A Man Without Breath (Bernie Gunther Mystery 9) (21 page)

‘I’m telling you the truth.’

‘Let me ask you something, corporal. Almost two weeks ago – on March thirteenth – two army telephonists from the 537th Signals Regiment were murdered near the Hotel Glinka.’

‘I heard.’

‘Their bodies were found on the riverbank. Their throats had been cut from ear to ear. With a German bayonet. A witness reported a possible suspect leaving the scene on a BMW motorcycle and heading west along the road to Vitebsk. Which might easily have taken him to Krasny Bor.’

Corporal Hermichen was nodding.

‘You can see why I’m asking,’ I said. ‘The obvious similarity between those murders and the murders of the Eltsinas.’

The corporal frowned. ‘The who?’

‘The two women who were raped and murdered. Did you forget why I’m here? Don’t tell me you don’t know their names?’

He shook his head, and then seeing the look on my face, said: ‘Does it make it worse if I don’t?’ The sarcasm in the corporal’s voice was obvious and perhaps understandable. He was right: it shouldn’t have made it worse and yet somehow it did.

‘Ever go to that brothel at the Hotel Glinka?’

‘Every enlisted man in Smolensk has been to the Hotel Glinka,’ he said.

‘What about on Saturday March thirteenth? Did you go there then?’

‘Nope.’

‘You seem very sure of that.’

‘March thirteenth was the weekend of Hitler’s visit,’ said Hermichen. ‘How could I forget? All leave was cancelled.’

‘But after he’d flown back home?’

He shook his head. ‘Needed special permission of the CO, didn’t you? Those two fellows from the 537th must have been the classroom favourites. Most fellows stayed in the barracks casino that weekend.’ He shrugged. ‘Easy enough to check my story, I’d have thought. I played cards until late.’

‘And Sergeant Kuhr?’

Hermichen shrugged. ‘Him, too.’

‘Being a sergeant, could he have slipped out without permission?’

‘Maybe. But look, even if he did, the sarge just isn’t the type to murder two of our own. Not over a whore. Not over
anything. Look, he hated Jews – well, everyone hates the Jews – and he hated Ivans, but that was it. He’d have done anything for another German. He certainly wouldn’t have cut some Fritz’s throat. Kuhr may be a bastard but he’s a German bastard.’ Hermichen smiled and shook his head. ‘Oh, I can see how tempting it would be to bolt a couple of unsolved murders on the end of these ones – kind of like making a new tapeworm German word. Well, it won’t work. Take it from me, Captain Gunther, you’re carving the wrong piece of wood.’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘As a matter of fact, I’m certain of it.’

‘How so?’

‘Look, sir, I’m in a tight spot, I can see that now. I appreciate you trying to help me. Who knows, maybe I can help you in return. For example, maybe I can give you some information that might help you catch your murderer – the one what really killed those two army telephonists.’

‘What sort of information?’

‘Oh no. I couldn’t tell you while I’m in this place. I’d have nothing to trade if I told you what I know now.’ He shrugged. ‘You know, the way I heard it, they weren’t killed by partisans.’

‘What did you hear?.’

‘The field police like to keep a tight lid on the pickle jar in case some of the vinegar spills. The Gestapo hanged some locals just to make the Ivans think we thought they did it. Doesn’t do to let the Ivans know how easy it is to kill us. Something like that. But it wasn’t the partisans, was it?’

‘So I get you out of here and you tell me some important truth you claim you know, is that it?’

‘That’s right.’

I smiled. ‘Suppose I don’t care for the truth? Suppose all I care about is police housekeeping? After all, it suits everyone at headquarters if we can hang you both for those murders at the same time as we hang you for these new ones – it looks a lot tidier that way. Generally I don’t approve of that sort of thing, but I might make an exception in your case, corporal. Alibi or not, I bet I can make another charge of murder stick against you and your sergeant. In fact, I’m sure of it.’

‘Can you? My alibi is solid silver, sir. Lots of other men saw me that night because I played skat until about two a.m. Everyone knows I’m good at skat. I won three grand hands in a row. Almost sixty marks. The losers won’t forget that evening in a hurry. So, good luck trying to prove I was somewhere else.’

‘It’s not me who needs the good luck. Maybe I didn’t mention the gallows they’re building in the yard for after your fair trial, and the rope with your name on it.’

‘I been thinking about nothing else since you got here.’

‘What if I get you out of here and I’m disappointed? Generally speaking I don’t much like disappointment. I might find it hard to get over that. No, the best I can do for you is to plead your case to the field marshal. You have my word on it.’

‘Your word? Didn’t I already say? That isn’t good enough.’

I stood up to leave.

‘Forget it, Hermichen. I’m not selling any life insurance today. My book is full. You’re all risk, sonny. And I can’t see the profit in it.’

‘The profit ought to be obvious. You solve the case, your career advances, you draw down a bigger pay cheque, and your wife gets to buy a nicer coat. That’s how it works with you people, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not the ambitious type. My career – such as it is – went down the toilet a long time ago. My wife is dead, soldier. And I really don’t care very much who killed those two telephonists. Not any more. What’s two more dead Germans after Stalingrad?’

‘Sure you care. I can see it in your blue eyes and on your clever cop’s face. Not knowing something eats away at guys like you. Sometimes it gets to be an illness. It’s like the crossword puzzle in the paper. Solving crimes, arresting murderers – it’s the only way that bulls like you can live with yourself. Almost as if you have to show you’re better than anyone else on account of how you figured out whodunit.’

I called for the guard and he came back to unlock the door.

‘This isn’t over between you and me, copper,’ he said. ‘You know it and I know it.’ He stayed where he was and sneered some more. ‘So go ahead and walk. We both know you’ll be back.’

‘I might come back at that. Just to see you on tiptoes.’

‘Well, don’t count on any last words. Because there won’t be any. Until then, my deal is on the table. Got that? The day I’m out of here I talk.’

I shook my head and walked out and tried to laugh off Corporal Hermichen like a bad joke. Him, thinking he could make me feel dizzy. Only he was right, of course, and I hated him for it. I didn’t like it that someone – a German – had murdered those two men and thought he was probably in the clear by now. That was understandable in a place like Russia where everyone else was getting away with murder every day. And I wouldn’t have minded an Ivan doing it. After all, we were at war. Killing Germans – that was what they were supposed to do. But a German killing Germans was something else. That was uncomradely.

Outside in the prison yard they were adding some timber to strengthen the uprights of the gallows so they could hang the two NCOs side by side, like partners in crime. It was only Ivans they hanged in public; these two men were going to be hanged in private. Everyone – soldiers and citizens alike – would get to hear about it, of course. Just to ensure that everyone in Smolensk – German and Russian – behaved themselves. The Wehrmacht was thoughtful that way.

The question was, did I hate Corporal Hermichen enough to say nothing on his behalf and let him hang?

*

Krasny Bor had been a Soviet health resort eight kilometres west of Smolensk. There were some lakes and mineral springs and plenty of trees, which ensured a steady supply of fresh oxygen to the resort every morning, but otherwise it was difficult to perceive the health benefits that might have resulted from a sojourn there. In winter the place was frozen solid; in summer it was reported to be plagued with mosquitoes; the mineral springs tasted like a fisherman’s bath-water; certainly Krasny Bor did not compare favourably with more famous German health resorts like Baden-Baden where expensive hotels and uninterrupted luxury were the order of the day, and which was doubtless why the likes of Richard Wagner – not to mention quite a few Russians like Dostoevsky – used to go there, year after year. It was easy to see why Dostoevsky hadn’t bothered with Krasny Bor: the resort wasn’t much more than a collection of log cabins. But it was as near to luxury as there existed anywhere in Smolensk, and this – as well as its privacy and seclusion, which made the resort easy to guard – was why Field Marshal von Kluge had chosen it to be the headquarters of Army Group Centre.

For an old Prussian Junker – he was from Posen – the field
marshal was not without a sense of humour; he especially enjoyed making jokes about the negligible health benefits of living at Krasny Bor. Von Kluge’s jokes were usually at the expense of the Russians, and although very cruel, these were often loudly appreciated by Alok Dyakov, who was Von Kluge’s
Putzer
. Von Kluge might have had a sense of humour, but he was ruthless too. He also fancied himself a military lawyer, as I soon discovered after sitting down on one of the rattan-backed chairs in his cosy log-cabin office.

‘Thank you for doing this, Captain Gunther,’ he said, glancing over my typed report. ‘I appreciate it’s not why you’re here in Smolensk, but until we can have a party of Russian POWs start digging in Katyn Wood it’s best that you keep yourself useful.’

He glanced out of the window for a moment, shifted the curtain with his hand, and shook his head grimly.

‘It’ll be a while yet, I think. Dyakov thinks at least another week before it starts to thaw, don’t you Alok?’

The Russian, sitting at a plain wooden table to our right, nodded. ‘At least a week,’ he said. ‘Maybe longer.’

‘How are your quarters?’

‘Very comfortable, sir, thank you.’

Von Kluge stood up, and leaning against a section of plain brick wall, he carried on reading my report with the aid of a pair of half-moon glasses. Most of his office was made of wood, but the wall contained a regular series of square apertures that heated the room, because behind the wall was a large and powerful stove that also heated the officer’s mess.

‘So,’ he said finally. ‘You seem to think they’re guilty as charged.’

The field marshal was tall, with a receding chin and a
receding hairline; his manner was rather more robust, as was his intelligence; his men called him Clever Hans.

‘The evidence points that way, sir,’ I said. ‘However, Sergeant Kuhr looks to be the more culpable of the two. My own impression of Kuhr is that he would be a very hard man to resist. I think Corporal Hermichen was only complying with the wishes of his senior NCO.’

‘And this is why you’re recommending clemency for him?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘But not for Kuhr?’

‘I don’t think I made any recommendations at all with regard to Sergeant Kuhr.’

‘Kuhr is by far the better soldier,’ said Von Kluge. ‘And you’re right, he is a most forceful fellow.’

‘You know him?’

‘It was I who gave Sergeant Kuhr his Iron Cross, first class. I have the greatest respect for him, as a fighting man.’ Von Kluge put my report down on the corner of a fancy Biedermeier desk that looked a little out of place in his otherwise sparely furnished office, and lit a cigarette. ‘Corporal Hermichen, I don’t know at all. But I hardly see how you can rape anyone in compliance with a senior officer’s wishes. No matter how hard that officer is to resist, as you say. After all, when one takes into account the resistance of the poor victim, and the necessity of the corporal being sufficiently aroused to carry out the rape – he doesn’t deny that, I see – then I fail to understand how a defence of coercion can possibly apply here.’ The field marshal shook his head. ‘I’ve never understood rape. To me, resistance is not and could never be a corollary of sexual arousal. Compliance is the only aphrodisiac I can appreciate.’

‘Then I would argue for clemency for the corporal on the
basis of the fact that it was the sergeant who cut the victims’ throats. He doesn’t deny that. Hermichen says he was against it.’

‘And yet the corporal also mentions the presence of the jerrycan before the rape actually commenced. That looks bad for him. I ask you, captain, what purpose did he think the gasoline was there to serve? A prophylactic, perhaps? I have actually heard of such a thing – soldiers are very stupid, there’s no end to what they will do to themselves to avoid a dose of jelly, or what they’ll do to women to avoid a pregnancy – no, he must have known that Sergeant Kuhr intended something more lethal as part of the whole disgusting enterprise. He must have suspected that Sergeant Kuhr was intent on the disposal of the bodies. Which means he still managed to carry out the rape in the full knowledge of that fact. Which takes some doing.’

Von Kluge turned to his Russian jester. ‘Have you ever raped a woman, Alok?’

Dyakov stopped lighting his pipe and grinned. ‘Sometimes, possibly,’ he said, ‘perhaps I have gained the wrong impression from a girl and went too far, too soon. Maybe this is rape, maybe this isn’t, I don’t know. What I can say is that for me this would be a cause of some regret.’

‘We’ll take that as a yes,’ said Von Kluge. ‘Rape and consent, I think it’s all the same with Ivans like Dyakov. But that’s no reason our men should behave in this fashion. Rape is terribly bad for discipline, you know.’

‘But you understand I never did such a thing with other men,’ protested Dyakov. ‘As part of an enterprise, as your lordship says. And as for killing a girl afterwards, this is without any excuse.’ Dyakov shook his head. ‘Such a man is not a man at all, and deserves to be severely punished.’

Von Kluge turned to me. ‘You see? Even my pet pig can’t excuse such appalling behaviour. Even Dyakov thinks they should both hang.’

Dyakov stood up. ‘Excuse me, but I didn’t say that, your lordship. Not exactly, no. Personally I would spare the sergeant, and if you spare him you must also spare the other, too.’

‘But why?’ asked Von Kluge.

‘I know this sergeant, too, like you, sir. He is a very good fighter. Very brave. The best. He has killed many Bolsheviks, and if you spare his life he will kill many more of the bastards. Can Germany afford to lose such an experienced fighting man as this? A respected combat sergeant with a first-class Iron Cross? I don’t think so.’ He shrugged. ‘To my mind, it is unrealistic to expect a soldier to kill your enemies one day and then to behave like a gentleman towards them the next. It makes no sense.’