Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

‘Only that that man could not possibly be Josef Kahn,’ she said. ‘And that Josef Kahn has been the subject of a form of fraud that one might have thought was impossible in the Third Reich.’ There was a smile on her mouth as she closed her file and sat back in her chair, opening her cigarette case. Smoking, like being a doctor, was something else that women weren’t supposed to do, but I could see that it wasn’t the sort of thing that would have given her too many qualms.

It was the count who spoke next.

‘In the light of this information, may one inquire of the Reichskriminaldirektor if the ban on news-reporting that has applied in this case will now be lifted?’ His belt creaked as he leant across the table, apparently eager to hear Nebe’s reply. The son of a well-known general who was now the ambassador to Moscow, young von der Schulenberg was impeccably well-connected. When Nebe didn’t answer, he added: ‘I don’t see how one can possibly impress upon the parents of girls in Berlin the need for caution without some sort of official statement in the newspapers. Naturally I will make sure that every Anwärter on the force is made aware of the need for vigilance on the street. However, it would be easier for my men in Orpo if there were some assistance from the Reich Ministry of Propaganda.’

‘It’s an accepted fact in criminology,’ said Nebe smoothly, ‘that publicity can act as an encouragement to a murderer like this, as I’m sure Frau Kalau vom Hofe will confirm.’

‘That’s correct,’ she said. ‘Mass murderers do seem to like to read about themselves in the newspapers.’

‘However,’ Nebe continued, ‘I will make a point of telephoning the Muratti building today, and asking them if there is not some propaganda that can be directed towards young girls being made more aware of the need to be careful. At the same time, any such campaign would have to receive the blessing of the Obergruppenführer. He is most anxious that there is nothing said which might create a panic amongst German women.’

The count nodded. ‘And now,’ he said, looking at me, ‘I have a question for the Kommissar.’

He smiled, but I wasn’t about to place too much reliance on it. He gave every impression of having attended the same school in supercilious sarcasm as ObergruppenFührer Heydrich. Mentally I lifted my guard in readiness for the first punch.

‘As the detective who ingeniously solved the celebrated case of Gormann the strangler, will he share with us now his initial thoughts in this particular case?’

The colourless smile persisted beyond what might have seemed comfortable, as if he was straining at his tight sphincter. At least, I assumed it was tight. As the deputy of a former S A man, Count Wolf von Helldorf, who was reputed to be as queer as the late S A boss Ernst Rohm, Schulenberg might well have had the kind of arse that would have tempted a short-sighted pickpocket.

Sensing that there was even more to be made of this disingenuous line of inquiry, he added: ‘Perhaps an indication as to the kind of character we might be looking for?’

‘I think I can help the administrative president there,’ said Frau Kalau vom Hofe. The count’s head jerked irritatedly in her direction.

She reached down into her briefcase and laid a large book on to the table. And then another, and another, until there was a pile as high as one of von der Schulenberg’s highly polished jackboots.

‘Anticipating just such a question, I took the liberty of bringing along several books dealing with the psychology of the criminal,’ she said. ‘Heindl’s Professional Criminal , Wulffen’s excellent Handbook of Sexual Delinquency , Hirschfeld’s Sexual Pathology , F. Alexander’s The Criminal and his Judges-’

This was too much for him. He collected his papers off the table and stood up, smiling nervously.

‘Another time perhaps, Frau vom Hofe,’ he said. Then he clicked his heels, bowed stiffly to the room and left.

‘Bastard,’ muttered Lobbes.

‘It’s quite all right,’ she said, adding some copies of the German Police Journal to the pile of textbooks. ‘You can’t teach Hans what he won’t learn.’ I smiled, appreciating her cool resilience, as well as the fine breasts which strained at the material of her blouse.

After the meeting was concluded, I lingered there a little in order to be alone with her.

‘He asked a good question,’ I said. ‘One to which I didn’t have much of an answer. Thanks for coming to my assistance when you did.’

‘Please don’t mention it,’ she said, starting to return some of her books to the briefcase. I picked one of them up and glanced at it.

‘You know, I’d be interested to hear your answer. Can I buy you a drink?’

She looked at her watch. ‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘I’d like that.’

Die Letze Instanz, at the end of Klosterstrasse on the old city wall, was a local bar much favoured by bulls from the Alex and court officials from the nearby court of last instance, from which the place took its name.

Inside it was all dark-brown wood-panelled walls and flagged floors. Near the bar, with its great draught pump of yellow ceramic, on top of which stood the figure of a seventeenth-century soldier, was a large seat made of green, brown and yellow tiles, all with moulded figures and heads. It had the look of a very cold and uncomfortable throne, and on it sat the bar’s owner, Warnstorff, a pale-skinned, dark-haired man wearing a collarless shirt and a capacious leather apron that was also his bag of change. When we arrived he greeted me warmly and showed us to a quiet table in the back, where he brought us a couple of beers. At another table a man was dealing vigorously with the biggest piece of pig’s knuckle either of us had ever seen.

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked her.

‘Not now I’ve seen him,’ she said.

‘Yes, I know what you mean. It does put you off rather, doesn’t it? You’d think he was trying to win the Iron Cross the way he’s battling that joint.’

She smiled, and we were silent for a moment. Eventually she said, ‘Do you think there’s going to be a war?’

I stared into the top of my beer as if expecting the answer to float to the surface. I shrugged and shook my head.

‘I haven’t really been keeping that close an eye on things lately,’ I said, and explained about Bruno Stahlecker and my return to Kripo. ‘But shouldn’t I be asking you? As the expert on criminal psychology you should have a better appreciation of the Führer’s mind than most people. Would you say his behaviour was compulsive or irresistible within the definition of Paragraph Fifty-one of the Criminal Code?’

It was her turn to search for inspiration in a glass of beer.

‘We don’t really know each other well enough for this kind of conversation, do we?’ she said.

‘I suppose not.’

‘I will say this, though,’ she said lowering her voice. ‘Have you ever read Mein Kampf?’

‘That funny old book they give free to all newlyweds? It’s the best reason to stay single I can think of.’

‘Well, I have read it. And one of the things I noticed was that there is one passage, as long as seven pages, in which Hitler makes repeated references to venereal disease and its effects. Indeed, he actually says that the elimination of venereal disease is The Task that faces the German nation.’

‘My God, are you saying that he’s syphilitic?’

‘I’m not saying anything. I’m just telling you what is written in the Führer’s great book.’

‘But the book’s been around since the mid-twenties. If he’s had a hot tail since then his syphilis would have to be tertiary.’

‘It might interest you to know,’ she said, ‘that many of Josef Kahn’s fellow inmates at the Herzeberge Asylum are those whose organic dementia is a direct result of their syphilis. Contradictory statements can be made and accepted. The mood varies between euphoria and apathy, and there is general emotional instability. The classic type is characterized by a demented euphoria, delusions of grandeur and bouts of extreme paranoia.’