Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

A few kilometers farther up the road, in Baronville, I dismounted at an unremarkable café, ate some breakfast at the bar, bought some cigarettes, shaved quickly in the lavatory, searched for myself in the newspaper, and was relieved to see that there was nothing more than what had already been reported. But the polished wood radio in the café was switched on and in this way I gradually became aware that the French police believed they were now close to catching the Blue Train murderer; a man answering my description had been seen three times in Nancy before any police inquiries had begun, and all roads between there and the Saarland were now being watched. Perhaps I would have learned more but the patron started to retune the radio and, before I could check myself, I asked him — much too abruptly — to leave the radio station alone, which only served to draw attention to me. The patron did as he was asked but now regarded me with more interest than before so that I was obliged eventually to explain myself. He had a sharp nose and an even sharper eye, not to mention a boil on his scrawny bird’s neck that was equal in size to any of the onions on my handlebars.

“It’s just that I reckon I saw that German,” I said, improvising quickly. “The fugitive the police are looking for. The Blue Train murderer.”

“Really?” The man wiped the marble counter with a cloth that belonged in an Omo commercial and then emptied the Ricard ashtray that was in front of me. “Where was that, monsieur?”

“It was yesterday, in Nancy. But he wasn’t headed for Germany; what the radio announcer said was wrong. He was buying a ticket for a train to Metz.”

“Killed his wife, did he? It happens.”

“No, I don’t think so. Someone else. I’m not sure who. The guard on a train, I think.”

“Then they’ll cut off his head,” said the patron . “Kill your wife, you might stand a chance. But not a man in a uniform.”

I nodded but I considered I had worse to fear than an appointment with the French guillotine; at least that would be quick. Thallium poisoning sounded like a fate worse than death. And for the first time I wondered if I should somehow make an effort to warn Anne French that the Stasi were planning to poison her.

“Nancy, eh? You’ve come a fair way, monsieur.”

“Not so far. Forty or fifty kilometers. On a good day I can do seventy-five or eighty.”

“We don’t see many onion sellers on these roads. Not since the war.”

“Usually I head for Luxembourg. Or Strasbourg. Plenty of money there. But that’s too far for me now. The legs are not what they were.”

“So where are you headed?”

“Pirmasens.”

“Pirmasens? Seems like a lot of effort to sell a few onions.”

“A man has to make a living any way he can these days.”

“True.”

“Besides, my family seems to own the only field in Nancy that’s no good for grapes. Usually I sell a lot in Pirmasens. The Germans like their onions and these days you’ve got to go where the market is.”

“Except that they’re French now, aren’t they? In the Saar.”

“That’s what we’re told. But it doesn’t feel very French when you speak to people. It’s German they speak. When they speak at all.”

“They spoke clearly enough in that referendum they had a while back.”

“That they did.”

“Well, good luck to them. And you.”

“Thanks. But if you would be kind enough to direct me, I reckon I’ll stop at the police station in Baronville before I carry on my way. And report what I saw. It’s what any good citizen would do, I think.”

The patron came outside and indicated the way, and I cycled off, wondering if he was in the least bit convinced by my improvised patter. In that part of the world I figured my French was probably accented just about right, but you never can tell with the Franzis. They’re a suspicious lot and it’s easy to see why the Nazis had such an easy job running the country; the French are just natural informers. Of course, I wasn’t planning to go anywhere near the police station but almost as soon as I pedaled off I wondered if the café patron might see the gendarme later on in the day and mention me; and if he discovered I hadn’t actually been there, then naturally his suspicions would be aroused. I wished I’d kept my mouth shut about behaving like a good citizen. Better still, I wished I hadn’t told him not to retune his damned radio. So I cycled to the police station after all, leaned my bicycle on the wall, and was just about to pluck up my courage and report seeing myself to the local gendarmes when I caught sight of some medals in an antique shop and, thinking that a First World War French Cross pinned on my lapel might help to deflect a bit of suspicion, I went into the shop and bought the decoration for only a few francs. Heroism is always cheaper to buy than it ought to be. Especially in la belle France.

Inside the police station the gendarme behind the desk regarded my medal and listened to my story with barely concealed indifference. He took my false name and address and made a few notes with a stub of a pencil on a yellow pad; meanwhile, I added a few things to the fugitive German’s description. He had a limp, I said, and a stick, as if he’d injured his left leg; and I explained I knew he was German because when I’d overheard him buying a ticket at the local railway station I was quite sure I’d heard him utter a curse in German when he saw that the platform for the train to Metz was being watched by police.

“Anything else?” The cop said it like he hoped there wasn’t. There was a strong smell of coffee in the station and I guessed he’d been about to drink some when I showed up.

“He had a small cardboard case with a Marseilles sticker on it. And there was something wrong with his left eye.”

“How do you know?”

“He had an eye patch.”

There were two roads from Baronville to the German border: the D910 was the shorter and more direct route; I took the D674 via Bérig-Vintrange to avoid any French roadblocks. Not that such a thing looked in the least bit likely, despite what the radio announcer had said. The road to the Saar couldn’t have been more quiet if the locals had heard the Wehrmacht was on the way again. All the same I was pedaling hard now, as if my life really did depend on it. By midmorning I was seated on a bench in front of the Church of Saint Hippolyte in Bérig-Vintrange, smoking a cigarette, regarding the church, and reflecting on my own situation. I couldn’t have felt more alone if I’d been cycling across Antarctica. The church looked like any other in that part of the world, which is to say quiet, even a little neglected with a small en suite cemetery, but it was not without a priest, who arrived on a bicycle not long after me, removed his bicycle clips, and offered me a good morning as he unlocked the front door.

“Have you come to see our ossuary?” he asked.

I said I hadn’t, and that I was merely resting my own dry bones after a long time in the saddle.

“Welcome anyway.”

We shook hands. He was a big man with shoulders as wide as the cross strut on a working crucifix and he wore the cassock like it was a boxer’s dressing gown.

“Would you like a glass of water, perhaps?”

“Thank you.”

He led the way into the vestry and presented me with some water.

“Is it famous then? Your ossuary?”

“Quite famous. Would you like to see it?”

Not wanting to appear rude I said I would and, still carrying his Bible, he led me down to a crypt, where he proudly showed off a neat heap of skulls and bones and, in an unguarded moment, I let out a profound sigh as I recalled my service with the SS and what I’d seen at places like Minsk and Katyn. A collection of dried death always awakens in me a perverse kind of homesickness. It’s as if these things follow you around like ghosts. I would call it a conscience except that part of me had always taken second place to simple prudence.