Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“I bet you wouldn’t say that to Himmler,” said Bormann.

“No, sir. But Himmler’s not in charge in Obersalzberg. You are. Also, there’s Diesbach himself.”

Bormann took the photograph from Zander and studied the face critically.

“He was a Jäger in the war,” I added. “Stationed near the Meuse, with a top infantry detachment. A proper stormtrooper — not one of those beer-hall brownshirts that Ernst Röhm used to command. This man was probably trained in Hutier tactics. That means he’s tough and resourceful. And a ruthless killer.”

“He does look tough, I must admit.”

“He’s got plenty of money and a car, not to mention a lot of guts and a loaded Luger. My guess is that he’s already on a train headed west.”

“All right. I’ll speak to the Foreign Ministry. What else do you want?”

“I should like to go to the largest German town close to the Lorraine border — wherever that is — and assume temporary command of the local police and Gestapo myself.”

“That would be Saarbrücken,” said Zander. “Which also happens to be my hometown.”

“Then you’re to be pitied,” said Bormann bluntly. “Did you know that in the 1935 referendum ten percent of the Saarland electorate voted to remain part of France?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“That means ten percent are not to be relied upon.”

“But ninety percent voted to become part of Germany,” said Zander.

“That’s hardly the point. In the heart of Germany’s main coal-producing state, ten percent of the workforce are potential traitors. That’s a serious matter. Anyway, you’d better go with the commissar, hadn’t you, Wilhelm? To Saarbrücken.”

“Me, sir? I don’t know what I can do.”

“A bit of local knowledge might come in useful, eh, Commissar?”

“I’m sure you’re right. But perhaps your adjutant prefers not to be under my orders.”

“Nonsense. You’ll be glad to assist the commissar in any way you can, won’t you, Wilhelm?”

“Of course, if you think it’s necessary, sir.”

“I do. And while you’re there, make sure you ask the Gestapo if they’re doing everything they can to root out those other traitors.”

“Yes, sir,” said Zander.

“Maybe now’s the time to mention the innocent man who’s still in custody at the Türken Inn,” I said. “Johann Brandner. He should really be under medical supervision. Can I tell Major Högl to release him? And to have the man transferred back to the hospital in Nuremberg?”

“I think not. Nothing has really changed. You may have a name but you don’t yet have your man. This fellow Brandner is our bird in the hand, so to speak. I might yet need a Fritz to blame for all this business, should you fail to make an arrest. If the Leader should happen to hear about the shooting on the Berghof terrace from someone jealous of my influence on him — and there are plenty of those, believe me — then I’m afraid I really can’t look him in the eye and tell him that nobody has been arrested. That would be unthinkable. You understand? Until you have Diesbach under lock and key, I am forced to keep Brandner in custody.”

I nodded.

“But rest assured nothing will happen to Brandner so long as Zander here tells me that the search for this Diesbach fellow is still proceeding apace.”

“And the other two? The two Gestapo from Linz?”

“Heydrich wants them dead.”

“I’m the one asking.”

“All right. Them, too. Because I’m feeling generous.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“All the same, given its extreme sensitivity, we’d better have a code word or phrase for a successful conclusion to this operation. A short message that will indicate that Johann Diesbach has been arrested and that will allow me to order the immediate release of Brandner from the Türken Inn’s cells. What do you say, Gunther?”

“I agree, sir.”

“So what would you suggest?”

I searched the felt-lined hood for inspiration as I tried to think of something, and then, rather desperately, I said: “Well, now I come to think of it, there was another Johann Diesbach, Johann Jacob Diesbach, a Berlin paint maker who invented the color Prussian blue, back in 1706. The whole Prussian army wore coats of Prussian blue until the Great War, when it moved over to field gray. At one time every Berlin schoolboy used to know the name of Johann Jacob Diesbach. So how about that, sir? How about Prussian blue?”

The Police Praesidium in Saarbrücken was on St. Johannerstrasse, a stone’s throw north of the River Saar and conveniently close to the main railway station at which we had just arrived. Zander and I checked into the Rheinischer Hof on Adolf-Hitlerstrasse, consumed a very quick lunch at the Ratskeller , and then went straight to see Major Hans Geschke, the recently appointed Gestapo chief in the Saarland capital who was now coordinating the search for Johann Diesbach.

Made of concrete the color of old dog shit, the Praesidium was a five-story building of recent construction, with regular square windows, a cumbersome door that was clearly meant to remind people of how small they were in comparison with the state, and nothing to commend it architecturally. I could almost hear Gerdy Troost dismissing it as a typical Speer design, with no redeeming features and zero character, and that was exactly how I would have described Geschke, a baby-faced doctor of law from Frankfurt and probably not much more than thirty years of age. He was one of those smooth, clever types of Nazi for whom a career in the police was only a means to an end, that being executive power and its twin shadows, money and prestige. Pale-skinned, smiling, keen, bright-eyed: he reminded me of a sinister Pierrot who’d abandoned unworldly naïveté and the pursuit of Columbine for a leading role in The Threepenny Opera . But while Geschke had been studying in Berlin, he’d read about one of my old cases, which he told me almost immediately I entered his office, and for several minutes I allowed myself to be flattered in the interests of congeniality and cooperation. But I was glad it was him I was dealing with and not his predecessor, Anton Dunckern, now promoted to greater responsibility in Brunswick and known to many Berlin cops as a member of a notorious SS murder squad that had been very active in and around the city in the bloody summer of 1934. I had good reason to believe that Dunckern had murdered a good friend of mine, Erich Heinz, a prominent member of the SPD, whose body had been found near the town of Oranienburg, in July of that year. He’d been hacked to death with an ax.

“The border police have been alerted,” Geschke told us. “And the transport police, of course. The local Gestapo are watching all of the local railway stations and I’ve been in touch with the French police, who, in spite of recent diplomatic tensions, are always extremely cooperative. If Germany ever rules France again you can be sure we’ll have no problem with their police. Commissaire Schuman, who you might say is my opposite number, in Metz, has a German father and speaks the language fluently. Frankly, I think he has more in common with us than he does with that fool Édouard Daladier. It was Schuman who boarded the Berlin train to Paris last October and arrested the Swiss assassin Maurice Bavaud. By the way, is there any news of when Bavaud is to be tried?”

“I have no idea.” I thought it hardly worth mentioning that Bavaud hadn’t actually killed anyone, but we both knew that the verdict in the man’s trial was already a foregone conclusion.

Geschke nodded. “Anyway,” he continued, “the Lorraine border is now as tight as the paint on a piece of Dresden china. But please, I’d welcome any suggestions as to what else we can do to assist the office of the deputy chief of staff, not to mention the Kripo detective who famously caught Gormann the strangler. We may be a small city by comparison with Berlin but we are keen to be useful. And we are very loyal. In the plebiscite of 1935, ninety percent of Saarlanders voted to become a part of Germany. I’m glad to say that most of the opponents of National Socialism who took refuge here after 1933 are in prison or have fled to France.”