Филип Керр - Metropolis

But Angerstein was already untying Emil’s ankles and hands, as if he was satisfied with what we had heard. Which surprised me; he wasn’t the type to be satisfied with anyone’s explanation of anything, let alone with a cursory description of the man who had probably murdered his daughter. Emil’s revelation that the suspect was a cop seemed to beg as many questions as it answered. Angerstein looked at me and shook his head.

‘Well, that’s a bit of a turn-up, eh?’ he said. ‘A copper from the Alex. Narrows it down a bit, I suppose. Who was that other copper who was fond of murdering whores? The fellow who thought he was doing God’s work cleaning up the city.’

‘Bruno Gerth.’

‘And where is he now, exactly?’

‘Still in the asylum at Wuhlgarten. Last I heard.’

‘I don’t suppose a kind judge could have been persuaded to let him out?’

‘No. As a matter of fact I went to see him just a couple of months ago.’

‘Might I ask why?’

‘I was seeking some information on another case.’ This hardly stated it. I’d gone there specifically at the behest of Ernst Gennat, who knew I was well acquainted with Gerth, to see if he couldn’t help us with a few unsolved murders. More important, however, I’d been asked to check on a story circulating about Bruno Gerth at the time of his conviction; it was never confirmed but it was widely rumoured that he’d had a partner. He’d denied everything, of course. It was obvious to me that he hoped at some stage to ‘prove’ that he was sane again and effect his own early release: A late confession would have spoiled that.

‘So he’s quite sane then. In spite of the fact he’s in Wuhlgarten. Otherwise you’d hardly have gone there asking for his help.’

‘In my opinion, quite sane. He knew how to work the legal system, that’s all. To avoid a death sentence.’

‘Any other homicidal cops you know that spring to mind?’

‘Plenty,’ I said. ‘But not like this. On the other hand.’

‘Yes?’

‘If he really is a cop, then it might explain the way he salted those crime scenes with clues. Like he knew the best way of making us waste our time. And maybe some other things, too. The way he taunted the police in the newspapers. As if he wanted to get back at Kripo — to show all of us up as incompetent.’

‘It’s a pity Emil didn’t give us a name.’

‘That’s the only reason I get paid to be a detective. To try and work it out for myself.’

Angerstein tapped Emil on the head with his knuckle. ‘We know where you live. And you know who I am. You know that I can find people and hurt them very badly. You think of anything else to do with this copper you saw, then you get in touch, Emil.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Angerstein took out his wallet and laid some cash on the kitchen table. ‘Here. Go and see a doctor and get your stripes attended to.’

‘Thanks.’

‘We need to leave. Now.’ Angerstein took my arm and moved me towards the door. ‘In case anyone heard something and decided to report it. Even in Berlin that’s just about possible.’

Angerstein drove me back to Nollendorfplatz.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he said.

‘I’m thinking.’

‘Would you care to share some of that thinking with me, Gunther?’

‘I’d be wasting your time. I’m still drilling for oil here. But I’ll let you know if I hit a gusher. Until then I’m just going to whistle a tune and keep my hands in my pockets.’

‘If there’s one thing more ridiculous than the idea of a policeman who’s thinking, it’s a policeman saying he expects something important to come of it.’

‘I’m glad we fill you with such confidence.’

‘The police?’ Angerstein laughed. ‘Maybe you weren’t there when I was beating that carpet. I just learned it was a cop who murdered my daughter. I’m doing my best not to blame you for that. You being a cop yourself and part of the general conspiracy of silence that afflicts this town.’

‘It’s the part of me that’s a cop that’s doing the thinking.’

‘Don’t take too long. The sooner you arrest someone, the sooner I can stop pecking your head.’

‘Sorry, but a man has to do his thinking in private.’

‘Maybe back in the day when you were a theology student in Heidelberg. But these days you’ve got to write reports so your superiors can help guide your thoughts with wisdom. If they can. That’s why they put cops in teams, isn’t it? It’s not the bar bills they expect you to share, it’s the brain work.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘All I’m saying is that maybe I can help.’

‘And all I’m saying is that if you’re expecting ninety-five theses nailed to your front door tomorrow morning, you’re going to be disappointed. Look, Herr Angerstein, I’ll tell you something just as soon as I have it. Until then, have a good night.’

I went inside the house and crept upstairs. There was a light under Rankin’s door, but I didn’t knock. And I didn’t go to bed; my mind was too active for sleep. Instead I went to my desk and drew a paper pad towards me and sat thinking and making idle marks with my pen, hoping that the business of writing and reconsideration might fix a number of things that remained jumbled in my thoughts. I was trying to remember a few forgotten facts, some blurred details, and any lurking inconsistencies. In short, I hoped to set something down on paper that had appeared altogether trivial but now nagged at me as being piercingly significant. I looked at the bottle of rum in my drawer and turned it down, like a man of real character, and kept on scribbling things on the pad as they occurred to me, in no particular order. And after a while I found myself yawning and thought it best to leave such compelling considerations to the subterranean part of my mind, about which nothing seemed clear except perhaps the antithesis between sleep and wakefulness, and a good policeman and a bad one. But was there ever any such antithesis in fact? A lot of good cops were capable of some very bad behaviour, myself included. Some more than others. Which was why my thoughts returned to the meeting of the Schrader-Verband at the Schlossbrauerei in Schöneberg, and the anti-republican cops I’d seen there. Many held opinions that I found objectionable — and one, Gottfried Nass, had even attempted to kill me — but were any of them capable of psychopathic murder? The only truly psychopathic cop I’d ever met had been someone I actually liked: Bruno Gerth. At the time I visited him, I’d thought bad policemen didn’t come much worse than Bruno Gerth, and yet he’d been warm and courteous and, to my layman’s eyes, more or less sane. We’d known each other since before the time I’d joined Kripo, when I was still in uniform like him; and he’d greeted me in his room at the asylum in Wuhlgarten like a long-lost friend.

‘Bernie Gunther,’ said Gerth, shaking my hand. ‘How long has it been?’

‘Four years.’ I lit us each a cigarette and transferred one to him.

‘Four years. Incredible, isn’t it? I heard you were out of uniform. In plainclothes.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t say. But I get visitors. Tell me, are you enjoying being a detective? You’re in Vice now, aren’t you?’

‘Vice. That’s correct. It’s all right, I guess. But I’m never off duty. That’s the thing about wearing a uniform. Once you hang it in your locker, you’re finished for the day.’

‘So what brings you to east Berlin? I take it this isn’t a social call.’

Bruno wasn’t much older than me. With his blue eyes, blond hair and regular features, he was also a war hero and a policeman with a commendation for bravery. He fit no one’s profile of a violent murderer; certainly not that of the judge of the court that had tried him. His lawyers had argued that he would never have killed anyone if he hadn’t also been an epileptic. I wasn’t so sure about that. Not only had the detectives investigating Elsie Hoffmann’s and Emma Trautmann’s murders described a scene of horrifying brutality, they’d also revealed Gerth’s obsession with a book by a popular criminologist by the name of Erich Wulffen. Gerth’s copy of The Sexual Criminal was heavily underlined and annotated, and both his victims were eviscerated in a way that seemed to be a copycat version of what was in Wulffen’s near-pornographic book.