Philip Kerr - If the Dead Rise Not

Her tongue was in my mouth now, alongside my heart and the misgivings I kept trying to swallow. I was losing control, but mostly of my left hand, which was now under her dress and making itself familiar with her garter and the cool thigh it was stretched across. Only when the hand slipped into the secret space between her thighs did she move to arrest the wrist commanding it. I let her move my hand away and then brought my fingers up to my mouth and licked them.

“This hand. I don’t know what gets into it sometimes.”

“You’re a man, Gunther. That’s what gets into it.” She took my fingers and brushed them with her lips. “I like you kissing me. You’re a good kisser. If kissing was in the Olympics, you’d be a medal prospect. But I don’t like to be hurried. I like to be walked around the ring for a while before being mounted. And don’t even think of using the whip if you want to stay in the saddle. I’m the independent sort, Gunther. When I run it’ll be because my eyes are open and because I want to. And I won’t be wearing any blinkers if and when we reach the wire. I might not be wearing anything at all.”

“Sure,” I said. “I never figured you any other way. No blinkers. Not even a tongue strap. How do you feel about me giving you an apple sometimes?”

“I like apples,” she said. “Just watch out you don’t get your fingers bitten.”

I let her bite me, hard. It was painful, but I enjoyed it. Pain from her felt good, like something primordial, something that was always meant to be. Besides, we both knew that when our clothes were lying on the floor beside our sweating, naked bodies, I was going to pay her back in kind. That’s always how it is between a man and a woman. A man takes a woman. A woman gets taken. It isn’t always marked by a due consideration of what is fair and decent and well mannered. Sometimes human nature can leave you looking just a little shamefaced.

I DROVE US BACK to the hotel and parked the car. As we went through the door and into the entrance hall, we met Max Reles, who was on his way out somewhere. He was accompanied by Gerhard Krempel and Dora Bauer, and they were all wearing evening clothes. Reles spoke to Noreen first and in English, which left me with the opportunity to say something to Dora.

“Good evening, Fräulein Bauer,” I said politely.

“Herr Gunther.”

“You look lovely.”

“Thank you.” She smiled warmly. “And I really mean that. I’m very grateful to you for helping me to get this job.”

“It was my pleasure, Fräulein. Behlert tells me you’re now working almost exclusively for Herr Reles.”

“Max keeps me very busy, yes. I don’t think I’ve ever done so much typing. Not even when I was at Odol. But right now, we’re off to the opera.”

“To see what?”

She smiled ingenuously. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I don’t know anything about opera.”

“Me neither.”

“I expect I shall hate it. But Max wants me to take some dictation during the interval.”

“And what about you, Herr Krempel? What do you do during the interval? Murder a good tune? In the absence of anything else.”

“Do I know you?” he asked, hardly looking at me. His whispered growl of a voice sounded as if it had been rubbed down with sandpaper and then marinated in burning kerosene.

“No, you don’t. But I know you.”

Krempel was tall, with flying-buttress shoulders and dead black eyes. Thick yellow hair grew on top of a head that was as big as a Galápagos tortoise and probably about as quick. His mouth resembled an ancient scar on a footballer’s knees. Fingers like scrap-yard grapples were already bunching into fists the size of wrecking balls. He looked like a real thug’s thug, and if the German Labor Front included a section for employees in the field of intimidation and coercion, then Gerhard Krempel might reasonably have expected to be elected as a workers’ representative.

“You must be confusing me with someone else,” he said, stifling a yawn.

“My mistake. I expect it’s those evening clothes. I thought you were an SA bullyboy.”

Max Reles must have caught that, because he scowled at me and then at Noreen.

“Is this dishwasher giving you any trouble?” he asked her, speaking German now for my benefit.

“No,” she said. “Herr Gunther’s been very helpful.”

“Really?” Reles chuckled. “Must be his birthday or something. How about it, Gunther? Did you take a bath today?”

Krempel thought that was hilarious.

“Tell me, did you find my Chinese box yet? Or the girl who stole it?”

“The matter is in the hands of the police, sir. I’m sure they’re doing all they can to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“That’s very reassuring. Tell me, Gunther, what kind of a cop were you, anyway, before you started peeping through hotel keyholes? You know, I’ll bet you were one of those cops who wear that stupid leather helmet with the flat top. Is that because all of you kraut cops have flat heads or because some of you do a little moonlighting carrying trays of fish at Friedrichshain Market?”

“I think it’s both,” said Krempel.

“You know, in the States some people call coppers ‘flatfoots’ because a lot of them have flat feet,” said Reles. “But I think I like ‘flatheads’ a whole lot better.”

“We aim to please, sir,” I said patiently. “Ladies. Gentlemen.” As I turned to leave, I even tipped my hat. It seemed more diplomatic than punching Max Reles on the nose and a lot less likely to leave me without a job. “Enjoy your evening, Fräulein Bauer.”

I strolled over behind the front desk where Franz Joseph, the concierge, was in conversation with Dajos Béla, the leader of the hotel orchestra. I checked my pigeonhole. I had two messages. One was from Emil Linthe informing me that his work was completed. The other message was from Otto Trettin, asking me to call him back, urgently. I picked up the phone and had the hotel operator connect me with the Alex and then with Otto, who often worked late, since he seldom worked early.

“So what’s the story in Danzig?” I asked.

“Never mind that now,” he said. “Remember that cop who got murdered? August Krichbaum?”

“Sure,” I said, making a fist and biting my knuckles, calmly.

“The witness is an ex-cop. Seems like he reckons the killer is an ex-cop, too. He’s been going through the police files and has got himself a short list of suspects.”

“I heard that.”

Otto paused for a moment. “You’re on the list, Bernie.”

“Me?” I said, as coolly as I was able. “How do you figure that?”

“Maybe you did it.”

“Maybe I did. On the other hand, maybe it’s a frame. Because I was a republican.”

“Maybe,” admitted Otto. “They’ve framed people for less.”

“How long is the list?”

“I hear just ten men.”

“I see. Well, thanks for the tip, Otto.”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

I lit a cigarette. “It happens I think I’ve got an alibi for when it happened. But I hardly want to use him. You see, it’s the fellow on the Jew Desk at the Gestapo. The one who tipped me off about my grandmother. If I mention him, they’ll want to know what I was doing at Gestapo House. And I might drop him in it.”

A simple lie often saves a lot of time-consuming truth. I hardly wanted to put sand in Otto’s eye bath, but I didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter.

“Then it’s fortunate you were with me at the time of Krichbaum’s murder,” said Otto. “Having a beer in the Zum. Remember?”

“Sure, I remember.”

“We talked about you helping me with a chapter in my new book. A case you once worked on. Gormann the Strangler. You’d think I know all about it, the number of times you’ve bored me with that story.”