Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“We also want to give you this,” said Joe, and handed me a manila envelope. “It was hidden behind the money.”

“What is it?”

“Two passbooks for a Swiss bank,” said Joe. “We were going to keep them if you didn’t let us have the money. But since you did, they’re yours. I hope they help you find what you’re looking for.”

I glanced inside the envelope and nodded. “Thanks.”

“I won’t say you’re a good man, Commissar,” said Karl Krauss, “but you’re a man of your word. Who can say such a thing in Berchtesgaden these days? One word of advice. From one German to another. What you were saying earlier? About not believing in a moral order? Just remember this, Commissar Gunther. A righteous man falls down seven times, and gets up again. You persevere. That’s Torah.”

April 1939

Friedrich Korsch and I watched the Krauss brothers drive slowly away from Berchtesgaden in the Paulaner beer truck. It looked as if they were driving south toward the Austrian border with twenty thousand reichsmarks in their pockets, but looks can be deceptive.

“It was a clever idea,” I said. “Bringing them down from Munich in that truck. With any luck, no one will ever know they were here.”

“That was Heydrich’s idea. His office telephoned the Paulaner Brewery in Munich and ordered them to let me have a beer truck. I’m not sure if they’re expecting to get it back or not. But when the SD tells you to hand over a beer truck, you do what you’re told, right? Even if that means supplying one that’s still full of beer.”

“It figures. Heydrich was Gestapo boss in Munich before he took charge of the SD. If he ever learned how to make friends, then maybe he still has some.”

“I’m not sure what I’m going to tell them now the truck has gone. And, more important, their beer.”

“Heydrich’s problem. Not yours. He’ll probably just tell them it was stolen. What can you expect of Jews? Something sensitive, like that.”

“You know, I almost envy those two kikes,” said Korsch. “Going to Italy with all that money. Think of those lovely Italian women with big tits and huge arses. I can’t think of a better way to spend twenty thousand marks.”

“Me neither. Of course, it’s just a guess, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they turn around and drive northwest. Back to Berlin. Maybe even dump the truck and make for the railway station here in Berchtesgaden. It’s what I’d do if it was me. After all, would you trust the police to keep their word if you were two kikes with twenty thousand in cash in your coat pockets?”

“Since you put it like that, no, I would not.”

“Do the opposite thing from what’s expected. That’s the key to survival when you’re on the run. Besides, they’d only stand out in Italy in a way they don’t stand out in Germany. Even today. It’s the last place anyone would think to look for them. Especially now that they know we’re going to be telling everyone they went to Italy.”

“They’d stand out anywhere. Half the time I didn’t even know what they were saying. They’re the kind of Jews who make you glad you’re a German.”

“All that Eastern European Yiddish crap? They were laying it on with a baker’s chocolate knife. For their own amusement. No, really, they were twisting your cord, Friedrich. They’re not like that at all. That’s how they were successful burglars for so long. Because they can blend in when and where they want. Of course, in that respect they’re like any other Jews in Germany, very easy to spot. Most heebs look like you and me.”

“Maybe so, but I still think Germany’s finished for the Jews.”

“Let’s just hope it’s not finished for the Germans, too. But Berlin isn’t Germany. That’s why Hitler hates us so much. If you know the right people and have enough money, a man — even a Jew — can still disappear in Berlin. The Krauss brothers are smart. It’s where I would go if I thought the police were coming after me and I had all that coal in my pockets. I certainly wouldn’t go to Italy. Not anymore. Not since the Duce started blaming his troubles on the Jews, too.”

Korsch gave me a sideways look and I could tell what he was thinking. I pulled a face.

“They are smart,” I said. “It’s only in stupid little towns like Berchtesgaden that people believe in all that subhuman horseshit that Julius Streicher peddles in Der Stürmer . You know that as well as I do. There was no one smarter than Bernhard Weiss. Best chief of Kripo we ever had. I learned more from that Jew than I did from my own mother. What irritates me most about the Nazis is not that I’m supposed to hate the Jews, Friedrich. And I don’t. Hate them. No more than I hate anyone else these days. What I find a lot harder to deal with is that I’m supposed to love Germans and everything German. That’s a tall order for any Berliner. Especially now that Hitler’s in charge.”

We returned the red Maserati to the garage, locked up, and took the ledger and the bankbooks to the nearby Hofbräuhaus, where, at a quiet corner table under a gloomy picture of the Leader, we ordered tall beers and long sausage with mustard and sauerkraut and, after paying the homage that was due to a waitress with a low-cut Bavarian-style blouse and cleavage that looked like a celebrated geological feature, we settled down to our rather less compelling financial study. Most of the men in the beer house were smoking pipes and wearing smelly leather shorts and trying to pretend they weren’t interested in the local geology; it was obvious that they were but they were as slow as ancient glaciers and had less chance with the waitress than a deaf kid with scabies. If I’d not been on a case myself I’d have given her some city-smart story about how she was special and how I was in love with her already and maybe she would have believed it, because that is usually all it takes these days. In Germany love is as rare as a Jew with a telephone. And Hitler wasn’t the only man who could be cynical. Meanwhile, I discovered that the bankbooks contained a more plausible story that was much easier to understand and relate than what was in the ledger. I could almost see the silent movie that would have illustrated it.

“So,” I said, “it would seem that as regular as shit, on the first Monday of every month, Karl Flex took that lovely red Maserati out of the Rothman garage and drove all the way from here to St. Gallen in Switzerland, where he paid lots of cash into two separate accounts at the Wegelin Bank & Co., which, according to this passbook, purports to be the oldest in the country. One of the passbooks is in Karl Flex’s name and the other is in Martin Bormann’s. And will you look at these amounts? Christ, I never felt so poor until I came to Berchtesgaden. Karl Flex had over two hundred thousand Swiss francs in his personal account. But Bormann’s account has millions. Can you believe it? With this amount of money the Nazis really don’t need to conquer Poland by force of German arms. They could buy all the damn living space Hitler says we need for half of what Bormann’s got put aside for a rainy day. Frankly, I wish he would; then maybe the Poles wouldn’t put up as much of a fight.”

I showed Korsch the bottom line in the second NSDAP passbook and he whistled quietly over the creamy head on his white beer. “This explains the hotel bill we found in the car,” he said. “Remember? The Hotel Bad Horn? On Lake Constance? Lake Constance isn’t very far from St. Gallen. Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes according to that map we found in the Maserati.”

“Right. So after he paid the cash into the bank in St. Gallen, he must have driven to Lake Constance, checked into a suite, eaten an expensive dinner, and then driven back here to Germany the very next day. Maybe took that missing whore from P-Barracks and made a nice weekend of it. Who knows? Maybe he left her there. Meanwhile, the cash kept on rolling in. Did you ever think you were in the wrong job?”