Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“Captain Kaspel has been killed in an accident,” I said. “On the road to Buchenhohe. It would seem that he lost control of the car he was driving and went off the road.”

“You’re not serious,” said Dietrich.

“Well, actually, what I said, it’s not quite accurate. I’m more or less certain Kaspel was murdered. Someone cut the brake hoses on his car. I think they meant us both to be killed, but as you can see, I escaped.”

“In Obersalzberg? Who would do such a thing?”

“Yes, it’s hard to believe, isn’t it? That someone here, on Hitler’s mountain, could even think of committing murder. It’s incredible.”

“Do you have an idea who this person is, Herr Commissar?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. But I will find out. Look, you’ll have to notify the appropriate services to recover the body and the car. An ambulance, I suppose. And a fire truck. It’s a real mess, I’m afraid, and not for the squeamish. The car’s a complete wreck. Maybe a doctor, I don’t know. Not that he can help. And perhaps you’d better tell Major Högl. Although I’m not sure if he’s the kind of officer that you can wake up with important news or if it’s best to wait for the morning. Only you can say, sonny. But around here I get the feeling that bad news always waits until the morning.”

I glanced out the window. There was a light on the ground floor in Bormann’s house and I wondered if he would want to know about Kaspel’s death and if I dared disturb the deputy chief of staff at this time of night. Leave it to Högl, I told myself; you’ve got enough to do, Gunther. You won’t be able to tell Bormann without also having to report on your progress, which has been disappointing, to say the least. The only good news you could tell a man like Martin Bormann was that you’d caught the murderer; everything else was an excuse for your own incompetence. Besides, there was always the danger I might talk out of turn. There’s nothing like seeing a man you like cut in half to make you a little too free with your opinions. Things like that happened a lot in the trenches. It’s how I lost my first set of sergeant’s stripes — telling some fool of a lieutenant that he’d got a couple of good men killed.

“God in heaven, this is terrible news. Captain Kaspel was such a kind man. With such a nice wife.”

“You can leave the widow to me,” I said, and yawned. The warmth of the Türken’s office was making me sleepy again. “Make sure Högl knows that. I’ll tell her first thing in the morning, just as soon as I’ve snatched a few hours’ sleep and had some breakfast.”

I was on the point of leaving when I noticed the rifle rack: they were all the standard German army rifle — the Mauser Karabiner 98 — but one with a scope caught my attention. This was a Mannlicher M95, the same kind of carbine that had been used to shoot Karl Flex. I lifted it out of the rack, worked the bolt, and inspected the magazine, which was full. The gun was well maintained, too, and in better condition than the carbine I’d found at the Villa Bechstein; for one, it wasn’t covered in soot. I turned the carbine and inspected the barrel; it was dirtier than it looked on first inspection but whether that meant it had been fired recently was not something I could determine.

“What’s this doing here?” I said.

“That’s Major Högl’s rifle, sir,” said Dietrich. “He uses it to go hunting sometimes.”

“What does he shoot up here?”

“Nothing inside the Leader’s Territory or the Landlerwald, you understand,” he insisted. “Nothing except a few local cats. Everything else is forbidden.” The lieutenant smiled uncomfortably, as if he didn’t approve. “The Leader doesn’t really like cats around the Berghof.”

“So I hear.”

“They kill the local birds.”

I nodded. The fact was, I’d always liked cats and even admired their independence; being shot by the Nazis for doing what comes naturally was the kind of existential dilemma with which I could easily sympathize.

“Is this the same rifle that Captain Kaspel gave to him? The one that belonged to a poacher?” But even as I asked I wondered how Kaspel could have failed to have noticed it there, on the Türken’s rifle rack. Surely he would have mentioned it following our trip to the apiary.

“I don’t know, sir. Would you like me to ask him?”

“No,” I said. “I’ll ask him myself.”

I walked quickly back down to the Berghof and discovered my room was chillier than before on account of the fact that someone had been in there and left the door wide open. I wrote a message for Heydrich, collected my notebook and, thinking I needed to be somewhere warm, returned immediately to the Villa Bechstein, where I told the two RSD duty officers to send the telex, and to awaken me at eight. Then I went upstairs. Someone had thoughtfully left a bottle of schnapps on my dressing table, next to the Leica. I guess it did make a nice picture at that; it’s nice to have a few snaps of a favorite place you’ve been, even if that place is at the bottom of a glass.

I was surprised to be woken, rather roughly I thought, at seven, by two men with thick leather coats, igneous faces, and uncompromising cologne. They were from the Gestapo. Naturally I assumed they had come straight to Obersalzberg with some important news about the missing photographer, Johann Brandner, who was officially my number one suspect in the Flex shooting. But it was soon clear that this was not the case. One of them was already searching through my bag and my coat. He quickly found my gun, sniffed the barrel, and then dropped it into his pocket. The other had something under his arm and wore silver-wire glasses that resembled manacles, although that might just have been my imagination.

“Brandner? Never heard of him,” said the one with the glasses.

“Get dressed and come with us please,” said the other. “Quickly.”

Now, under most normal circumstances, I’d have been very cooperative with government thugs like these, but working for Bormann and Heydrich I had the unreasonable idea that there were more important things for me to do than waste valuable time talking to the Gestapo, answering their stupid questions. Surely the RSD would come to my aid if I asked them.

“Tell me you’re not dumb enough to try to arrest me here,” I said.

“Just shut up and get dressed.”

“Does Major Högl know about this? From the local RSD?”

“This is a Gestapo matter.”

“What about Captain Neumann?” I got out of bed because I could see that, like all Gestapo men, they were eager to hit someone and soon. I grabbed the Pervitin and popped one in my mouth. I was going to need all the help I could get.

“Never heard of him either.”

“Hans-Hendrik Neumann. He’s General Heydrich’s adjutant. And currently working from your own HQ, in Salzburg. I assume you’ve heard of General Heydrich. Head of the SD and the Gestapo? He’s on page two of the German Police and Gestapo Yearbook. Himmler is on page one. Smallish man with glasses who looks a bit like a village schoolmaster? Believe me, there will be hell to pay if they find out I’ve been arrested by a couple of comrade shoelaces like you. Neither of them much likes anyone interfering with the smooth running of the Nazi machine. Especially in Obersalzberg.”

“We’re not from Salzburg. And we have our orders.”

“Orders are orders.”

“That’s true,” I said. “And the kind of logic that you boys can take comfort in. But with respect, that won’t work here. I’m not sure it works anywhere.”

I started to get dressed. Already I could see their patience with me was wearing as thin as Himmler’s smile.