Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

Goering smiled slowly. With his broad forehead, cold eyes, low growling voice, predatory grin and lazy belly, he reminded me of nothing so much as a big, fat, man-eating tiger; and as if telepathically conscious of the impression he was making on me, he leaned forwards in his chair, scooped up the lion cub from off the rug and cradled it on his sofa-sized lap. The cub blinked sleepily, hardly stirring as its owner stroked its head and thumbed its ears. He looked like he was admiring his own child.

‘You see,’ he said. ‘He is not in anyone’s shadow. And he’s not afraid to speak his mind. That is the great virtue of independence. There’s no reason on earth why this man should do me a service. He’s got the guts to remind me of that when another man would have stayed silent. I can trust a man like that.’

I nodded at the file on his desk. ‘I’d lay a bet that it was Diels who put that little lot together.’

‘And you’d be right. I inherited this file, your file, with a great many others, when he lost his position as Gestapo chief to that little shit of a chicken farmer. It was the last great service that he was to do for me.’

‘Do you mind my asking what happened to him?’

‘Not at all. He is still in my employment, although occupying a lesser position, as an inland-shipping administrator with the Hermann Goering Works in Cologne.’ Goering repeated his own name without the least trace of hesitation or embarrassment; he must have thought it was the most natural thing in the world that a factory should bear his name.

‘You see,’ he said proudly, ‘I look after the people who have done me a service. Isn’t that so, Rienacker?’

The big man’s answer came back with the speed of a pilota ball. ‘Yes sir, Herr Prime Minister, you most certainly do.’ Full marks, I thought as a servant bearing a large tray of coffee, Moselle and eggs Benedict for the Prime Minister came into the room. Goering tucked in as if he hadn’t eaten all day.

‘I may no longer be head of the Gestapo,’ he said, ‘but there are many in the security police, like Rienacker here, who are still loyal to me, rather than to Himmler.’

‘A great many,’ piped Rienacker loyally.

‘Who keep me informed about what the Gestapo is doing.’ He dabbed daintily at his wide mouth with a napkin. ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Rienacker tells me that you turned up at my apartment in Derfflingerstrasse this afternoon. It is, as he may already have told you, an apartment that I have placed at the disposal of a man who in certain matters is my confidential agent. His name is, as I believe you know, Gerhard Von Greis, and he has been missing for over a week. Rienacker says that you thought that he might have been approached by someone trying to sell a stolen painting. A Rubens nude, to be precise. What made you think that my agent was worth contacting, and how you managed to track him down to that particular address I have no idea. But you impress me, Herr Gunther.’

‘Thank you very much, Herr Prime Minister.’ Who knows? I thought; with a little practice I could sound just like Rienacker.

‘Your record as a police officer speaks for itself, and I don’t doubt that as a private investigator you are no less competent.’ He finished eating, swallowed a glassful of Moselle and lit an enormous cigar. He showed no signs of weariness, unlike the two aides and Rienacker, and I was starting to wonder what the pink pills had been. He blew a doughnut-sized smoke-ring. ‘Gunther, I want to become your client. I want you to find Gerhard Von Greis, preferably before Sipo does. Not that he’s committed any crime, you understand. It’s just that he is the custodian of some confidential information which I have no wish to see fall into Himmler’s hands.’

‘What kind of confidential information, Herr Prime Minister?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

‘Look, sir,’ I said. ‘If I’m going to row the boat I like to know if there are any leaks in it. That’s the difference between me and a regular bull. He doesn’t get to ask why. It’s the privilege of independence.’

Goering nodded. ‘I admire directness,’ he said. ‘I don’t just say that I’m going to do something, I do it and I do it properly. I don’t suppose there’s any point in hiring you unless I take you fully into my confidence. But you must understand, that imposes certain obligations on you, Herr Gunther. The price of betraying my trust is a high one.’

I didn’t doubt it for a minute. I got so little sleep these days, I didn’t think that losing some more on account of what I knew about Goering was going to make any difference. I couldn’t back off. Besides, there was likely to be some good money in it, and I try not to walk away from money unless I can possibly help it. He took another two of the little pink pills. He seemed to take them as often as I might have smoked a cigarette.

‘Sir, Rienacker will tell you that when he and I met in your apartment this afternoon, he asked me to tell him the name of the man I was working for, the man who owns the Rubens nude. I wouldn’t tell him. He threatened to beat it out of me. I still wouldn’t tell him.’

Rienacker leaned forwards. ‘That’s correct, Herr Prime Minister,’ he offered.

I continued with my pitch. ‘Every one of my clients gets the same deal. Discretion and confidentiality. I wouldn’t stay in business for very long if it was any other way.’

Goering nodded. ‘That’s frank enough,’ he said. ‘Then let me be equally frank. Many positions in the bureaucracy of the Reich fall to my patronage. Consequently, I’m often approached by a former colleague, a business contact, to grant a small favour. Well, I don’t blame people for trying to get on. If I can, I help them. But of course I will ask a favour in return. That is the way the world works. At the same time, I have built up a large store of intelligence. It is a reservoir of knowledge that I draw on to get things done. Knowing what I know, it is easier to persuade people to share my point of view. I have to take the larger view, for the good of the Fatherland. Even now there are many men of influence and power who do not agree with what the Führer and myself have identified as the priorities for the proper growth of Germany, so that this wonderful country of ours may assume its rightful place in the world.’ He paused. Perhaps he was expecting me to jump up and give the Hitler Salute and burst into a couple of verses of Horst Wessel; but I stayed put, nodding patiently, waiting for him to come to the point.

‘Von Greis was the instrument of my will,’ he said silkily, ‘as well as of my foible. He was both my purchasing agent, and my fund raiser.’

‘You mean he was an up-market squeeze-artist.’

Goering winced and smiled at the same time. ‘Herr Gunther, it does you much credit to be so honest, and so objective, but please try not to make it compulsive. I am a blunt man myself, but I don’t make a virtue out of it. Understand this: everything is justified in the service of the State. Sometimes one must be hard. It was, I think, Goethe who said that one must either conquer and rule, or serve and lose, suffer or triumph, be the anvil or the hammer. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. Look, it might help if I knew who Von Greis had dealings with.’

Goering shook his head. ‘I really can’t tell you that. It’s my turn to get on the soapbox and talk about Discretion and Confidentiality. To that extent, you’ll have to work in the dark.’

‘Very well, sir, I’ll do my best. Do you have a photograph of the gentleman?’

He reached into a drawer and produced a small snapshot which he handed to me. ‘This was taken five years ago,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t changed a great deal.’