Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“He could easily have come straight here after the autopsy,” said Kaspel.

I went into the kitchen again. In the corner was a white metal cabinet — an Electrolux cold cabinet — and because I didn’t know anyone who owned one, I opened it up to find several bottles of good Mosel, champagne, some butter, eggs, a liter of milk, and a large tin of beluga caviar.

“Flex liked expensive things, didn’t he? All those gold trinkets in his pockets. Cigars. Caviar. Champagne.”

Meanwhile, Kaspel collected a bottle of bright yellow liquid off the dresser. “Nothing expensive about this,” he said. “It’s neo-Ballistol.”

“Foot care and gun care,” I said. “Because no one else will.”

“What’s neo-Ballistol?” asked Korsch.

“It’s an oil,” I said. “In the trenches, we used Ballistol on our feet and on our guns. I’m not sure which of them it was better for.”

“Not just our feet,” said Kaspel. “Lip balm, disinfectant, digestive problems, and a universal home remedy. Some people swear by this stuff. But it’s been banned up here on the mountain since 1934 when Hitler was poisoned with Ballistol. No one knows if he took too much of his own volition, or someone else gave him too much in his tea. Which is what he likes to drink.”

“I’ll remember that when I invite him round with the intention of poisoning him.”

“Either way, Brandt sent the Leader to hospital, and everyone in Obersalzberg was ordered by Bormann to get rid of their personal supply or risk imprisonment.”

“Everyone except Karl Flex,” said Korsch.

“How is it for heart palpitations?”

I swept some books off the sofa, sat down, and lit up a Turkish 8, which was my own universal panacea; tobacco and a spoonful of schnapps are two household substances that are almost impossible to abuse, at least in my own self-medicating experience. I glanced at my watch and calculated that it was now thirty-six hours since I’d slept in a bed. My hands were trembling like I had a palsy and my knee was bouncing up and down as if I were the subject of an amusing medical experiment by Luigi Galvani. I rubbed my hand across my face, waited in vain for the nicotine to calm my nerves, and then decided that what I really needed was a shave. I wandered into Flex’s bathroom and looked in the cabinet mirror. The stubble on my chin was beginning to look like an engraving by Albrecht Dürer. I found a brush, some soap, and a good sharp Solingen razor made by Dovo, which I honed for a minute on a thick leather strop. Then I took off my coat and my jacket and started to lather up.

“You’re going to shave?” asked Korsch. “In here?”

“It’s a bathroom, isn’t it?”

“Now?”

“Sure. Carving my own face with a razor helps me to think. It’s a chance to see things differently. Who knows? Maybe it will help me to stop my hand shaking.”

But while I shaved, I talked: “So far what we’ve got is a tall man with half his brains blown out who nobody liked except Martin Bormann. Which isn’t saying very much, since most of Bormann’s affection is clearly reserved for Adolf Hitler and Frau Bormann. That lady probably thinks her husband shits ice cream but I’m not so sure she isn’t being sold short. One way or another he’s made a lot of enemies. Him and the minions he employed to do his dirty work. One of those minions was called Karl Flex and probably there were lots of people who wanted him dead. Because it was a lot safer to kill Flex than it was to kill Martin Bormann, someone who found out about yesterday’s meeting at the Berghof decided to take advantage of Rolf Müller’s trip to the doctor to take a shot at Flex from the roof of the Villa Bechstein. Maybe it was even Rolf Müller, although I doubt it. What’s even clearer is that almost anyone else on the Berghof terrace might just as easily have satisfied the assassin as a target. Even if he’d missed Karl Flex — and we know he missed four times — he’d have hit someone hateful to folk around these parts.

“You know, I never much liked Bavarians until I came to Berchtesgaden and realized how many Bavarians there are who don’t much like the Nazis, and for even better reasons than the familiar ones I have. What makes it so funny to an old social democrat like me is that security up here is supposed to be tighter than my hatband. But in fact it would seem the locals can come and go as they please in the Leader’s Territory on account of how they know all the old salt mine tunnels better than they know their wives’ gynecology. And if some of them weren’t mad enough already about Bormann taking their houses from them, they’re even more ill-tempered since the supply of the magic potion dried up. Maybe they need that stuff to pull those twelve-hour shifts. Maybe that’s why they shot someone from P&Z. Maybe it’s a message from the construction workers’ union.

“We also know that Flex was taking a cut from the girls in the P-Barracks in return for which he gave one of them, Renata Prodi, a dose of jelly, which required everyone there to take Protargol. Maybe that’s how he afforded his lifestyle. Anyway, that girl is now missing, possibly dead. Also involved with the girls from P-Barracks was Dr. Brandt, who seems to have made himself responsible for protecting Flex’s posthumous reputation in that he’s the chief suspect in the theft of a number of Flex’s personal effects. Some Protargol. Some Pervitin. A key on a chain. A notebook with some names in it. Which would also make him the chief suspect in this burglary. You steal one thing, you’ll steal another. Very possibly Dr. Brandt also carried out an abortion on Renata Prodi, who may have been carrying Flex’s child. This leaves me with an interesting investigative dilemma. Because it’s going to be damn difficult to question Dr. Brandt about any of this on account of the fact that Hitler and Göring were the principal guests at his wedding. If I so much as accuse him of not telling me the right time of day I’ll be on the next bus to Dachau.

“We have one chief suspect: Johann Brandner. The local photographer who was sent to Dachau when he objected to having to sell his business premises to Martin Bormann. The evidence is only circumstantial, but the circumstances are these: Salzburg is just forty minutes away by car; he’s a former sharpshooter with a Jäger battalion; he could have come down to Berchtesgaden, fired the shots, and gone home again without anyone even registering he was ever here. How about it, Friedrich? Any word from the Salzburg Gestapo?”

“Not yet, boss. They’re also checking out the serial numbers on the carbine and the binoculars.”

“What do you want to do about the Mannlicher carbine that Geiger says he gave to Major Högl?” asked Kaspel.

“See if you can find out what happened to it. Maybe it’s the same gun we found in the chimney.”

“And if he doesn’t know?”

“Then that’s another question I’m not looking forward to posing. Just the suggestion that Högl might at one time have been in possession of the murder weapon is going to make him look bad in front of Martin Bormann. So I guess I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.”

I swept the blade of the razor up my throat and then wiped it on Flex’s Egyptian-cotton towel. Everything he’d owned or used seemed to have been of the best quality. Even his toilet paper was shiny. At home I just used the Völkischer Beobachter .

“Of course, Geiger might have been mistaken about that carbine. Or he might have been lying. None of those three men we just met in the apiary struck me as particularly helpful. And after what Arthur Kannenberg told me about Brückner at the Berghof, it would seem that everyone on this mountain wants to make soup for someone else to fall in. Right now the only person I’m absolutely sure didn’t do it is Adolf Hitler. Which says a lot more about the state of modern Germany than it does about my forensic skills.”