A Man Without Breath (Bernie Gunther Mystery 9) (34 page)

I saw little point in mentioning my own former allegiance to the SPD, so I nodded silently and stood away from the microscope.

‘So then,’ said Buhtz, ‘perhaps we’ll just tell the Polish delegation what we know about the bodies that we’ve found so far, and leave it at that for now. No point in speculating unnecessarily. Under the circumstances I think we should let them take over as much of the actual work at the site as possible.’

‘Suits me.’

‘By the way, do you speak any Polish?’ asked Buhtz. ‘Because I don’t.’

‘I thought you were at the University of Breslau?’

‘For only three years,’ said Buhtz. ‘Besides, that’s very much a German-speaking university. My Polish is fine for ordering a shitty meal in a restaurant, but when it comes to forensics and pathology it’s a different story. What about Johannes Conrad?’

‘No Polish. Just Russian. He and some field police are busy interrogating people in Gnezdovo to see what more the locals can tell us about what happened. I’ve an idea that Peshkov speaks French as well as German and Russian, so he might be of assistance. But the ministry are also sending us a reserve officer from Vienna who speaks good Polack. Lieutenant Gregor Sloventzik.’

‘Sounds about right,’ said Buhtz.

‘He used to be a journalist. Which is how the ministry knows him, I think. I believe he speaks several other languages, too.’

‘Including diplomacy, I hope,’ said Buhtz. ‘I’ve never been very fluent in that.’

‘You and me both, professor. And certainly not since Munich. Anyway, Sloventzik is going to handle all the translations for you.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it. I don’t need more confusion right
now. I’m afraid it’s been that kind of a morning. This signaller that the field police found. Martin Quidde.’ He pointed at the corpse lying in a coffin on the floor near the back door. ‘I understand from Lieutenant Voss that you and he both thought his death was a suicide.’

‘Well, yes. We did.’ I shrugged. ‘There was an automatic with the hammer down still in his hand. Short of a poem clutched to his breast it looked pretty clear-cut, I thought.’

‘You would think so, wouldn’t you?’ Buhtz grinned proudly. ‘But I’m afraid not. I’ve fired a whole clip from that weapon, and there’s not one of the bullets that’s the same as the one I gouged out of the victim’s helmet. It’s as I was telling you earlier. About the metallurgy? The slug that went through his skull was standard 7.65 mill, yes. But it was a significantly heavier load, with a bit more nickel in it. The corporal was shot with a seventy-three-grain load as opposed to the normal sixty-grain load that’s in his pistol’s magazine and which is standard issue to the 537th Signals. The seventy-three-grain load is normally issued only to the police units and the Gestapo.’

He was right, of course; and – a long time ago – I’d known this, but not lately. You see enough lead flying through the air and it soon ceases to matter where it comes from and how much it weighs on a set of scales.

‘So someone just tried to make it look like a suicide, is that what you’re saying?’ I asked, as if I really didn’t know.

‘That’s right.’ Buhtz’s grin widened. ‘And I doubt that there’s another man in this whole damned country could have told you that.’

‘Well, that is fortunate. Although I don’t imagine Lieutenant Voss is going to be all that pleased. He still hasn’t solved the murders of those other two signallers.’

‘Nevertheless it does establish a sort of pattern. I mean,
someone really does have it in for those poor bastards in the 537th, don’t you think?’

‘Have you tried making a telephone call out here? It’s impossible. There’s your motive, I shouldn’t wonder. Still, I don’t suppose an Ivan would have bothered to make it look like a suicide, would he?’

‘I hadn’t considered that.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, that is reassuring for the Germans in this city, I suppose.’

‘All the same, sir, if a German was responsible for the murder it might be a good idea not to mention any of this to the Gestapo. Just in case they go and string up more of the locals in retaliation. I mean, you know what they’re like, sir. The last thing we want is an international commission arriving in Smolensk to find a makeshift gallows with some Russian pears growing on it.’

‘A man – a German – has been murdered, Captain Gunther. That really can’t be ignored.’

‘No, of course not, sir. But perhaps, until this whole thing with the international commission is over, it might be to Germany’s political advantage to hide this under some hay in the barn, so to speak. For appearances’ sake.’

‘Yes, I can see that, of course. I tell you what, captain. You used to be a police commissar at the Alex, didn’t you?’

I nodded.

‘Very well then. I promise to keep the murder of Corporal Quidde quiet, Gunther, if you promise to find his murderer. Does that sound fair?’

I nodded. ‘Fair enough, sir. Although I’m not sure how. He’s done a pretty good job so far of concealing his tracks.’

‘Well, do your best. And if all else fails we can have each man with a police load in his pistol fire a round into a sandbag. That should help to narrow it down for you quite a lot.’

‘Thank you, sir. I might take you up on that offer.’

‘Please do. You’ve got until the end of the month. And then I really will have to tell the Gestapo. Is that agreed?’

‘All right. It’s a deal.’

‘Good. Then let’s go and get some lunch. I hear it’s Königsberger Klopse on the menu today.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve already eaten,’ I said.

But in truth, what with the smell of formaldehyde and the dead body and the prospect of investigating a murder that I’d committed myself, I had lost my appetite.

Wednesday, April 7th 1943

In Smolensk’s Glinka Concert Hall – where else? – I attended a piano and organ recital at the invitation of Colonel von Gersdorff. On the programme was Bach, Wagner, Beethoven and Bruckner, and it was supposed to make everyone feel good about the fatherland, but it only made us all sick that we weren’t at home and, in my own case, back in Berlin listening to some more cheerful music on the wireless: I could even have withstood a couple of numbers from Bruno and his Swinging Tigers. Of course being an aristocrat Von Gersdorff had an Iron Cross in classical music. He even brought along an antiquarian leather-bound score that he followed during Bach’s
Well-Tempered Clavier
, which not only struck me as redundant but a bit flashy too – a bit like taking
The Laws of the Game
to a football match.

After the recital we went for a drink at the officers’ bar in Offizierstrasse, where in a quiet corner that felt as if it were a million kilometres from the bowling alley at the German Club in Berlin, the colonel told me he’d received a telemessage that Hans von Dohnanyi and Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer had
finally been arrested by the Gestapo and were now being held at Prinz Albrechtstrasse.

‘If they torture Hans he could tell them about the Cointreau bomb and me and General von Tresckow and everything,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘Yes, he could,’ I said. ‘In fact it’s highly likely. It’s not many men who can withstand a Gestapo interrogation.’

‘Do you suppose they’re being tortured?’ he asked.

‘Knowing the Gestapo?’ I shrugged. ‘It all depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On how powerful their friends are. You have to understand, the Gestapo are cowards. They won’t put a man through a performance like that if he’s especially well-connected. Not until they’ve read the score as thoroughly as you did back in the concert hall.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t know much about the pastor—’

‘His sister Christel is married to Hans. His mother is Countess Klara von Hase. Who was the grand-daughter of Karl von Hase, who was pastor to Kaiser Wilhelm the second.’

‘That’s not the kind of connections I was referring to,’ I said, politely. ‘How close is your friend Hans von Dohnanyi to Admiral Canaris?’

‘Close enough for it to hurt them both. Canaris has been on an SD list of enemies for some time now; so has Hans’s boss, Major General Oster.’

‘That figures. The RSHA never did like sharing responsibility for intelligence-gathering and security. Well then, what about the ministry of justice? Von Dohnanyi used to work there, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did. He was Reich Minister Gürtner’s special adviser, from 1934 to 1938, and got to know Hitler, Goebbels, Göring and Himmler – the whole infernal crew.’

‘Then that will certainly help. You don’t torture someone who was on nodding terms with the leader until you’re really very sure of what you’re doing. Maybe this Gürtner fellow can help him, too.’

‘I’m afraid not. He died a couple of years ago. But Hans knows Erwin Bumke very well. He’s a senior Nazi judge, but I’m sure he’ll try to help Hans, if he can.’

I shrugged. ‘Then he’s not completely without friends. So that will deter the Gestapo, for sure. Besides, Von Dohnanyi is an aristocrat and he’s army and the army looks after its own. Chances are the army will insist on a military court.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Von Gersdorff, with a palpable look of relief on his handsome face. ‘There are senior figures in the Wehrmacht who will try to speak for him, albeit quietly. General von Tresckow’s uncle, Field Marshal von Bock, for example. And Field Marshal von Kluge, of course.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t count on Clever Hans at all.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘Von Kluge can be a bit Prussian in his sense of duty and honour, but I firmly believe Günther is a good man. Henning von Tresckow has been his chief operations officer for over a year now and—’

I shook my head. ‘Let’s get some air.’

We stepped outside and walked up Grosse Kronstädter Strasse as far as the Smolensk Kremlin wall. Against a purple sky full of stars, the fortress looked as if it was made of gingerbread, like the sort of edible house I’d eaten every Christmas as a boy. There, in the cold silence, I struck a match against the brick, we lit some cigarettes, and I told him what Martin Quidde had told me.

‘I can’t believe it,’ protested Von Gersdorff. ‘Not of a man like Günther von Kluge. He comes from a very distinguished family.’

I laughed. ‘You really think that makes a difference, don’t you? The old aristocratic code?’

‘Of course. It has to. Yes, I can see you think that’s very funny, but this is what I’ve lived my whole life by. And I firmly believe it’s the one thing that’s going to save Germany from absolute disaster.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I’m still right about Von Kluge. You can’t trust him.’

‘No, you’re wrong. He knows my father. They’re from the same part of West Prussia. Lubin and Posen aren’t so very far away from each other. This corporal of yours must be mistaken.’

‘He’s not mistaken,’ I said. ‘Not in the least.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure. I haven’t heard it myself, but he says there’s a tape recording of Hitler’s conversation here in Smolensk with Von Kluge. At Krasny Bor.’

‘My God, where?’

‘It’s quite safe.’ I took the tape out of my coat pocket and handed it to him.

Von Gersdorff looked at it blankly for a moment and shook his head. Finally he said: ‘Well, if it’s true, that would explain a lot. Why Günther changed his mind about us all shooting Hitler, at the very last minute. All of his prevarications are now explained. All his nit-picking objections. It’s true, Henning still hasn’t forgiven him for that. But this: this is something else. Something quite despicable.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘The fucking bastard. And to think that Henning vetoed a bomb at Krasny Bor so as to spare Günther’s life. We could have nailed Hitler there, without a shadow of a doubt. You see the problem is always the same: getting Hitler away from
his headquarters, where he’s well protected. I can’t imagine we’ll ever get him on his own like that again. Damn it all.’

‘Yes, that is a pity.’

‘This corporal,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘Can he be trusted?’

‘He can now,’ I said.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he’s dead. I shot him. The idiot was threatening to expose this tape to all sorts of people. Well, you can imagine how that might have ended. At least I assume you can. If you can’t then maybe you’re not as conspiracy-minded as I think you need to be. Nor as ruthless.’

‘You murdered him?’

‘If you prefer that word. Yes, I murdered him. I had no choice but to kill him.’

‘In cold blood.’

‘And this from the man who was going to blow Hitler up on a Sunday.’

‘Yes, but Hitler is a monster. This fellow you killed was just a corporal.’

‘As I recall, Hitler used to be a corporal, too. And what about your Cointreau bomb? It’s not just Hitler that would have killed, but his pilot and his photographer and maybe his fucking dog, for all I know.’

I grinned, almost enjoying his squeamish discomfort, and then I laid out a possible chain of causation that included a compromised Field Marshal von Kluge being interviewed by the Gestapo and out of sheer panic informing them of everything he knew about all of the army plots to kill the leader that had been hatched in Smolensk. As a teleological account it might not have satisfied Plato or Kant, but it was enough to forestall any further cavilling on the part of my very particular friend.

‘Yes, I can see how that might have played out,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘But look, suppose someone looks into this man’s death? What then?’

‘Suppose you let me worry about that.’

We walked back to his car and then returned to Krasny Bor. The road took us past Katyn Wood, now floodlit and heavily guarded to prevent looting, although the guards didn’t seem to have deterred local citizens and off-duty German soldiers: during the day, the wood was visited by a host of sightseers who came to watch the exhumations from behind a protective cordon, as Von Kluge had refused to forbid them access to the site.

‘How’s the dig going?’ he asked.

‘Not so good,’ I said. ‘Many of the men we’ve dug up so far turn out to be German-speaking Poles.
Volksdeutsche
officers from the western side of the river Oder, which is your neck of the woods, isn’t it?’