Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

‘That’s it. Columbus Haus. They say that Hitler doesn’t much care for modern architecture, Bernie. Do you know what that means?’ Weizmann gave a little chuckle. ‘It means that he and I have something in common.’

‘Is there anyone else?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. It’s possible.’

‘Who?’

‘Our illustrious Prime Minister.“

‘Goering? Buying hot bells? Are you serious?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said firmly. ‘That man has a passion for owning expensive things. And he’s not always as fussy as he could be regarding how he gets hold of them. Jewels are one thing I know he has a weakness for. When I was at Friedlaender’s he used to come into the shop quite often. He was poor in those days – at least, too poor to buy much. But you could see he would have bought a great deal if he had been able to.’

‘Jesus Christ, Weizmann,’ I said. ‘Can you imagine it? Me dropping in at Karinhall and saying, “Excuse me, Herr Prime Minister, but you wouldn’t happen to know anything about a valuable diamond necklace that some coat has clawed from a Ferdinandstrasse residence in the past few days? I trust you would have no objections to me taking a look down your wife Emmy’s dress and seeing if she’s got them hidden somewhere between the exhibits?”’

‘You’d have the devil’s own job to find anything down there,’ wheezed Weizmann excitedly. ‘That fat sow is almost as big as he is. I’ll bet she could breastfeed the entire Hitler Youth and still have milk enough left for Hermann’s breakfast.’ He began a fit of coughing which would have carried off another man. I waited until it had found a lower gear, and then produced a fifty. He waved it away.

‘What did I tell you?’

‘Let me buy something, then.’

‘What’s the matter? Are you running out of crap all of a sudden?’

‘No, but-’

‘Wait, though,’ he said. ‘There is something you might like to buy. A finger lifted it at a big parade on Unter den Linden.’ He got up and went into the small kitchen behind the office. When he came back he was carrying a packet of Persil.

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I send my stuff to the laundry.’

‘No, no, no,’ he said, pushing his hand into the powder. ‘I hid it in here just in case I had any unwelcome visitors. Ah, here we are.’ He withdrew a small, flat, silvery object from the packet, and polished it on his lapel before laying it flat on my palm. It was an oval-shaped disc about the size of a matchbox. On one side was the ubiquitous German eagle clutching the laurel crown that encircled the swastika; and on the other were the words Secret State Police, and a serial number. At the top was a small hole by which the bearer of the badge could attach it to the inside of his jacket. It was a Gestapo warrant-disc.

‘That ought to open a few doors for you, Bernie.’

‘You’re not joking,’ I said. ‘Christ, if they caught you with this-’

‘Yes, I know. It would save you a great deal of slip money, don’t you think? So if you want it, I’ll ask fifty for it.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure about carrying it myself. What he said was true: it would save on bribes; but if I was caught using it I’d be on the first train to Sachsenhausen. I paid him the fifty. ‘A bull without his beer-token. God, I’d like to have seen the bastard’s face. That’s like a horn-player without a mouthpiece.’ I stood up to go.

‘Thanks for the information,’ I said. ‘And in case you didn’t know, it’s summertime up on the surface.’

‘Yes, I noticed that the rain was a little warmer than usual. At least a rotten summer is one thing they can’t blame on the Jews.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ I said.

There was chaos back at Alexanderplatz, where a tram had derailed. The clock in the tall, red-brick tower of St George’s was striking three o’clock, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since a bowl of Quaker Quick Flakes (‘For the Youth of the Nation’) since breakfast. I went to the Café Stock; it was close by Wertheim’s Department Store, and in the shadow of the S-Bahn railway viaduct.

The Café Stock was a modest little restaurant with an even more modest bar in the far corner. Such was the size of the eponymous proprietor’s bibulous belly that there was only just room for him to squeeze behind the bar; and as I came through the door it was there that I found him standing, pouring beers and polishing glasses, while his pretty little wife waited on the tables. These tables were often taken by Kripo officers from the Alex, and this had the effect of obliging Stock to play up his commitment to National Socialism. There was a large picture of the Führer on the wall, as well as a printed sign that said, ‘Always give the Hitler Salute.’

Stock wasn’t always that way, and before March 1933 he had been a bit of a Red. He knew that I knew it, and it always worried him that there were others who would remember it too. So I didn’t blame him for the picture and the sign. Everyone in Germany was somebody different before March 1933. And as I’m always saying, ‘Who isn’t a National Socialist when there’s a gun pointed at his head?’

I sat down at an empty table and surveyed the rest of the clientele. A couple of tables away were two bulls from the Queer Squad, the Department for the Suppression of Homosexuality: a bunch of what are little better than blackmailers. At a table next to them, and sitting on his own, was a young Kriminalassistent from the station at Wedersche Market, whose badly pock-marked face I remembered chiefly for his having once arrested my informer, Neumann, on suspicion of theft.

Frau Stock took my order of pig’s knuckle with sauerkraut briskly and without much in the way of pleasantry. A shrewish woman, she knew and disapproved of my paying Stock for small snippets of interesting gossip about what was going on at the Alex. With so many officers coming in and out of the place, he often heard quite a lot. She moved off to the dumb-waiter and shouted my order down the shaft to the kitchen. Stock squeezed out from behind his bar and ambled over. He had a copy of the Party newspaper, the Beobachter , in his fat hand.

‘Hallo, Bernie,’ he said. ‘Lousy weather we’re having, eh?’

‘Wet as a poodle, Max,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a beer when you’re ready.’

‘Coming right up. You want to look at the paper?’

‘Anything in it?’

‘Mr and Mrs Charles Lindbergh are in Berlin. He’s the fellow that flew across the Atlantic.’

‘It sounds fascinating, really it does. I suppose the great aviator will be opening a few bomber factories while he’s here. Maybe even take a test-flight in a shiny new fighter. Perhaps they want him to pilot one all the way to Spain.’

Stock looked nervously over his shoulder and gestured for me to lower my voice. ‘Not so loud, Bernie,’ he said, twitching like a rabbit. ‘You’ll get me shot.’ Muttering unhappily, he went off to get my beer.

I glanced at the newspaper he had left on my table. There was a small paragraph about the ‘investigation of a fire on Ferdinandstrasse, in which two people are known to have lost their lives’, which made no mention of their names, or their relation to my client, or that the police were treating it as a murder investigation. I tossed it contemptuously onto another table. There’s more real news on the back of a matchbox than there is in the Beobachter . Meanwhile, the detectives from the Queer Squad were leaving; and Stock came back with my beer. He held the glass up for my attention before placing it on the table.

‘A nice sergeant-major on it, like always,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ I took a long drink and then wiped some of the sergeant-major off my upper lip with the back of my hand. Frau Stock collected my lunch from the dumb-waiter and brought it over. She gave her husband a look that should have burned a hole in his shirt, but he pretended not to have seen it. Then she went to clear the table that was being vacated by the pockmarked Kriminalassistant. Stock sat down and watched me eat.