Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“Take the Villa Bechstein, where you’re staying, Gunther. It was formerly owned by a woman who was a keen supporter of Hitler. She gave him a new car when he came out of Landsberg Prison, not to mention a nice new piano for his house, and probably quite a bit of money on top. But none of this mattered when the Lord of Obersalzberg decided he wanted her house for Nazi VIPs. She was obliged to sell just like everyone else. And for a knocked-down price. That’s how Hitler rewards his friends. It’s a similar story for the Türken Inn. The fact is, the town of Berchtesgaden is full of small houses occupied by local Bavarians who used to own bigger houses on Hitler’s mountain. And all of those people hate Martin Bormann’s guts. In an effort to distance himself from this ill feeling, Bormann sometimes uses a man called Bruno Schenk to deliver his compulsory purchase orders. Or more often Bruno Schenk’s man Karl Flex. You want a motive for murder? There’s another one for you. An excellent one. Bruno Schenk and Karl Flex were two of the most hated men in the area. If anyone deserved a bullet in the head it was them, or Bormann’s adjutant, Wilhelm Zander, whom you’ve already met at the Kehlstein. Which means you’re going to have a hell of a problem solving this case without stepping on Martin Bormann’s corns. It’s my private opinion that the corruption here goes even deeper than that. Perhaps all the way through the mountain, if you see what I mean. Maybe as far as Hitler himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Leader is getting his ten percent of everything, because Bormann certainly does. Even from the Türken shop where the SS buy their smokes and their postcards. Seriously. Bormann always takes his lead from Hitler and my guess is that it was Hitler put him up to this little moneymaking game.

“But that’s not just idle speculation. Let me tell you a little-known story about the house that Hitler bought. The Haus Wachenfeld. Now called the Berghof, on which many more millions have been spent. Of course, he’s been coming here since 1923, after the putsch, when he couldn’t afford to do much more than rent a room at the Haus Wachenfeld. But in 1928, as his situation started to improve, he was able to rent the whole house from the owner — a widow in Hamburg by the name of Margarete Winter. By 1932, Hitler was rich from the sale of his book, and so he decided to make the widow an offer to buy the place. Because she was living in Hamburg there was very little pressure he could apply to make her sell and, by all accounts, she didn’t want to sell. But she was short of cash. Her husband had lost most of his money in the crash of ’29, and they’d been obliged to sell his leather factory. Some local Jews bought it for a knockdown price. The widow hated those Jews even more than she disliked the idea of Hitler forcing her out of her house in Obersalzberg. So she offered him a deal. She’d sell the house to Hitler for 175,000 reichsmarks if he also did her a favor. The very next day, that same leather factory was struck by lightning and it burned to the ground, although it seems much more likely that it wasn’t Mother Nature who destroyed it but some local SA men. On Hitler’s personal orders. That’s a true story, Gunther. So you see, Hitler always gets what he wants, by hook or by crook. And Martin Bormann does much the same.”

“So if I understand you correctly, Hermann, half of the people I speak to are going to tell me nothing because they’re afraid of Bormann. And the other half aren’t going to tell me anything because they’re hoping the murderer is going to get away with it. Because they think that Karl Flex had it coming. In spades.”

Kaspel grinned. “That’s a pretty fair description of your investigative task, yes. You’re going to need to keep your cards so close to your chest, you’ll be lucky to see what suit they are.”

“Heydrich wanted me to find some dirt on Bormann. It sounds like this could be what he wanted. Have you told him any of this?”

“No. But none of this will come as a big surprise to Heydrich. It was Bormann who helped Himmler to buy his house. That’s not in Obersalzberg but in Schönau, about fifteen minutes from here. The Schneewinkellehen. The place used to be owned by Sigmund Freud. Figure that one out. Anyway, Heydrich is certainly not going to try and take Bormann to task for doing something his own boss has done, too.”

“Good point. He did ask me to see if there’s any truth in a rumor that Bormann’s being blackmailed by his own brother. I imagine Heydrich wants to know what Albert has on his brother so he can blackmail him as well.”

“Now, what that might be, I don’t know. All I know is that Albert Bormann has the other ear of Adolf Hitler, which means he is almost as powerful down here as Martin Bormann. You have to hand it to Hitler. He certainly knows how to divide and rule.”

We stopped at a checkpoint and once again presented our credentials to the frozen SS guard. A searchlight illuminating our car also showed me the size of the security fence.

“It wouldn’t be easy to get over that,” I said. “Even with a rifle in your hand.”

“There’s ten kilometers of that fence,” said Kaspel. “With thirty separate gates, each with Zeiss-Ikon security locks. But the fence is often damaged by rock slides and avalanches and — well, sabotage. Even when it’s undamaged this perimeter fence doesn’t mean shit. Oh, it looks good and it makes the road secure enough and I expect it makes Hitler feel safe, but everyone in the RSD is well aware that all those tunnels and private salt mines mean there are plenty of locals who can come and go as they please inside the perimeter. And what’s more, they do. It’s like Swiss cheese inside this mountain, Gunther. Hitler banned all hunting behind the perimeter wire fence because he’s fond of little furry animals but that doesn’t stop people hunting there with total impunity. The best game to be had around here is in the Leader’s Territory and the chances are that your shooter is some local peasant who accessed the area through an old salt mine tunnel that his fucked-up, inbred family has been using for hundreds of years. He was probably looking to pot a couple of rabbits or a deer but he settled for a rat instead.”

“Thanks for telling me all that, Hermann. I appreciate your honesty.” I grinned. “Some beautiful scenery, a dead body, a lot of lies, and a dumbhead of a cop. You know, all we need is a pretty girl and a fat man and I think it’s safe to say that we have the ingredients for a Mack Sennett comedy. That’s why I’m here in Obersalzberg, I guess. Because the Almighty enjoys a damn good laugh. Believe me, I should know. They say there’s a grace in this world and forgiveness, only I don’t see it, because my own fucked-up, falling-over, full-of-shit life has been keeping my dear Father in heaven amused since January 1933. To be honest, I’m beginning to hope he chokes on it.”

Kaspel pursed his lips and shook his head. “You know, I’ve been twisting my brain for the reason General Heydrich should have sent you down here to Obersalzberg, Gunther. And maybe I’m starting to get a glimpse of his reason. You might just be in possession of a darker spirit than any of us.”

“Hermann? You’ve been away from Berlin for too long. You ever wonder why we have a black bear on our coat of arms? Because he’s got a sore head, that’s why. Everyone in Berlin is like me. That’s why everyone else in Germany loves the place so much.”

We arrived on the northern side of the Berghof, where we were greeted on the stairs leading up to the terrace by a man I’d first met many years before. Arthur Kannenberg had once owned a garden restaurant in Berlin-West, near Uncle Tom’s Cabin, called Pfuhl’s Weinund. But it went belly-up in the crash and the last I’d heard of Kannenberg he’d left Berlin and gone to work in Munich, managing the officers’ mess in the Nazi Party HQ. A small, round man with pale skin, very pink lips, hyperthyroidic eyes, and dressed in a gray Tracht jacket, he greeted me warmly.