Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“They look how I feel,” I said. This wasn’t exactly Hamlet but then again I’d been riding hard for several hours.

“For you are dust and to dust you shall return,” said the priest.

“Amen.”

“Although it’s hardly the end. No, not at all. We have to believe in the life everlasting, don’t you think? That there is something after this.”

He didn’t sound convinced, but I wasn’t about to help him with any crisis of faith. I had my own crisis to manage.

“Not in here, you don’t,” I said. “This is about as final as it gets, I guess. And what’s more, I think God probably likes it that way, to remind us that this is our true glory in Christ. That everything wears away and falls to pieces until all we’re left with is this heap of bones, this accumulated testimony, this gray monument to where we’ve been and the futility of all our human endeavors. Here are the real facts of life, Father. We’re going to die. And there’s none of us that matters any more than those onions hanging on my handlebars.”

Momentarily the priest looked taken aback. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“No, I suppose not,” I lied. More than anyone, priests don’t want your honesty; it’s what makes them priests in the first place. You can’t be a priest if you are devoted to any empirical truth, which is the only kind you can rely upon. “But sometimes it’s hard to have faith in very much.”

“Faith isn’t supposed to make sense. If it was, then it couldn’t be tested.” The priest’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you from, friend?”

“Nowhere. That’s where we’re all from, isn’t it? It’s certainly where we’re all going. And that’s just the scripture you mentioned earlier. Ecclesiastes, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “I’ll pray for you.”

“I wonder if that might work.”

“You know, anyone might think you’re a man who doesn’t believe in anything.”

“Whatever gives you that idea, Father? I believe the sun rises, and that it sets. I believe in kinetic energy and air resistance, and gravity and everything else that makes bicycling such fun. I believe in coffee and cigarettes and bread. I even believe in the Fourth Republic.” But of course, I didn’t. No one did — no more than they believed in the Third Republic.

The priest smiled a gap-toothed smile and put down his Bible, almost as if he was going to slug me. “Now I’m certain you’re a nihilist.”

“Well, why not be a nihilist? A man has to believe in something.”

“No, that’s what you are, all right.”

“If I knew what that was I might even agree with you. I used to believe in God and in trying to do the right thing. But now — now I don’t believe in anything at all.”

“You’re him, aren’t you? That man the police are after.”

“What man is that, Father?”

“The Blue Train murderer. I’ve been following your case on the radio and in the newspapers.”

“Me? No. I’m not much on trains these days. Too expensive. But what makes you say a thing like that?”

“Well, for one thing, I used to be a policeman. So I notice things. For example, those shoes you’re wearing. No one selling onions would wear shoes like those. They were bought in a nice shop somewhere down south, and not because they were practical but because they looked smart. The first heavy rain shower and those shoes will end up badly water-stained. Boots would have been better. Boots like mine. That wristwatch is a Longines. Not the most expensive. But then again, not cheap, either. Next there are your hands, which are clean and soft. Strong, but still soft. And well manicured. Living around here you shake hands with all kinds of men who make a living from the soil. Yours aren’t at all like theirs, which are like sandpaper. Another thing is that your teeth are good. Like you’ve seen a dentist in the last six months. Again, people who work the land don’t see dentists unless they need to have a rotten tooth pulled out. And only then because they can’t stand the pain anymore. The medal’s good. A nice touch. I like that. But not the glasses. There’s just glass in them, no actual lenses, like you’re wearing them for a reason other than to improve your sight.”

I nodded sadly, appreciating his keen eyes in a moment of utter detachment. “You should have stayed being a cop. I don’t need lenses in my glasses to know you had a clearer vocation for that. You’re the best French cop I’ve met since I came to France.”

The priest stiffened a little as he now realized where he was and who he was with. “I suppose you’re going to try and kill me now.”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I should be easy enough to kill.”

“Yes. I have a gun. And it seems to me that there’s no one else in here who’s going to raise any objections. But the day I start shooting priests is the day I probably shoot myself, too. Besides, what would be the point?”

“So it’s like I thought. You’re not really a murderer.”

“Best stick with being a priest. You make an even worse psychologist.”

“Meaning what? That you really did kill someone?”

“Sure, I’ve killed men. But not since the war. Just for the record, I didn’t murder anyone on the Blue Train. I was framed.”

“I see. My, you’re in a spot, aren’t you?”

I pointed at the ossuary. “It could be worse. I might be one of them.”

“We could pray together if you like.”

“There’s even less point to that than there is in killing you. But I am going to have to make you swear on that Bible that you’ll give me a head start. Twelve hours should see me comfortably across the old German border into the Saarland. Twelve hours before you call a cop and tell them I was here. That’s all I ask, Father.”

“What makes you think I’m going to agree to that?”

I took out my gun.

“Because if you don’t, I’ll crack you on the head with this, tie you up, and leave you in here with your friends, the bones. Or maybe I’ll just set fire to your church. I’m German, you see. In the war we did a lot of that. So one more church really won’t make a difference to my eternal soul. Only I think you’d be more comfortable just doing what I said. Twelve hours doesn’t seem much to ask.”

The priest looked at his watch. “Twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours.”

I handed him the Bible and he made the oath as I directed. Then he shook my hand again and wished me luck and told me he’d pray for me.

“I’ll take the luck,” I said. “It always worked better for me than the prayer.”

I went out of the church, collected my bicycle, and rode off, but not before I had dumped all my onions in a grass verge. With a hard ride for Saar in front of me I could do without the extra weight. And it was only now that I perceived my stupidity; the priest had been right. My hands and shoes could have given the game away at any time. I thought I’d been so clever, when all the time I’d been courting disaster. But none of this was quite as stupid as what I’d just done. Never put your faith in a priest. There’s not one of them who can be trusted within reach of a good Latin dictionary and a wealthy church donor.

I managed to sleep for several hours. Somehow the proximity of Hitler’s study door did not interfere with that. I was ready to collapse and I think I could have slept through a night on Bald Mountain. I was awoken by the telephone ringing in my room. I glanced at my watch. It was long past midnight.

“Hey, boss,” said Friedrich Korsch. “It’s me.”

“Did you find something?”

“There was some paperwork in Flex’s desk drawer. A lease agreement. It looks as if our friend was renting a garage in Berchtesgaden. On Maximilianstrasse. It’s owned by a local Nazi businessman named Dr. Waechter. A lawyer.”