Philip Kerr - A Quiet Flame

He smiled, and looked slightly reassured, as if the information I was seeking was common knowledge. “I can tell you that very easily. The Dyestuff Syndicate has owned Bayer since 1925.”

“You mean the company that makes aspirin?”

“No, sir,” he said proudly. “I mean the company that invented it.”

“I see.” I did my best to look impressed. “I guess I ought to be grateful, considering the number of hangovers your company has helped me cope with. So what’s next in line, Doc? What’s the new wonder drug your people are working on now?”

“It’s not my field, sir. Not my field at all. I’m a chemical engineer.”

“Whose field is it?”

“You mean one person?”

I nodded.

“My dear Commissar, we have dozens of research scientists working for us, all over Germany. But mainly in Leverkusen. Bayer is based in Leverkusen.”

“Leverkusen? Never heard of it.”

“That’s because it’s a new town, Commissar Gunther. It’s made up of several small villages on the Rhine. And a number of chemical factories.”

“It sounds perfectly charming.”

“No, Commissar. Leverkusen is not at all charming. But it is making money. It is making money.” The doctor laughed. “But why do you ask, sir?”

“Here in Berlin, we have an Institute for Police Science, in Charlottenburg,” I said. “And we’re always on the lookout for new experts we can call upon to help us with our inquiries. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, of course.”

“I met this doctor who’s handling some very sensitive clinical trials at the state hospital in Friedrichshain here in Berlin. I think he said he was working for Bayer. And I was wondering if he might be the kind of discreet and reliable fellow who might help us out once in a while. From all accounts he’s a very gifted man. I heard him described as the next Paul Ehrlich. You know? The ‘magic bullet’?”

“Oh, you must mean Gerhard Domagk,” said Duisberg.

“That’s him,” I said. “I just wondered if you might be able to vouch for him. As simple as that, really.”

“Well, I haven’t actually met him myself. But from what I hear, he’s very brilliant. Very brilliant, indeed. And very discreet. He has to be. Much of our work is highly confidential. I’m sure he would be delighted to help the Berlin Police if it was within his power to do so. Was there something specific you wanted to ask him?”

“No. Not yet. Perhaps in the future.”

I pocketed the IGF man’s card and let him get back to the rest of his lunch party. That let Frieda get back to me. She looked flushed and very grateful, which is the way I like my women.

“You handled that cucumber like a professional,” she said.

“Didn’t you know? Before I joined the Berlin polenta, I was a green-grocer, in Leverkusen.”

“Where the hell is Leverkusen?”

“Didn’t you know? It’s a new town, on the Rhine. The center of the German chemical industry. What do you say we go there for the weekend and you can show me how grateful you are?”

Frieda smiled. “We don’t have to go that far to go that far,” she said. “We only have to go upstairs. To room 102. That’s one of our VIP suites. Empty right now. But Charlie Chaplin once slept in room 102. So did Emil Jannings.” She smiled again. “But then neither of them had me around to help keep them awake.”

IT WAS AROUND FOUR-THIRTY when I got back to the Alex. On my desk was a box of cucumbers. I waved one in the air as several of the KRIPO men in the detective room cheered and clapped. Otto Trettin, one of the best cops in the department and a specialist in criminal rings like the Always True, came over to my desk. There was a half-cucumber in his shoulder holster. He took it out, pointed it at me, and made a noise like a pistol shot.

“Very funny.” I grinned and removed my jacket, then hung it on the back of my chair.

“Where’s yours?” he asked. “Your gun, I mean.”

“In the car.”

“Well, that explains the cucumber, I suppose.”

“Come on, Otto. You know how it is. When you wear a gun, you have to keep your jacket buttoned, and in this warm weather we’ve been having…”

“You thought you could get away with it.”

“Something like that.”

“Seriously, Bernie. Now that you’ve gone up against Ricci Kamm, you’re going to have to watch your back. Your front, too, most likely.”

“You think so?”

“A man who puts Ricci Kamm in the Charite with a broken nose and a concussion had better start carrying a firearm or he’ll be wearing a knife between his shoulder blades. Even a cop.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I admitted.

“Course I’m right. You live on Dragonerstrasse, don’t you, Bernie? That’s right on the doorstep of the Always True’s territory. A gun’s no good in the glove box, old man. Not unless you’re planning to hold up a garage.” And still shooting the cucumber in my direction, Otto walked away.

“You should listen to him,” said a voice. “He knows what he’s talking about. When words fail, a gun can come in very handy.”

It was Arthur Nebe, one of the slipperiest detectives in KRIPO. A former right-wing Freikorps man, he had been made a commissar in DIa within just two years of joining the force and had a formidable record of solving crimes. Nebe was a founding member of the NSBAG-the National Socialist Fellowship of Civil Servants-and was rumored to be a close friend of such leading Nazis as Goebbels, Count von Helldorf, and Kurt Daluege. Strangely, Nebe was also a friend of Bernard Weiss. There were other influential friends, in the SDP. And around the Alex it was generally held that Arthur Nebe had more options covered than the Berlin Stock Exchange.

“Hello, Arthur,” I said. “What are you doing here? Is there not enough work in Political that you have to come and poach down here?”

Ignoring my remark, Nebe said, “Since he arrested the Sass brothers, Otto’s had to watch himself. Like he was painting his own portrait.”

“Well, we all know about Otto and the Sass brothers,” I said. In 1928, Otto Trettin had almost been dismissed from the force after it became known that he had beaten a confession out of these two criminals. “What I did was in no way similar to that. Pulling Ricci Kamm was a proper collar.”

“I hope he sees it that way,” said Nebe. “For your sake. Look here, going without a barker is no good for a cop, see? Last April, after I put Franz Spernau in the cement, I got so many death threats they were offering even money at the Hoppegarten that someone would stall my motor before the end of the summer. It was a bet that was almost collected, too.” Nebe grinned his wolfish grin and swept back his jacket to reveal a big, broom-handled Mauser. “Only I stalled them first, if you know what I mean.” He tapped the side of his not inconsiderable nose with clear meaning. “By the way, how’s the Schwarz case coming along?”

“What’s it to you, Arthur?”

“I know Kurt Daluege a little. We were in the army together. He’s sure to ask the next time I see him.”

“Actually I think I’m beginning to make real progress. I’m more or less certain my suspect is a patient at the jelly clinic in the state hospital in Friedrichshain.”

“Is that so?”

“So you can tell your chum Daluege that it’s nothing personal. I’d be working just as hard to catch this kid’s murderer even if her father wasn’t a lousy Nazi bastard.”

“I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know it. But speaking personally, I can’t see the point of bringing a kid like that into the world in the first place. As a society, I think we should follow the example of the Romans. You know? Romulus and Remus? We should leave them out on a hillside to die of exposure. Something like that, anyway.”