Philip Kerr - If the Dead Rise Not

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Bernhard. We’re grateful to you. But you said homicide? I thought his death was natural.”

“Even if he died in his sleep with a Bible in his arms, there has to be a homicide inquiry. That’s the law.”

“But you do agree with Dr. Küttner that his death was from natural causes.”

“Probably.”

“Only it wasn’t with a Bible in his arms, but a young lady. Am I to assume you mean a prostitute?”

“Very likely. We chase them out of the hotel like cats where and when we can. But it’s not always easy. This one was wearing a tiara.”

“That’s a nice touch.” Hedda put a cigarette into a holder. “Clever. Who’s ever going to challenge someone in a tiara?”

“I might do it if it was a man wearing one.”

She smiled, lit the cigarette, sucked at the holder, and then blew out the smoke, not inhaling the stuff at all, like a child pretending to smoke, pretending to be a grown-up. It reminded me of me, pretending to be a detective, going through the motions with just the taste of a proper investigation on my lips and not much more. Hotel detective. Really it was a contradiction in terms. Like national socialism. Racial purity. Aryan superiority.

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll be getting along to the Alex. The boys in Homicide are a little different from most people. They like to hear bad news as soon as possible.”

ALOT OF WHAT I’D TOLD Hedda Adlon was nonsense, of course. I had no old friends in Homicide. Not anymore. Otto Trettin was in Counterfeiting and Forgery. Bruno Stahlecker was part of Inspectorate G: the Juvenile Section. Ernst Gennat, who ran Homicide, was no longer a friend. Not since the purge of 1933. And there was certainly no one with any human skills who worked in Homicide. What good were they when you were arresting Jews and communists-when you were busy building the new Germany? All the same, there were some Homicide cops who were worse than others, and these were the bulls I hoped to avoid. For the sake of Frau Rubusch. And Frau Adlon. And the reputation of the hotel. And all of it courtesy of Bernie Gunther, Ring-cycle hero and good guy, dragon slaying a specialty.

Near the front desk in the Alex I saw Heinz Seldte, the young cop who seemed too intelligent to be wearing a SCHUPO uniform. It was a good start. I waved him over, amiably.

“Who are the duty detectives in Homicide?” I asked.

Seldte didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me. He was too busy coming to attention and looking over my shoulder.

“You turning yourself in for a murder, Bernie?”

Given the fact that I had actually murdered someone, and quite recently, too, I turned around and tried to look as nonchalant as I was able to. But my heart was beating, as if I’d run all the way along Unter den Linden.

“That all depends on who I’m supposed to have murdered, sir. I can think of one or two people I’d be happy to put my hands up for. Might be worth it at that. As long as I knew they were actually dead.”

“Police officers, perhaps.”

“Well, now, that would be telling, sir.”

“Still the same young bastard, I see.”

“Yes, sir. Only not so young. Not anymore.”

“Come to my office. Let’s talk.”

I didn’t argue. It’s never a good idea to disagree with the head of the Berlin Criminal Police. Erich Liebermann von Sonnenberg was still just a criminal director when I’d been a detective at the Alex, back in 1932. That was the year von Sonnenberg had joined the Nazi Party, and this had guaranteed his preferment by the Nazis after 1933. I respected him in spite of that. For one thing, he had always been an effective policeman and, for another, he was a good friend of Otto Trettin, as well as the coauthor of his stupid book.

We went into his office and he closed the door behind me.

“I don’t have to remind you whose office this was when you were last here.”

I glanced around. The office had been painted, and there was a new carpet instead of linoleum on the floor. The map on the wall showing the incidence of SA versus red violence was gone, and in its place was a glass case full of mottled brown moths that matched the color of von Sonnenberg’s hair.

“Bernard Weiss.”

“A good policeman.”

“I’m pleased to hear you say so, sir, given the circumstances of his departure.”

Weiss, a Jew, had been forced to leave the police and to flee Germany in 1932.

“You were a good cop, too, Bernie. The difference is, you could probably have stayed on here.”

“It didn’t feel like that at the time.”

“So what brings you back here?”

I told him about the dead man in the Adlon.

“Natural causes?”

“Looks like. I was hoping the investigating detectives might spare the widow the full circumstances of the man’s death, sir.”

“Any particular reason?”

“All part of the Adlon’s high-class service.”

“Like fresh towels in the en-suite bathroom every day, is that it?”

“There’s the hotel’s reputation to consider as well. It wouldn’t do for people to get the idea that we’re Pension Schmidt.”

I told him about the joy lady.

“I’ll put some men on it. Right away.” He picked up the telephone and barked a few orders and waited, covering the candlestick with his hand. “Rust and Brandt,” he said. “The duty detectives.”

“I don’t remember them.”

“I’ll tell them to watch their umlauts.” Von Sonnenberg added some instructions into the candlestick, and when he had finished speaking, he hooked the earpiece and shot me a questioning look. “Fair enough?”

“I’m grateful, sir.”

“That remains to be seen.” He eyed me slowly and leaned back in his chair. “Just between the two of us, Bernie, most of the detectives here in KRIPO aren’t worth a spit. And that includes Rust and Brandt. They’re strictly by the book because they wouldn’t have the nerve or the experience to know that there’s a lot more to the job than what’s written in there. A good detective needs to have imagination. These days the trouble is that that sounds like it has a subversive, undisciplined aspect to it. And no one wants to be thought of as being subversive. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

He lit a cigarette quickly.

“What would you say were some of the characteristics of a good detective?”

I shrugged. “The feeling that you’re right, when everyone else is wrong.” I smiled. “I can see how that might not go down too well, either.” I hesitated.

“You can speak freely. It’s just you and me in here.”

“Dogged persistence. When people tell you to lay off, you don’t lay off. I never could walk away from something because of politics.”

“Then I take it you’re still not a Nazi.”

I said nothing.

“Are you anti-Nazi?”

“A Nazi is someone who follows Hitler. To be anti-Nazi is to listen to what he says.”

Von Sonnenberg chuckled. “It’s refreshing speaking to a man like you, Bernie. You remind me of how things used to be here. Of how cops used to talk. Real cops. I assume you had your own informers.”

“You can’t do the job without keeping your ear on the toilet door.”

“The trouble is, everyone’s an informer now.” Von Sonnenberg shook his head gloomily. “And I do mean everyone. Which means there’s much too much information. By the time any of it’s been assessed, it’s useless.”

“We get the police force we deserve, sir.”

“You of all people could be forgiven for thinking that. But I can’t sit back and do nothing about it. I wouldn’t be doing my job properly. Under the republic, the Berlin police force enjoyed a reputation as one of the best in the world.”