I said, have you got that, queer?’

‘Yes,’ he screamed.

‘That’s enough,’ I said pulling him by the shoulder. He stood up breathing heavily, and grinned at me.

‘You said a waltzer, sir.’

‘I’ll tell you when he needs some more of the same.’

Lange wiped his bleeding lip and inspected the blood that smeared the back of his hand. There were tears in his eyes but he still managed to summon up some indignation.

‘Look here,’ he yelled, ‘what the hell is this all about? What do you mean by barging in here like this?’

‘Tell him,’ I said.

Becker grabbed the collar of Lange’s silk dressing-gown and twisted it against his pudgy neck. ‘It’s a pink triangle for you, my fat little fellow,’ he said. ‘A pink triangle with bar if the letters to your bottom-stroking friend Kindermann are anything to go by.’

Lange wrenched Becker’s hand away from his neck and stared bitterly at him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he hissed. ‘Pink triangle? What does that mean, for God’s sake?’

‘Paragraph 175 of the German Penal Code,’ I said.

Becker quoted the section off by heart: ‘Any male who indulges in criminally indecent activities with another male, or who allows himself to participate in such activities, will be punished with gaol.’ He cuffed him playfully on the cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘That means you’re under arrest, you fat butt-fucker.’

‘But it’s preposterous. I never wrote any letters to anyone. And I’m not a homosexual.’

‘You’re not a homosexual,’ Becker sneered, ‘and I don’t piss out of my prick.’ From his jacket pocket he produced the two letters I’d given him, and brandished them in front of Lange’s face. ‘And I suppose you wrote these to the tooth-fairy?’

Lange snatched at the letters and missed.

‘Bad manners,’ Becker said, cuffing him again, only harder.

‘Where did you get those?’

‘I gave them to him.’

Lange looked at me, and then looked again. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘I know you. You’re Steininger. You were there tonight, at — ’ He stopped himself from saying where he’d seen me.

‘That’s right, I was at Weisthor’s little party. I know quite a bit of what’s been going on. And you’re going to help me with the rest.’

‘You’re wasting your time, whoever you are. I’m not going to tell you anything.’

I nodded at Becker, who started to hit him again. I watched dispassionately as first he coshed him across the knees and ankles, and then lightly once, on the ear, hating myself for keeping alive the best traditions of the Gestapo, and for the cold, dehumanized brutality I felt inside my guts. I told him to stop.

Waiting for Lange to stop sobbing I walked around a bit, peering through doors. In complete contrast to the exterior, the inside of Lange’s house was anything but traditional. The furniture, rugs and paintings, of which there were many, were all in the most expensive modern style — the kind that’s easier to look at than to live with.

When eventually I saw that Lange had drawn himself together a bit, I said: ‘This is quite a place. Not my taste perhaps, but then, I’m a little old-fashioned. You know, one of those awkward people with rounded joints, the type that puts personal comfort ahead of the worship of geometry. But I’ll bet you’re really comfortable here. How do you think he’ll like the tank at the Alex, Becker?’

‘What, the lock-up? Very geometric, sir. All those iron bars.’

‘Not forgetting all those bohemian types who’ll be in there and give Berlin its world-famous night-life. The rapists, the murderers, the thieves, the drunks — they get a lot of drunks in the tank, throwing-up everywhere–’

‘It’s really awful, sir, that’s right.’

‘You know, Becker, I don’t think we can put someone like Herr Lange in there. I don’t think he would find it at all to his liking, do you?’

‘You bastards.’

‘I don’t think he’d last the night, sir. Especially if we were to find him something special to wear from his wardrobe. Something artistic, as befits a man of Herr Lange’s sensitivity. Perhaps even a little make-up, eh, sir? He’d look real nice with a bit of lipstick and rouge.’ He chuckled enthusiastically, a natural sadist.

‘I think you had better talk to me, Herr Lange,’ I said.

‘You don’t scare me, you bastards. Do you hear? You don’t scare me.’

‘That’s very unfortunate. Because unlike Kriminalassistant Becker here, I don’t particularly enjoy the prospect of human suffering. But I’m afraid I have no choice. I’d like to do this straight, but quite frankly I just don’t have the time.’

We dragged him upstairs to the bedroom where Becker selected an outfit from Lange’s walk-in wardrobe. When he found some rouge and lipstick Lange roared loudly and took a swing at me.

‘No,’ he yelled. ‘I won’t wear this.’

I caught his fist and twisted his arm behind him.

‘You snivelling little coward. Damn you, Lange, you’ll wear it and like it or so help me we’ll hang you upside down and cut your throat, like all those girls your friends have murdered. And then maybe we’ll just dump your carcass in a beer-barrel, or an old trunk, and see how your mother feels about identifying you after six weeks.’ I handcuffed him and Becker started with the make-up. When he’d finished, Oscar Wilde by comparison would have seemed as unassuming and conservative as a draper’s assistant from Hanover.

‘Come on,’ I growled. ‘Let’s get this Kit-Kat showgirl back to her hotel.’

We had not exaggerated about the night tank at the Alex. It’s probably the same in every big city police station. But since the Alex is a very big city police station indeed, it followed that the tank there is also very big. In fact it is huge, as big as an average cinema theatre, except that there are no seats. Nor are there any bunks, or windows, or ventilation. There’s just the dirty floor, the dirty latrine buckets, the dirty bars, the dirty people and the lice. The Gestapo kept a lot of detainees there for whom there was no room at Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Orpo put the night’s drunks in there to fight, puke, and sleep it off. Kripo used the place like the Gestapo used the canal: as a toilet for its human refuse. A terrible place for a human being. Even one like Reinhard Lange. I had to keep reminding myself of what it was that he and his friends had done, of Emmeline Steininger, sitting in that barrel like so many rotten potatoes. Some of the prisoners whistled and blew kisses when they saw us bring him down, and Lange turned pale with fright.

‘My God, you’re not going to leave me here,’ he said, clutching at my arm.

‘Then unpack it,’ I said. ‘Weisthor, Rahn, Kindermann. A signed statement, and you can get a nice cell to yourself.’

‘I can’t, I can’t. You don’t know what they’ll do to me.’

‘No,’ I said, and nodded at the men behind the bars, ‘but I know what they’ll do to you.’

The lock-up sergeant opened the enormous heavy cage and stood back as Becker pushed him into the tank.

His cries were still ringing in my ears by the time I got back to Steglitz.

Hildegard lay asleep on the sofa, her hair spread across the cushion like the dorsal fin of some exotic golden fish. I sat down, ran my hand across its smooth silkiness, and then kissed her forehead, catching the drink on her breath as I did so. Stirring, her eyes blinked open, sad and crusted with tears. She put her hand on my cheek and then on to the back of my neck, pulling me down to her mouth.

‘I have to talk to you,’ I said, holding back.

She pressed her finger against my lips. ‘I know she’s dead,’ she said. ‘I’ve done all my crying. There’s no more water in the well.’

She smiled sadly, and I kissed each eyelid tenderly, smoothing her scented hair with the palm of my hand, nuzzling at her ear, chewing the side of her neck as her arms held me close, and closer still.

‘You’ve had a ghastly evening too,’ she said gently. ‘Haven’t you, darling?’

‘Ghastly,’ I said.

‘I was worried about you going back to that awful house.’

‘Let’s not talk about it.’

‘Put me to bed, Bernie.’

She put her arms around my neck and I gathered her up, folding her against my body like an invalid and carrying her into the bedroom. I sat her down on the edge of the bed and started to unbutton her blouse. When that was off she sighed and fell back against the quilt: slightly drunk I thought, unzipping her skirt and tugging it smoothly down her stockinged legs. Pulling down her slip I kissed her small breasts, her stomach and then the inside of her thighs. But her pants seemed to be too tight, or caught between her buttocks, and resisted my pulling. I asked her to lift her bottom.

‘Tear them,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Tear them off. Hurt me, Bernie. Use me.’ She spoke with breathless urgency, her thighs opening and closing like the jaws of some enormous praying mantis.

‘Hildegard–’

She struck me hard across the mouth.

‘Listen, damn you. Hurt me when I tell you.’

I caught her wrist as she struck again.

‘I’ve had enough for one evening.’ I caught her other arm. ‘Stop it.’

‘Please, you must.’

I shook my head, but her legs wrapped around my waist and my kidneys winced as her strong thighs squeezed tight.

‘Stop it, for God’s sake.’

‘Hit me, you stupid ugly bastard. Did I tell you that you were stupid, too? A typical bone-headed bull. If you were a man you’d rape me. But you haven’t got it in you, have you?’

‘If it’s a sense of grief you’re after, then we’ll take a drive down to the morgue.’ I shook my head and pushed her thighs apart and then away from me. ‘But not like this. It should be with love.’

She stopped writhing and for a moment seemed to recognize the truth of what I was saying. Smiling, then raising her mouth to me, she spat in my face.

After that there was nothing for it but to leave.

There was a knot in my stomach that was as cold and lonely as my apartment on Fasanenstrasse, and almost immediately I arrived home again I enlisted a bottle of brandy in dissolving it. Someone once said that happiness is that which is negative, the mere abolition of desire and the extinction of pain. The brandy helped a little. But before I dropped off to sleep, still wearing my overcoat and sitting in my armchair, I think I realized just how positively I had been affected.

22

Sunday, 6 November

Survival, especially in these difficult times, has to count as some sort of an achievement. It’s not something that comes easily. Life in Nazi Germany demands that you keep working at it. But, having done that much, you’re left with the problem of giving it some purpose. After all, what good is health and security if your life has no meaning?

This wasn’t just me feeling sorry for myself. Like a lot of other people I genuinely believe that there is always someone who is worse off. In this case however, I knew it for a fact. The Jews were already persecuted, but if Weisthor had his way their suffering was about to be taken to a new extreme. In which case what did that say about them and us together? In what condition was that likely to leave Germany?

It’s true, I told myself, that it was not my concern, and that the Jews had brought it on themselves: but even if that were the case, what was our pleasure beside their pain? Was our life any sweeter at their expense? Did my freedom feel any better as a result of their persecution?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized the urgency not only of stopping the killings, but also of frustrating Weisthor’s declared aim of bringing hell down on Jewish heads, and the more I felt that to do otherwise would leave me degraded in equal measure.

I’m no knight in shining armour. Just a weather-beaten man in a crumpled overcoat on a street corner with only a grey idea of something you might as well go ahead and call Morality. Sure, I’m none too scrupulous about the things that might benefit my pocket, and I could no more inspire a bunch of young thugs to do good works than I could stand up and sing a solo in the church choir. But of one thing I was sure. I was through looking at my fingernails when there were thieves in the store.

I tossed the pile of letters on to the table in front of me.

‘We found these when we searched your house,’ I said.

A very tired and dishevelled Reinhard Lange regarded them without much interest.

‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me how these came to be in your possession?’

‘They’re mine,’ he shrugged. ‘I don’t deny it.’ He sighed and dropped his head on to his hands. ‘Look, I’ve signed your statement. What more do you want? I’ve cooperated, haven’t I?’

‘We’re nearly finished, Reinhard. There’s just a loose end or two I want tied up. Like who killed Klaus Hering.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You’ve got a short memory. He was blackmailing your mother with these letters which he stole from your lover, who also happened to be his employer. He thought she’d be better for the money, I guess. Well, to cut a long story short, your mother hired a private investigator to find out who was squeezing her. That person was me. This was before I went back to being a bull at the Alex. She’s a shrewd lady, your mother, Reinhard. Pity you didn’t inherit some of that from her. Anyway, she thought it possible that you and whoever was blackmailing her might be sexually involved. And so when I found out the name, she wanted you to decide what to do next. Of course she wasn’t to know that you’d already acquired a private investigator in the ugly shape of Rolf Vogelmann. Or at least, Otto Rahn had, using money you provided. Coincidentally, when Rahn was looking around for a business to buy into, he even wrote to me. We never had the pleasure of discussing his proposition, so it took me quite a while to remember his name. Anyway, that’s just by the by.

‘When your mother told you that Hering was blackmailing her, naturally you discussed the matter with Dr Kindermann, and he recommended dealing with the matter yourselves. You and Otto Rahn. After all, what’s one more wet-job when you’ve done so many?’

‘I never killed anyone, I told you that.’

‘But you went along with killing Hering, didn’t you? I expect you drove the car. Probably you even helped Kindermann string up Hering’s dead body and made it look like suicide.’

‘No, it’s not true.’

‘Wearing their SS uniforms, were they?’

He frowned and shook his head. ‘How could you know that?’

‘I found an SS cap badge sticking in the flesh of Hering’s palm. I’ll bet he put up quite a struggle. Tell me, did the man in the car put up much of a fight? The man wearing the eyepatch. The one watching Hering’s apartment. He had to be killed too, didn’t he? Just in case he identified you.’

‘No — ’

‘All nice and neat. Kill him, and make it look like Hering did it, and then get Hering to hang himself in a fit of remorse. Not forgetting to take away the letters of course. Who killed the man in the car? Was that your idea?’

‘No, I didn’t want to be there.’

I grabbed him by the lapels, picked him off his chair and started to slap him. ‘Come on, I’ve had just about enough of your whining. Tell me who killed him or I’ll have you shot within the hour.’

‘Lanz did it. With Rahn. Otto held his arms while Kindermann — he stabbed him. It was horrible. Horrible.’

I let him back down on the chair. He collapsed forward on to the table and started to sob into his forearm.

‘You know, Reinhard, you’re in a pretty tight spot,’ I said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Being there makes you an accomplice to murder. And then there’s you knowing about the murders of all these girls.’

‘I told you,’ he sniffed miserably, ‘they would have killed me. I never went along with it, but I was afraid not to.’

‘That doesn’t explain how you got into this in the first place.’ I picked up Lange’s statement and glanced over it.

‘Don’t think I haven’t asked myself the same question.’

‘And did you come up with any answers?’

‘A man I admired. A man I believed in. He convinced me that what we were doing was for the good of Germany. That it was our duty. It was Kindermann who persuaded me.’

‘They’re not going to like that in court, Reinhard. Kindermann doesn’t play a very convincing Eve to your Adam.’

‘But it’s true, I tell you.’

‘That may be so, but we’re fresh out of fig-leaves. You want a defence, you better think of something to improve on that. That’s good legal advice, you can depend on it. And let me tell you something, you’re going to need all the good advice you can get. Because the way I see it, you’re the only one who’s likely to need a lawyer.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll be straight with you, Reinhard. I’ve got enough in this statement of yours to send you straight to the block. But the rest of them, I don’t know. They’re all SS, acquainted with the Reichsfuhrer. Weisthor’s a personal friend of Himmler’s, and, well, I worry, Reinhard. I worry that you’ll be the scapegoat. That all of them will get away with it in order to avoid a scandal. Of course, they’ll probably have to resign from the SS, but nothing more than that. You’ll be the one who loses his head.’

‘No, it can’t be true.’

I nodded.

‘Now if there was just something else besides your statement. Something that could let you off the hook on the murder charge. Of course, you’d have to take your chances on the Para 175. But you might get away with five years in a KZ, instead of an outright death sentence. You’d still have a chance.’ I paused. ‘So how about it, Reinhard?’

‘All right,’ he said after a minute, ‘there is something.’

‘Talk to me.’

He started hesitantly, not quite sure whether or not he was right to trust me. I wasn’t sure myself.

‘Lanz is Austrian, from Salzburg.’

‘That much I guessed.’

‘He read medicine in Vienna. When he graduated he specialized in nervous diseases and took up a post at the Salzburg Mental Asylum. Which was where he met Weisthor. Or Wiligut, as he called himself in those days.’

‘Was he a doctor too?’

‘God, no. He was a patient. By profession a soldier in the Austrian army. But he is also the last in a long line of German wise men which dates back to prehistoric times. Weisthor possesses ancestral clairvoyant memory which enables him to describe the lives and religious practices of the early German pagans.’

‘How very useful.’

‘Pagans who worshipped the Germanic god Krist, a religion which was later stolen by the Jews as the new gospel of Jesus.’

‘Did they report this theft?’ I lit another cigarette.

‘You wanted to know,’ said Lange.

‘No, no. Please go on. I’m listening.’

‘Weisthor studied runes, of which the swastika is one of the basic forms. In fact, crystal shapes such as the pyramid are all rune types, solar symbols. That’s where the word “crystal” comes from.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘Well, in the early 1920S Weisthor began to exhibit signs of paranoid schizophrenia, believing that he was being victimized by Catholics, Jews and Freemasons. This followed the death of his son, which meant that the line of the Wiligut wise men was broken. He blamed his wife and as time went by, became increasingly violent. Finally he tried to strangle her and was later certified insane. On several occasions during his confinement he tried to murder other inmates. But gradually, under the influence of drug treatment, his mind was brought under control.’

‘And Kindermann was his doctor?’

‘Yes, until Weisthor’s discharge in 1932.’

‘I don’t get it. Kindermann knew Weisthor was a spinner and let him out?’

‘Lanz’s approach to psychotherapy is anti-Freudian, and he saw in Jung’s work material for the history and culture of a race. His field of research has been to investigate the human unconscious mind for spiritual strata that might make possible a reconstruction of the pre-history of cultures. That’s how he came to work with Weisthor. Lanz saw in him the key to his own branch of Jungian psychotherapy, which will, he hopes, enable him to set up, with Himmler’s blessing, his own version of a Goering Research Institute. That’s another psychotherapeutic –’

‘Yes, I know it.’

‘Well, at first the research was genuine. But then he discovered that Weisthor was a fake, that he was using his so-called ancestral clairvoyance as a way of projecting the importance of his ancestors in the eyes of Himmler. But by then it was too late. And there was no price that Lanz would not have paid to make sure of getting his institute.’

‘What does he need an institute for? He’s got the clinic, hasn’t he?’

‘That’s not enough for Lanz. In his own field he wants to be remembered in the same breath as Freud and Jung.’

‘What about Otto Rahn?’

‘Gifted academically, but really little more than a ruthless fanatic. He was a guard in Dachau for a while. That’s the kind of man he is.’ He stopped and chewed his fingernail. ‘Might I have one of those cigarettes, please?’

I tossed him the packet and watched him light one with a hand that trembled as if he had a high fever. To see him smoke it, you would have thought it was pure protein.

‘Is that it?’

He shook his head. ‘Kindermann still has Weisthor’s medical case history, which proves his insanity. Lanz used to say that it was his insurance, to guarantee Weisthor’s loyalty. You see, Himmler can’t abide mental illness. Some nonsense about racial health. So if he were ever to get hold of that case history, then–’

‘ — then the game would be well and truly up.’

‘So what’s the plan, sir?’

‘Himmler, Heydrich, Nebe — they’ve all gone to this SS Court of Honour at Wewelsburg.’

‘Where the hell is Wewelsburg?’ Becker said.

‘It’s quite near Paderborn,’ said Korsch.

‘I propose to go after them. See if I can’t expose Weisthor and the whole dirty business right in front of Himmler. I’ll take Lange along for the ride, just for evidentiary purposes.’

Korsch stood up and went to the door. ‘Right, sir. I’ll get the car.’

‘I’m afraid not. I want you two to stay here.’

Becker groaned loudly. ‘But that’s ridiculous, it really is, sir. It’s asking for trouble.’

‘It may not quite go the way I’m planning. Don’t forget that this Weisthor character is Himmler’s friend. I doubt that the Reichsführer will take too kindly to my revelations. Worse still, he may dismiss them altogether, in which case it would be better if there was only me to take the heat. After all, he can hardly kick me off the force, since I’m only on it for as long as this case lasts and then I’m back to my own business.

‘But you two have careers ahead of you. Not very promising careers, it’s true.’ I grinned. ‘All the same, it would be a shame for you both to earn Himmler’s displeasure when I can just as easily do that on my own.’

Korsch exchanged a short look with Becker, and then replied: ‘Come on, sir, don’t give us that cold cabbage. It’s dangerous, what you’re planning. We know it, and you know it too.’

‘Not only that,’ Becker said, ‘but how will you get there with a prisoner? Who’ll drive the car?’

‘That’s right, sir. It’s over three hundred kilometres to Wewelsburg.’

‘I’ll take a staff car.’

‘Suppose Lange tries something on the way?’

‘He’ll be handcuffed, so I doubt I’ll have any trouble from him.’ I shook my head and collected my hat and coat from the rack. ‘I’m sorry, boys, but that’s the way it’s got to be.’ I walked to the door.

‘Sir?’ said Korsch. He held out his hand. I shook it. Then I shook Becker’s. Then I went to collect my prisoner.

Kindermann’s clinic looked just as neat and well-behaved as it had the first time I’d been there, in late August. If anything, it seemed quieter, with no rooks in the trees and no boat on the lake to disturb them. There was just the sound of the wind and the dead leaves it blew across the path like so many flying locusts.

I placed my hand in the small of Lange’s back and pushed him firmly towards the front door.

‘This is most embarrassing,’ he said. ‘Coming here in handcuffs, like a common criminal. I’m well known here, you know.’

‘A common criminal is what you are, Lange. Want me to put a towel over your ugly head?’ I pushed him again. ‘Listen, it’s only my good nature that stops me from marching you in there with your prick hanging out of your trousers.’

‘What about my civil rights?’

‘Shit, where have you been for the last five years? This is Nazi Germany, not ancient Athens. Now shut your fucking mouth.’

A nurse met us in the hallway. She started to say hallo to Lange and then saw the handcuffs. I flapped my ID in front of her startled features.

‘Police,’ I said. ‘I have a warrant to search Dr Kindermann’s office.’ This was true: I’d signed it myself. Only the nurse had been in the same holiday camp as Lange.

‘I don’t think you can just walk in there,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to — ’

‘Lady, a few weeks ago that little swastika you see on my identity card there was considered sufficient authority for German troops to march into the Sudetenland. So you can bet it will let me march into the good doctor’s underpants if I want it to.’ I shoved Lange forward again. ‘Come on, Reinhard, show me the way.’

Kindermann’s office was at the back of the clinic. As an apartment in town it would have been considered to be on the small side, but as a doctor’s private room it was just fine. There was a long, low couch, a nice walnut desk, a couple of big modern paintings of the kind that look like the inside of a monkey’s mind, and enough expensively bound books to explain the country’s shoe-leather shortage.

‘Take a seat where I can keep an eye on you, Reinhard,’ I told him. ‘And don’t make any sudden moves. I scare easily and then get violent to cover my embarrassment. What’s the word the rattle-doctors use for that?’ There was a large filing cabinet by the window. I opened it and started to leaf through Kindermann’s files. ‘Compensatory behaviour,’ I said. ‘That’s two words, but I guess that’s what it is all right.

‘You know, you wouldn’t believe some of the names that your friend Kindermann has treated. This filing cabinet reads like the guest list at a Reich Chancellery gala night. Wait a minute, this looks like your file.’ I picked it out and tossed it on to his lap. ‘Why don’t you see what he wrote about you, Reinhard? Perhaps it will explain how you got yourself in with these bastards in the first place.’

He stared at the unopened file.

‘It really is very simple,’ he said quietly. ‘As I explained to you earlier on, I became interested in the psychic sciences as a result of my friendship with Dr Kindermann.’ He raised his face to me challengingly.

‘I’ll tell you why you got yourself involved,’ I said, grinning back at him. ‘You were bored. With all your money you don’t know what to be at next. That’s the trouble with your kind, the kind that’s born into money. You never learn its value. They knew that, Reinhard, and they played you for Johann Simple.’

‘It won’t work, Gunther. You’re talking rubbish.’

‘Am I? You’ve read the file then. You’ll know that for sure.’

‘A patient ought never to see his doctor’s case notes. It would be unethical of me to even open this.’

‘It occurs to me that you’ve seen a lot more than just your doctor’s case notes, Reinhard. And Kindermann learnt his ethics with the Holy Inquisition.’

I turned back to the filing cabinet and fell silent as I came across another name I recognized. The name of a girl I had once wasted a couple of months trying to find. A girl who had once been important to me. I’ll admit that I was even in love with her. The job is like that sometimes. A person vanishes without trace, the world moves on, and you find a piece of information that at the right time would have cracked the case wide open. Aside of the obvious irritation you feel at remembering how wide of the mark you’d really been, mostly you learn to live with it. My business doesn’t exactly suit those who are disposed to be neat. Being a private investigator leaves you holding more loose ends than a blind carpet-weaver. All the same, I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t admit to finding some satisfaction in tying them off. Yet this name, the name of the girl that Arthur Nebe had mentioned to me all those weeks ago when we met late one night in the ruins of the Reichstag, meant so much more than just satisfaction in finding a belated solution to an enigma. There are times when discovery has the force of revelation.

‘The bastard,’ said Lange, turning the pages of his own case notes.

‘I was thinking the same thing myself.’

‘“A neurotic effeminate”,’ he quoted. ‘Me. How could he think such a thing about me?’

I moved down to the next drawer, only half listening to what he was saying.

‘You tell me, he’s your friend.’

‘How could he say these things? I don’t believe it.’

‘Come on, Reinhard. You know how it is when you swim with the sharks. You’ve got to expect to get your balls bitten once in a while.’

‘I’ll kill him,’ he said, flinging the case notes across the office.

‘Not before I do,’ I said, finding Weisthor’s file at last. I slammed the drawer shut. ‘Right. I’ve got it. Now we can get out of this place.’

I was about to reach for the door-handle when a heavy revolver came through the door, followed closely by Lanz Kindermann.

‘Would you mind telling me what the hell’s going on here?’

I stepped back into the room. ‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ I said. ‘We were just talking about you. We thought you might have gone to your Bible class in Wewelsburg. Incidentally, I’d be careful with that gun if I were you. My men have got this place under surveillance. They’re very loyal, you know. That’s the way we are in the police these days. I’d hate to think what they’d do if they found out that some harm had come to me.’

Kindermann glanced at Lange, who hadn’t moved, and then at the files under my arm.

‘I don’t know what your game is, Herr Steininger, if that is your real name, but I think that you had better put those down on the desk and raise your hands, don’t you?’

I laid the files down on the desk and started to say something about having a warrant, but Reinhard Lange had already taken the initiative, if that’s what you call it when you’re misguided enough to throw yourself on to a man who is holding a 45-calibre pistol cocked on you. His first three or four words of bellowing outrage ended abruptly as the deafening gunshot blasted the side of his neck away. Gurgling horribly, Lange twisted around like a whirling dervish, grasping frantically at his neck with his still-manacled hands, and decorating the wallpaper with red roses as he fell to the floor.

Kindermann’s hands were better suited to the violin than something as big as the 45, and with the hammer down you need a carpenter’s forefinger to work a trigger that heavy, so there was plenty of time for me to collect the bust of Dante that sat on Kindermann’s desk and smash it into several pieces against the side of his head.

With Kindermann unconscious, I looked round to where Lange had curled himself into the corner. With his bloody forearm pressed against what remained of his jugular, he stayed alive for only a minute or so, and then died without speaking another word.

I removed the handcuffs and was transferring them to the groaning Kindermann when, summoned by the shot, two nurses burst into the office and stared in terror at the scene that met their eyes. I wiped my hands on Kindermann’s necktie and then went over to the desk.

‘Before you ask, your boss here just shot his pansy friend.’ I picked up the telephone. ‘Operator, get me Police Headquarters, Alexanderplatz, please.’ I watched one nurse search for Lange’s pulse and the other help Kindermann on to the couch as I waited to be connected.

‘He’s dead,’ said the first nurse. Both of them stared suspiciously at me.

‘This is Kommissar Gunther,’ I said to the operator at the Alex. ‘Connect me with Kriminalassistant Korsch or Becker in the Murder Commission as quickly as possible, if you please.’ After another short wait Becker came on to the line.

‘I’m at Kindermann’s clinic,’ I explained. ‘We stopped to pick up the medical case history on Weisthor and Lange managed to get himself killed. He lost his temper and a piece of his neck. Kindermann was carrying a lighter.’

‘Want me to organize the meat wagon?’

‘That’s the general idea, yes. Only I won’t be here when it comes. I’m sticking to my original plan, except that now I’m taking Kindermann along with me instead of Lange.’

‘All right, sir. Leave it to me. Oh, incidentally, Frau Steininger called.’

‘Did she leave a message?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘No, sir. Sir, you know what that one needs, if you don’t mind me saying?’

‘Try and surprise me.’

‘I reckon that she needs–’

‘On second thoughts, don’t bother.’

‘Well, you know the type, sir.’

‘Not exactly, Becker, no. But while I’m driving I’ll certainly give it some thought. You can depend on it.’

I drove west out of Berlin, following the yellow signs indicating long-distance traffic, heading towards Potsdam and beyond it, to Hanover.

The autobahn branches off from the Berlin circular road at Lehnin, leaving the old town of Brandenburg to the north, and beyond Zeisar, the ancient town of the Bishops of Brandenburg, the road runs west in a straight line.

After a while I was aware of Kindermann sitting upright in the back seat of the Mercedes.

‘Where are we going?’ he said dully.

I glanced over my right shoulder. With his hands manacled behind his back I didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to try hitting me with his head. Especially now it was bandaged, something the two nurses from the clinic had insisted on doing before allowing me to drive the doctor away.

‘Don’t you recognize the road?’ I said. ‘We’re on our way to a little town south of Paderborn. Wewelsburg. I’m sure you know it. I didn’t think you would want to miss your S S Court of Honour on my account.’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw him smile and settle back in the rear seat, or at least, as well as he was able to.

‘That suits me fine.’

‘You know, you’ve really inconvenienced me, Herr Doktor. Shooting my star witness like that. He was going to give a special performance for Himmler. It’s lucky he made a written statement back at the Alex. And, of course, you’ll have to understudy.’

He laughed. ‘And what makes you think I’ll take to that role?’

‘I’d hate to think what might happen if you were to disappoint me.’

‘Looking at you, I’d say you were used to being disappointed.’

‘Perhaps. But I doubt my disappointment will even compare with Himmler’s.’

‘My life is in no danger from the Reichsfuhrer, I can assure you.’

‘I wouldn’t place too much reliance on your rank or your uniform if I were you, Hauptsturmfuhrer. You’ll shoot just as easily as Ernst Röhm and all those SA men did.’

‘I knew Röhm quite well,’ he said smoothly. ‘We were good friends. It may interest you to know that that’s a fact which is well-known to Himmler, with all that such a relationship implies.’

‘You’re saying he knows you’re a queer?’

‘Certainly. If I survived the Night of Long Knives, I think I can manage to cope with whatever inconvenience you’ve arranged for me, don’t you?’

‘The Reichsfuhrer will be pleased to read Lange’s letters, then. If only to confirm what he already knows. Never underestimate the importance to a policeman of confirming information. I dare say he knows all about Weisthor’s insanity as well, right?’

‘What was insanity ten years ago merely counts as a treatable nervous disorder today. Psychotherapy has come a long way in a short time. Do you seriously believe that Herr Weisthor can be the first senior SS officer to be treated? I’m a consultant at a special orthopaedic hospital at Hohenlychen, near Ravensbruck concentration camp, where many S S staff officers are treated for the prevailing euphemism that describes mental illness. You know, you surprise me. As a policeman you ought to know how skilled the Reich is in the practice of such convenient hypocrisies. Here you are hurrying to create a great big firework display for the Reichsfuhrer with a couple of rather damp little crackers. He will be disappointed.’

‘I like listening to you, Kindermann. I always like to see another man’s work. I bet you’re great with all those rich widows who bring their menstrual depressions to your fancy clinic. Tell me, for how many of them do you prescribe cocaine?’

‘Cocaine hydrochloride has always been used as a stimulant to combat the more extreme cases of depression.’

‘How do you stop them becoming addicted?’

‘It’s true there is always that risk. One has to be watchful for any sign of drug dependency. That’s my job.’ He paused. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious, Herr Doktor. That’s my job.’

At Hohenwarhe, north of Magdeburg, we crossed the Elbe by a bridge, beyond which, on the right, could be seen the lights of the almost completed Rothensee Ship Elevator, designed to connect the Elbe with the Mittelland Canal some twenty metres above it. Soon we had passed into the next state of Niedersachsen, and at Helmstedt we stopped for a rest, and to pick up some petroleum.

It was getting dark and looking at my watch I saw that it was almost seven o’clock. Having chained one of Kindermann’s hands to the door handle, I allowed him to take a pee, and attended to my own needs at a short distance. Then I pushed the spare wheel into the back seat beside Kindermann and handcuffed it to his left wrist, which left one hand free. The Mercedes is a big car, however, and he was far enough behind me not to worry about. All the same, I removed the Walther from my shoulder-holster, showed it to him and then laid it beside me on the big bench seat.

‘You’ll be more comfortable like that,’ I said. ‘But so much as pick your nose and you’ll get this.’ I started the car and drove on.

‘What is the hurry?’ Kindermann said exasperatedly. ‘I fail to understand why you’re doing this. You could just as easily stage your performance on Monday, when everyone arrives back in Berlin. I really don’t see the need to drive all this way.’

‘It’ll be too late by then, Kindermann. Too late to stop the special pogrom that your friend Weisthor’s got planned for Berlin’s Jews. Project Krist, isn’t that what it’s called?’

‘Ah, you know about that do you? You have been busy. Don’t tell me that you’re a Jew-lover.’

‘Let’s just say that I don’t much care for lynch-law, and rule by the mob. That’s why I became a policeman.’

‘To uphold justice?’

‘If you want to call it that, yes.’

‘You’re deluding yourself. What rules is force. Human will. And to build that collective will it must be given a focus. What we are doing is no more than a child does with a magnifying-glass when it concentrates the light of the sun on to a sheet of paper and causes it to catch alight. We are merely using a power that already exists. Justice would be a wonderful thing were it not for men. Herr–? Look here, what is your name?’

‘The name is Gunther, and you can spare me the Party propaganda.’

‘These are facts, Gunther, not propaganda. You’re an anachronism, do you know that? You are out of your time.’

‘From the little history I know it seems to me that justice is never very fashionable, Kindermann. If I’m out of my time, if I’m out of step with the will of the people, as you describe it, then I’m glad. The difference between us is that whereas you wish to use their will, I want to see it curbed.’

‘You’re the worst kind of idealist: you’re naive. Do you really think that you can stop what’s happening to the Jews? You’ve missed that boat. The newspapers already have the story about Jewish ritual murder in Berlin. I doubt that Himmler and Heydrich could prevent what is going on even if they wanted to.’

‘I might not be able to stop it,’ I said, ‘but perhaps I can try and get it postponed.’

‘And even if you do manage to persuade Himmler to consider your evidence, do you seriously think that he’ll welcome his stupidity being made public? I doubt you’ll get much in the way of justice from the Reichsführer-SS. He’ll just sweep it under the carpet and in a short while it will all be forgotten. As will the Jews. You mark my words. People in this country have very short memories.’

‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I never forget. I’m a fucking elephant. Take this other patient of yours, for instance.’ I picked up one of the two files I had brought with me from Kindermann’s office and tossed it back over the seat. ‘You see, until quite recently I was a private detective. And what do you know? It turns out that even though you’re a lump of shit we have something in common. Your patient there was a client of mine.’

He switched on the courtesy light and picked up the file.

‘Yes, I remember her.’

‘A couple of years ago, she disappeared. It so happens she was in the vicinity of your clinic at the time. I know that because she parked my car near there. Tell me, Herr Doktor, what does your friend Jung have to say about coincidence?’

‘Er ... meaningful coincidence, I suppose you mean. It’s a principle he calls synchronicity: that a certain apparently coincidental event might be meaningful according to an unconscious knowledge linking a physical event with a psychic condition. It’s quite difficult to explain in terms that you would understand. But I fail to see how this coincidence could be meaningful.’

‘No, of course you don’t. You have no knowledge of my unconscious. Perhaps that’s just as well.’

He was quiet for a long while after that.

North of Brunswick we crossed the Mittelland Canal, where the autobahn ended, and I drove south-west towards Hildesheim and Hamelin.

‘Not far now,’ I said across my shoulder. There was no reply. I pulled off the main road and drove slowly for several minutes down a narrow path that led into an area of woodland.

I stopped the car and looked around. Kindermann was dozing quietly. With a trembling hand I lit a cigarette and got out. A strong wind was blowing now and an electrical storm was firing silver lifelines across the rumbling black sky. Maybe they were for Kindermann.

After a minute or two I leant back across the front seat and picked up my gun. Then I opened the rear door and shook Kindermann by the shoulder.

‘Come on,’ I said, handing him the key to the handcuffs, ‘we’re going to stretch our legs again.’ I pointed down the path which lay before us, illuminated by the big headlights of the Mercedes. We walked to the edge of the beam where I stopped.

‘Right that’s far enough,’ I said. He turned to face me. ‘Synchronicity. I like that. A nice fancy word for something that’s been gnawing at my guts for a long time. I’m a private man, Kindermann. Doing what I do makes me value my own privacy all the more. For instance, I would never ever write my home telephone number on the back of my business card. Not unless that someone was very special to me. So when I asked Reinhard Lange’s mother just how she came to hire me in the first place instead of some other fellow, she showed me just such a card, which she got out of Reinhard’s jacket pocket before sending his suit to the cleaners. Naturally I began to start thinking. When she saw the card she was worried that he might be in trouble, and mentioned it to him. He said that he picked it off your desk. I wonder if he had a reason for doing that. Perhaps not. We’ll never know, I guess. But whatever the reason, that card put my client in your office on the day she disappeared and was never seen again. Now how’s that for synchronicity?’

‘Look, Gunther, it was an accident, what happened. She was an addict.’

‘And how did she get that way?’

‘I’d been treating her for depression. She’d lost her job. A relationship had ended. She needed cocaine more than seemed apparent at the time. There was absolutely no way of knowing just by looking at her. By the time I realized she was getting used to the drug, it was too late.’

‘What happened?’

‘One afternoon she just turned up at the clinic. In the neighbourhood, she said, and feeling low. There was a job she was going for, an important job, and she felt that she could get it if I gave her a little help. At first I refused. But she was a very persuasive woman, and finally I agreed. I left her alone for a short while. I think she hadn’t used it in a long time, and had less tolerance to her usual dose. She must have aspirated on her own vomit.’

I said nothing. It was the wrong context for it to mean anything anymore. Revenge is not sweet. Its true flavour is bitter, since pity is the most probable aftertaste.

‘What are you going to do?’ he said nervously. ‘You’re not going to kill me, surely. Look, it was an accident. You can’t kill a man for that, can you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t. Not for that.’ I saw him breathe a sigh of relief and walk towards me. ‘In a civilized society you don’t shoot a man in cold blood.’

Except that this was Hitler’s Germany, and no more civilized than the very pagans venerated by Weisthor and Himmler.

‘But for the murders of all those poor bloody girls, somebody has to,’ I said.

I pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger once; and then several times more.

From the narrow winding road, Wewelsburg looked like a fairly typical Westphalian peasant village, with as many shrines to the Virgin Mary on the walls and grass verges as there were pieces of farm-machinery left lying outside the half-timbered, fairy-story houses. I knew I was in for something weird when I decided to stop at one of these and ask for directions to the SS-School. The flying griffins, runic symbols and ancient words of German that were carved or painted in gold on the black window casements and lintels put me in mind of witches and wizards, and so I was almost prepared for the hideous sight that presented itself at the front door, wreathed in an atmosphere of wood smoke and frying veal.

The girl was young, no more than twenty-five and but for the huge cancer eating away at one whole side of her face, you might have said that she was attractive. I hesitated for no more than a second, but it was enough to draw her anger.

‘Well? What are you staring at?’ she demanded, her distended mouth, widening to a grimace that showed her blackened teeth, and the edge of something darker and more corrupt. ‘And what time is this to be calling? What is it that you want?’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I said, concentrating on the side of her face that was unmarked by the disease, ‘but I’m a little lost, and I was hoping you could direct me to the SS-School.’

‘There’s no school in Wewelsburg,’ she said, eyeing me suspiciously.

‘The SS-School,’ I repeated weakly. ‘I was told it was somewhere hereabouts.’

‘Oh that,’ she snapped, and turning in her doorway she pointed to where the road dipped down a hill. ‘There is your way. The road bends right and left for a short way before you see a narrower road with a railing rising up a slope to your left.’ Laughing scornfully, she added, ‘The school, as you call it, is up there.’ And with that she slammed the door shut in my face.

It was good to be out of the city, I told myself walking back to the Mercedes. Country people have so much more time for the ordinary pleasantries.

I found the road with the railing, and steered the big car up the slope and on to a cobbled esplanade.

It was easy enough to see now why the girl with the piece of coal in her mouth had been so amused, for what met my eyes was no more what one would normally have recognized as a schoolhouse, than a zoo was a pet-shop, or a cathedral a meeting hall. Himmler’s schoolhouse was in reality a decent-sized castle, complete with domed towers, one of which loomed over the esplanade like the helmeted head of some enormous Prussian soldier.

I drew up next to a small church a short distance away from the several troop trucks and staff cars that were parked outside what looked like the castle guard-house on the eastern side. For a moment the storm lit up the entire sky and I had a spectral black-and-white view of the whole of the castle.

By any standard it was an impressive-looking place, with rather more of the horror film about it than was entirely comfortable a proposition for the intendant trespasser. This so-called schoolhouse looked like home from home for Dracula, Frankenstein, Orlac and a whole forestful of Wolfmen — the sort of occasion where I might have been prompted to re-load my pistol with nine millimetre cloves of snub-nosed garlic.

Almost certainly there were enough real-life monsters in the Wewelsburg Castle without having to worry about the more fanciful ones, and I didn’t doubt that Himmler could have given Doctor X quite a few pointers.

But could I trust Heydrich? I thought about this for quite a while. Finally I decided that I could almost certainly trust him to be ambitious, and since I was effectively providing him with the means of destroying an enemy in the shape of Weisthor, I had no real alternative but to put myself and my information in his murdering white hands.

The little church bell in the clock-tower was striking midnight as I steered the Mercedes to the edge of the esplanade and beyond it, the bridge curving left across the empty moat towards the castle gate.

An S S trooper emerged from a stone sentry-box to glance at my papers and to wave me on.

In front of the wooden gate I stopped and sounded the car horn a couple of times. There were lights on all over the castle, and it didn’t seem likely that I’d be waking anyone, dead or alive. A small door in the gate swung open and an S S corporal came outside to speak to me. After scrutinizing my papers in his torchlight, he allowed me to step through the door and into the arched gateway where once again I repeated my story and presented my papers, only this time it was for the benefit of a young lieutenant apparently in command of the guard-duty.

There is only one way to deal effectively with arrogant young SS officers who look as though they’ve been specially issued with the right shade of blue eyes and fair hair, and that is to outdo them for arrogance. So I thought of the man I had killed that evening, and fixed the lieutenant with the sort of cold, supercilious stare that would have crushed a Hohenzollern prince.

‘I am Kommissar Gunther,’ I rapped at him, ‘and I’m here on extremely pressing Sipo business affecting Reich security, which requires the immediate attention of General Heydrich. Please inform him at once that I am here. You’ll find that he is expecting me, even to the extent that he has seen fit to provide me with the password to the castle during these Court of Honour proceedings.’ I uttered the word and watched the lieutenant’s arrogance pay homage to my own.

‘Let me stress the delicacy of my mission, lieutenant,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘It is imperative that at this stage only General Heydrich or his aide be informed of my presence here in the castle. It is quite possible that Communist spies may already have infiltrated these proceedings. Do you understand?’

The lieutenant nodded curtly and ducked back into his office to make the telephone call, while I walked to the edge of the cobbled courtyard that lay open to the cold night sky.

The castle seemed smaller from the inside, with three roofed wings joined by three towers, two of them domed, and the short but wider third, castellated and furnished with a flagpole where an SS penant fluttered noisily in the strengthening wind.

The lieutenant came back and to my surprise stood to attention with a click of his heels. I guessed that this probably had more to do with what Heydrich or his aide had said than with my own commanding personality.

‘Kommissar Gunther,’ he said respectfully, ‘the general is finishing dinner and asks you to wait in the sitting-room. That is in the west tower. Would you please follow me? The corporal will attend to your vehicle.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ I said, ‘but first I have to remove some important documents that I left on the front seat.’

Having recovered my briefcase, which contained Weisthor’s medical case-history, Lange’s statement and the Lange-Kindermann letters, I followed the lieutenant across the cobbled courtyard towards the west wing. From somewhere to our left could be heard the sound of men singing.

‘Sounds like quite a party,’ I said coldly. My escort grunted without much enthusiasm. Any kind of party is better than late-night guard-duty in November. We went through a heavy oak door and entered the great hall.

All German castles should be so Gothic; every Teutonic warlord should live and strut in such a place; each inquisitorial Aryan bully should surround himself with as many emblems of unsparing tyranny. Aside from the great heavy rugs, the thick tapestries and the dull paintings, there were enough suits of armour, musket-stands and wall-mounted cutlery to have fought a war with King Gustavus Adolphus and the whole Swedish army.

In contrast, the sitting-room, which we reached by a wooden spiral staircase, was furnished plainly and commanded a spectacular view of a small airfield’s landing lights a couple of kilometres away.

‘Help yourself to a drink,’ said the lieutenant, opening the cabinet. ‘If there’s anything else you need, sir, just ring the bell.’ Then he clicked his heels again and disappeared back down the staircase.

I poured myself a large brandy and tossed it straight back. I was tired after the long drive. With another glass in my hand I sat stiffly in an armchair and closed my eyes. I could still see the startled expression on Kindermann’s face as the first bullet struck between the eyes. Weisthor would be missing him and his bag of drugs badly by now, I thought. I could have used an armful myself.

I sipped some more of the brandy. Ten minutes passed and I felt my head nodding.

I fell asleep and my nightmare’s terrifying gallop brought me before beast men, preachers of death, scarlet judges and the outcasts of paradise.

23

Monday, 7 November

By the time I finished telling Heydrich my story the general’s normally pale features were flushed with excitement.

‘I congratulate you, Gunther,’ he said. ‘This is much more than I had expected. And your timing is perfect. Don’t you agree, Nebe?’

‘Yes indeed, General.’

‘It may surprise you, Gunther,’ Heydrich said, ‘but Reichsführer Himmler and myself are currently in favour of maintaining police protection for Jewish property, if only for reasons of public order and commerce. You let a mob run riot on the streets and it won’t just be Jewish shops that are looted, it will be German ones too. To say nothing of the fact that the damage will have to be made good by German insurance companies. Goering will be beside himself. And who can blame him? The whole idea makes a mockery of any economic planning.

‘But as you say, Gunther, were Himmler to be convinced by Weisthor’s scheme then he would certainly be inclined to waive that police protection. In which case I should have to go along with that position. So we have to be careful how we handle this. Himmler is a fool, but he’s a dangerous fool. We have to expose Weisthor unequivocally, and in front of as many witnesses as possible.’ He paused. ‘Nebe?’

The Reichskriminaldirektor stroked the side of his long nose and nodded thoughtfully.

‘We shouldn’t mention Himmler’s involvement at all, if we can possibly avoid it, General,’ he said. ‘I’m all for exposing Weisthor in front of witnesses. I don’t want that dirty bastard to get away with it. But at the same time we should avoid embarrassing the Reichsfuhrer in front of the senior SS staff. He’ll forgive us destroying Weisthor, but he won’t forgive us making an ass of him.’

‘I agree,’ said Heydrich. He thought for a moment. ‘This is Sipo section six, isn’t it?’ Nebe nodded. ‘Where’s the nearest SD main provincial station to Wewelsburg?’

‘Bielefeld,’ Nebe replied.

‘Right. I want you to telephone them immediately. Have them send a full company of men here by dawn.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Just in case Weisthor manages to make this Jew allegation against me stick. I don’t like this place. Weisthor has lots of friends here in Wewelsburg. He even officiates at some of the ludicrous SS wedding ceremonies that take place here. So we might need to mount a show of force.’

‘The castle commandant, Taubert, was in Sipo prior to this posting,’ said Nebe. ‘I’m pretty certain we can trust him.’

‘Good. But don’t tell him about Weisthor. Just stick to Gunther’s original story about KPD infiltrators and have him keep a detachment of men on full alert. And while you’re about it, you’d better have him organize a bed for the Kommissar. By God, he’s earned it.’

‘The room next to mine is free, General. I think it’s the Henry I of Saxony Room.’ Nebe grinned.

‘Madness,’ Heydrich laughed. ‘I’m in the King Arthur and the Grail Room. But who knows? Perhaps today I shall at least defeat Morgana le Fay.’

The courtroom was on the ground floor of the west wing. With the door to one of the adjoining rooms open a crack, I had a perfect view of what went on in there.

The room itself was over forty metres long, with a bare, polished wooden floor, panelled walls and a high ceiling complete with oak beams and carved gargoyles. Dominating was a long oak table that was surrounded on all four sides with high-backed leather chairs, on each of which was a silver disk and what I presumed to be the name of the SS officer who was entitled to sit there. With the black uniforms and all the ritualistic ceremony that attended the commencement of the court proceedings, it was like spying on a meeting of the Grand Lodge of Freemasons.

First on the agenda that morning was the Reichsführer’s approval of plans for the development of the derelict north tower. These were presented by Landbaumeister Bartels, a fat, owlish little man who sat between Weisthor and Rahn. Weisthor himself seemed nervous and was quite obviously feeling the lack of his cocaine.

When the Reichsfuhrer asked him his opinion of the plans, Weisthor stammered his answer: ‘In, er . . . in terms of the, er . . . cult importance of the . . . er . . . castle,’ he said, ‘and, er ... its magical importance in any, er ... in any future conflict between, er . . . East and West, er . . .’

Heydrich interrupted, and it was immediately apparent that it was not to help the Brigadefuhrer.

‘Reichsführer,’ he said coolly, ‘since this is a court, and since we are all of us listening to the Brigadefuhrer with enormous fascination, it would I believe be unfair to you all to permit him to go any further without acquainting you of the very serious charges that have to be made against him and his colleague, Unterscharfuhrer Rahn.’

‘What charges are these?’ said Himmler with some distaste. ‘I know nothing of any charges pending against Weisthor. Nor even of any investigation affecting him.’

‘That is because there was no investigation of Weisthor. However, a completely separate inquiry has revealed Weisthor’s principal role in an odious conspiracy that has resulted in the perverted murders of seven innocent German schoolgirls.’

‘Reichsführer,’ roared Weisthor, ‘I protest. This is monstrous.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Heydrich, ‘and you are the monster.’

Weisthor rose to his feet, his whole body shaking.

‘You lying little kike,’ he spat.

Heydrich merely smiled a lazy little smile. ‘Kommissar,’ he said loudly, ‘would you please come in here now?’

I walked slowly into the room, my shoes sounding on the wooden floor like some nervous actor about to audition for a play. Every head turned as I came in, and as fifty of the most powerful men in Germany focused their eyes on me, I could have wished to have been anywhere else but there. Weisthor’s jaw dropped as Himmler half rose to his feet.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Himmler growled.

‘Some of you probably know this gentleman as Herr Steininger,’ Heydrich said smoothly, ‘the father of one of the murdered girls. Except that he is nothing of the kind. He works for me. Tell them who you really are, Gunther.’

‘Kriminalkommissar Bernhard Gunther, Murder Commission, Berlin-Alexanderplatz.’

‘And tell these officers, if you will, why you have come here.’

‘To arrest one Karl Maria Weisthor, also known as Karl Maria Wiligut, also known as Jarl Widar; Otto Rahn; and Richard Anders, all for the murders of seven girls in Berlin between 23 May and 29 September 1938.’

‘Liar,’ Rahn shouted, jumping to his feet, along with another officer whom I supposed to be Anders.

‘Sit down,’ said Himmler. ‘I take it that you believe that you can prove this, Kommissar?’ If I’d been Karl Marx himself he couldn’t have regarded me with more hatred.

‘I believe I can, sir, yes.’

‘This had better not be one of your tricks, Heydrich,’ Himmler said.

‘A trick, Reichsführer?’ he said innocently. ‘If it’s tricks you’re looking for, these two evil men had them all. They sought to pass themselves off as mediums, to persuade weaker-minded people that it was the spirits who were informing them where the bodies of the girls they themselves had murdered were hidden away. And but for Kommissar Gunther here, they would have attempted the same insane trick with this company of officers.’

‘Reichsführer,’ Weisthor spluttered, ‘this is utterly preposterous.’

‘Where is the proof you mentioned, Heydrich?’

‘I said insane. I meant exactly that. Naturally there is no one here who could have fallen for such a ludicrous scheme as theirs. However, it is characteristic of those who are insane to believe in the right of what they are doing.’ He retrieved the file containing Weisthor’s medical case history from underneath his sheaf of papers and laid it in front of Himmler.

‘These are the medical case notes of Karl Maria Wiligut, also known as Karl Maria Weisthor, which until recently were in the possession of his doctor, Hauptsturmfuhrer Lanz Kindermann–’

‘No,’ yelled Weisthor, and lunged for the file.

‘Restrain that man,’ screamed Himmler. Immediately the two officers standing beside Weisthor caught him by the arms. Rahn reached for his holster, only I was quicker, working the Mauser’s slide as I laid the muzzle against his head.

‘Touch it and I’ll ventilate your brain,’ I said, and then relieved him of his gun.

Heydrich carried on, apparently undisturbed by any of this commotion. You had to hand it to him: he was as cool as a North Sea salmon, and just as slippery.

‘In November 1924, Wiligut was committed to a lunatic asylum in Salzburg for the attempted murder of his wife. Upon examination he was declared insane and remained institutionalized under the care of Dr Kindermann until 1932. Following his release he changed his name to Weisthor, and the rest you undoubtedly know, Reichsfuhrer.’

Himmler glanced at the file for a minute or so. Finally he sighed and said: ‘Is this true, Karl?’

Weisthor, held between two SS officers, shook his head.

‘I swear it’s a lie, on my honour as a gentleman and an officer.’

‘Roll up his left sleeve,’ I said. ‘The man is a drug addict. For years Kindermann has been giving him cocaine and morphine.’

Himmler nodded at the men holding Weisthor, and when they revealed his horribly black-and-blue forearm, I added: ‘If you’re still not convinced, I have a twenty-page statement made by Reinhard Lange.’

Himmler kept on nodding. He stepped round his chair to stand in front of his Brigadeführer, the sage of the SS, and slapped him hard across the face, then again.

‘Get him out of my sight,’ he said. ‘He is confined to quarters until further notice. Rahn. Anders. That goes for you too.’ He raised his voice to an almost hysterical pitch. ‘Get out, I say. You are no longer members of this order. All three of you will return your Deaths Head rings, your daggers and your swords. I shall decide what to do with you later.’

Arthur Nebe called the guard that was waiting in readiness and, when they appeared, ordered them to escort the three men to their rooms.

By now almost every SS officer at the table was openmouthed with astonishment. Only Heydrich stayed calm, his long face betraying no more sign of the undoubted satisfaction he was feeling at the sight of his enemies’ rout than if he had been made of wax.

With Weisthor, Rahn and Anders sent out under guard, all eyes were now on Himmler. Unfortunately, his eyes were very much on me, and I holstered my gun feeling that the drama had yet to end. For several uncomfortable seconds he simply stared, no doubt remembering how at Weisthor’s house I had seen him, the Reichsführer-SS and Chief of the German Police, gullible, fooled, sold — fallible. For the man who saw himself in the role of the Nazi Pope to Hitler’s Antichrist, it was too much to bear. Placing himself close enough to me to smell the cologne on his closely shaven, punctilious little face, and blinking furiously, his mouth twisted into a rictus of hatred, he kicked me hard on the shin.

I grunted with pain, but stood still, almost to attention.

‘You’ve ruined everything,’ he said, shaking. ‘Everything. Do you hear?’

‘I did my job,’ I growled. I think he might have booted me again but for Heydrich’s timely interruption.

‘I can certainly vouch for that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps, under the circumstances, it would be best if this court were postponed for an hour or so, at least until you’ve had a chance to recover your composure, Reichsfuhrer. The discovery of so gross a treason within a forum that is as close to the Reichsführer’s heart as this one will doubtless have come as a profound shock to him. As indeed it has been to us all.’

There was a murmur of agreement at these remarks, and Himmler seemed to regain control of himself. Colouring a little, possibly with some embarrassment, he twitched and nodded curtly.

‘You’re quite right, Heydrich,’ he muttered. ‘A terrible shock. Yes indeed. I must apologize to you, Kommissar. As you say, you merely did your duty. Well done.’ And with that he turned on his not inconsiderable heel and marched smartly out of the room, accompanied by several of his officers.

Heydrich started to smile a slow, curling sort of smile that got no further than the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes found mine and steered me towards the other door. Arthur Nebe followed, leaving the remaining officers to talk loudly among themselves.

‘It’s not many men who live to receive a personal apology from Heinrich Himmler,’ Heydrich said when the three of us were alone in the castle library.

I rubbed my shin painfully. ‘Well, I’m sure I’ll make a note of that in my diary tonight,’ I said. ‘It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of.’

‘Incidentally, you didn’t mention what happened to Kindermann.’

‘Let’s just say that he was shot while trying to escape,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that you of all people must know what I mean.’

‘That’s unfortunate. He could still have been useful to us.’

‘He got what a murderer properly has coming to him. Someone had to. I don’t suppose any of those other bastards will ever get theirs. The SS brotherhood and all that, eh?’ I paused and lit a cigarette. ‘What will happen to them?’

‘You can depend on it that they’re finished in the SS. You heard Himmler say so himself.’

‘Well, how ghastly for them all.’ I turned to Nebe. ‘Come on, Arthur. Will Weisthor get anywhere near a courtroom or a guillotine?’

‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ he said grimly. ‘But Weisthor is too close to Himmler. He knows too much.’

Heydrich pursed his lips. ‘Otto Rahn, on the other hand, is merely an NCO. I don’t think the Reichsführer would mind if some sort of accident were to befall him.’

I shook my head bitterly.

‘Well, at least there’s an end to their dirty little plot. At least we’ll be spared another pogrom, for a while anyway.’

Heydrich looked uncomfortable now. Nebe got up and looked out of the library window.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ I yelled, ‘you don’t mean to say that it’s going to go ahead?’ Heydrich winced visibly. ‘Look, we all know that the Jews had nothing to do with the murders.’

‘Oh yes,’ he said brightly, ‘that’s certain. And they won’t be blamed, you have my word on it. I can assure you that–’

‘Tell him,’ said Nebe. ‘He deserves to know.’

Heydrich thought for a moment, and then stood up. He pulled a book from off the shelf and examined it negligently.

‘Yes, you’re right, Nebe. I believe he probably does.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘We received a telex before the Court convened this morning,’ said Heydrich. ‘By sheer coincidence, a young Jewish fanatic has made an attempt on the life of a German diplomat in Paris. Apparently he wished to protest against the treatment of Polish Jews in Germany. The Fuhrer has sent his own personal physician to France, but it is not expected that our man will live.

‘As a result, Goebbels is already lobbying the Führer that if this diplomat should die then certain spontaneous expressions of German public outrage be permitted against Jews throughout the Reich.’

‘And you’ll all look the other way, is that it?’

‘I don’t approve of lawlessness,’ said Heydrich.

‘Weisthor gets his pogrom after all. You bastards.’

‘Not a pogrom,’ Heydrich insisted. ‘Looting will not be permitted. Jewish property will merely be destroyed. The police will ensure that there is no plunder. And nothing will be permitted which in any way endangers the security of German life or property.’

‘How can you control a mob?’

‘Directives will be issued. Offenders will be apprehended and dealt with.’

‘Directives?’ I flung my cigarettes against the bookcase. ‘For a mob? That’s a good one.’

‘Every police chief in Germany will receive a telex with guidelines.’

Suddenly I felt very tired. I wanted to go home, to be taken away from all of this. Just talking about such a thing made me feel dirty and dishonest. I had failed. But what was infinitely worse, it didn’t seem as if I’d ever been meant to succeed.

A coincidence, Heydrich had called it. But a meaningful coincidence, according to Jung’s idea? No. It couldn’t be. There was no meaning in anything, anymore.

24

Thursday, 10 November

‘Spontaneous expressions of the German people’s anger’: that was how the radio put it.

I was angry all right, but there was nothing spontaneous about it. I’d had all night to get worked up. A night in which I’d heard windows breaking, and obscene shouts echoing up the street, and smelt the smoke of burning buildings. Shame kept me indoors. But in the morning which came bright and sunny through my curtains I felt I had to go out and take a look for myself.

I don’t suppose I shall ever forget it.

Ever since 1933, a broken window had been something of an occupational hazard for any Jewish business, as synonymous with Nazism as a jackboot, or a swastika. This time, however, it was something altogether different, something much more systematic than the occasional vandalism of a few drunken SA thugs. On this occasion there had occurred a veritable Walpurgisnacht of destruction.

Glass lay everywhere, like the pieces of a huge, icy jigsaw cast down to the earth in a fit of pique by some ill-tempered prince of crystal.

Only a few metres from the front door to my building were a couple of dress shops where I saw a snail’s long, silvery trail rising high above a tailor’s dummy, while a giant spider’s web threatened to envelope another in razor-sharp gossamer.

Further on, at the corner of Kurfurstendamm, I came across an enormous mirror that lay in a hundred pieces, presenting shattered images of myself that ground and cracked underfoot as I picked my way along the street.

For those like Weisthor and Rahn, who believed in some symbolic connection between crystal and some ancient Germanic Christ from which it derived its name, this sight must have seemed exciting enough. But for a glazier it must have looked like a licence to print money, and there were lots of people out sightseeing who said as much.

At the northern end of Fasanenstrasse the synagogue close to the S-Bahn railway was still smouldering, a gutted, blackened ruin of charred beams and burned-out walls. I’m no clairvoyant but I can say that every honest man who saw it was thinking the same thing I was. How many more buildings would end up the same way before Hitler was finished with us?

There were storm-troopers – a couple of truck-loads of them in the next street — and they were testing some more window-panes with their boots. Cautiously deciding to go another way, I was just about to turn back when I heard a voice I half-recognized.

‘Get out of here, you Jewish bastards,’ the young man yelled.

It was Bruno Stahlecker’s fourteen-year-old son Heinrich, dressed up in the uniform of the motorized Hitler Youth. I caught sight of him just as he hurled a large stone through another shop window. He laughed delightedly at his own handiwork and said: ‘Fucking Jews.’ Looking around for the approval of his young comrades he saw me instead.

As I walked over to him I thought of all the things I would have said to him if I had been his father, but when I was close to him, I smiled. I felt more like giving him a good jaw-whistler with the back of my hand.

‘Hallo, Heinrich.’

His fine blue eyes looked at me with sullen suspicion.

‘I suppose you think you can tell me off,’ he said, ‘just because you were a friend of my father’s.’

‘Me? I don’t give a shit what you do.’

‘Oh? So what do you want?’

I shrugged and offered him a cigarette. He took one and I lit us both. Then I threw him the box of matches. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘you might need these tonight. Maybe you could try the Jewish Hospital.’

‘See? You are going to give me a lecture.’

‘On the contrary. I came to tell you that I found the men who murdered your father.’

‘You did?’ Some of Heinrich’s friends who were now busy looting the clothes shop yelled to him to come and help. ‘I won’t be long,’ he called back to them. Then he said to me: ‘Where are they? The men who killed my father.’

‘One of them is dead. I shot him myself.’

‘Good. Good.’

‘I don’t know what is going to happen to the other two. That all depends, really.’

‘On what?’

‘On the SS. Whether they decide to court-martial them or not.’ I watched his handsome young face crease with puzzlement. ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yes, these men, the ones who murdered your father in such a cowardly fashion, they were all SS officers. You see, they had to kill him because he would probably have tried to stop them breaking the law. They were evil men, you see, Heinrich, and your father always did his best to put away evil men. He was a damned good policeman.’ I waved my hand at all the broken windows. ‘I wonder what he would have thought of all this?’

Heinrich hesitated, a lump rising in his throat as he considered the implications of what I had told him.

‘It wasn’t — it wasn’t the Jews who killed him then?’

‘The Jews? Good gracious no.’ I laughed. ‘Where on earth did you get such an idea? It was never the Jews. I shouldn’t believe everything you read in Der Stürmer, you know.’

It was with a considerable want of alacrity that Heinrich returned to his friends when he and I had finished speaking. I smiled grimly at this sight, reflecting that propaganda works both ways.

Almost a week had passed since I’d seen Hildegard. On my return from Wewelsburg I tried telephoning her a couple of times, but she was never there, or at least she never answered. Finally I decided to drive over and see her.

Driving south on Kaiserallee, through Wilmersdorf and Friedenau, I saw more of the same destruction, more of the same spontaneous expressions of the people’s rage: shop signs carrying Jewish names torn down, and new anti-Semitic slogans freshly painted everywhere; and always the police standing by, doing nothing to prevent a shop being looted or to protect its owner from being beaten-up. Close to Waghauselerstrasse I passed another synagogue ablaze, the fire-service watching to make sure the flames didn’t spread to any of the adjoining buildings.

It was not the best day to be thinking of myself.

I parked close to her apartment building on Lepsius Strasse, let myself in through the main door with the street key she had given me, and walked up to the third floor. I used the door knocker. I could have let myself in but somehow I didn’t think she’d appreciate that, considering the circumstances of our last meeting.

After a while I heard footsteps and the door was opened by a young SS major. He could have been something straight out of one of Irma Hanke’s racial-theory classes: pale blond hair, blue eyes and a jaw that looked like it had been set in concrete. His tunic was unbuttoned, his tie was loose and it didn’t look like he was there to sell copies of the SS magazine.

‘Who is it, darling?’ I heard Hildegard call. I watched her walk towards the door, still searching for something in her handbag, not looking up until she was only a few metres away.

She was wearing a black tweed suit, a silvery crêpe blouse and a black feathered hat that plumed off the front of her head like smoke from a burning building. It was an image that I find hard to put out of my mind. When she saw me she stopped, her perfectly lipsticked mouth slackening a little as she tried to think of something to say.

It didn’t need much explaining. That’s the thing about being a detective: I catch on real fast. I didn’t need a reason why. Perhaps he made a better job of slapping her around than I had, him being in the SS and all. Whatever the reason, they made a handsome-looking couple, which was the way they faced me off, Hildegard threading her arm eloquently through his.

I nodded slowly, wondering whether I should mention catching her stepdaughter’s murderers, but when she didn’t ask, I smiled philosophically, just kept nodding, and then handed her back the keys.

I was half way down the stairs when I heard her call after me: ‘I’m sorry, Bernie. Really I am.’

I walked south to the Botanical Gardens. The pale autumn sky was filled with the exodus of millions of leaves, deported by the wind to distant corners of the city, away from the branches which had once given life. Here and there, stone-faced men worked with slow concentration to control this arboreal diaspora, burning the dead from ash, oak, elm, beech, sycamore, maple, horse-chestnut, lime and weeping-willow, the acrid grey smoke hanging in the air like the last breath of lost souls. But always there were more, and more still, so that the burning middens seemed never to grow any smaller, and as I stood and watched the glowing embers of the fires, and breathed the hot gas of deciduous death, it seemed to me that I could taste the very end of everything.