Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“Yes, I do see your own problem. My late husband would have called that a fool’s dilemma.”

“I’m not such a fool that I can say no to men like them. At least not so that they’d ever notice. It’s one of the things that makes me such a good detective. Generally speaking I point the fold in my hat where they tell me and hope for the best. And somehow, so far, I’ve managed to stay on this side of the barbed wire.”

“There’s a bottle of good schnapps down there, behind that drainpipe,” said Frau Troost. “Some of the general staff keep it there so they can have a drink while they smoke.”

“One’s often better with the other.”

“Hitler doesn’t drink, either.”

I bent down to take a look and smiled; she was right; there was even a stack of clean glasses. I helped myself but she didn’t want one herself. I toasted the general staff, silently. For once I had no complaints about their military preparations.

“One thing I don’t mind being cold is schnapps,” I said. “Your husband was Paul Troost, wasn’t he? Hitler’s architect, until he died a few years ago.”

“That’s right.”

“And now his architect is Albert Speer.”

“He thinks he is. That man is always trying to ingratiate himself with Hitler. But in truth, I’ve been carrying on Paul’s work since 1934. I may even be the only woman the Leader actually listens to. Except when it comes to windows. But I was right about that, too. Mostly I just offer my advice on building, art, and design. My studio is in Munich. And when I’m not there, I’m here. Lately I’ve been working on some new certificates and presentation boxes for military and civilian honors.”

“No shortage of those in Nazi Germany.”

“You sound like you disapprove.”

“No. Not even a little. I always did like a ribbon on my cake.”

“Maybe you’ll get an honor after you’ve solved this case.”

“I certainly won’t be looking for one. From what I’ve been told this is a matter requiring absolute discretion.” I poured myself another. “You know when I said bad news travels fast, about Karl Flex being dead, you said I was almost right. Meaning you didn’t think it was such bad news, after all.”

“Did I say that?”

“Now who’s playing skat. I’ve been here for less than twenty-four hours but already it seems to me that quite a few people were happy to see Flex dead.”

“We can talk about that,” she said. “But first I want a favor from you.”

“So ask it, Frau Troost. I have no idea why, but the schnapps has made me accommodating.”

The terrace at the back of the Berghof was less lethal than the one at the front; the most dangerous thing that happened here was smoking too much. Gerdy Troost shrugged and threw away her cigarette. Under the black beret her light brown hair was bushy and gathered behind her head, which seemed to accentuate the woman’s ears; like her nose, these belonged properly to an elf. But she wasn’t a small elf. I guessed she was probably a head taller than Martin Bormann. It was a shrewd, clever head, too, that much was obvious. Cleverer than Bormann. The voice was educated and accustomed to being listened to, the eyes dark and inquisitive, the chin pugnacious and determined, the mouth just a little petulant; you might almost have assumed she was Jewish but for the violent anti-Semitism of her infamous patron. It seemed safer to assume that she was a bluestocking, only this had nothing to do with the color of her stockings, which were black.

“Gerdy. Short for Gerhardine. My parents christened me Sophie but I never took to the name.”

Looking at her, I figured there was quite a lot about being a girl she didn’t take to, not just an old-fashioned name. You get a feeling for that kind of thing.

I toasted her with the glass in my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Gerdy.”

“The fact is, I know who you are,” she said. “More importantly, I know what you are. No, I don’t mean that you’re a policeman. I’m talking about your character. I believe you’re a man of some courage and integrity.”

“No one’s accused me of being that in a long time. Besides, if I really was what you say I am, then I’d be somewhere else.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Herr Gunther. One day soon this country is going to need a few good men.” She rubbed her chest and her face turned anxious as if she had a pain.

“You all right?”

“I get a little angina sometimes. When I’m under pressure. It’ll pass.”

“Are you under pressure?”

“Everyone here is under pressure of one kind or another. Even Hitler. Everyone except Martin Bormann.”

“He’s a busy man, isn’t he?”

Gerdy smiled. “Busy looking out for himself, almost certainly.”

“There’s a lot of it about.”

“For some. Now listen, do you remember a man called Hugo Brückmann?”

I frowned as I recalled the name. Then I stared at the ground, noticing her largish feet and her black shoes, which had little straps across the ankles. “Brückmann,” I said evasively. “Let me see. No, I don’t think so.”

“Then let me refresh your memory, Commissar. In 1932, Hugo Brückmann and his wife went to stay at Berlin’s Adlon Hotel. He is a German publisher and was a great friend of my late husband’s. Married to Princess Elsa Cantacuzene of Romania. Now do you remember?”

I hadn’t forgotten either of them. Nor was I likely to. But like anyone else in Germany I was a little cautious about admitting to knowing someone who had deliberately thwarted the Nazis, especially to a member of Hitler’s intimate circle. While Hugo Brückmann was a Nazi, he was a decent Nazi and a friend of Bernhard Weiss, the former head of Kripo and a Jew whom I and Lorenz Adlon had helped to hide from the Nazis in the last days of the Weimar Republic. But it had been Hugo Brückmann and his wife, Elsa, who had paid for Weiss and his wife, Lotte, to escape to London, where the former detective was now running a printing and stationery business.

“If they’re friends of yours, then yes, I remember them both.”

“I want that man — the principled young detective from the Alex who helped Hugo Brückmann to help Bernhard Weiss escape from Germany — to help me find someone who’s gone missing, in Munich.”

“I’m not saying I did help them. That wouldn’t be healthy. But lots of people go missing these days. It’s one of the challenges of life in modern Germany.”

“This man’s a Jew, too.”

“For them most of all. But yes, I’ll help. If I can. What’s his name?”

“Wasserstein. Dr. Karl Wasserstein. He’s an ophthalmologist and a surgeon who treated my late husband. But he lost his position and his pension in 1935, and then his license to practice medicine in 1938. I spoke to the Leader about his case last year and Dr. Wasserstein’s license was restored, allowing him to continue in private practice. But when I went to see Wasserstein in Munich the other day, he had gone and no one seemed to know or even care where. He left no forwarding address and I was wondering if you might find him for me. I just want to know that he’s all right and that he’s not short of money. But I get the feeling I’ve already asked enough questions around here on his behalf. There’s a limit to what even I can achieve on anyone’s behalf. Especially when they’re Jewish.”

“Maybe he’s left Germany for good.”

“He just got his license back. Why would he leave Germany?”

“The best people do. On the other hand, a lot of Jews have left Munich and Vienna to go and live in Berlin. They think that things are a bit easier for Jews there.”