Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

Pichler lay under a massive piece of stone like some primitive car mechanic repairing a neolithic stone-axle, with the tools of his trade – a hammer and a chisel – held tight in his dusty, blood-stained hands. It was almost as if while carving the black rock’s inscription he had paused for a moment to draw breath and decipher the words that seemed to emerge vertically from his chest. But no mason ever worked in such a position, at right angles to his legend. And draw breath he never would again, for although the human chest is sufficiently strong a cage for those soft, mobile pets that are the heart and lungs, it is easily crushed by something as heavy as half a tonne of polished marble.

It looked like an accident, but there was one way to be sure. Leaving Pichler in the yard where I had found him, I went into the office.

I retained very little memory of the dead man’s description of his business-accounting system. To me, the niceties of double-entry bookkeeping are about as useful as a pair of brogue galoshes. But as someone who ran a business himself, albeit a small one, I had a rudimentary knowledge of the petty, fastidious way in which the details of one ledger are supposed to correspond with those in another. And it didn’t take William Randolph Hearst to see that Pilcher’s books had been altered, not by any subtle accounting, but by the simple expedient of tearing out a couple of pages. There was only one financial analysis that was worth a spit, and that was that Pichler’s death had been anything but accidental.

Wondering whether his murderer had thought to steal the sketch-design for Dr Max Abs’ headstone, as well as the relevant pages from the ledgers, I went back into the yard to see if I might be able to find it. I had a good look round, and after a few minutes discovered a number of dusty art-files propped up against a wall in the workshop at the back of the yard. I untied the first file and started to sort through the draughtsman’s drawings, working quickly since I had no wish to be found searching the premises of a man who lay crushed to death less than ten metres away. And when at last I found the drawing I was looking for I gave it no more than a cursory glance before folding it up and slipping it into my coat pocket.

I caught a 71 back to town and went to the café Schwarzenberg, close to the tram terminus on the Kärtner Ring. I ordered a mélange and then spread the drawing out on the table in front of me. It was about the size of a double-page spread in a newspaper, with the customer’s name – Max Abs – clearly marked on an order copy stapled to the top right-hand corner of the paper.

The mark-up for the inscription read: ‘SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MARTIN ALBERS, BORN 1899, MARTYRED 9 APRIL 1945. BELOVED OF WIFE LENI, AND SONS MANFRED AND ROLF. BEHOLD, I SHEW YOU A MYSTERY; WE SHALL NOT ALL SLEEP, BUT WE SHALL ALL BE CHANGED, IN A MOMENT, IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE, AT THE LAST TRUMP: FOR THE TRUMPET SHALL SOUND, AND THE DEAD SHALL BE RAISED INCORRUPTIBLE, AND WE SHALL BE CHANGED. I CORINTHIANS 15: 51-52.’

On Max Abs’ order was written his address, but beyond the fact that the doctor had paid for a headstone in the name of a man who was dead – a brother-in-law perhaps? – and which had now occasioned the murder of the man who had carved it, I could not see that I had learned very much.

The waiter, wearing his grey frizzy hair on the back of his balding head like a halo, returning with the small tin tray that carried my mélange and the glass of water customarily served with coffee in Viennese cafés. He glanced down at the drawing before I folded it away to make room for the tray, and said, with a sympathetic sort of smile: ‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.’

I thanked him for his kind thought and, tipping him generously, asked him first from where I might send a telegram, and then where Berggasse was.

‘The Central Telegraph Office is on Börseplatz,’ he answered, ‘on the Schottenring. You’ll find Berggasse just a couple of blocks north of there.’

An hour or so later, after sending my telegrams to Kirsten and to Neumann, I walked up to Berggasse, which ran between the police prison where Becker was locked up and the hospital where his girlfriend worked. This coincidence was more remarkable than the street itself, which seemed largely to be occupied by doctors and dentists. Nor did I think it particularly remarkable to discover from the old woman who owned the building in which Abs had occupied the mezzanine floor that only a few hours earlier he had told her he was leaving Vienna for good.

‘He said his job urgently required him to go to Munich,’ she explained in the kind of tone that left me feeling she was still a bit puzzled by this sudden departure. ‘Or at least somewhere near Munich. He mentioned the name but I’m afraid that I’ve forgotten it.’

‘It wasn’t Pullach, was it?’

She tried to look thoughtful but only succeeded in looking bad-tempered. ‘I don’t know if it was or if it wasn’t,’ she said finally. The cloud lifted from her face as she returned to her normal bovine expression. ‘Anyway, he said he would let me know where he was when he got himself settled.’

‘Did he take all his things with him?’

‘There wasn’t much to take,’ she said. ‘Just a couple of suitcases. The apartment is furnished, you see.’ She frowned again. ‘Are you a policeman or something?’

‘No, I was wondering about his rooms.’

‘Well why didn’t you say? Come in, Herr -?’

‘It’s Professor, actually,’ I said with what I thought sounded like a typically Viennese punctiliousness. ‘Professor Kurtz.’ There was also the possibility that by giving myself the academic handle I might appeal to the snob in the woman. ‘Dr Abs and myself are mutually acquainted with a Herr König, who told me that he thought the Herr Doktor might be about to vacate some excellent rooms at this address.’

I followed the old woman through the door and into the big hallway which led to a tall glass door. Beyond the open door lay a courtyard with a solitary plane tree growing there. We turned up the wrought-iron staircase.

‘I trust you will forgive my discretion,’ I said. ‘Only I wasn’t sure how much credence to place on my friend’s information. He was most insistent that they were excellent rooms, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, madam, how difficult it can be for a gentleman to find an apartment of any quality in Vienna these days. Perhaps you know Herr König?’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t think I ever met any of Dr Abs’ friends. He was a very quiet man. But your friend is well informed. You won’t find a better set of rooms for 400 schillings a month. This is a very good neighbourhood.’ At the door to the apartment she lowered her voice. ‘And entirely Jew-free.’ She produced a key from the pocket of her jacket and slipped it into the keyhole of the great mahogany door. ‘Of course, we had a few of them here before the Anschluss. Even in this house. But by the time the war came most of them had gone away.’ She opened the door and showed me into the apartment.

‘Here we are,’ she said proudly. ‘There are six rooms in total. It’s not as big as some of the apartments in the street, but then not as expensive either. Fully furnished as I think I said.’

‘Lovely,’ I said looking about me.

‘I’m afraid that I haven’t yet had time to clean the place,’ she apologized. ‘Doctor Abs left a lot of rubbish to throw out. Not that I mind really. He gave me four weeks’ money in lieu of notice.’ She pointed at one door which was closed. ‘There’s still quite a bit of bomb damage showing in there. We had an incendiary in the courtyard when the Ivans came, but it’s due to be repaired very soon.’