Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“You staying in the car again? Only, if she’s in there, your uniform might help. No one likes to see a Nazi uniform like that first thing in the morning. Makes them feel guilty.”

“Why not? I could use some fresh air, or what passes for fresh air in this place. I swear, the backseat of this wretched car is covered in something sticky. I’m going to have to have this coat cleaned.”

“Probably blood. You’ll usually find that the only clean seats in a police car are the ones in front, Wilhelm.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I frowned. “I should care about a man who thinks I’m poor company.”

We got out of the car and approached Paula Berge’s building. Ahead of us was a tall, blond woman carrying an umbrella. She was wearing black-and-white leather oxfords with two-inch heels and a gray tweed suit, and she walked directly into the bookshop. For several heart-stopping moments I thought I recognized her. Someone from my past. This was, I knew, unlikely to happen in a dump like Homburg. But before I had realized I had the wrong woman I’d ended up following her into the bookshop, where she quickly selected a copy of Gone with the Wind and took it to the desk. The clerk recorded the sale and then handed her a pay slip.

Six long months had passed since Hilde, the last woman to walk into my life, had walked just as smartly out of it. I didn’t blame her for walking out, just the manner of her doing it. I don’t know why, but a small part of me still hoped that one day she would see the error of her ways, just as a microscopic part of me hoped she would be happy with her SS major. Not that happiness meant anything anymore; it was just an idea for children, like God and birthday parties and Santa Claus. Life felt much too serious to be diverted by bagatelles like happiness. Meaning was what mattered, not that there was much of that around, either. Most of the time my life had less meaning than yesterday’s crossword.

With eyes only for the woman in the bookshop — she was uncannily like the one I’d mistaken her for — I watched her hand over the pay slip at the cash till, pay for the book, and then leave, not far behind the shop’s only other customer, a tallish man in a green loden coat who had somehow managed to forget his valise.

“Is that woman someone you know?” whispered Zander.

“No.”

“Good-looking, I suppose.”

“I thought so.”

“For Homburg.”

“For anywhere.”

Meanwhile, I’d picked up the valise and was about to call after the man when I noticed a neat little label on the leather side: it featured a pickax and a mallet, and the words Berchtesgaden Salt Mines and Good Luck . I’d seen that design before: on an enamel badge in Udo Ambros’s buttonhole. Suddenly I realized who the man was and, still holding the valise, I ran out of the bookshop to see where he’d gone; but Markt Platz was deserted and Johann Diesbach — I was certain it had been him — had disappeared.

“Damn,” I said loudly.

Zander followed me out of the shop and lit a cigarette. “She wasn’t that special,” he said. “Oh, I’ll grant you, unusually good for these parts. But hardly worth losing your head over.”

“No, you idiot, the man who left this valise — it was Diesbach.”

“What?” Zander looked one way and then the other, but of Diesbach there remained no sign. “You’re kidding.” He frowned. “That man at the brewery. He must have tipped the sister off, just as you supposed. You should go back and arrest him.”

“There’s no time for that. Besides, I only told him I was looking for Paula Berge, not her brother. So he really doesn’t deserve to be arrested.”

“But why did Diesbach leave his case?”

“Nerves got the better of him, I suppose. Here’s what I want you to do, Wilhelm.” I handed him Diesbach’s valise. “Go and stand in front of Paula Berge’s building door. And don’t let anyone leave.”

Zander looked alarmed. “Suppose he’s in there. The man’s a murderer. He’s got a gun, hasn’t he? Suppose he comes out shooting?”

“Then shoot back. You’ve got a gun.”

Zander pulled a face.

“Have you ever fired it before?” I asked.

“No. But how difficult can it be?”

“Not difficult at all. Just pull the trigger and the Walther will do the rest. That’s why it’s called an automatic.”

Not for one moment did I think Johann Diesbach had walked out of the bookshop and then simply ducked into his estranged sister’s doorway — that would have been a hell of a gamble — but I couldn’t risk the possibility he hadn’t done exactly that. What seemed more probable was that my earlier suspicion had been correct, and that Diesbach’s sister had been warned we were coming, and that Johann had been on his way out the door when he’d seen Zander and me walking across Markt Platz and had decided to hide in the bookshop; he couldn’t ever have thought we’d step in there before going up to Paula Berge’s apartment. For him to return to the very same address we had been heading for would have been foolhardy. Still I had high hopes of finding him abroad on Homburg’s empty streets and I ran one way and then the other, like a windup Schuco toy — a short way down Klosterstrasse, then along Karlsbergstrasse, and finally north, up Eisenbahnstrasse, toward the railway station. I’d already seen the blonde climb into a green Opel Admiral driven by a man wearing the smart uniform of a naval captain lieutenant, but of Johann Diesbach there was no trace. He’d disappeared.

Nor did I find any sign of a local policeman on patrol. Of course Homburg would never be the kind of place where there were cops hanging around the street corners. It wasn’t just life that happened somewhere else than Homburg; crime did as well. It had started to rain again, hard Saarland rain that was full of coal dust and the exhausting truth of ordinary German life. Any sensible Orpo man would have been wrapped up in his waterproof police cape and standing in a quiet doorway with his hands cupped around a quiet smoke, or holed up in the nearest café waiting for the rain to stop. It’s certainly what I would have done. A cigarette in a doorway is usually as near to luxury as any half-frozen, uniformed cop on duty is ever likely to come.

Two-thirds of the way up Eisenbahnstrasse I found the local police station and, flashing my beer token, explained that I was on the trail of a dangerous police killer by the name of Johann Diesbach, and added a reasonable description of the man I’d seen in the bookshop at Markt Platz.

“This is a matter of the highest priority,” I added self-importantly. “I’m acting on the direct orders of the government leader’s office. The man is armed and dangerous.”

“Right you are, sir.” The sergeant had muttonchop whiskers down to his shoulders and a mustache that was as big as the wingspan of the Prussian imperial eagle. “What do you want me to do?”

“Send a couple of your best men to the railway station to keep an eye out for him. And the local bus station, if you have one. I’ll be back here in half an hour to take charge of the search.”

Then, ignoring the rain, or at least trying to, I walked back to where I’d left Wilhelm Zander. My shoes were already soaked and my feet were cold; my hat looked more like a lump of clay on a potter’s wheel. Very sensibly, Zander was standing deep in the doorway of the building with one hand inside his greatcoat pocket and I guessed he was holding a gun. The valise was safely between his heels. He threw away the cigarette he’d been smoking and almost came to attention.

“No one has been in or out of this building since I’ve been standing here,” he said.