Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

There were lots of files about the IKPK, which mostly I ignored, except to note that the International Criminal Police Commission [2] After 1956, the ICPC became better known as INTERPOL. was now an active part of the Gestapo. And there was plenty of correspondence between Export Drives GMBH — which turned out to be owned by Major Eggen — and a Zurich-based company called the Swiss Wood Syndicate, some of which had been signed by Paul Meyer. There were also lots of documents about a deal, brokered by the Ministry of Economic Affairs, between a government-owned company called German War and Munitions AG and the Luchsinger Company of Zurich to supply the Swiss with 275 submachine guns and two hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. But there was no sign of any documents regarding the sale of the Villa Minoux to Stiftung Nordhav. Not even a mildewed title deed.

Looking back on it now it seems incredible that I had so much important information in my hands but that I didn’t think to do anything with it because none of it was about the villa. But that was my brief from Heckholz and Frau Minoux, after all. How was I to know that, much later on, the Swiss Wood Syndicate would turn out to be important? Of course, that’s detective work for you. If I had to give that stupid lecture again I might add that sometimes the work is a bit like dealing with a beautiful woman you’re in love with: you never know what you’ve got until she’s gone.

I went downstairs, helped myself to some more cigarettes and a large schnapps from a bottle on a silver tray in the library — the best kind, made from the best fruit, which in this case was pears, and probably Austrian, as the finest schnapps usually is, and like eating the most delicious pear you’ve ever eaten only to discover that it was a wonderful, magic pear and that the effect extends far beyond the mouth into every corner of the human body like a benign witch’s spell. I quickly poured another and felt a smile spread on my face like a cloud shifting away from the sun. The bottle was too good to leave lying around in a place like that. If ever anything needed rescuing from the Nazis, it was that bottle.

The last lecture of the day was now over and the delegates were starting to drift out of the main hall. I swallowed the schnapps and, after a certain amount of talk was splashed about, I ushered Captain Meyer and his somber companion out to the car.

“I’m afraid it was all downhill after you left,” declared Meyer. “Very dull indeed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been looking forward to meeting you again all day.”

I’d been working on my smile and quickly deployed it as I opened the car door.

“But it’s always nice to be back in Berlin,” he added politely.

“How about you, Lieutenant—?”

“Leuthard,” said the man dully.

“Are you enjoying Berlin?”

“No,” he said. “I never liked it here much before. And I like it even less now.”

Captain Meyer laughed. “Ueli says what’s on his mind, generally.”

“That’s not recommended in Berlin.”

We drove north, straight up the old AVUS speedway and then east onto Bismarckstrasse where, outside the Grand Hotel am Knie, I parked the car and gestured the two Swiss inside.

“Shall we?”

Lieutenant Leuthard stared sourly up at the hotel’s tall façade with its twin bell towers and steep Dutch gable, lit a cigarette, and then checked his watch. I made a mental note of the size of his hands and his shoulders and resolved not to have any kind of disagreement with him. He might have been Swiss but he didn’t look like the kind of man whose neutrality you could depend on.

“Is this a better hotel than the Adlon?” he asked.

“No. Not in my opinion.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Before the war, I worked at the Adlon,” I said.

“My father’s in the hotel business,” he said. “I thought I might go into that myself. After the war.”

“With your skill for diplomacy, it’s a sure thing you’d be successful.”

Leuthard smiled a patient sort of smile.

“If you’ll forgive me,” he said, “I’ve heard enough waffle for one day. I’m going for a walk. To stretch my legs. I’ll see you in the opera house foyer in one hour, Captain. Sir.” Then he fixed his kepi on his head and walked east on Berliner Strasse, in the direction of the Tiergarten.

“Sorry about that,” said Meyer. “Ueli is a difficult character, at the best of times. A bit hotheaded, frankly. But I think he’s a good policeman.”

We sat down outside the hotel entrance under the large awning that covered the open-air bar and ordered some beers, for which I felt obliged to apologize in advance.

“The best beer is in short supply,” I said.

“Believe me, things are just as bad in Switzerland. We’re a landlocked country, as you know, and totally dependent on Germany’s goodwill for our survival. Which isn’t easy to maintain, given certain recent events.”

I shrugged, unaware of what recent events he might have been referring to.

“I’m talking about Maurice Bavaud,” explained Meyer. “The Swiss theology student who tried to shoot Hitler in 1938. He was executed last year.”

I shrugged. “Speaking for myself, I’m not about to hold a little thing like that against you all.”

Meyer chuckled. “Schellenberg was right. You are an excellent detective, but a very poor Nazi. I wonder how you’ve stayed alive for so long.”

“This is Berlin. Most of the time people don’t notice when you call a child nasty names. It’s not just Lieutenant Leuthard who hates us. It’s our masters, too. Been that way since Bismarck’s time. We’re constitutionally ungovernable. A bit like the Paris mob, but with uglier women.”

He laughed. “You’re a most amusing man. I’m sure my wife, Patrizia, would love to meet you. If you’re ever in Switzerland, you must look us up.”

He gave me a stiff little card that had more names and more addresses than a Maltese confidence man.

“Sure. I’m often in your neck of the woods. Actually, my bankers in Zurich think I should move there permanently. But I like it here. There’s our famous air, for one thing. I’d miss that. Not to mention all our hard-won freedoms.”

“Seriously, though,” he said. “There’s an old murder case I’ve long been fascinated with. Happened in a place called Rapperswil. A woman was found dead in a boat. The local detective is a friend of mine. I’m sure he’d love to have the benefit of your insight. We both would.”

“The only insight I can offer you at the present moment is that hosting an international crime conference in Germany is like the Goths and the Vandals offering suggestions on new ways of tackling crimes against property during the sack of Rome. But it would certainly seem like a shame to go to Switzerland just to tell you this.”

The beers came and they were better than I had expected. But very expensive.

“Are you really a writer?” I asked.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I never met a writer before. Especially one who was a policeman.”

Meyer shrugged. “I’m more on the intelligence side of things,” he explained.

“That explains why you know Schellenberg. He’s got a lot of intelligence. Maybe just enough to survive the war. We’ll see.”

“I like him. And he seems to like me.”

“How did you two meet?”

“In Bucharest. At the 1938 IKPK General Assembly, where it was proposed the IKPK headquarters be moved from Vienna to Geneva. Schellenberg was all for it. At least he was until your General Heydrich changed his mind for him.”

“He could be a very persuasive man when he wanted.”