Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

When he and Gerdy had finished embracing each other, he helped her off with her coat, hung it up behind the door, and bowed very politely in my direction as she made the introductions. The office was large but simply furnished: on the desk next to an Erika five-tab and a rather loathsome book by Theodor Fritsch was a small photograph of the Leader, and on a wall a cuckoo clock. Outside the window you could hear the Nazi flag snapping in the breeze like someone shaking out a damp towel.

He drew up an easy chair in front of the fire for Gerdy, invited me to sit with them, and came straight to the point.

“You report to Heydrich, do you not?” asked Bormann.

“That’s right, sir. Reluctantly.”

“Why do you say so?”

“I’m just not the thumbscrew type, I guess.”

“Really? Tell me about yourself, Commissar Gunther.”

“I’m nobody. Which is the way my superiors seem to like it.”

“Nevertheless you are a commissar. That’s a little more than just nobody.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But these days rank doesn’t count for much. Not since Munich. All kinds of important people are treated like nobodies now.”

“So you don’t think the Sudetenland belonged to Germany?”

“It does now. And that’s all that seems to matter. Otherwise we’d be at war with England and France.”

“Perhaps. But you were telling me about yourself. Not the situation in Europe. For example: Why should I trust you?”

“It’s a good question. Well, sir, I resigned from Kripo in 1932. I was a member of the SPD, and I’d have been sacked before very long, anyway — for my politics, not my investigative record. You’ll remember how the National Socialist Party used to think that to be SPD was almost as bad as being a communist. Which I never was. After I left the Alex I worked at the Adlon Hotel for a bit before setting up on my own as a private detective. I was doing all right at it, too, until late last year, when Heydrich drafted me back into Kripo.”

“Why did he do that?”

“There had been a series of brutal murders of young girls in Berlin that were allegedly committed by Jews. Heydrich wanted the case investigated by someone who wasn’t a Nazi Party member and consequently had no racial ax to grind, as it were. He wanted the true culprit caught and not someone who’d been framed to suit the requirements of prevailing anti-Semitic propaganda. I believe the general felt that my previous record in the Murder Commission meant I was the best man for the job.”

“In other words, he thought you were an honest cop.”

“For what that’s worth these days, yes, sir.”

“In the present circumstances, it’s worth quite a lot. And did you catch the true culprit? I mean, the person who’d murdered these girls?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“And because he still thinks you’re a good detective he sent you down here to investigate the murder of Karl Flex, is that right? Because my brother had asked him to send his best detective.”

I nodded. Albert Bormann’s voice was almost the same as his brother’s except for one thing: there was no rough edge in it, just courtesy. Gerdy had been right: it was indeed like meeting Dr. Jekyll after one had first met Mr. Hyde. I wondered that two brothers could look so similar and yet be so different.

“But you don’t like working for Kripo now any more than you like Heydrich. Is that fair?”

“That’s exactly right, sir. As I already said, I don’t like his methods.”

“Nor my brother’s, if Gerdy is to be believed.”

“That’s right.”

Bormann now listened patiently while Gerdy explained how I had amassed a considerable amount of evidence that showed his brother, Martin, was corrupt and operating numerous schemes under the aegis of the Obersalzberg Administration to profit himself. Bormann listened patiently and even made a few notes with a gold pencil in a leather notebook.

“What kind of evidence have you found?” asked Bormann.

“Mainly there’s this ledger, sir,” I said, handing it over. “Kept by Dr. Karl Flex, and which records a whole series of payments on rackets that he and several others were running on behalf of his master, Martin Bormann. Rackets that have been set up to take advantage of the Obersalzberg Administration.”

“What sort of rackets?” asked Bormann.

I told him about the rackets in Pervitin and Protargol. “But the most egregious one I’ve found so far is a scheme to give employees of OA deferment from military service. For approximately one hundred reichsmarks a year, virtually anyone can pretend to be employed by OA and thus avoid the call-up. On top of the local property empire that Martin Bormann has amassed, also corruptly, these payments are worth hundreds of thousands of reichsmarks per annum.”

Albert Bormann let out a sigh and nodded as if it was something he’d always suspected. I watched him find a pair of reading glasses and turn the pages of the ledger for a while before he told me to continue.

“There are also a couple of bankbooks for the Wegelin bank of St. Gallen in Switzerland,” I said. “One of these was in Flex’s own name and the other is in the name of Martin Bormann. These accounts show exactly how much money your brother has amassed, sir. Once a month Karl Flex drove to St. Gallen, where he deposited checks and large sums of cash into both of these two accounts. Smaller sums for himself. Massive ones for your brother.”

“May I see these bankbooks, Commissar Gunther?”

I handed them over and waited while Albert Bormann scrutinized the Wegelin bank passbooks.

“Astonishing. But I see that my brother’s passbook has a second signatory: Max Amann.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who Max Amann is, Commissar Gunther?”

“I believe he’s an associate of your brother, sir. A newspaper publisher and president of the Reich Media Chamber. He’s also the Reich press leader. More than that I really don’t know.”

“Yes, but none of those positions you mention is very important. Do you know what else he does?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“Max Amann is the chairman of Centralverlag NSDAP.”

I bit my lip hard, suddenly understanding that none of my evidence was worth a spit; not anymore. “Shit,” I said quietly.

“That’s right, Commissar.”

“I don’t understand,” said Gerdy. “I’ve never heard of Max Amann.”

“Yes, you have,” said Bormann. “Do you remember meeting a man with one arm in Munich at the Braun Haus?”

“That was him?”

Bormann nodded.

“I still don’t understand why he’s important,” she admitted.

“Centralverlag is the Party’s publishing arm and in case you didn’t know it, they’re Hitler’s own publishers. In other words, Max Amann is the man who publishes Mein Kampf .”

“Oh,” she said.

“Now you’re getting it, Gerdy. And judging by the size of sums involved and the fact that Amann is also a signatory, I should say that the bulk of this money in Martin’s Wegelin bank account probably comes not from these illegal activities you describe but from the royalties on Hitler’s book. Which are considerable, as you can probably imagine. Does Hitler know that my brother has a Swiss bank account? Almost certainly. If there’s one thing the Leader is careful with it’s his own money. For some time I’ve been aware that my brother has absolute control not just of the Leader’s Reichsbank checkbook, but also of his Deutsche Bank checkbook. Clearly Hitler already trusts my brother with his royalty money, too.

“Having said all that, is the Leader aware that Martin has been topping up some of the royalties from Mein Kampf in this Swiss account with money received from the corruption you’ve described here in Berchtesgaden? Not being a National Socialist yourself you will, doubtless, have your own quietly held opinion about that. Speaking for myself, I very much doubt that he does know. But I don’t think there’s any way of finding out for sure. Not without causing enormous embarrassment to the Leader. Which is perhaps why my brother’s done it. Do you see?”