Philip Kerr - A Quiet Flame

“ ‘Let me tell Commissar Gunther this: that if he and his liberal-minded mates somehow scrape together the competence to apprehend the murderer of Anita Schwarz, there is only one sentence that will satisfy the German people. Death. The fact is, only brutality can now be respected in this country. The German people demand that criminals feel good, wholesome fear. Why get so worked up about the execution and torture of a few law-breakers? The masses want it. They are shouting for something that will give criminals a proper respect for the law. That is why we need the strong governance of National Socialism, as opposed to this bleeding-heart SDP government that is afraid of its own corrupt shadow. If Commissar Gunther spent more time worrying about catching killers and less time worrying about their rights, then, perhaps, this city would not be the sink of iniquity it is now.’ ”

Illmann tossed the paper across the desk at me and started rolling a perfect cigarette with the fingers of one hand.

“To hell with those bastards,” I said. “I’m not worried.”

“No? You should be. If this July election doesn’t prove conclusive one way or the other, there might be another putsch. And you and I could find ourselves floating in the Landwehr Canal, just like poor Rosa Luxemburg. Be careful, my young friend. Be careful.”

“It won’t come to that,” I said. “The army won’t stand for it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t share your touching faith in our armed forces. I think they’re just as likely to fall in behind the Nazis as they are to stand up for the republic.” He shook his head and grinned. “No, if the republic is to be saved, I’m afraid there’s just one thing for it. You’ll just have to solve this murder before July 31.”

“Fair enough, Doc. So what have you got?”

“Death was from asphyxia, caused by chloroform. Anita Schwarz swallowed her tongue. I found traces of chloroform in her hair and in her mouth. It’s a common enough death in hospitals. Heavy-handed anesthesiologists have killed many a patient in this way.”

“That’s a comforting thought. Any sign that she was interfered with sexually?”

“Impossible to tell, given her lack of plumbing. That could be why he did it, of course. To conceal evidence of intercourse. He knew what he was about, too. A very sharp curette was used calmly and confidently. This was no frenzied attack, Bernie. The killer took his time. Perhaps that’s why he used the chloroform. In which case, her fear was not a factor in his motivation. She was probably unconscious and almost certainly dead when he butchered her. You remember the Haarmann case, of course. Well, this is something very different.”

“Someone with medical experience, perhaps,” I said, thinking aloud. “In which case, the proximity of the state hospital might be relevant.”

“Very likely it is,” said Illmann. “But not for the reason we’ve just been discussing. No, I’d say it’s the pill you found near the body that makes it relevant.”

“Oh? How? What is it?”

“It’s nothing I’ve seen before. In chemical terms, it’s a sulfone group connected to an amine group. But the synthesis is new. I don’t even know what to call it, Bernie. Sulfanamine? I don’t know. It certainly doesn’t exist in the current pharmacopoeia. Not here. Not anywhere. Which means it’s new and experimental.”

“Have you any idea what it might be for?”

“The active sulfa molecule was first synthesized in 1906 and has been widely used in the dye-making industry.”

“Dye-making?”

“My guess is that there’s a smaller active compound that’s contained inside the dye-making molecule. About fifteen years ago the Pasteur Institute in Paris was using the sulfa molecule as the basis for some kind of antibacterial agent. Sadly, the work came to nothing. However, this pill would seem to indicate that someone, possibly here in Berlin, has successfully synthesized a sulfa-based drug.”

“Yes, but what could you use it for?”

“You could use it against any kind of bacterial infection. Any streptococci. However, you would have to test the drug on some volunteers before publishing any results. Especially given the Pasteur’s previous failures using dye-based drugs.”

“An experimental drug being tested at the state hospital, perhaps?”

“Could be.” Illmann finished his cigarette, stubbing it out in a little porcelain ashtray made for the Police Exhibition of 1926. He seemed about to say something and then checked himself.

“No, go on,” I said.

“I was only trying to think what might make Berlin interesting to someone conducting a drug trial.” He shook his head. “Because there are no drug companies based here in Berlin. And it’s not like we suffer from anything more than anywhere else in Germany.”

“Ah, well now, that’s where you’re wrong, Doc,” I said. “You want to read your police gazette, instead of worrying about the shit that’s in Der Angriff. There are more than one hundred thousand prostitutes working in Berlin today. More than anywhere else in Europe. And that’s just the straight ones. God knows how many warm boys there are in this city. My sergeant, Heinrich Grund, is always going on about it.”

“Of course,” said Illmann. “Venereal disease.”

“Since the war the figures have gone through the roof,” I said. “Not that I’d know, never having had a dose of jelly myself. But the current treatment is neosalvarsan, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. It contains organic arsenic, which makes its use somewhat hazardous. Even so, in its time it was such an important discovery and efficacious remedy-no proper remedy had existed before-that neosalvarsan was called ‘the magic bullet.’ That was a German discovery, too. Paul Ehrlich won the Nobel Prize for it in 1908. An exceptionally gifted man.”

“Could he-?”

“No, no, he’s dead, alas. Interestingly, salvarsan and neosalvarsan are dye-based compounds, too. Which is where the problem with them lies. In the color. And that must be where this new compound scores. Someone must have worked out how to remove the color without compromising the antibacterial activity.” He nodded, as if imagining the chemistry appearing on an invisible blackboard in front of his eyes. “Ingenious.”

“So let’s say we have a drug trial, here in Berlin,” I said. “For patients suffering from big jelly and little jelly? Syphilis and gonorrhea.”

“If it was effective against one, it might well be effective against the other, too.”

“How many patients would we be talking about? For a trial?”

“In the beginning? A few dozen. A hundred at the most. And all highly confidential, mind you. No doctor’s going to tell you which of his patients is suffering from a venereal disease. Not only that, but if it works, a drug like this could be worth millions. The clinical trials are very likely top secret.”

“How would you recruit your volunteers?”

Illmann shrugged. “Neosalvarsan treatment is no ice cream treat, Bernie. Its reputation precedes it. And most of the horror stories you’ve heard are true. So I’d have thought there would be no shortage of volunteers for a new drug.”

“All right. Suppose some T-girl gives our man a dose of jelly. Which makes him hate women enough to want to kill one. Meanwhile he volunteers for a drug trial to get his meat and two veg sorted.”

“But if a T-girl gives him a dose,” said Illmann, “then why not kill a T-girl? Why kill a child?”

“T-girls are too savvy. I saw one the other night. Built like a wrestler, she was. Some fritz came in and wanted her charged with assault. She’d hit the bastard with her riding crop.”

“Some men would pay good money for that kind of thing.”