A Quiet Flame (21 page)

“Exactly. Makes it nice and quiet. Somewhere private you can hear yourself think.”

“I get all sorts of strange ideas when I hear myself think,” I said. “Like maybe there’s some point to my existence. But since there isn’t, we’d better get along to the Eldorado.”

The Eldorado on Motzstrasse was on the ground floor of a modern building that was in the High Concrete style. Like the old Eldorado, which still existed on Lutherstrasse, the new was a he/she club popular with Berlin high society, expensive prostitutes, and adventurous tourists eager to get a taste of real Berlin decadence. Inside, the club was a facsimile of a Chinese opium-smoking den. Only it wasn’t just a facsimile. If sex was one reason to visit the Eldorado, then the ready supply of drugs was another. But at that hour of the day, the place was more or less deserted. The Bernd Robert Rhythmics had just finished rehearsing. In the corner, beside a copper gong as big as a truck tire, a youngish man with a largish scar on his face was sharing a bottle of champagne with two girls. I knew they were girls—not because of their womanly hands and manicured fingernails but because of their private parts, which were easy to see since both girls were also naked.

Seeing me arrive in the club with his two double-breasted scouts, the scar-faced man stood up and waved me toward him. He was dark, with a weak chin. I guessed his age was about thirty. His suit looked handmade and he was smoking a Gildemann cigar. He had a woman’s lips, and his eyebrows were so neat and fine that they almost looked plucked and then drawn in with a pencil. His eyes were brown, with long lashes. His hands were womanish, too, and but for the scar and the company he was keeping, I might have wondered if he was a bit warm. But he was polite and welcoming, which made me wonder how he’d come by his scar.

“Herr Gunther,” he said. “I’m glad you came. This is Fräulein Olafsson, and Fräulein Larsson. They are both on holiday from Sweden. Aren’t you, ladies?” He looked quickly around. “There’s another one somewhere. Fräulein Liljeroth. But I think she must have gone to powder her nose. If you know what I mean.”

I bowed politely. “Ladies.”

“They’re trying to behave like true Berliners,” said Diels. “Isn’t that right, ladies?”

“Nakedness is normal,” said one of the Swedes. “Desire is healthy. Don’t you agree?”

“Here, sit down and have a drink,” said Diels, and pushed a glass of champagne toward me.

It was a little early for me, but, noting the label and the year on the bottle, I drank it anyway.

“What can I do for you, Herr Diels?”

“Please. Call me Rudi. And by the way, you can speak quite freely in front of our two lady friends. They don’t speak very good German.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “Only that might have something to do with the fact that my tongue is hanging out of my mouth.”

“Ever been here before?”

“Once or twice. But I don’t get any kick out of guessing whether someone’s a man or a woman.” I nodded at Fräulein Olafsson. “It makes a pleasant change to have any doubts on that score removed so unequivocally.”

“You’d better enjoy it while you can. In just a month or two a lot of these clubs are going to be closed down by the new government. This one is already earmarked to be the Nazi Party headquarters in Berlin South.”

“You’re taking a lot for granted. There’s the small matter of an election to be fought first.”

“You’re right. It is a small matter. The National Socialists may not manage to win an outright majority in the Reichstag, but it seems more than probable that they will be the largest party.”

“They?”

“I’m not a party member, Herr Gunther. But I am broadly sympathetic to the cause of National Socialism.”

“Is that how you got those scars on your face? By being broadly sympathetic to the Nazis?”

Diels touched his cheek without any trace of self-consciousness. “This?” He shook his head. “No. I’m afraid there wasn’t much honor in the way they were earned. I used to drink a lot. More than was good for me. Sometimes, when I wanted to amuse or intimidate someone, I would chew a beer glass.”

There was a bowl of fruit on the table. I nodded at it.

“Me, I prefer a nice apple.” I lit a cigarette and, leaning back in my chair, took a good look at our two naked companions. I didn’t mind looking at them any more than they minded being looked at.

“Help yourself.”

“No, thanks. Some of my concentration is still caught up with the fate of the republic.”

“That’s too bad. Because the republic’s days are numbered. We’re going to win.”

“So it’s ‘we’ now. A minute ago you weren’t even in the party. I guess you must be what’s called a floating voter.”

“You mean like Rosa Luxemburg?” Diels smiled at his own little joke. “Oh, I’m not much of a Hitlerite,” he said. “But I do believe in Hermann Goering. He’s a much more impressive figure than Hitler.”

“He’s certainly a larger one.” It was my turn to smile at my little joke.

“Hitler cares nothing for human life,” continued Diels. “But Goering is different. I work for him, in the Reichstag. After the Nazis come to power, Goering is going to be in overall charge of the police in Germany. Kurt Daluege is going to be in charge of the uniformed police. And I’m going to be in charge of a much-expanded political police.”

“The number of people wanting to join the police these days. And we haven’t even had a recruiting drive.”

“We’re going to need men we can trust. Good men who are prepared to devote body and soul to the fight against Jewry and Bolshevism. But not just against Jewry and Bolshevism. It’s imperative that the power of the SA be curtailed, too. Which is where you come in.”

“Me? I don’t see how I can be of any use to you. I don’t even like the political police we’ve got now.”

“You’re well known in KRIPO as someone who dislikes the SA.”

“Everyone in KRIPO dislikes the SA. Everyone who’s worth a damn.”

“That is what I’m looking for. To get rid of the SA we’ll need men who aren’t afraid. Men like you.”

“I can see your dilemma. You need the SA to strong-arm the election. But once you’re elected, you need someone else to strong-arm it back into line.” I grinned. “I have to hand it to you. There’s sophism and then there’s Nazism. Hitler adds a whole new section to that part of the dictionary that deals with specious argument and dirty dealing.” I shook my head. “I’m not your man, Herr Diels. Never will be.”

“It would be a real shame if the force was to lose a man of your forensic capabilities, Herr Gunther.”

“Wouldn’t it just? But there it is.”

The third Swede came back from powdering her nose. Like her two friends, she was as naked as a hat pin without a hat. Obviously bored, the other two got up from the table and went over to her and put their arms around her, and slowly, they began to dance to some silent music. They looked like the Three Graces.

“They really are tourists, you know,” he said. “Not demi-castors, or half-silks, or whatever you cops call them. Just three girls on holiday from Stockholm, who felt like being true Berliners and taking off their clothes for the sheer hell of it.” He sighed. “I think it will be a real shame when this kind of thing is gone. But things have to change. It can’t be allowed to go on like this. The vice, the prostitution, the drugs. It’s corrupting us.”

I shrugged.

“You’re a cop,” he said. “I thought you would surely agree with me about that, at least.”

Two of the band came back and started to play gently, for the benefit of the impromptu floor show.

“You’re not from Berlin, are you, Herr Diels? In Berlin we say that you should leave another man’s mustache alone, even if it droops into his coffee cup. That’s why the Nazis will never do well in this city. Because you people can’t leave another man’s mustache alone.”

“That’s an unusual attitude for a policeman. Don’t you want to make councilor, or director? You could, you know. The minute this election is over. Everyone is going to want to help us then. But you’re in a position to help us now. When it really counts.”

“I told you. I’m not interested in being a part of your expanded political police.”

“I’m not talking about that. I mean that you could stay on, in Department Four. That you could keep doing what you’re doing now. It’s not like you’re a Communist or anything. We can easily overlook something like the Iron Front.” He shrugged innocently. “No, all you would have to do is a favor for us.”

“What kind of favor?” I asked, intrigued.

“We want you to drop the Schwarz case.”

“I’m a police officer, Herr Diels. I can’t do that. I’ve been ordered to investigate a murder, and it’s my duty to carry out that investigation to the best of my abilities.”

“You were ordered to do it by people who won’t be around for much longer. Besides, we both know that in this city there are lots of cases that remain unsolved.”

“I go slow, is that it? So Goebbels can accuse Grzesinski and Weiss of sparing the horses because the victim’s old man is a big noise in the SA?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. The Schwarz girl was disabled. She had a bad leg. Like Goebbels. It’s a little embarrassing for him to have this kind of issue in the public eye. It magnifies it, somewhat. Anita Schwarz had a bad leg. That reminds people that Goebbels has one, too. Dr. Goebbels would be greatly in your debt if the Schwarz case could be driven into a sand dune, so to speak.”

“Is Joey’s foot the only reason he’d like this case to go nowhere?”

Diels looked puzzled. “Yes. What other reason could there be?”

It seemed imprudent to mention just how much I knew about the true extent of Joey’s current disabilities. “And what if another girl gets murdered? In similar circumstances. What then?”

“So you investigate it. Just lay off the Schwarz case. That’s all I’m asking. Just until after the election.”

“To spare Joey’s feelings.”

“To spare Joey’s feelings.”

“You make me think that maybe there’s a lot more to this case than I realized before.”

“It might be unhealthy to think that. For you and your career.”

“My career?” I laughed. “That really keeps me awake at night.”

“At least you’re still awake at night, Herr Gunther.” He grinned and blew on the end of his cigar. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

I’d heard all I wanted to hear. I reached for the fruit bowl, picked out a nice golden apple, and stood up.

The three naked women were now too caught up in themselves to pay me any regard, and it was looking like a proper floor show that Berliners would have paid good money to sit and watch.

“Hey, you,” I said. “Aphrodite.”

I tossed the apple and one of them caught it. Naturally she was the best-looking of the three Swedes. “My name is not Aphrodite,” she said dully. “It is Gunila.”

I didn’t say anything back. I just walked away with my clothes and my sense of humor and my classical education. It was a lot more than she had.

Outside I crossed the road and bought some cigarettes. In front of the tobacconist’s were six men wearing placards for the forthcoming election. One was for Bruner and the SDP, two were for Thalmann and the Communists, and three were for Hitler. All in all, the prospects for the republic were looking no better than my own.

 

 

 

IN 1932, I didn’t go to the cinema very much. Maybe if I had, I might not have been tricked so easily. I’d heard about Fritz Lang’s film
M,
because there was a detective in it who was supposedly based on Ernst Gennat. Certainly Gennat thought that was the case. But with one thing and another, I’d missed the film when it came out. It was still showing at my local Union Theater, but in summer, there always seemed to be something more important to do than to spend an evening watching a movie. Like investigate a murder. The night before it happened, I’d been up all night checking out political killings in Wedding and Neukölln. The descriptions given by witnesses were predictably vague. But then, all murderers look the same when they’re wearing brown shirts. That’s my excuse. One thing was for sure. The people who ambushed me must have seen the movie.

As I walked out of my apartment building, a small boy ran up to my car. I wasn’t sure if I’d seen the boy before, but even if I had, I’m not sure I’d have recognized him. All boys in the Scheunenviertel looked much the same. This one was shoeless, with short blond hair and bright blue eyes. He wore gray shorts, a gray shirt, and sported a number eleven of snot on his upper lip. I guessed him to be about eight years old.

“A girl I know just went off with a strange man,” he said. “Her name is Lotte Friedrich and she’s twelve years old and the fritz isn’t from around here. Creepy-looking dad he was, with a funny look on his shine. He’s the same schlepper who tried to give my sister some sweets yesterday if she’d go for a walk with him.” The boy tugged my sleeve urgently and pointed west along Schendelgasse until I agreed to look. “See them? She’s wearing a green dress and he’s wearing a coat. See?”

Sure enough, crossing Alte Schönhauser Strasse were a man and a girl. The man had his hand on the girl’s neck, like he was steering her somewhere. Wearing a coat seemed just a little suspicious, as the day was already a warm one.

Ordinarily, I might have been more suspicious of the boy. But then it wasn’t every month that an adolescent girl turned up dead with half of her insides removed. Nobody wanted that to happen again.

“What’s your name, sonny?”

“Emil.”

I gave him ten pfennigs and pointed in the direction of Bulowplatz.

“You know that armored car outside the Red HQ?”

Emil nodded and wiped the snot onto the back of his shirtsleeve.

“I want you to go and tell the SCHUPO in the armored car that Commissar Gunther from the Alex is following a suspect onto Mulackstrasse and requests them to come and give him support. Got that?”