Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

‘I bet you won prizes for it, you half-sized bastard.’

At this utterance, the Latvian was prompted to strike me hard across the cheek. The sudden jerk of my head sent an agonizing pain down to my toenails and made me cry out.

‘No, no, Rainis,’ Müller said like a father to a child, ‘we must allow Herr Gunther to talk. He may insult us now, but eventually he will tell us what we want to hear. Please don’t hit him again unless I order you to do it.’

Nebe spoke. ‘It’s no use, Bernie. Fräulein Zartl has now told us all about how you and this American fellow disposed of poor Heim’s body. I wondered why you were so inquisitive about her. Now we know.’

‘In fact we now know a great deal,’ said Müller. ‘While you have been having a nap, Arthur here posed as a policeman in order to gain access to your rooms.’ He smiled smugly. ‘It wasn’t too difficult for him. Austrians are such docile, law-abiding people. Arthur, tell Herr Gunther what you discovered.’

‘Your photographs, Heinrich. I imagine that the American must have given them to him. What do you say, Bernie?’

‘Go to hell.’

Nebe continued, unperturbed. ‘There was also a drawing of Martin Albers’ headstone. You remember that unfortunate business, Herr Doktor?’

‘Yes,’ said Müller, ‘that was very careless of Max.’

‘I dare say you must have guessed that Max Abs and Martin Albers were one and the same person, Bernie. He was an old-fashioned, rather sentimental kind of man. He just couldn’t pretend to be dead like the rest of us. No, he had to have a stone to commemorate his passing, to make it look respectable. Really, a typical Viennese, wouldn’t you say? I should think you were probably the person who tipped off the MPs in Munich that Max was due to arrive there. Of course, you weren’t to know that Max was carrying several sets of papers and travel warrants. You see, documents were Max’s speciality. He was a master forger. As the former head of SD clandestine operations section in Budapest, he was one of the very best in his field.’

‘I suppose he was another bogus conspirator against Hitler,’ I said. ‘Another fake entry on the list of all those who were executed. Just like you, Arthur. I have to hand it to you: you’ve been very clever.’

‘That was Max’s idea,’ said Nebe. ‘Ingenious, yes, but with König’s help not very difficult to organize. You see, König commanded the execution squad at Plotzensee, and hanged conspirators by the hundreds. He supplied all the details.’

‘As well as the butcher’s hooks and piano wire, no doubt.’

‘Herr Gunther,’ said König indistinctly through the handkerchief he kept pressed to his nose, ‘I hope to be able to do the same for you.’

Müller frowned. ‘We’re wasting time,’ he said briskly. ‘Nebe told your landlady that the Austrian police thought you had been kidnapped by the Russians. After that she was most helpful. Apparently your rooms are being paid for by Dr Ernst Liebl. This man is now known to us as Emil Becker’s advocate at law. Nebe is of the opinion that you were retained by him to come to Vienna and attempt to clear him of the murder of Captain Linden. I myself am of this opinion. Everything fits, so to speak.’

Müller nodded at one of the uglies, who stepped forward and collected up Veronika in his pylon-sized arms. She made no movement, and but for her breathing which became louder and more difficult as her head lolled back on her neck, one might have thought that she was dead. She looked as if they had drugged her.

‘Why don’t you leave her out of this, Müller,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know.’

Müller pretended to look puzzled. ‘That surely is what remains to be seen.’ He stood up, as did Nebe and König. ‘Bring Herr Gunther along, Rainis.’

The Latvian hauled me to my feet. Just the effort of being made to stand made me feel suddenly faint. He dragged me a few metres to the side of a sunken circular oak vat which was of the dimensions of a good-sized fish-pond. The vat itself was joined to a rectangular steel plate which had two wooden semicircular wings like the leaves of a large dining table, by a thick steel column which went up to the ceiling. The thug carrying Veronika stepped down in the vat and laid her on the bottom. Then he got out and drew down the two oak leaves of the plate to form a perfect, deadly circle.

‘This is a wine press,’ Müller said matter-of-factly.

I struggled weakly in the Latvian’s big arms, but there was nothing I could do. It felt like my shoulder or collarbone was broken. I called them several filthy words and Müller nodded approvingly.

‘Your concern for this young woman is encouraging,’ he said.

‘It was her you were looking for this morning,’ said Nebe. ‘When you walked into Rainis, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, all right, it was. Now let her go, for God’s sake. I give you my word, Arthur, she knows absolutely nothing.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Müller admitted. ‘Or at least not much. So König tells me anyway, and he is a most persuasive person. But you’ll be flattered to learn that she still managed to conceal the part which you played in Heim’s disappearance for quite a while. Isn’t that so, Helmut?’

‘Yes, General.’

‘But in the end she told us everything,’ Müller continued. ‘Even before your impossibly heroic arrival on the scene. She told us that you and she had enjoyed a sexual relationship, and that you had been kind to her. Which was why she had asked you for help when it came to getting rid of Heim’s body. Which was why you came looking for her when König took her away. Incidentally, I must compliment you. You killed one of Nebe’s men quite expertly. It’s a great pity that a man of your formidable skills will never work for our Organization after all. But a number of things remain a puzzle, and I expect you, Herr Gunther, to enlighten us.’ He glanced around and saw that the man who had laid Veronika into the vat was now standing by a small panel of electric switches on the wall.

‘Do you know anything about making wine?’ he asked, walking round the vat. ‘The crushing, as the word suggests, is the process whereby the grape is squeezed, bursting its skin and releasing the juice. As you will no doubt be aware it was once done by treading the grapes in huge casks. But most modern presses are pneumatic or electrically operated machines. The crushing is repeated several times, and thus is an indication of the quality of the wine, with the first press being the best of all. Once every bit of juice has been squeezed out, the residue – I believe Nebe calls it “the cake” – is supplied to a distillery; or, as is the case on this small estate, it is turned into fertilizer.’

Müller looked across at Arthur Nebe. “There, Arthur, did I get that right?‘

Nebe smiled indulgently. ‘Perfectly right, Herr General.’

‘I hate to mislead anyone,’ Müller said with good humour. ‘Even a man who is going to die.’ He paused and looked down into the vat. ‘Of course at this precise moment it is not your life which is the most pressing issue, if I may be permitted that one tasteless little joke.’

The big Latvian guffawed in my ear, and my head was suddenly enveloped with the stink of his garlicky breath.

‘So I advise you to make your answers quickly and accurately, Herr Gunther. Fräulein Zartl’s life depends on it.’ He nodded at the man by the control panel who pressed a button which initiated a mechanical noise, gradually increasing in pitch.

‘Don’t think too harshly of us,’ said Müller. ‘These are hard times. There are shortages of everything. If we had any sodium pentathol we should give it to you. We should even look to buy it on the black market. But I think you’ll agree that this method is every bit as effective as any truth drug.’