Филип Керр - Metropolis

Seeing the sign for Uncle Pelle’s I turned off the main road and headed along a narrow gravel track between two small cemeteries. The track was lined with poplar trees beyond which could be seen the distinctive candy stripes of the circus big top.

‘So take some time off if you need it. As much time as you need. I’d rather have you back in Kripo as a recovering drinker than not at all. Drunk or sober, you’re one of the best men I’ve got.’

‘Thank you, sir. But I’ll be fine.’

It was all a setup, of course. I might have drunk my breakfast out of a bottle, but there was nothing wrong with my eyesight. Even at thirty metres I could tell that the man emerging from the side of the track with one hand in the air had an MP-18 in the other. The MP-18’s thirty-two-round left-side drum-magazine, which resembled the wing mirror on a car, was all too distinctive, not to mention deadly. And as he raised it to fire at us, I swerved to the right, braked hard, pulled Weiss down onto the floor of the Audi and then reached for the Mauser.

‘Stay there,’ I yelled, and, opening the driver’s door, rolled out of the car even as I heard several rounds hit the bodywork, startling the crows but startling me even more. But these were wild shots, since thirty metres was on the far side of what was comfortably in the Bergmann’s range; it was a better weapon for clearing a trench at close quarters.

I ran around the back of the Audi, climbed into the cemetery on my left, and, using the wall as cover, ran in the direction of the shooter. Even as I ran I slipped the safety off the Mauser and thumbed back the hammer so that it was ready to use. There was another burst of gunfire and I guessed the gunman must have thought I’d run away and that he now had all the time in the world to finish his attack on the deputy police president; I smelled his cigarette, heard his footsteps on the gravel, and then the unmistakable sound of another magazine being loaded into the machine gun. I was now behind our assailant and so I climbed over the wall again, which is one advantage of a rum breakfast and exactly why they used to give us a tot in the trenches before we went over the top.

The assassin was standing with his back to me about ten metres away, working the bolt action on the machine gun and getting ready to fire again. He was tall, with a workman’s cap, a sleeveless pullover, and boots that laced up to the knee. Over his shoulder was a small kit bag containing the used magazine and possibly another weapon. There was little or no time for a fair warning, especially as I had half an idea that there was another man lurking in the undergrowth of the other cemetery, but I tried all the same.

‘Police. Put your gun down.’

The man threw away his cigarette and turned, and I saw that he was no more than twenty, with a hard, empty face and bright blue eyes that were still full of murderous intent — that much was clear; he was going to shoot if he could. I think he smiled because he had so much more gun in his hands than me. The hot summer sun flashed intermittently through the leaves above our heads, dappling the ground beneath our feet so that it was like standing on a lake, which only added unreality to the reality that confronted us both now. On a perfect summer’s day, in a place of almost preternatural quiet, one of us was going to die. He started firing the MP-18 even before he’d aimed it my way, as if he was hoping that might stop me from pulling the trigger on the Mauser, but of course it didn’t.

I shot him in the chest and he fell back, still shooting for a second, before he hit the ground like a starfish. I walked towards him carefully, ready to fire again, saw that he was still alive, kicked the MP-18 out of his hand and then retrieved a Nazi Party badge from his pullover. The heels of his big hobnailed boots shifted as if he was trying to stand, but it was hopeless. He was drowning in his own blood and that was all there was to it; in ten or fifteen minutes he’d have expired, and nothing I nor anyone else could have done would prevent that. But this was of lesser importance beside the continuing danger of our situation: I was already looking around for a second and even a third assassin, as this was how an ambush worked, and since there was little time or inclination on my part for anything other than mercy of the kind practised by Dr Gnadenschuss, I put the barrel of the Mauser against the dying man’s head, pulled the trigger and ran back to the car.

Bernhard Weiss was still on the floor of the Audi where I’d left him. He had a Walther in his hand and almost shot me as I jumped into the driver’s seat. The engine was still running and without further explanation I ground the gear into reverse and accelerated backwards down the track before a grenade could be tossed at the car or someone else started shooting. Holding his hat on his head, Weiss stared straight ahead at the body of the man who’d just tried to assassinate him.

‘I like your car,’ I said, trying to improve his spirits.

‘For Christ’s sake, Bernie, forget about the car; he was going to kill me.’

‘He would have killed us both. Had to. No witnesses. We were lucky.’

‘I guess there is no connection with Surehand Hank or the human centipede. Never was. The whole thing was a hoax, cooked up to lure me into a trap.’

‘I have to tell you I had my doubts. When something’s too good to be true it usually is.’

‘Goddamn, why didn’t I see that? What kind of a detective am I if I couldn’t spot that?’

‘I reckon that’s what comes of posting articles in the newspapers. One of your readers decided to offer a critique of your writing.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

‘It beats a letter to the editor.’

At the end of the track I spun the Audi around on the gravel and then steered the car south and east, away from the scene as quickly as possible. Weiss turned around in the passenger seat and pointed through the rear window.

‘What about him ?’

‘Who?’

‘The gunman, of course. Maybe he’s still alive.’

I didn’t answer.

‘Is he still alive?’

‘I sincerely hope not.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s dead, chief. I made sure of that. But right now that’s hardly our concern. He might have some partners. These cowards usually do. That’s how they killed Rathenau. And Erzberger. In armed groups of two. I don’t figure you’ll be safe until we’re back at the Alex.’ I stamped on the accelerator, hoping the speed would reduce Weiss to silence. It didn’t.

‘We can’t just leave him there.’

‘Can’t we? That’s what he’d have done to us.’

‘But we’re not like that.’

‘No?’

‘We’re police, which means we should stop and telephone this in.’

‘If you take my advice you’ll say nothing about this to anyone except your car mechanic. You chose a left-hand-drive car for the sake of your safety; now you have to listen to me and do what I say for exactly the same reason.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘I’m the head of Kripo, Bernie. The deputy police president. And a lawyer. An officer of the court. I can’t leave the scene of a crime even if I am the intended victim. It wouldn’t be right. And it certainly wouldn’t be legal.’

‘There’s only you and me know about this, chief. Why not keep it that way?’

‘What are you talking about, Bernie? You know very well we can’t do that.’

‘Look, chief, do you want to be in the evening newspapers? Do you really want your wife and daughter to know that someone tried to murder you today? Is that what you want? Because the minute we report this, that’s what will happen. You’ll never leave home again without Lotte worrying for the rest of the day that something dreadful has happened to you.’