Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“So why the rifles?” I asked.

“You’re not much of a hunter without a rifle,” said Ambros. In his buttonhole was an enamel badge featuring a pickax and a mallet, and the words Berchtesgaden Salt Mines and Good Luck . It made a pleasant change from a Party badge with a swastika.

“Yes, but what do you shoot?”

“Squirrels and feral cats, rooks and pigeons. Meat for the Leader’s table, when we’re asked to supply it.”

“So it’s not a reserve in the sense that the animals are protected.”

“The animals are protected. From everyone except us.” He crossed his legs and grinned; he was wearing the same Hanwag boots as me.

“We’re not in the business of shooting men, if that’s what you’re driving at,” said Geiger.

“Someone was,” I said. “And they used an Austrian-made Mannlicher carbine fitted with a telescopic sight to do it. Not to mention your field glasses, Herr Geiger. To answer your earlier question, I found them thrown down the chimney of the Villa Bechstein, as well as some spent brass on the rooftop — the spot the assassin fired his shots from.”

“And you think I might have had something to do with that? I lost these binoculars a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been looking for them ever since. They were my father’s.”

“That’s true, Herr Commissar,” said Hayer. “He’s been a real pain in the arse about them. Even looked for them myself.”

“And I would hardly have said I owned them if I’d had anything to do with shooting that man, now would I?”

“The Mannlicher carbine was down the same chimney. And it wasn’t Santa Claus who left it there. A carbine fitted with a sound suppressor. A Mahle oil filter on the barrel.”

“Poacher’s trick,” said Geiger. “The locals come and go around here using the old salt mine tunnels. We found a couple last summer and blocked them up. But this whole mountain is riddled with gravel pits and salt mines. People have been mining salt here for hundreds of years.”

“What about poachers? Ever catch any?”

Geiger and Ambros shook their heads. “About a year ago I found a rifle,” said Geiger. “With a silencer on it. Same as what you described. But sadly not the man who used it.”

“What happened to the rifle?”

“I gave it to that Major Högl fellow. From the RSD. Poaching’s a crime, you see. And all crime in Obersalzberg has to be reported to the RSD.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who owns a Mannlicher carbine, would you?”

“Common enough gun in this part of the world,” said Ambros, puffing his pipe. “I have a Mannlicher at home.”

“That’s not missing, I hope.”

“I keep all my weapons in a gun cabinet, Herr Commissar. With a lock on it.”

“I myself only own a shotgun,” said Hayer. “To shoot a few rooks now and then. So I do find myself wondering why Herr Kannenberg should have telephoned to say that it was me you wanted to speak to. That’s right, isn’t it, Herr Commissar? You did want to speak to me?”

“If you’re the beekeeper, I do, yes.”

“I am.”

I showed him the bee I’d found in Flex’s trouser cuff.

“It’s a dead bee,” said Hayer.

This sounded like dumb insolence, but perhaps only because it was the kind of dumb insolence to which I was much given myself.

“A clue, is it?” asked Ambros. More dumb insolence.

“It was in the dead man’s clothes. So perhaps it is, I don’t know. What kind of bee is this, Herr Hayer?”

“A drone. A male honeybee that’s the product of an unfertilized egg. Its primary function is to mate with a fertile queen. But very few drones are successful in this respect. Most of the drones live for about ninety days and all drones are driven out of the hive in the autumn. Of course, there’s no telling how long this one has been dead. But even without honey to eat, some of them can survive long after they’ve been ejected from the hive.”

“I know the feeling,” said Kaspel.

“If it is a clue, it’s not much of one. You’ll find dead or dying drones almost everywhere around these parts in the autumn months. Behind the curtains. Usually somewhere warm.”

“I found two just the other day in my towel cupboard,” confessed Ambros. “I reckon they’d been asleep in there for months.”

“Perfectly harmless, of course,” said Hayer. “They can’t actually sting you. Drones don’t have a sting, just sexual organs. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

“Actually, sir, you’ve been an enormous help.” I had the strong feeling that this was not what he wanted to hear, and I ladled it on a bit. “Hasn’t he, Hermann?”

“Yes, sir. An enormous help.”

Hayer smiled thinly. “I don’t see how.”

“Perhaps. But that’s my job, isn’t it?”

“If you say so.”

“Did you know Dr. Flex, Herr Hayer? You didn’t say.”

“I had some dealings with him, yes,” he answered stiffly.

“Might I ask what those dealings were?”

“They were in relation to the sale of my house to the deputy chief of staff.”

“Am I right in assuming that you didn’t want to sell?”

“That is correct.”

“And what happened? Exactly.”

“They made me an offer and eventually I agreed to sell my house. That’s all there is to it. If you don’t mind, that’s all I want to say about it, Commissar.”

“Come on, Herr Hayer, it’s common knowledge that you weren’t very happy about it. Did Karl Flex threaten you?”

Peter Hayer leaned back in his chair and silently regarded a shelf full of books on beekeeping. Next to them was an old print of some medieval beekeepers, their faces covered with what looked like basket-woven masks.

“At least that’s what I’ve been told,” I said. “From what I’ve heard he liked to throw his weight around. Pissed a lot of people off. Seems as if he had that bullet coming, by popular demand.” The ornithologist was looking at his fingernails, his face about as inscrutable as the three medieval beekeepers in the print on his wall. “Look, Herr Hayer, I’m a city boy. I don’t much like the mountains. And I don’t much like Bavaria. All I care about is that I catch the man who pulled the trigger on Flex so that I can go home to Berlin. I’m not in the Gestapo and I’m not about to report people who talk out of turn. I say quite a lot that’s out of turn myself. Isn’t that so, Hermann?”

“He’s not even in the Nazi Party,” Kaspel said.

“So let’s just be straight here. Karl Flex was a bastard. One of several bastards employed to do Bormann’s dirty work in Obersalzberg. Isn’t that right?”

“He didn’t just threaten me,” said Hayer. “He ordered some men to remove my front and back doors. In the middle of winter. My wife was expecting at the time. So I had no choice but to sell. The house was worth twice what I was paid for it. Anyone will tell you that.”

Geiger and Ambros were murmuring their agreement.

“The house was demolished, immediately after I’d vacated it. My grandfather built that house. It was one of several that used to be where the local Theater Hall is now. In Antenberg. The one they built to show films and other entertainment for the local workers. I sometimes go there just to be reminded of the view from my old house.” He glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact, we’re all going there tonight.”

“Tell me what happened after you were obliged to sell,” I said.

“There’s nothing much to tell. After that, Dr. Flex put an advertisement in the Berchtesgadener Anzeiger informing readers about what had happened to me and announcing that anyone else who resisted appropriation would be treated as an enemy of the state and sent to Dachau.”