The Pale Criminal (7 page)

‘All right. Supposing that he wants you to go on handling things for us. After all, you've made pretty short work of it so far. What would your next course of action be?'

‘Right now my partner, Herr Stahlecker, is keeping our friend Hering under surveillance at his apartment on Nollendorfplatz. As soon as Hering goes out, Herr Stahlecker will try and break in and recover your letters. After that you have three possibilities. One is that you can forget all about it. Another is that you can put the matter in the hands of the police, in which case you run the risk of Hering making allegations against your son. And then you can arrange for Hering to get a good old-fashioned hiding. Nothing too severe, you understand. Just a good scare to warn him off and teach him a lesson. Personally I always favour the third choice. Who knows? It might even result in your recovering some of your money.'

‘Oh, I'd like to get my hands on that miserable man.'

‘Best leave that sort of thing to me, eh? I'll call you tomorrow and you can tell me what you and your son have decided to do. With any luck we may even have recovered the letters by then.'

I didn't exactly need my arm twisted to have the brandy she offered me by way of celebration. It was excellent stuff that should have been savoured a little. But I was tired, and when she and the sea-monster joined me on the sofa I felt it was time to be going.

 

About that time I was living in a big apartment on Fasanenstrasse, a little way south of Kurfurstendamm, and within easy reach of all the theatres and better restaurants I never went to.

It was a nice quiet street, all white, mock porticoes and Atlantes supporting elaborate façades on their well-muscled shoulders. Cheap it wasn't. But that apartment and my partner had been my only two luxuries in two years.

The first had been rather more successful for me than the second. An impressive hallway with more marble than the Pergamon Altar led up to the second floor where I had a suite of rooms with ceilings that were as high as trams. German architects and builders were never known for their penny-pinching.

My feet aching like young love, I ran myself a hot bath.

I lay there for a long time, staring up at the stained-glass window which was suspended at right angles to the ceiling, and which served, quite redundantly, to offer some cosmetic division of the bathroom's higher regions. I had never ceased to puzzle as to what possible reason had prompted its construction.

Outside the bathroom window a nightingale sat in the yard's solitary but lofty tree. I felt that I had a lot more confidence in his simple song than the one that Hitler was singing.

I reflected that it was the kind of simplistic comparison my beloved pipe-smoking partner might have relished.

In the darkness the doorbell rang. Drunk with sleep I reached across to the alarm clock and picked it off the bedside table. It said 4.30 in the morning with still nearly an hour to go before I was supposed to wake up. The doorbell rang again, only this time it seemed more insistent. I switched on a light and went out into the hall.

‘Who is it?' I said, knowing well enough that generally it's only the Gestapo who take a pleasure in disturbing people's sleep.

‘Haile Selassie,' said a voice. ‘Who the fuck do you think it is? Come on, Gunther, open up, we haven't got all night.'

Yes, it was the Gestapo all right. There was no mistaking their finishing-school manners.

I opened the door and allowed a couple of beer barrels wearing hats and coats to barge past me.

‘Get dressed,' said one. ‘You've got an appointment.'

‘Shit, I am going to have to have a word with that secretary of mine,' I yawned. ‘I forgot all about it.'

‘Funny man,' said the other.

‘What, is this Heydrich's idea of a friendly invitation?'

‘Save your mouth to suck on your cigarette, will you? Now climb into your suit or we'll take you down in your fucking pyjamas.'

I dressed carefully, choosing my cheapest German Forest suit and an old pair of shoes. I stuffed my pockets with cigarettes. I even took along a copy of the
Berlin Illustrated News.
When Heydrich invites you for breakfast it's always best to be prepared for an uncomfortable and possibly indefinite visit.

 

Immediately south of Alexanderplatz, on Dircksenstrasse, the Imperial Police Praesidium and the Central Criminal Courts faced each other in an uneasy confrontation: legal administration versus justice. It was like two heavyweights standing toe to toe at the start of a fight, each trying to stare the other down.

Of the two, the Alex, also sometimes known as ‘Grey Misery', was the more brutal looking, having a Gothic-fortress design with a dome-shaped tower at each corner, and two smaller towers atop the front and rear façades. Occupying some 16,000 square metres it was an object lesson in strength if not in architectural merit.

The slightly smaller building that housed the central Berlin courts also had the more pleasing aspect. Its neo-Baroque sandstone façade possessed something rather more subtle and intelligent than its opponent.

There was no telling which one of these two giants was likely to emerge the winner; but when both fighters have been paid to take a fall it makes no sense to stick around and watch the end of the contest.

Dawn was breaking as the car drew into Alex's central courtyard. It was still too early for me to have asked myself why Heydrich should have had me brought here, instead of Sipo, the Security Service headquarters in the Wilhelmstrasse, where Heydrich had his own office.

My two male escorts ushered me to an interview room and left me alone. There was a good deal of shouting going on in the room next door and that gave me something to think about. That bastard Heydrich. Never quite did it the way you expected. I took out a cigarette and lit it nervously. With the cigarette burning in a corner of my sour-tasting mouth I stood up and went over to the grimy window. All I could see were other windows like my own, and on the rooftop the aerial of the police radio station. I ground the cigarette into the Mexico Mixture coffee-tin that served as an ashtray and sat down at the table again.

I was supposed to get nervous. I was meant to feel their power. That way Heydrich would find me all the more inclined to agree with him when eventually he decided to show up. Probably he was still fast asleep in his bed.

If that was how I was supposed to feel I decided to do it differently. So instead of breakfasting on my fingernails and wearing out my cheap shoes pacing round the room, I tried a little self-relaxation, or whatever it was that Dr Meyer had called it. Eyes closed, breathing deeply through my nose, my mind concentrated on a simple shape, I managed to remain calm. So calm I didn't even hear the door. After a while I opened my eyes and stared into the face of the bull who had come in. He nodded slowly.

‘Well, you're a cool one,' he said, picking up my magazine.

‘Aren't I just?' I looked at my watch. Half an hour had gone by. ‘You took your time.'

‘Did I? I'm sorry. Glad you weren't bored though. I can see you expected to be here a while.'

‘Doesn't everyone?' I shrugged, watching a boil the size of a wheel-nut rub at the edge of his greasy collar.

When he spoke his voice came from deep within him, his scarred chin dipping down to his broad chest like a cabaret tenor.

‘Oh yes,' he said. ‘You're a private detective, aren't you? A professional smart-ass. Do you mind me asking, what kind of a living do you people make?'

‘What's the matter, the bribes not coming in regular enough for you?' He forced himself to smile through that one. ‘I do all right.'

‘Don't you find that it gets lonely? I mean, you're a bull down here, you've got friends.'

‘Don't make me laugh. I've got a partner, so I get all the friendly shoulder to cry on I need, right?'

‘Oh yes. Your partner. That would be Bruno Stahlecker, wouldn't it?'

‘That's right. I could give you his address if you like, but I think he's married.'

‘All right, Gunther. You've proved you're not scared. No need to make a performance out of it. You were picked up at 4.30. It's now seven — '

‘Ask a policeman if you want the right time.'

‘ — but you still haven't asked anyone why you're here.'

‘I thought that's what we were talking about.'

‘Were we? Assume I'm ignorant. That shouldn't be too difficult for a smart-ass like you. What did we say?'

‘Oh shit, look, this is your sideshow, not mine, so don't expect me to bring up the curtain and work the fucking lights. You go right ahead with your act and I'll just try to laugh and clap in the right places.'

‘Very well,' he said, his voice hardening. ‘So where were you last night?'

‘At home.'

‘Got an alibi?'

‘Yeah. My teddy bear. I was in bed, asleep.'

‘And before that?'

‘I was seeing a client.'

‘Mind telling me who?'

‘Look, I don't like this. What are we trawling for? Tell me now, or I don't say another lousy word.'

‘We've got your partner downstairs.'

‘What's he supposed to have done?'

‘What he's done is get himself killed.'

I shook my head. ‘Killed?'

‘Murdered, to be rather more precise. That's what we usually call it in these sort of circumstances.'

‘Shit,' I said, closing my eyes again.

‘That's my act, Gunther. And I do expect you to help me with the curtain and the lights.' He jabbed a forefinger against my numb chest. ‘So let's have some fucking answers, eh?'

‘You stupid bastard. You don't think I had anything to do with it, do you? Christ, I was the only friend he had. When you and all your cute friends here at the Alex managed to have him posted out to some backwater in Spreewald, I was the one who came through for him. I was the one who appreciated that despite his awkward lack of enthusiasm for the Nazis, he was still a good bull.' I shook my head bitterly, and swore again.

‘When did you last see him?'

‘Last night, around eight o'clock. I left him in the car park behind the Metropol on Nollendorfplatz.'

‘Was he working?'

‘Yes.'

‘Doing what?'

‘Tailing someone. No, keeping someone under observation.'

‘Someone working in the theatre or living in the apartments?'

I nodded.

‘Which was it?'

‘I can't tell you. At least, not until I've discussed it with my client.'

‘The one you can't tell me about either. Who do you think you are, a priest? This is murder, Gunther. Don't you want to catch the man who killed your partner?'

‘What do you think?'

‘I think that you ought to consider the possibility that your client had something to do with it. And then suppose he says, “Herr Gunther, I forbid you to discuss this unfortunate matter with the police.” Where does that get us?' He shook his head. ‘No fucking deal, Gunther. You tell me or you tell the judge.' He stood up and went to the door. ‘It's up to you. Take your time. I'm not in any hurry.'

He closed the door behind him, leaving me with my guilt for ever having wished ill to Bruno and his harmless pipe.

 

About an hour later the door opened and a senior SS officer came into the room.

‘I was wondering when you'd show up,' I said.

Arthur Nebe sighed and shook his head.

‘I'm sorry about Stahlecker,' he said. ‘He was a good man. Naturally you'll want to see him.' He motioned me to follow him. ‘And then I'm afraid you'll have to see Heydrich.'

Beyond an outer office and an autopsy-theatre where a pathologist stood working on the naked body of an adolescent girl was a long, cool room with rows of tables stretching out in front of me. On a few of them lay human bodies, some naked, some covered with sheets, and some like Bruno still clothed and looking more like items of lost luggage than anything human.

I walked over and took a long hard look at my dead partner. The front of his shirt looked as though he had spilt a whole bottle of red wine on himself, and his mouth gaped open like he'd been stabbed sitting in a dentist's chair. There are lots of ways of winding up a partnership, but they didn't come much more permanent than this one.

‘I never knew he wore a plate,' I said absently, catching the glint of something metallic inside Bruno's mouth. ‘Stabbed?'

‘Once, through the pump. They reckon under the ribs and up through the pit of the stomach.'

I picked up each of his hands and inspected them carefully. ‘No protection cuts,' I said. ‘Where did they find him?'

‘Metropol Theatre car park,' said Nebe.

I opened his jacket, noticing the empty shoulder-holster, and then unbuttoned the front of his shirt, which was still sticky with his blood, to inspect the wound. It was difficult to tell without seeing him cleaned up a bit, but the entry looked split, as if the knife had been rocked inside him.

‘Whoever did it knew how to kill a man with a knife,' I said. ‘This looks like a bayonet wound.' I sighed and shook my head. ‘I've seen enough. There's no need to put his wife through this, I'll make the formal identification. Does she know yet?'

Nebe shrugged. ‘I don't know.' He led the way back through the autopsy-theatre. ‘But I expect someone will tell her soon enough.'

The pathologist, a young fellow with a large moustache, had stopped work on the girl's body to have a smoke. The blood from his gloved hand had stained the cigarette paper and there was some of it on his lower lip. Nebe stopped and regarded the scene before him with more than a little distaste.