Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

Of a woman on her own, who might have been the mistress that Bruno had mentioned as having been kept by Paul Pfarr, there was no sign. Not that I really expected to see her, but you never can tell.

After the burial Haupthändler was ready with a few words of advice from his, and my employer, ‘Herr Six sees little need for you to have concerned yourself in what is essentially a family affair. I’m also to remind you that you are being remunerated on the basis of a daily fee.’

I watched the mourners get into their big black cars, and then Himmler and the top bulls in Kripo get into theirs. ‘Look, Haupthändler,’ I said. ‘Forget the sledge ride. Tell your boss that if he thinks he’s getting a cat in a sack, then he can cut me loose now. I’m not here because I like fresh air and eulogies.’

‘Then why are you here, Herr Gunther?’ he said.

‘Ever read The Song of the Niebelungen ?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Then you’ll remember that the Niebelung warriors wished to avenge the murder of Siegfried. But they couldn’t tell who they should hold to account. So the trial of blood was begun. The Burgundian warriors passed one by one before the bier of the hero. And when it was the murderer Hagen’s turn, Siegfried’s wounds flowed with blood again, so revealing Hagen’s guilt.’

Haupthändler smiled. ‘That’s hardly the stuff of modern criminal investigation, is it?’

‘Detection should observe the little ceremonies, Herr Haupthändler, be they apparently anachronistic. You might have noticed that I was not the only person involved in finding a solution to this case who attended this funeral.’

‘Are you seriously suggesting that someone here could have killed Paul and Grete Pfarr?’

‘Don’t be so bourgeois. Of course it is possible.’

‘It’s preposterous, that’s what it is. All the same, do you have someone in mind for the role of Hagen yet?’

‘It’s under consideration.’

‘Then I trust you will be able to report your having identified him to Herr Six before very long. Good day to you.’

I had to admit one thing. If Haupthändler had killed the Pfarrs then he was as cool as a treasure chest in fifty fathoms of water.

I drove down Prenzlauer Strasse on to Alexanderplatz. I collected my mail and went up to the office. The cleaning woman had opened the window, but the smell of booze was still there. She must have thought I washed in the stuff.

There were a couple of cheques, a bill and a hand-delivered note from Neumann telling me to meet him at the café Kranzler at twelve o’clock. I looked at my watch. It was almost 11.30.

In front of the German War Memorial a company of Reichswehr were making trade for chiropodists to the accompaniment of a brass band. Sometimes I think that there must be more brass bands in Germany than there are motor-cars. This one struck up with The Great Elector’s Cavalry March and set off at a lick towards the Brandenburger Tor. Everyone who was watching was getting in some arm exercise, so I hung back, pausing in a shop doorway to avoid having to join them.

I walked on, following the parade at a discreet distance and reflecting on the last alterations to the capital’s most famous avenue: changes that the Government has deemed to be necessary to make Unter den Linden more suitable for military parades like the one I was watching. Not content with removing most of the lime trees which had given the avenue its name, they had erected white Doric columns on top of which sat German eagles; new lime trees had been planted, but these were not even as tall as the street lamps. The central lane had been widened, so that military columns might march twelve abreast, and was strewn with red sand so that their jackboots did not slip. And tall white flagpoles were being erected for the imminent Olympiad. Unter den Linden had always been flamboyant, without much harmony in its mixture of architectural designs and styles; but that flamboyance was now made brutal. The bohemian’s fedora had become a Pickelhaube.

The café Kranzler, on the corner of Friedrichstrasse, was popular with the tourists and prices were accordingly high; so it was not the sort of place that I would have expected Neumann to have chosen for a meet. I found him twitching over a cup of mocha and an abandoned piece of cake.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said, sitting down. ‘Lost your appetite?’

Neumann sneered at his plate. ‘Just like this Government,’ he said. ‘It looks damn good, but tastes of absolutely nothing. Lousy ersatz cream.’ I waved to the waiter and ordered two coffees. ‘Look, Herr Gunther, can we make this quick? I’m going over to Karlshorst this afternoon.’

‘Oh? Got a tip, have you?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact -’

I laughed. ‘Neumann, I wouldn’t bet on a horse that you were going to back if it could out-pace the Hamburg Express.’

‘So fuck off, then,’ he snapped.

If he was a member of the human race at all, Neumann was its least attractive specimen. His eyebrows, twitching and curling like two poisoned caterpillars, were joined together by an irregular scribble of poorly matched hair. Behind thick glasses that were almost opaque with greasy thumbprints, his grey eyes were shifty and nervous, searching the floor as if he expected that at any moment he would be lying flat on it. Cigarette smoke poured out from between teeth that were so badly stained with tobacco they looked like two wooden fences.

‘You’re not in trouble, are you?’ Neumann’s face adopted a phlegmatic expression.

‘I owe some people some flea, that’s all.’

‘How much?’

‘Couple of hundred.’

‘So you’re going to Karlshorst to try and win some of it, is that it?’

He shrugged. ‘And what if I am?’ He put out his cigarette and searched his pockets for another. ‘You got a nail? I’ve run out.’ I tossed a packet across the table.

‘Keep it,’ I said, lighting us both. ‘A couple of hundred, eh? You know, I just might be able to help you out there. Maybe even leave you some on top. That is, if I get the right information.’

Neumann raised his eyebrows. ‘What sort of information?’

I drew on my cigarette, and held it deep within my lungs. ‘The name of a puzzler. A first class professional nutcracker who might have done a job about a week ago; stolen some bells.’

He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. ‘I haven’t heard anything, Herr Gunther.’

‘Well, if you do, make sure you let me know.’

‘On the other hand,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘I could tell you something that would put you well in with the Gestapo.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I know where a Jewish U-Boat is hiding out.’ He smiled smugly.

‘Neumann, you know I’m not interested in that crap.’ But as I spoke, I thought of Frau Heine, my client, and her son. ‘Hold on a moment,’ I said. ‘What’s the Jew’s name?’ Neumann gave me a name, and grinned, a disgusting sight. His was an order of life not much higher than the calcareous sponge. I pointed my finger squarely at his nose. ‘If I get to hear that U-Boat’s been pulled in, I won’t have to know who informed on him. I promise you, Neumann, I’ll come round and tear your fucking eyelids off.’

‘What’s it to you?’ he whined. ‘Since when have you been the knight in Goldberg armour?’

‘His mother is a client of mine. Before you forget you ever heard about him, I want the address where he is so I can tell her.’

‘All right, all right. But that’s got to be worth something, hasn’t it?’ I took out my wallet and gave him a twenty. Then I wrote down the address that Neumann gave me.

‘You’d disgust a dung-beetle,’ I said. ‘Now, what about this nutcracker?’