Филип Керр: Metropolis

‘And he hasn’t stopped for the lack of a sword,’ said Gennat. ‘More recently there was a rumour he beat up an SA man he’d arrested in Lichtenrade, a Nazi who’d stabbed a communist. Nothing was proven. He might be popular around the Alex — even some of the anti-Semites seem to like him — but he’s got a temper.’

‘Precisely. I’m not saying he’s a bad policeman. Just that we think we prefer you to him.’ Weiss looked down at the page in my file. ‘I see you made your Abitur . But no university.’

‘The war. I volunteered.’

‘Of course.’

‘So then. You want the seat? It’s yours if you do.’

‘Yes, sir. Very much.’

‘You’ve been attached to the Murder Commission before, of course. So you’ve already worked a murder, haven’t you? Last year. In Schöneberg, wasn’t it? As you know, I like all my detectives to have had the experience of working a homicide alongside a top man like Gennat here.’

‘Which makes me wonder why you think I’m worth the permanent seat,’ I said. ‘That case — the Frieda Ahrendt case — has gone cold.’

‘Most cases go cold for a while,’ said Gennat. ‘And it’s not just cases that go cold, it’s detectives, too. Especially in this city. Never forget that. It’s just the nature of the job. New thinking is the key to solving cold cases. As a matter of fact, I’ve got some other cases you can check out if you ever get such a thing as a quiet moment. Cold cases are what can make a detective’s reputation.’

‘Frieda Ahrendt,’ said Weiss. ‘Remind me of that one.’

‘A dog found some body parts wrapped in brown paper and buried in the Grünewald,’ I said. ‘And it was Hans Schnieckert and the boys in Division J who first identified her. On account of the fact that the killer was thoughtful enough to leave us her hands. The dead girl’s fingerprints revealed she had a record for petty theft. You would think that might have opened a lot of doors. But we’ve found no family, no job, not even a last known address. And because a newspaper was foolish enough to put up a substantial reward for information, we wasted a lot of time interviewing members of the public who were more interested in making a thousand reichsmarks than in helping the police. At least four women told us their husbands were the culprit. One of them even suggested her husband was originally going to cook the body parts. Thus the newspaper epithet: the Grünewald Pork Butcher.’

‘That’s one way to get rid of your old man,’ said Gennat. ‘Put him up for a murder. Cheaper than getting a divorce.’

After Bernhard Weiss, Ernst Gennat was the most senior detective in the Alex; he was also the largest, nicknamed the Big Buddha; it was a tight fit in the station wagon with Gennat on board. Weiss himself had designed the murder wagon. It was equipped with a radio, a small fold-down desk with a typewriter, a medical kit, lots of photographic equipment, and almost everything needed to investigate a homicide except a prayer book and a crystal ball. Gennat had a mordant Berlin wit, the result, he said, of having been born and brought up in the staff quarters at Berlin’s Plötzensee Prison, where his father had been the assistant governor. It was even rumoured that on execution days Gennat had breakfasted with the headsman. Early in my days at the Alex, I’d decided to study the man and make him my model.

The telephone rang and Weiss answered it.

‘You’re SPD, right, Gunther?’ Gennat asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘Because we don’t need any politics in the wagon. Communists, Nazism, I get enough of that at home. And you’re single, right?’

I nodded.

‘Good. Because this job ruins a marriage. You might look at me and think, not unreasonably, that I’m very popular with the ladies. But only until I get a case that keeps me here at the Alex day and night. I’ll need to find a nice lady copper if ever I’m going to get married. So where do you live?’

‘I rent a room in a boardinghouse on Nollendorfplatz.’

‘This job means a bit more money and a promotion and maybe a better room. In that order. And you’ll be on probation for a month or two. Does this house you live in have a telephone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Use drugs?’

‘No.’

‘Ever try them?’

‘Bit of cocaine once. To see what all the fuss was about. Not for me. Besides, I couldn’t afford it.’

‘No harm in that, I suppose,’ said Gennat. ‘There’s still a lot of pain relief this country needs after the war.’

‘A lot of people aren’t taking it for pain relief,’ I said. ‘Which sometimes leaves them with a very different kind of crisis.’

‘There are some people who think the Berlin police are in crisis,’ said Gennat. ‘Who think the whole city is in crisis. What do you think, lad?’

‘The larger the city, the more crises there are likely to be. I think we’re always going to be facing a crisis of one kind or another. Might as well get used to that. It’s indecision that’s more likely to cause us crises. Governments that can’t get anything done. With no clear majority, I’m not sure this new one will be any different. Right now our biggest problem looks like democracy itself. What use is it when it can’t deliver a viable government? It’s the paradox of our times and sometimes I worry that we will get tired of it before it can sort itself out.’

He nodded, seeming to agree with me, and moved on to another issue.

‘Some politicians don’t think much of our clear-up rate. What do you say to that, lad?’

‘They should come and meet some of our clients. Maybe if the dead were a bit more talkative they’d have a fair point.’

‘It’s our job to hear them all the same,’ said Gennat. He shifted his enormous bulk for a moment and then stood up. It was like watching a zeppelin get airborne. The floor creaked as he walked to the corner turret window. ‘If you listen closely enough you can still hear them whisper. Like these Winnetou murders. I figure his victims are talking to us, but we just haven’t understood what language they’re speaking.’ He pointed out the window at the metropolis. ‘But someone does. Someone down there, perhaps coming out of Hermann Tietz. Maybe Winnetou himself.’

Weiss finished his telephone call and Gennat came back to the meeting table, where he lit his own pungent cigar. By now there was quite a cloudscape drifting across the table. It reminded me of gas drifting across no-man’s-land.

I was too nervous to light a cigarette myself. Too nervous and too respectful of my seniors; I was still in awe of them and amazed that they wanted me to be part of their team.

‘That was the ViPoPra,’ said Weiss.

The ViPoPra was the police president of Berlin, Karl Zörgiebel.

‘It seems that the Wolfmium light-bulb factory in Stralau just blew up. First reports say there are many dead. Perhaps as many as thirty. He’ll keep us posted.

‘I would remind you that we are agreed not to use the name Winnetou when we’re referring to our scalping murderer. I think it does those poor dead girls a grave disservice to use these sensationalized names. Let’s stick to the file name, shall we, Ernst? Silesian Station. Better for security that way.’

‘Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.’

‘So welcome to the Murder Commission, Gunther. The rest of your life just changed forever. You’ll never look at people in the same way again. From now on, whenever you stand next to a man at a bus stop or on a train, you’ll be sizing him up as a potential killer. And you’d be right to do so. Statistics show that most murders in Berlin are committed by ordinary, law-abiding citizens. In short, people like you and me. Isn’t that right, Ernst?’