Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

I smiled patiently. “I know you were a cop, Major. With the Bavarian Police. It says so in your file. But I do wonder why you don’t see that this could be important. Perhaps it’s fortunate for the Leader that your master, Martin Bormann, thinks differently.”

“For now,” said Högl. “I wouldn’t bank on him thinking that way forever.”

“Anyone would think you’ve got something to hide, Major.”

“Perhaps you suspect me of shooting Flex, is that it? And doing whatever you say someone did to poor Hermann’s brakes.”

It was then — rather too late, perhaps — that I remembered what Udo Ambros, the assistant hunter at the Landlerwald had told me: that Peter Högl had been in the Sixteenth Bavarian with Adolf Hitler. As Hitler’s former NCO he was much more powerful than he seemed.

“No, of course I don’t suspect you, sir,” I said, backtracking hopelessly. It was only too easy for me to picture him telling Hitler that he wanted me arrested and thrown in jail as quickly as possible, and Hitler agreeing with him. “I’m sure that your primary concern, as is mine, is the Leader’s safety. But the fact remains the brakes were cut. And a man died as a result. My assistant, Friedrich Korsch, used to be a mechanic. He’ll confirm what I said.”

“I’m sure he would. You Berliners do like to stick together, don’t you? But it seems rather more obvious to me that Kaspel simply lost control of his car. These roads can be treacherous. Which is why so much effort has gone in to widening them to improve safety. Not only that, but he was almost a methamphetamine addict. He was an accident waiting to happen.”

“It’s not the roads that are treacherous, Major Högl. I’m afraid it’s someone in this community. I wish that wasn’t the case. But I can see no alternative.”

“Nonsense. I don’t mind admitting to you, Gunther, that I place very little faith in the other half of your story, either. This idea that someone drew a cartoon of the Leader in your notebook. It’s quite ridiculous.”

“And it was me who informed the Linz Gestapo that I was guilty of high treason? Is that what you mean?”

“Perhaps I might see this offensive drawing? And judge the matter for myself.”

“I burned it.”

“May I ask why?”

“I should have thought it was obvious. I’m not keen to be framed a second time.”

“By whom?”

“The Gestapo, of course. They have a habit of throwing a man out of a window first and asking questions later.”

“Without the evidence of the offending cartoon, it makes your story very hard to substantiate, doesn’t it?”

“My story doesn’t need substantiation, Major. I’m a senior police officer investigating a crime at the request of Martin Bormann. I flatter myself that I was asked here because he thought the services of a real detective were called for.”

I wanted to add, And I’m beginning to see why, but I managed to restrain myself. I kept walking away from Högl’s insults and contempt but they always came after me to offer some more of the same.

“Yes, I’m glad you mentioned that, Commissar Gunther. Shall I tell you what I think?”

“I wish you would, sir,” I said patiently. “Two heads are better than one, eh?”

“It occurs to me that this whole story has been concocted by you to deflect attention from your obvious failure to resolve this matter quickly.”

“I tell you what was concocted, Major. Evidence. Evidence that might have put me under a falling ax in Linz. The fact is, earlier tonight, while I was elsewhere, someone entered the room I’ve been using at the Berghof and made a libelous sketch of the Leader in my notebook. I would of course have locked the door to my room except for the fact there are no locks and no keys.”

“Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“Doubtless whoever made the drawing intended it as a backup plan in case I escaped the car accident that had killed Kaspel. Someone in Obersalzberg or Berchtesgaden wants me dead, and soon. Even if it requires the help of Kaltenbrunner and the Austrian Gestapo.”

Of course, for the secret artist I had no shortage of suspects: Zander, Brandt, Schenk, Rattenhuber, Arthur Kannenberg, Brückner, Peter Högl, of course, even Gerdy Troost, and more or less everyone else, including Martin Bormann. I didn’t trust any of them although it was harder to see Gerdy Troost sliding under a car and cutting through some brake hoses, or even knowing what they were. Not with those shoes and stockings.

“You’re really suggesting that someone with access to the Berghof — one of the Leader’s intimate circle — that they would do such a thing?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, yes. Ask Bormann about it. He used to run the National Socialist Automobile Corps, didn’t he? I bet he knows a thing or two about cars.”

“You’re just being paranoid, Commissar.”

“Who’s paranoid?” said a third voice. “Let’s not have any talk like that. We’re Germans, gentlemen. We don’t use Jewish words like ‘paranoid.’”

Joining us at the Berghof breakfast table and smelling strongly of tobacco was Johann Rattenhuber, an SS-Standartenführer and Högl’s superior. About the same age as his junior officer, Rattenhuber was a thickset, jollier man with a beer-hall voice, a ruddy face, and an Oktoberfest manner. I didn’t doubt his pork-butcher’s fists had seen a lot of action on the Leader’s behalf. He probably punched holes in cast-iron buckets to keep in shape. He, too, was a Bavarian policeman by profession but much more obviously so than Peter Högl; even on his own he constituted a formidable bodyguard and just looking at him, I figured he could probably have protected the Sabine women from a whole truckload of randy Roman soldiers with one arm tied behind his broad back.

“The commissar here was just about to explain why he thinks I might have shot Karl,” said Högl.

“Nonsense, of course he wasn’t,” said Rattenhuber. “Were you, Gunther?”

“Not really, sir, no. Not for a minute. The major and I were merely having a useful discussion about the case.”

And then, as if this were all that needed to be said on the matter, Rattenhuber moved straight on to the subject of Hermann Kaspel, for which I was grateful. Talking to Högl was like playing chess with a snake; at any moment I had the idea he might stretch across the board and swallow my knight.

“It’s terrible news about Hermann’s accident,” said Rattenhuber. “He was an excellent officer.” He glanced at Högl. “Does Anni know?”

“Yes, sir. I told her myself,” said Högl.

“Good. That must have been hard for you, Peter. It’s hard for us all.”

“And it’s a real loss to the RSD. I was very upset when I heard about it.”

“So was I,” I said. “Especially when I discovered it wasn’t an accident.”

I explained about the brake hoses and while I did so, Rattenhuber nodded his closely cropped steel-gray head. It looked like a medieval mace and was probably just as hard. It made a noise like emery paper when he scratched it thoughtfully.

“Another murder, you say. But this is terrible. Bormann will go crazy when I tell him.”

I waited for Högl to contradict me but, to my surprise, the major said nothing.

“Obviously someone wanted you dead, Commissar,” said Rattenhuber. “And you, not Hermann Kaspel. He was very much liked here in Obersalzberg, and I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but you are not, by virtue of who you are and what you are doing.”

“I’m used to it.”

“I’m sure you are. But look here, you must be getting close to finding the murderer. It can be the only possible explanation for why this has happened, don’t you think? Of course, there’s no question of telling the Leader about this. I mean, about what happened to poor Captain Kaspel. Not until the criminal has been safely apprehended. We wouldn’t like Hitler to get the idea that his motorcars are as unsafe as the terrace. Don’t you agree, Herr Commissar?”