Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

He frowned exasperatedly at me. ‘Look, I said I didn’t have anything.’

‘You’re a liar.’

‘Honest, Herr Gunther, I don’t know nothing. If I did, I’d tell you. I need the money, don’t I?’ He swallowed hard and wiped the sweat from his brow with a public health-hazard of a handkerchief. Avoiding my eyes, he stubbed out his cigarette, which was only half-smoked.

‘You don’t act like someone who knows nothing,’ I said. ‘I think you’re scared of something.’

‘No,’ he said flatly.

‘Ever hear of the Queer Squad?’ He shook his head. ‘You might say they used to be colleagues of mine. I was thinking that if I found out you’d been holding out on me, I’d have a word with them. Tell them you were a smelly little para 175.’ He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and outrage.

‘Do I look like I suck lemons? I’m not queer, you know I’m not.’

‘Yes, but they don’t. And who are they going to believe?’

‘You wouldn’t do that.’ He grabbed my wrist.

‘From what I hear of it, left-handers don’t have too good a time of it in the K Zs.’ Neumann stared glumly into his coffee.

‘You evil bastard,’ he sighed. ‘A couple of hundred you said, and a bit more.’

‘A hundred now, and two more if it’s on the level.’ He started to twitch.

‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Herr Gunther. There’s a ring involved. They’d kill me for sure if they found out I’d fingered them.’ Rings were unions of ex-convicts, dedicated officially to the rehabilitation of criminals; they had respectable club names, and their rules and regulations spoke of sporting activities and social gatherings. Not infrequently, a ring would host a lavish dinner (they were all very rich) at which defence lawyers and police officials would appear as guests of honour. But behind their semi-respectable facades the rings were no nothing more than the institutions of organized crime in Germany.

‘Which one is it?’ I asked.

‘The “German Strength”.’

‘Well, they won’t find out. Anyway, none of them are as powerful as they used to be. There’s only one ring that’s doing good business these days and that’s the Party.’

‘Vice and drugs may have taken a bit of a hammering,’ he said, ‘but the rings still run the gambling, the currency rackets, the black market, new passports, loan-sharking and dealing in stolen goods.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Believe me, Herr Gunther, they’re still strong. You don’t want to get in their way.’ He lowered his voice and leaned towards me. ‘I’ve even heard a strong whisper that they canned some old Junker who was working for the Prime Minister. How do you like that, eh? The bulls don’t even know that he’s dead yet.’

I racked my brain and came across the name that I had copied from Gert Jeschonnek’s address book. ‘This Junker’s name; it wouldn’t have been Von Greis, would it?’

‘I didn’t hear no name. All I know is that he’s dead, and that the bulls are still looking for him.’ He flicked his ash negligently at the ashtray.

‘Now tell me about the nutcracker.’

‘Well, it seems like I did hear something. About a month ago, a fellow by the name of Kurt Mutschmann finishes two years’ cement at Tegel Prison. From what I’ve heard about him, Mutschmann is a real craftsman. He could open the legs of a nun with rigor mortis. But the polyps don’t know about him. You see, he got put inside because he clawed a car. Nothing to do with his regular line of work. Anyway, he’s a German Strength man, and when he came out the ring was there to look after him. After a while they set him up with his first job. I don’t know what it was. But here’s the interesting part, Herr Gunther. The boss of German Strength, Red Dieter, has now got a contract out on Mutschmann, who is nowhere to be found. The word is that Mutschmann double-crossed him.’

‘Mutschmann was a professional, you say.’

‘One of the best.’

‘Would you say murder was part of his portfolio?’

‘Well,’ said Neumann, ‘I don’t know the man myself. But from what I’ve heard, he’s an artist. It doesn’t sound like his number.’

‘What about this Red Dieter?’

‘He’s a right bastard. He’d kill a man like someone else would pick their nose.’

‘Where do I find him?’

‘You won’t tell him it was me who told you, will you, Herr Gunther? Not even if he were to put a gun to your head.’

‘No,’ I lied; loyalty goes only so far.

‘Well, you could try the Rheingold Restaurant on Potsdamer Platz. Or the Germania Roof. And if you take my advice you’ll carry a lighter.’

‘I’m touched by your concern for my well-being, Neumann.’

‘You’re forgetting the money,’ he said, correcting me. ‘You said I’d get another 200 if it checked out.’ He paused, and then added: ‘And a hundred now.’ I took out my wallet again and thumbed him a couple of fifties. He held the two notes up to the window to scrutinize the watermarks.

‘You must be joking.’

Neumann looked at me blankly. ‘What about?’ He pocketed the money quickly.

‘Forget it.’ I stood up and dropped some loose change onto the table. ‘One more thing. Can you remember when you heard about the contract on Mutschmann?’ Neumann looked as thoughtful as he couid manage.

‘Well, now that I come to think of it, it was last week, about the time that I heard about this Junker getting killed.’

I walked west down Unter den Linden towards Pariser Platz and the Adlon.

I went through the hotel’s handsome doorway and into the sumptuous lobby with its square pillars of dark, yellow-clouded marble. Everywhere there were tasteful objets d’art; and in every corner there was the gleam of yet more marble. I went into the bar, which was full of foreign journalists and embassy people, and asked the barman, an old friend of mine, for a beer and the use of his telephone. I called Bruno Stahlecker at the Alex.

‘Hallo, it’s me, Bernie.’

‘What do you want, Bernie?’

‘How about Gerhard Von Greis?’ I said. There was a long pause. ‘What about him?’ Bruno’s voice sounded vaguely challenging, as if he was daring me to know more than I was supposed to.

‘He’s just a name on a piece of paper to me at the moment.’

‘That all?’

‘Well, I heard he was missing.’

‘Would you mind telling me how?’

‘Come on, Bruno, why are you being so coy about it? Look, my little song-bird told me, all right? Maybe if I knew a bit more I might be able to help.’

‘Bernie, there are two hot cases in this department right now, and you seem to be involved in both of them. That worries me.’

‘If it will make you feel better, I’ll have an early night. Give me a break, Bruno.’

‘This makes two in one week.’

‘I owe you.’

‘You’re damn right you do.’

‘So what’s the story?’

Stahlecker lowered his voice. ‘Ever heard of Walther Funk?’

‘Funk? No, I don’t think I have. Wait a minute, isn’t he some big noise in the business world?’

‘He used to be Hitler’s economic advisor. He’s now Vice-President of the Reich Chamber of Culture. It would seem that he and Herr Von Greis were a bit warm on each other. Von Greis was Funk’s boyfriend.’

‘I thought the Führer couldn’t stand queers?’

‘He can’t stand cripples either, so what will he do when he finds out about Joey Goebbels’s club foot?’ It was an old joke, but I laughed anyway.

‘So the reason for tiptoes is because it could be embarrassing for Funk, and therefore embarrassing for the Government, right?’

‘It’s not just that. Von Greis and Goering are old friends. They saw service together in the war. Goering helped Von Greis get his first job with I. G. Farben Chemicals. And lately he’d been acting as Goering’s agent. Buying art and that sort of thing. The Reichskriminaldirektor is keen that we find Von Greis as soon as possible. But it’s over a week now, and there’s been no sign of him. He and Funk had a secret love-nest on Privatstrasse that Funk’s wife didn’t know about. But he hasn’t been there for days.’ From my pocket I removed the piece of paper on which I had copied down an address from the book in Jeschonnek’s desk drawer: it was a number in Derfflingerstrasse.