Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

I worked the bolt and a spent brass cartridge popped out of the carbine’s breech. I picked it up; it was the same as the others I’d found already.

“I apologize,” he added. “But what the hell’s that on the end of the barrel?” Bormann took a closer look. “It would appear to be a Mahle oil filter.”

“It’s a little trick I’ve seen here before,” explained Kaspel. “The local poachers fit them to their rifles. You need to make a thread on the end of the barrel but it’s something almost anyone with access to a workshop can do. An oil filter makes a very effective sound suppressor. Like the mute on a trumpet. Just the thing when you’re stalking deer inside the Leader’s Territory and you don’t want to get caught by the RSD.”

Bormann frowned. “What poachers? I thought that was all sorted when we erected the fucking fence.”

“There’s no point in getting into that now,” I said. “It would certainly explain why no one heard the shots.” Seeing Bormann’s eyebrows sliding up his forehead, I added, “That’s right, sir. There was more than one shot fired. We found four bullets in the woodwork of the first-level balcony above the Berghof terrace.”

“Four?” said Bormann. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Of course, we still haven’t found the fifth one — the one that killed Karl Flex. My guess is that it was lost forever when the Berghof terrace was cleaned up by your men, sir.”

“I demand that someone tell me what’s going on,” said Hess. Clasping his hands in front of his belt buckle and then folding his arms again, as if nervous, he looked as if he was about to make his usual shrill, high priest’s speech at the Berlin Sportpalast. “Now, please.” He stamped his jackboots one after the other impatiently and for a moment I actually thought he was going to scream or even throw his Party tiepin on the floor.

Bormann turned to Hess and explained, reluctantly, what had happened to Karl Flex.

“But this is terrible,” said Hess. “Does Hitler know?”

“No,” said Bormann. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. Not yet. Not until the culprit is in custody.”

“Why?”

Bormann grimaced; clearly he was not accustomed to being questioned like this, even by the man who was nominally his boss. I took another look at the carbine while they argued and tried to pretend that none of this was happening. But it seemed as if I was about to discover who was going to win the bratwürst contest.

“Because I think it would almost certainly interfere with his future enjoyment of the Berghof,” said Bormann. “That’s why.”

“I insist that he be told as soon as possible,” argued Hess. “I’m certain he’d want to know. The Leader takes all such matters very seriously.”

“And you think I don’t?” With a face as red as a pig’s head in a pork-butcher’s window, Bormann pointed at me. “According to General Heydrich, this man Gunther is the top criminal commissar in the Berlin Murder Commission. I’ve no reason to doubt that. He’s been sent here to clear up this matter as soon as possible. All that can be done right now is being done. Please take a minute to think about this, my dear Hess. Quite apart from the fact that it might spoil his birthday if you told him about Flex’s death, Hitler might never come to Obersalzberg again. To this — his favorite place in the world. Surely you, as a Bavarian, could not wish such a thing ever to happen. Besides, it’s not as if we’ve uncovered an attempt to kill Hitler himself. I’m quite sure that this was a matter entirely unrelated to the Leader. Wouldn’t you agree, Commissar?”

“Yes, sir, I would. From what I’ve learned so far I’m confident that this has nothing to do with Hitler.”

I laid the carbine on the bedspread, next to the binoculars. It was also covered in soot and I thought it was unlikely that the firearm would yield any fingerprints. I was more interested in the serial number. And in the Mahle oil filter. Given what Kaspel had said, we were clearly looking for someone who owned or had access to a lathe. Quietly I asked Korsch to fetch my camera from my room, so that I might add some pictures of the carbine to my portfolio.

Hess’s narrow mouth turned petulant, like a schoolboy who had been punished unjustly. “With all due respect to the commissar, this is not a matter for Kripo, but for the Gestapo. It may be that there is some conspiracy here. After all, it’s only a few months since that Swiss, Maurice Bavaud, came here with the express purpose of killing the Leader. It may be that this is connected with that earlier incident in some way. It could even be that the murderer mistakenly believed he was shooting at Hitler, in which case he may try again, when Hitler is actually here. At the very least the Leader’s Territory should now be extended to the foot of Salzbergerstrasse, where it crosses the River Ache.”

“Nonsense,” said Bormann. “I assure you, dear Hess, that nothing of the kind has happened here. Besides, we’ll certainly have caught the culprit before the Leader’s birthday. Isn’t that so, Gunther?”

I hardly wanted to disagree with Bormann, especially as Hess was beginning to sound like a complete spinner. Already Bormann looked like the safer choice of top Nazi with whom to ally myself. “Yes, sir,” I said.

But Hess wasn’t about to let this matter go. His eagle-eyed devotion to Adolf Hitler was absolute and it seemed that he could not countenance the very idea of keeping the Leader in the dark about anything at all, and Bormann was obliged to accompany him to his apartments upstairs, where they continued their discussion, in private. But everyone in the Villa Bechstein could hear them talking.

That was just the way I liked it: two very important Nazis arguing loudly about their positions in the government’s odious pecking order. It wasn’t about to get any better than that on Hitler’s mountain.

I changed trains in Chaumont and boarded another headed north for Nancy, which is over a hundred kilometers from the German border, although the realization had now dawned that I wasn’t sure where exactly the border was, not anymore. I knew where the old French-German border was but not the new one, not since the war. After the defeat of Germany in 1945, France had treated the Saar as a French Protectorate and an important resource for economic exploitation. Then, in the referendum of October 1955, the dominantly German Sarrois had voted by an overwhelming majority to reject the idea of an independent Saarland — which would still have suited the French — a result that was generally interpreted as the region’s rejection of France and an indication of its strong support for joining the Federal Republic of Germany. But I had no idea if the French recognized this result, which would mean they had finally ceded control of the Saar to the FRG. Knowing the French, and the historic significance our two countries had attached to this much-disputed territory, it seemed unlikely they would let it go so easily. Given the bitterness of the ongoing French-Algerian war, and France’s obvious reluctance to leave North Africa to rule itself, I could hardly imagine the Franzis were just going to walk out of a region of even greater industrial importance such as the Saar. The fact was, even if I got as far as Saarbrücken, I had no idea if being there would really make me any safer from arrest. There would still be plenty of French policemen around to make my life as a fugitive hazardous. I had to hope that as a French-speaking German native, I might at least be a little more anonymous. Anonymous enough to get me to the true Federal Republic. But even Nancy began to seem like a long way off when, just as the train was pulling out of the picturesque town of Neufchâteau, about halfway to my chosen destination, some uniformed French police got on and started checking identity cards.