Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“Open the fucking door,” he yelled at Farber, who was already fumbling with the handle before the enormous car had even halted. The minute Bormann got out of the car he threw away his cigarette and started kicking picks and shovels, punching workmen on the shoulders, and shouting at them like they were beasts of burden. “What is this? A fucking trade union meeting? You’re being paid treble time to work nonstop through the night. Not to stand around and lean on your fucking picks and shovels gossiping like a bunch of old women. Are you trying to give me an ulcer? This is intolerable. Call yourself German workmen? It’s a joke, I tell you. Where’s your foreman? Where is he? I want to speak to the gang master right now, or by God, I’ll have you all sent to a concentration camp. Tonight!”

And then, when one cowering man came to the front of the others, cap in freezing hand, Bormann continued his ranting. They could probably have heard Bormann all the way down the mountain in Berchtesgaden. It was perhaps the most practical demonstration of National Socialism I’d ever heard and I realized with sudden clarity that Nazism was nothing more than the will of the Leader, and that Bormann was his bellowing mouthpiece.

“What’s the meaning of this? Tell me, because I’d like to know. Yes, me, Martin Bormann, the man who pays your inflated wages. Because every time I drive past this bend in the road it’s always the same thing I see out of the car window: you’re standing around like a bowl of soft eggs and doing fuck all. And nothing ever seems to get done. The road is still a mess. So why aren’t you working on it?”

“Sir,” said the foreman, “there’s been a problem with the steamroller. We can’t finish asphalt surfacing without the roller. You see, there’s a fault in the smoke-box door. It won’t close properly so we can’t get up a good head of steam.”

“I never heard such rubbish,” said Bormann. “It’s just not good enough. You should have more than one steamroller. The Leader himself will be here in just a couple of days to celebrate his fiftieth birthday and it’s imperative that this stretch of road is finished before then. I cannot have his visit to Obersalzberg disrupted in any way by local construction work. In any way at all. Now get these men back to work and finish this damned road before I have you shot, you communist bastard. Find another steamroller and get these men working again. If this road is not finished by tomorrow you’ll wish none of you had ever been born.”

Still cursing loudly, Bormann climbed back into the Mercedes, exhaled loudly, wiped his low forehead, lit another cigarette, and then punched the quilted black leather door, not that this had the least effect on the car: the door was obviously reinforced with armor plating; I daresay the windows were bulletproof, too, just in case someone took a pickax handle to one as the limousine drove by. Riding in that 770K was like being driven around in a bank vault.

“Enemies I can deal with,” he muttered. “But God preserve us from German workers.” He looked at me and his frown deepened, as if he hardly expected that I was about to improve his mood with my news. He leaned back on the seat and hammered on his not-inconsiderable gut with a fist. “Better tell me something good, Gunther. Before I have a fit and start chewing the carpets in this damn hearse.”

“Yes, sir,” I said brightly. “I believe I know the name of Karl Flex’s murderer. I mean, his real murderer — not the innocent Fritz who’s freezing his eggs off sitting in the prison cell underneath the Türken Inn.”

“And that name is?”

“His name is Johann Diesbach, sir. He’s a local salt miner, from Kuchl, on the other side of the Hoher Göll. It seems Flex was involved with the man’s wife. A fairly typical love triangle and, you’ll be relieved to hear, nothing to do with you or the Leader.”

“Now, why does that particular name ring a bell?” asked Zander. “Diesbach, you say.”

“Perhaps this will refresh your memory.” I handed Zander the photograph of Diesbach I’d taken from his home. Zander switched on the car’s reading light and studied the photograph carefully.

“You’re sure about this, Gunther?” asked Bormann. “That Diesbach is your man?”

“Positive. I’ve just been to his house and found all the evidence I need to get him a first-class ticket straight to the guillotine.”

“Good work, Gunther.”

“Sir, I remember this man,” said Zander.

It was hard not to remember a man with a mustache like Hitler’s.

“He came to one of my lectures on German literature, sir. At the local theater in Antenberg. They were part of the outreach program, to build bridges with the local community. We talked briefly afterwards.”

“That was the lecture on Tom Sawyer , perhaps,” I said. “Read it myself once. Like almost every German schoolboy, I guess.”

“My God, no wonder these locals hate us,” said Bormann. “ Tom Sawyer ? What’s wrong with some decent German writers, Wilhelm?”

“Nothing at all, sir. It was just that I wanted to talk about a book that had been important in my own life. Besides, it was the Wilhelm Grunow Leipzig edition of Tom Sawyer , in German.”

“I was joking, you idiot, as if I give a damn about a fucking book or your damned lecture.” Bormann let out a smoky guffaw. “So where is this fellow Diesbach now, Gunther? Safely in custody, I hope. Better still, dead.”

“I’m afraid not. He guessed that we were on to him, and made his escape just before we could arrest him.”

“You mean he’s still on the loose. Around here? In Obersalzberg.”

“Yes, sir. But now that he knows I’m on his trail, I think he’ll want to get out of Bavaria as quickly as possible.”

“Maybe so, but look, there’s no time to lose. You simply have to find him. Before the twentieth. Without delay. I want him caught, do you hear? Before the twentieth of April.” Bormann was beginning to sound panicky. “This is a matter of top priority. As soon as I get to the tea house I’ll call Heydrich in Berlin. It’s my order that you should mobilize the whole of Germany in the search for this assassin.”

“If you’ll permit me to say so, I think it might be better if things proceeded on a more modest scale. By all means we should enlist the help of the police and the Gestapo in searching for him. But it’s my understanding that this matter is still highly confidential. It might be hard to keep it that way if too many people are informed he’s a fugitive. So let’s put it out that he shot and killed a policeman. That way we can ensure the vigilance of all law enforcement agencies without revealing too much of why we’re really hunting him.”

“Yes, of course.” Bormann stifled a belch but it did nothing for the atmosphere in the rear of the car. “Good thinking.”

“Besides, I have a fair idea of where he might be heading.”

“Right. So what do you suggest, Gunther? I mean, you’re the expert on this kind of thing. Fugitive criminals and wanted men.”

“That we close the German borders with French Lorraine. Temporarily. I happen to believe that’s where he’s heading.”

“Well, you’ve not been wrong before. But aren’t you being just a little pessimistic? France is a long way from here. Surely he won’t get that far. Not with the Gestapo looking for him.”

“Look, with any luck Diesbach will be arrested and soon. But I have a hunch he’s going to prove a little more elusive than that.”

“What makes you say so?”

“In my opinion, the Gestapo are not nearly as omnipotent as they would like people to believe. As for the uniformed police, well, Orpo has been losing its best men to the SS for a while now. The pay’s better, you see. Most of the cops we have on the streets now are too old for the SS. They’re too old for anything, probably. They’re waiting for their pensions, most of them.”