Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

‘Shit,’ I said, closing my eyes again.

‘That’s my act, Gunther. And I do expect you to help me with the curtain and the lights.’ He jabbed a forefinger against my numb chest. ‘So let’s have some fucking answers, eh?’

‘You stupid bastard. You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you? Christ, I was the only friend he had. When you and all your cute friends here at the Alex managed to have him posted out to some backwater in Spreewald, I was the one who came through for him. I was the one who appreciated that despite his awkward lack of enthusiasm for the Nazis, he was still a good bull.’ I shook my head bitterly, and swore again.

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Last night, around eight o’clock. I left him in the car park behind the Metropol on Nollendorfplatz.’

‘Was he working?’

‘Yes.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Tailing someone. No, keeping someone under observation.’

‘Someone working in the theatre or living in the apartments?’

I nodded.

‘Which was it?’

‘I can’t tell you. At least, not until I’ve discussed it with my client.’

‘The one you can’t tell me about either. Who do you think you are, a priest? This is murder, Gunther. Don’t you want to catch the man who killed your partner?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think that you ought to consider the possibility that your client had something to do with it. And then suppose he says, “Herr Gunther, I forbid you to discuss this unfortunate matter with the police.” Where does that get us?’ He shook his head. ‘No fucking deal, Gunther. You tell me or you tell the judge.’ He stood up and went to the door. ‘It’s up to you. Take your time. I’m not in any hurry.’

He closed the door behind him, leaving me with my guilt for ever having wished ill to Bruno and his harmless pipe.

About an hour later the door opened and a senior S S officer came into the room.

‘I was wondering when you’d show up,’ I said.

Arthur Nebe sighed and shook his head.

‘I’m sorry about Stahlecker,’ he said. ‘He was a good man. Naturally you’ll want to see him.’ He motioned me to follow him. ‘And then I’m afraid you’ll have to see Heydrich.’

Beyond an outer office and an autopsy-theatre where a pathologist stood working on the naked body of an adolescent girl was a long, cool room with rows of tables stretching out in front of me. On a few of them lay human bodies, some naked, some covered with sheets, and some like Bruno still clothed and looking more like items of lost luggage than anything human.

I walked over and took a long hard look at my dead partner.

The front of his shirt looked as though he had spilt a whole bottle of red wine on himself, and his mouth gaped open like he’d been stabbed sitting in a dentist’s chair. There are lots of ways of winding up a partnership, but they didn’t come much more permanent than this one.

‘I never knew he wore a plate,’ I said absently, catching the glint of something metallic inside Bruno’s mouth. ‘Stabbed?’

‘Once, through the pump. They reckon under the ribs and up through the pit of the stomach.’

I picked up each of his hands and inspected them carefully. ‘No protection cuts,’ I said. ‘Where did they find him?’

‘Metropol Theatre car park,’ said Nebe.

I opened his jacket, noticing the empty shoulder-holster, and then unbuttoned the front of his shirt, which was still sticky with his blood, to inspect the wound. It was difficult to tell without seeing him cleaned up a bit, but the entry looked split, as if the knife had been rocked inside him.

‘Whoever did it knew how to kill a man with a knife,’ I said. ‘This looks like a bayonet wound.’ I sighed and shook my head. ‘I’ve seen enough. There’s no need to put his wife through this, I’ll make the formal identification. Does she know yet?’

Nebe shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He led the way back through the autopsy-theatre. ‘But I expect someone will tell her soon enough.’

The pathologist, a young fellow with a large moustache, had stopped work on the girl’s body to have a smoke. The blood from his gloved hand had stained the cigarette paper and there was some of it on his lower lip. Nebe stopped and regarded the scene before him with more than a little distaste.

‘Well?’ he said angrily. ‘Is it another one?’

The pathologist exhaled lazily and pulled a face. ‘At this early stage, it certainly looks that way,’ he said. ‘She’s wearing all the right accessories.’

‘I see.’ It was easily apparent that Nebe didn’t much care for the young pathologist. ‘I trust your report will be rather more detailed than the last one. Not to mention more accurate.’ He turned abruptly and walked quickly away, adding loudly over his shoulder, ‘And make sure I have it as soon as possible.’

In Nebe’s staff-car, on the way to the Wilhelmstrasse, I asked him what it was all about. ‘Back there, in the autopsy-theatre, I mean.’

‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I think that’s what you’re about to find out.’

The headquarters of Heydrich’s SD, the Security Service, at number 102 Wilhelmstrasse, seemed innocuous enough from the outside. Even elegant. At each end of an Ionic colonnade was a square, two-storey gatehouse, and an archway that led into a courtyard behind. A screen of trees made it difficult to see what lay beyond, and only the presence of two sentries told you that here was an official building of some sort.

We drove through the gate, past a neat shrub-lined lawn about the size of a tennis-court, and stopped outside a beautiful, three-storey building with arched windows that were as big as elephants. Stormtroopers jumped to open the car doors and we got out.

The interior wasn’t quite what I had expected of Sipo HQ. We waited in a hall, the central feature of which was an ornate gilt staircase, decorated with fully-formed caryatids, and enormous chandeliers. I looked at Nebe, allowing my eyebrows to inform him that I was favourably impressed.

‘It’s not bad, is it?’ he said, and taking me by the arm he led me to the French windows which looked out on to a magnificent landscaped garden. Beyond this, to the west, could be seen the modern outline of Gropius’s Europa Haus, while to the north, the southern wing of Gestapo headquarters on Prinz Albrecht Strasse was clearly visible. I had good reason to recognize it, having once been detained there awhile at Heydrich’s order.

At the same time, appreciating the difference between the SD, or Sipo as the Security Service was sometimes called, and the Gestapo was a rather more elusive matter, even for some of the people who worked for these two organizations. As far as I could understand the distinction, it was just like Bockwurst and Frankfurter: they have their special names, but they look and taste exactly the same.

What was easy to perceive was that with this building, the Prinz Albrecht Palais, Heydrich had done very well for himself. Perhaps even better than his putative master, Himmler, who now occupied the building next door to Gestapo headquarters, in what was formerly the Hotel Prinz Albrecht Strasse. There was no doubt that the old hotel, now called S S-Haus, was bigger than the Palais. But as with sausage, taste is seldom a question of size.

I heard Arthur Nebe’s heels click, and looking round I saw that the Reich’s crown prince of terror had joined us at the window.

Tall, skeletally thin, his long, pale face lacking expression, like some plaster of Paris death-mask, and his Jack Frost fingers clasped behind his ramrod-straight back, Heydrich stared outside for a moment or two, saying nothing to either of us.

‘Come, gentlemen,’ he said eventually, ‘it’s a beautiful day. Let’s walk a bit.’ Opening the windows he led the way into the garden, and I noticed how large were his feet and how bandy his legs, as if he had been riding a lot: if the silver Horseman’s Badge on his tunic pocket was anything to go by, he probably had.