Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“I don’t think you’ll get much more out of them than I did.”

“Nevertheless those are the general’s orders. I’m to make them talk if I can. And then to shoot them both.”

“Be my guest. But I think they already told me all there is to know. Kaltenbrunner sent them. Surely it’s all that’s important here.”

From his trouser pocket Neumann took out an English punch and slipped it over his knuckles. Suddenly he looked like he meant business and I had a much clearer idea of why Heydrich kept him on as his adjutant. It wasn’t just his brain. Sometimes buttons needed to be pressed and faces rearranged. He grinned cruelly. “The general calls me his circuit breaker. On account of my background in electronics.”

Maybe it was a better joke when Heydrich made it but I doubted it. On the whole I didn’t share the same sense of humor as Himmler’s number two. And while I knew there was a streak of cruelty in me somewhere — it was impossible to have survived the trenches and not have one — on the whole I considered it was nearly always and very properly suppressed. But the Nazis seemed to revel in their cruelty.

“You’d probably call me all sorts of unpleasant names if I told you how very persuasive I can be,” said Neumann.

“No, not even if I thought so. But you tell me what the general wants to know and I’ll tell you what I think.”

He frowned. “These men would certainly have killed you, Gunther. I’d have thought you’d be quite glad to watch them receive a good beating.”

“I’m not the squeamish type, Captain. I’ve no love for either man. It’s you I’m thinking of. Besides, when you’ve questioned as many suspects as I have you learn never to trust what a man spits out of his mouth when you’ve beaten it from him. Mostly it’s just teeth and very little truth. There’s all that and the fact that there’s so much more happening here than the general ever dreamed of. Take my word for it. This business with Kaltenbrunner is a sideshow. There’s enough going on in Obersalzberg to put Martin Bormann in Heydrich’s pocket for the next thousand years. I can promise you he won’t be disappointed.”

Neumann shrugged and put away the brass knuckles. “All right. I’m listening. But I’m afraid there’s nothing you can say that’s going to save these men from a firing squad. By the way, I think you ought to be there when we shoot them. It won’t look right if you’re not present.”

Rudolf Hess was down in Berchtesgaden having a meeting with Party officials at the local Reichs Chancellery, which meant we had the villa to ourselves. So we went and sat in front of the fire in the villa’s drawing room. Wearing his shiny black boots and immaculate SS uniform, Neumann resembled something that had already been consumed by the flames, something heretical, something cured and apostate, like some modern Templar knight. With the SS, you always had the feeling that there was no limit to their zeal — that there was nothing they wouldn’t do in the service of Adolf Hitler. With a war looking imminent, this was an alarming prospect. I threw a few logs onto the fire and drew my chair a bit closer to the pyre. It wasn’t that I was very cold, I just thought there was less chance of there being a listening device hidden in a blazing fireplace. Then, over coffee drawn from the urn on the refectory table underneath the window, I told Hans-Hendrik Neumann everything I had found out since coming to Berchtesgaden and Obersalzberg, and quite a bit more that I was still guessing at. He listened patiently, making notes in a little Siemens leather notebook. He stopped writing when I described the P-Barracks in Unterau.

Neumann grinned. “You mean Martin Bormann is actually running a brothel down here?”

“Effectively, yes. Bormann ordered it to be set up for the exclusive benefit of the local workers from P&Z. The weekly administration was being handled by Karl Flex, Schenk, and Brandt, like all the other moneymaking schemes he has running down here. But on a day-to-day basis I believe the place is now being run by a German-speaking Czech girl called Aneta.”

“Now, that is interesting.” Neumann started writing again.

“Is it?”

“Aneta what?”

“Her surname? I have no idea.”

“It doesn’t matter. I should like to meet this whore. As soon as possible. Perhaps you could drive me down there now.”

“I’m supposed to be running an investigation here, Captain. That’s why Heydrich sent me. To find the killer so that Hitler can come here and celebrate his birthday in total confidence that he’s safe. Remember?”

“Oh, surely. But I don’t think this need take up too much of your valuable time, Gunther.” Neumann closed his notebook and stood up. “Shall we?”

At the P-Barracks, on Gartenauer Insel in Unterau, the business was brisk and Captain Neumann and I had to wait until Aneta had finished satisfying one of her rock-faced clients before she was able to meet with us in the car. She was wearing a strong perfume but you could still smell the sweat of the man who’d been with her, and probably much else from him besides that I didn’t care to think about. I had no idea what was on Neumann’s mind until he opened his tight mouth and started to speak. Aneta sat in the backseat of the Mercedes with her hands in her lap, clutching a small handkerchief as if she was about to start crying. She was a slight but pretty girl, probably in her mid-twenties, blond, and green eyed, with a cute dimple in her trembling chin; she was scared, of course. Terrified actually, but I couldn’t blame her for that. It’s not every day a black angel asks you to step into his car, and to his credit Neumann did his best to try to reassure her. He gave her a cigarette, ten marks, his limp hand — no wonder he needed the English punch — and his most winning smile. It was a charming side to the man I hadn’t seen before.

“It’s all right, my dear,” he said, lighting her cigarette with a silver Dunhill. “You’re not in any trouble. But there’s something I’d like you to do for me. An important service.” He frowned, and then solicitously moved a strand of yellow hair from her recently — and perhaps, hurriedly — lipsticked mouth. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in you in that way, Aneta, I can assure you. I’m a happily married man with three children. Isn’t that right, Commissar?”

“If you say so.”

“Well, I am. Now then, Aneta. I’m sorry — what’s your surname?”

“Husák.”

“Your German is very good. Where did you learn it?”

“Mostly here, sir. In Berchtesgaden.”

“Really? By the way — do you have your papers with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Aneta opened her bag and handed over a gray German State Visitors Pass. Neumann inspected the pass and then handed it to me.

“Keep that for now,” he said.

I opened the pass and looked at it. Aneta Husák was twenty-three years old. She looked younger in her picture. I put the pass in my pocket. I still had no idea what Neumann was planning.

“Have you ever done any photographic work? Any acting?”

“Acting? Yes. I was in a film once. A couple of years ago.”

“Excellent. What kind of film was it?”

“A Minette movie. In Vienna.”

A Minette movie was one featuring naked girls. I never minded looking at naked girls but the ones in Minette movies were always a little too uninhibited for my taste. A little inhibition is good for a man’s psychology; it makes him think the girl might not do what she’s doing with everyone.

“Even better,” said Neumann. “Perhaps you can remember the film’s title.”

“It was called Saucy Secretary . Please, sir, what’s all this about?”