Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

I put down my sausage, wiped my mouth clean of mustard, and nodded. “I’ll do my best, sir,” I said firmly. “You can rely on that.”

“I don’t want your best,” shouted Bormann. “I want better than your best, whatever that particular heap of shit amounts to. You’re not in Berlin now, you’re in Obersalzberg. Your best may be good enough for that Jew Heydrich but you’re working for me now and that’s as good as working for Adolf Hitler. Is that clear? I want this man under a falling ax before the end of the month.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded again. Where Bormann was concerned, nodding silently was probably the best response. “You have my word that I’ll give it everything I’ve got. Rest assured, sir, I’ll catch him.”

“That’s more like it,” said Bormann.

“First thing in the morning,” I added, stifling a yawn, “I’ll get right on it.”

“Fuck that,” yelled Bormann, banging the tabletop. My white china cup jumped on the monogrammed blue saucer as if the Kehlstein had been hit by an avalanche. “You’ll get on it right now. That’s why you’re here. Every hour that we don’t catch this swine is an hour too long.” Bormann looked around for the waiter and then at one of the men seated around the table. “Bring this man some more hot coffee. Better still, give him a packet of Pervitin. That should help to keep him on his toes.”

The object of Bormann’s command reached into his jacket pocket and took out a little metallic blue-and-white tube, which he handed to me. I glanced at it briefly, but all I saw was the manufacturer’s name — Temmler, which was a Berlin pharmaceutical company.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Up here it’s what we call Hermann Temmler’s magic potion,” said Bormann. “German Coca-Cola. Helps the workforce at the Obersalzberg keep up with the construction schedule. You see, they are only permitted to work when Hitler’s not here — so as not to disturb him — which means that when he’s somewhere else, they have to work twice as long and twice as hard. That stuff helps. Göring’s considering giving it to bomber crews to help them stay awake. So. Take two with your coffee. That should put a bit more spring in your Hitler salute. Which looked like shit, by the way. I know you’ve had a long journey and you’re tired but round here that’s just not good enough, Gunther. Next time I’ll kick your arse myself.”

I swallowed two of the tablets uncomfortably and apologized, but he was right, of course; my Hitler salute was always a bit slack. That’s what comes of not being a Nazi, I suppose.

“Have there been any previous shooting incidents at the Berghof?”

Bormann glanced at the man wearing an SS colonel’s uniform. “What’s the story, Rattenhuber?”

The colonel nodded. “There was an incident about six months ago. A Swiss called Maurice Bavaud came up here planning to shoot the Leader. But he abandoned it at the last moment and made his escape. He was finally apprehended by the French police, who turned him over to us. He’s now in a Berlin prison, awaiting trial and execution.”

But Bormann was shaking his head. “That was nothing like a serious attempt,” he said scornfully, and then looked at me. “Colonel Rattenhuber is head of the RSD with responsibility for securing the Leader’s person, wherever he is. At least that’s the theory. In point of fact, Bavaud was armed only with a pistol, not a rifle. And he planned to shoot Hitler when he came down to the bottom of his drive to greet some well-wishers. But Bavaud lost his nerve. So, Herr Gunther, I think the simple answer to your question is no. This is the first time someone has fired a shot at anyone in this vicinity. Nothing like this has ever happened here before. This is a harmonious community. This is not Berlin. This is not Hamburg. Berchtesgaden and Obersalzberg constitute a peaceful rural idyll in which decent family values and a strong sense of morality prevail. That’s why the Leader has always enjoyed coming here.”

“All right. Tell me a bit more about the dead man. Did he have any enemies that anyone knows of?”

“Flex?” Bormann shook his head. “He worked for Bruno Schenk, one of my most trusted people on the mountain. Both men were employees of Polensky & Zöllner, a Berlin company that handles most of the construction work in Obersalzberg and Berchtesgaden. Karl Flex wasn’t RSD or political, he was a civil engineer. A diligent and much-admired servant who had lived here for several years.”

“Possibly there was someone who didn’t admire him quite as much as you did, sir.” While Bormann was absorbing my jab I followed up quickly with a couple of punches to his body. “Like the man who shot him, for instance. Then again, perhaps there was more than one man involved. To get past all the security up here must have taken some planning and organization. Which is to say we might be talking about a conspiracy.”

For once Bormann stayed silent as he considered this possibility. Me, I just hoped I’d spoiled the cozy concept of his tea house with its monogrammed china and its expensive Gobelin tapestry. How much had it cost to build this Nazi folly? Millions, probably. Money that could have been spent on something more important than the comfort of the madman who now ruled Germany.

“Witness statements?” I asked. “Have they been taken?”

“I’ve had them roneoed for you,” said Högl. “The originals have already been sent to Berlin. For the attention of the Reichsführer-SS. He’s taking a personal interest in this case.”

“I shall want to read them all. And where is the body? I’ll need to take a look at it.”

“At the local hospital,” said Rattenhuber. “Down in Berchtesgaden.”

“There will need to be an autopsy, of course,” I added. “With photographs. The sooner, the better.”

“The man was shot,” said Bormann. “Surely that’s obvious. What more could an autopsy tell you?”

“A thing can remain unknown even though it’s obvious. Or, put another way, nothing evades our attention as persistently as that which we take for granted. That’s just philosophy, sir. Nothing is obvious until it’s obvious. So I shall have to insist on an autopsy if I’m to do my job properly. Is there a doctor at this hospital who might carry out such a procedure?”

“I doubt it,” said Rattenhuber. “The Dietrich Eckart is set up to look after the living, not to take care of the dead.”

“No matter,” I said. “I suggest you get Dr. Waldemar Weimann, from Berlin. Frankly, he’s the best there is. And from what you’ve already told me I can’t imagine we want anything less than that for a case like this.”

“That’s quite impossible,” said Bormann. “As I said, I want to keep a tight lid on this. I don’t trust doctors from Berlin. I shall ask one of the Leader’s own physicians to carry out an autopsy. Dr. Karl Brandt. I’m sure he’s equal to the task. If you really think it’s necessary.”

“I do. I shall have to be present, of course.” I was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, but in truth I was just assessing the effect that the Pervitin was now having on me. Already I felt more alert and energetic, and bolder, too — bold enough to start taking charge and making demands. Bormann wasn’t the only one who could sound as if he knew what he wanted.

“I should also like to visit the crime scene tonight. So you’d better arrange some arc lights and a tape measure. And I shall want to speak to everyone who was on the terrace this morning. As soon as is convenient. Also, I will need an office with a desk with two telephones. A filing cabinet with a lock. A car and a driver on permanent call. Coffee-making facilities. A large map of the area. Some lengths of dowel — the longer, the better. A camera. A Leica IIIa with a 50 mm F2 retractable Summar lens should be just fine. And several rolls of black-and-white film — the slower, the better. Not color. Takes too long to process.”