Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

“I was just thinking that some of those wooden barracks must have been used to help build German concentration camps. For the SS. Places like Dachau and Buchenwald. I mean, it stands to reason that with the German Army on the move and living under canvas or in cities it’s conquered, there’s less of a need for them to have wooden barracks. Concentration camps need wooden barracks, right? It just occurred to me that the Swiss might be a little embarrassed if this became public knowledge. Which would certainly help to explain the murder of Dr. Heckholz last year.”

I pictured the scene in the lawyer’s Wallstrasse office, in Berlin-Charlottenburg: Heckholz’s body lying on the white floor, his head surrounded with a halo of blood after someone had smashed it in with a bronze bust of Hitler. No wonder I hadn’t read the crime scene properly — I’d been much too concerned with being amused at the idea that Hitler had killed the man. I’d ignored the fact that instead of writing the name of his killer with his own blood, Heckholz had used it to make a cross on the white floor — a white cross in red blood.

“Of course,” I said again. “It was a Swiss flag he was trying to make with his own blood. It wasn’t Schellenberg’s people who killed him. It was the Swiss. That’s what he was trying to tell us. That Meyer, or more likely that other fellow who was with him — Leuthard — must have killed him. They went to the German Opera that night, which is just around the corner. Leuthard claimed he’d slept all the way through act three of Weber’s The Marksman . He must have killed him then. To stop Heckholz from exposing what the Swiss had been up to in association with Stiftung Nordhav; to stop him from going to the international press.”

“I’m delighted for you,” said Nölle, “but none of this helps me. I’m supposed to find out what the hell you’re doing down here. If Schellenberg is a traitor. If he’s seeking to make a secret deal with the Allies on Himmler’s personal instructions. That’s what I want to know. And if Goebbels is having an affair with Dalia Dresner. So far you’ve told me fuck-all. That won’t do, Gunther. That won’t do at all.” He shook his head. “I’m asking you nicely. Please. Tell me everything you know. Given the fact that I just saved your life, it’s the least you can do.”

“I don’t know anything about Schellenberg betraying us to the Allies. That doesn’t make sense at all. Look, surely the fact that the Amis kidnapped me and were questioning me on the assumption that I was General Schellenberg confirms that they don’t know anything about it, either. No, that doesn’t work at all. The Swiss are in business with the SS. And more particularly, Stiftung Nordhav — a company owned by a few select members of the SS. That’s a secret worth killing for.”

A strong sense of relief at having escaped from the Amis and now this realization that I had most likely “solved” Heckholz’s murder had perhaps blinded me to the threat that was now right in front of me; but how all of this might eventually play out was now delayed as the other Gestapo man came through the kitchen door. He wasn’t wearing a jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, there was oil on his face and hands, and he looked as if he’d been working.

“You’d better come and look at this, boss,” he said.

We went through the kitchen door into a large garage where my car was now parked over an inspection pit lit with an electric light illuminating its underside. It was dark outside and through a high window into the farmyard, cooler air full of moths and the sweet smell of cow dung flowed into the garage. A sign above the door said Beware of the Bull . A few chickens wandered in and out of the garage to see what had happened to my car, which was hardly surprising. The Mercedes looked as if a small grenade had exploded inside it. The bonnet and trunk and all of the doors were wide open. The spare wheel was on the hay-strewn floor next to the flask of rakija I’d been intending to give Dalia as a present. The leather panels had been removed from the inside of the doors. Even the rocker panels under the doors had been opened up. It was now very clear what the other Gestapo man had been up to while I’d been talking to Nölle.

“What did you find, Edouard?”

“Gold,” said the other man. “This car looks as if it was owned by Rumpelstiltskin.”

He reached into the rocker panel and withdrew a gold bar. And then another. Within minutes eight gold bars lay shining on the garage floor. I picked one up. It was heavy.

“Must weigh at least ten kilos,” I said, and gave it to Nölle.

“More like twelve,” he said, hefting it in his hand. “At thirty-five dollars an ounce, each one of those bars is probably worth what — fourteen thousand dollars? Which is about two hundred and fifty thousand reichsmarks.”

“Two million in gold,” I said. “No wonder the car’s steering felt heavy. And why I was using so much petrol. I was driving half the Reichsbank across the Swiss border.”

Nölle tossed the bar onto the floor.

“Are you saying you didn’t know anything about this?” Nölle asked me.

“Of course I didn’t. If I’d known, I’d be in hiding by now preparing for a new life in Mexico. But it certainly explains why Schellenberg didn’t want to drive this car into Switzerland himself. Why take the risk when I could do that? The question is, who does the gold belong to? Is it Schellenberg’s personal supply? Stiftung Nordhav’s gold? That’s the company I was telling you about. Or is this Himmler’s gold?”

“I’m not following you,” said Nölle.

“Well, look, this is your idea, not mine,” I said. “But it occurs to me that if you and your bosses are right and Himmler is using Schellenberg to try to extend peace feelers to the Allies, then that’s going to need finance. This country’s neutrality doesn’t extend to money. The Swiss don’t like our paper money. Nobody does. Very sensibly, they much prefer gold. Alternatively, the gold might be intended to make sure that the Reichsführer himself is well insured against a rainy day. If the war goes against us, he’s going to need a supply of money outside Germany, wouldn’t you say? I’d have thought a hefty deposit of gold in a Swiss bank will prevent a few sleepless nights for the Reichsführer.”

“You’re a smooth talker, Gunther,” said Nölle, and he reached under his jacket. “That’s what your file says. It’s easy to see why Schellenberg picked you for this job. And if anyone could talk his way out of a spot, it’s you, probably. The way you picked up what I said earlier — about Himmler’s peace feelers — and threw it back to me, just now, with some spin on it. That was clever. Wasn’t it, Edouard?”

“He’s a clever bastard right enough,” said the other man. “Typical Kripo. Makes a better criminal than the criminals.”

The broom-handle Mauser in Nölle’s hand didn’t escape my attention. Not least because it was pointed at me. And there were three bodies in an apartment somewhere in Zurich that told me he was quite prepared to use it.

“I like you, Gunther. I really do. It’s just a shame we’ve got orders to kill you.” He shrugged. “But we have. Just as soon as we found out what the hell you were up to in Switzerland. Well, I reckon now we have. Or at least now we have something we can get a fix on. But I really don’t think I’ll mention half of all that shit you said in the house. Frankly, I couldn’t remember half of it anyway. I daresay you’re right about nearly everything. But my pay grade doesn’t really cover me to think very much.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You were pretty quick with the math on those gold prices.”