Philip Kerr - If the Dead Rise Not

I picked up the telephone and, disguising my voice, asked one of the hello girls to connect me with suite 114. She let it ring for a while before coming back on the line to tell me what I now knew, that there was no reply. I asked her to put me through to the concierge, and Franz Joseph came on the line.

“Hey, Franz, it’s me, Gunther.”

“Hey. I heard you were back. I thought you were on holiday.”

“I was. But you know, I couldn’t keep away. Do you happen to know where Herr Reles is tonight?”

“He’s having dinner at Habel. I booked the table myself.”

Habel, on Unter den Linden, with its historic wine room and even more historic prices, was one of Berlin’s oldest and finest restaurants. Just the kind of place Reles would have chosen.

“Thanks.”

I pulled the shirt collar from the neck of the man now sleeping it off on the bed and then, thoughtfully, turned him onto his side. Then I capped his bottle and took it with me, slipping it into my coat pocket on the way out. It was two-thirds full, and I figured the guest owed me that much at least; more than either of us would ever know if he happened to throw up in his sleep.

ILET MYSELF INTO SUITE 114 and closed the door behind me before switching on the light. The French window was open, and the room was cold. The net curtains were billowing across the back of the sofa like a couple of comedy ghosts, and the heavy rain had soaked the edge of the expensive carpet. I closed the windows. That wouldn’t bother Reles. He’d only expect the maid to have done the same.

Several packages lay open on the floor. Each contained some sort of East Asian objet d’art packed inside a bird’s nest of straw. I took a closer look at one. It was a bronze or possibly gold statuette of some Oriental god with twelve arms and four heads. About thirty centimeters high, the figure appeared to be dancing a tango with a rather scantily clad girl who reminded me a lot of Anita Berber. Anita had been the queen of Berlin’s nude dancers at the White Mouse Club on Jägerstrasse until the night she’d laid out one of the patrons with an empty champagne bottle. The story was he’d objected to her pissing on his table, which used to be her shtick. I missed the old Berlin.

I stuffed the statuette back into its nest and glanced around the suite. The bedroom beyond the half-open door was in darkness. The bathroom door was closed. I wondered if the tommy gun and the money and the gold coins were still behind the lavatory cistern’s tiled panel.

At the same time my eye was caught by the ice bucket next to the drinks tray on the sideboard. Beside the ice bucket was an ice pick.

I picked it up. The thing was about twenty-five centimeters long and as sharp as a bodkin. The heavy steel rectangular handle was embossed with Citizens Ice 100% Pure on one side and Citizens on the other. It seemed a curious thing to have brought from America until you remembered that it was possibly a favorite murder weapon. Certainly it looked like an effective one. I’d seen less lethal-looking switchblades sticking out of a man’s back. But there seemed to be little point in borrowing the ice pick in the hope that someone at the Alex might run some tests on it. Not as long as Max Reles was also using it to break the ice for his drinks.

I put down the ice pick and turned to examine the typewriter. A half-finished letter was still on the platen of the shiny Torpedo portable. I turned the platen knob until the paper was clear of the type guide and the paper fingers. The letter was addressed to Avery Brundage in Chicago and was written in English, but that didn’t stop me from seeing that the letter g on the Torpedo was riding one millimeter higher than the other keys.

I had the probable murder weapon. I had the typewriter on which Reles had written false bids for Olympic contracts. I had a copy of the report from the FBI. And a sheet from the Vienna KRIPO. Now all I had to do was check that the machine gun was still where I thought it was. Explaining that would be a tall order even for a man like Max Reles. I looked around for his screwdriver and, not seeing it, began to search the drawers.

“Looking for something in particular?”

It was Dora Bauer. She was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, naked, although she might as easily have covered herself with the object in her hands. It was big enough. A Mauser Bolo is a lot of gun. I wondered how long she would be able to hold it at arm’s length before her arms got tired.

“I thought no one was at home,” I said. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you, Dora dear. And so much of you, too.”

“I’ve been eyeballed before, polyp.”

“Whatever gave you that idea? Me, a polyp. Tsk-tsk.”

“Don’t tell me you’re searching the drawers to steal something. Not you. You’re not the type.”

“Who says I’m not?”

“No.” She shook her head. “You got me this job, and you didn’t even ask for a cut. What thief would have done that?”

“It proves you owe me something, surely.”

“You already collected that debt.”

“I did?”

“Sure. A man with a bottle in his pocket lets himself in here and starts raking through the drawers? I could have shot you five minutes ago. And just because I haven’t pulled the trigger yet, don’t think I won’t. Cop or not. From what I already know about you, Gunther, your old colleagues over at the Alex might think I was doing them a favor.”

“It’s me you’re doing a favor, Fräulein. I haven’t seen so much of a pretty girl since the Eldorado got closed down. Is this how you normally dress for some shorthand and typing? Or is being naked just the way you end up when Max Reles finishes giving you dictation? Either way, I’m not complaining. Even with a gun in your hand, Dora, you’re still a sight for sore eyes.”

“I was asleep,” she said. “At least I was until the telephone started ringing. I suppose that was you seeing if the coast was clear.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t answer. I could have spared your blushes.”

“You can stare at my mouse all you want, polyp, but you won’t see me blushing.”

“Look. Why don’t you put down the gun and then find a dressing gown. After that we can talk. There’s a perfectly simple explanation for why I’m here.”

“And don’t think I don’t know what that is, Gunther. We’ve been expecting you, Max and me. Ever since your little excursion to Würzburg.”

“Pretty little town. I didn’t like it at first, mind. Did you know they have one of the finest baroque cathedrals in Germany? The local prince-bishops built it, to make up for the fact that the citizens of the town murdered some poor Irish priest back in the year 689. Saint Kilian. Max Reles would fit right in if he ever went there. But then he probably does go, now that he owns a quarry or two, supplying stone to the GOC. He murdered someone, too, of course. Let’s not forget that fact. Using that ice pick on the sideboard.”

“You should be on the radio.”

“Listen to me, Dora. Right now it’s just Max who’s staring at the inside of a headsman’s basket. Remember Myra Scheidemann? The Black Forest murderess? In case you’d forgotten, we execute women, too, in this great country of ours. Be a shame for you to end up the same way as her. So be sensible and put the gun away. I can help you. The same way I helped you before.”

“Shut up.” She jerked the long barrel of the Mauser at me and then the bathroom. “In there,” she said fiercely.

I did what I was told. I’d seen what a bullet from a Mauser can do to a man. It wasn’t the hole it makes going in that gave me pause for thought, but the hole it makes going out. It’s the difference between a peanut and an orange.