Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“If you’re not from Salzburg, then where are you from?”

“Linz.”

“But that’s more than a hundred kilometers away.”

“You must have read a book about geography. And we take our orders from the High SS and Police Leader for Donau.”

“Donau?”

I thought for a moment as I climbed into my trousers, and then I realized suddenly who it was that had sent them. Donau, near Vienna, was the primary division command of the General-SS in Austria. All this time I’d been trying not to come between those big beasts Heydrich and Bormann and unwittingly I had stepped into an internecine war between Heydrich and Kaltenbrunner. I was in a lot more danger than I’d ever imagined. With Heydrich wanting dirt on his Austrian SS rival, Martin Bormann, it had never occurred to me that Kaltenbrunner might try to put a spanner in Heydrich’s works. We’d underestimated him, enormously.

“You’re Kaltenbrunner’s men, aren’t you?”

“Now you’re getting it, piefke .”

“Are we going to Linz now? Is that the plan? Because if it is you’re in big trouble, my friend. And your redundant propositional logic won’t help you when they’re tying you to a stake in front of an SS firing squad.”

“You’ll find out where we’re going soon enough. And any more threats out of you and my fist will feel obliged to interfere with your smart mouth.”

“Look, one more thing. We’re on the same side, after all. I’ve been sent to investigate a murder in the Leader’s Territory. As a professional courtesy you could at least tell me what this is about and why you think your mission is more important than mine.”

“High treason. And that certainly trumps any case you’re investigating down here, Gunther.”

“Treason?” I sat down on the bed. It was quicker than falling over. I started to pull on my boots before they lost patience with me. “You boys have made a serious mistake. Or someone’s misled your boss. There’s no treason here.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Yes, but it’s not all of them who report directly to General Heydrich. I do, and he’s going to have your kidneys deviled and on toast.”

And then I saw it. The man with the wire glasses was holding my own notebook as if it was something important, like exhibit number one in a criminal investigation. The same notebook I’d fetched from my office at the Berghof just hours before and which had been on my bedside table. And it now occurred to me that there was something in that notebook I didn’t know about. Something that had been written there by someone else, perhaps. Something incriminating that could put me under the falling ax. I guessed the one in Linz was probably just as sharp as the one in Berlin. And I’d seen enough men with their heads sniffing their own toes to know that I wouldn’t like it. Thanks to the Nazis, modern justice was quicker than a Reichspost telegram, with little or no time for defense arguments. Once I was in Linz they might execute me within hours of my arrival. I’d been measured out for this like Plato’s hypotenuse. The two sent to arrest me were beyond all reason; I doubted that Immanuel Kant would have made a dent in their capacity for pure ignorance and categorical disbelief. I could hardly blame them for this; Ernst Kaltenbrunner was probably just as frightening to them as Heydrich was to me. By all accounts he was certainly uglier.

“Okay.” I stood up and put on my suit jacket. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The one who’d taken my gun produced a set of manacles with which he proposed to handcuff me. Instead I reached for the Leica on the dressing table.

“You boys don’t mind if I bring my camera, do you? Only, I’ve never been to Linz. Hitler’s hometown, isn’t it? I’ve heard it’s very pretty. After this misunderstanding has been cleared up perhaps we’ll look at the pictures I take and laugh about it.”

“Put the fucking camera down and show me your hands in front of you or I’ll thump you very hard, Gunther.”

“And you? Did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got the kind of face the camera just loves? No?”

I laid the camera on the dressing table but I didn’t let it go. I was just trying to bring the irritated man with the glasses a step nearer so I could take his photograph. Not that I was much of a photographer. Somehow I never mastered the idea that you’re meant to put the subject’s face in the lens and not on it, violently and at speed. Made of die-cast steel, the Leica was a small camera that produces a small negative image except when it’s banged hard, twice, against a man’s nose, and then the negative it produces is much bigger and more colorful, although I think there was too much red with this picture. I felt his nose crush under the second blow as if it had been a hard-boiled egg. The Gestapo man howled with pain, cupped his bleeding nose, and sank down on the floor as if he’d been shot in the face. I had enough time to take half a step back, which was just as well, as the other man landed a blow on my chin that would have dropped me like an old chimney if it had connected properly. I grabbed his thick wrist and used the momentum of the man’s own weight to haul him into the dressing table, and then banged the cheval mirror hard on top of his skull, several times, smashing the mirror to pieces, which was unluckier for him than for me, as this left me an opportunity to grab a shard of glass and jam it into his neck with my left hand. I cut my hand but it didn’t seem to matter as much as winning the fight and as quickly as possible. In any fight, this is all that ever matters. I hadn’t killed him; I hadn’t even severed his jugular vein, but with a piece of jagged glass sticking out of his neck the man recognized he was beaten and sat trembling on the floor, holding his neck and the shard that was now at right angles to it like a wayward shirt collar. The other man was still wailing and clutching his nose and, for no good reason that I could think of except that I was scared by the idea of what they’d have done to me in some Austrian Gestapo cell, I gave him a fond pat on the head. I took a deep breath, fetched my gun from the pocket of the man I’d stabbed, and collected their weapons. I worked the slide on my own Walther and brushed the wailing man’s ear.

“Any more trouble from you two and I’ll shoot you myself.”

I grabbed a handkerchief, wound it around my hand, and then retrieved my notebook from the floor next to the man with the glass collar.

I hadn’t made many notes since my arrival in Obersalzberg, so it was easy to find the cause for their concern: the caricature of Adolf Hitler was well rendered and commendably obscene. Hitler with an erect cock that would have made a herm statue proud. And if it had been anywhere except a notebook with my name on it — an old habit from my gymnasium — I might have thought it was funny. But rather less treasonable cartoons of the beloved Leader had sent better men than me to an early death. The Völkischer Beobachter frequently carried stories about Germans unwise enough to make jokes about Hitler. He might have looked like Charlie Chaplin but a transnational sense of humor was not included with the silly mustache, the comic manner, and the doleful eyes. I tore out the offending page, crushed it into a ball, and threw this on the embers of the fire. It seemed obvious that the person who had drawn the cartoon had probably also telephoned the Gestapo in Linz in the knowledge that Heydrich’s adjutant, Neumann, was currently stationed in nearby Salzburg and awaiting my call; quite possibly this was the same person who had cut the brakes on Kaspel’s car.

“You can sit there and wait for the undertaker,” I said. “Or a doctor. It’s your choice, Fritz. But I want to know who called this in to Linz.”