Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“Aneta, if you do this favor for me, you will be paid, handsomely, in cash, and you will get some nice new clothes. Whatever you want. A whole new wardrobe of beautiful clothes. All I require from you is that you come with me now and do exactly what I tell you. An acting job. I want you to pretend to be someone else. A lady. Can you do that?”

“I think so.”

“It shouldn’t take more than a day — perhaps a day and a half. But you must ask no questions. Just do what you’re told. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir. May I ask, how much will I be paid, sir?”

“Good question. How does five hundred reichsmarks sound to you, Aneta?”

“It sounds wonderful, sir.”

“If you do this job well, there may be more. You could even be asked to Berlin, where you will get to stay in a nice expensive hotel and have whatever you want. Champagne. Delicious meals. You are Czech, aren’t you? From Carlsbad.”

“Yes, sir. Do you know Carlsbad?”

Neumann started the car’s engine.

“As a matter of fact I do,” he said. “Only I think, now that Czechoslovakia is part of the Greater German Reich — since last year — we must learn to start calling that part of the world Bohemia, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I like Bohemia better, don’t you? It sounds so much more romantic than Czechoslovakia.”

“Yes it does,” she agreed. “Like something from an old novel.”

“So do you like being part of the new Germany?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I went to the spa there once. And stayed at the Grandhotel Pupp. Marvelous place. Do you know it?”

“Everyone in Carlsbad knows the Pupp, sir. My mother worked there as a waitress for many years.”

“Then perhaps she and I met once.” Neumann smiled kindly. “It’s a small world, isn’t it, Aneta?”

From the P-Barracks we drove southwest, to a quiet address in north Berchtesgaden where we parked outside a neat three-story, Alpine-style villa. Some SS men were waiting on the front lawn and saluted smartly as Neumann walked up the snow-covered path, followed by me and then Aneta. On the elaborate wooden porch Neumann produced a set of shiny, new-looking keys and let himself in through the front door. As well as a large portrait of Adolf Hitler, the whitewashed walls in the hallway were home to several sets of dueling sabers and photographs of a Burschenschaft — a student society dedicated to the strange business of scarring the faces of young German men. As someone who’d spent most of the war avoiding injury, dueling was something I had never really understood; the only scar I had on my face was a small patch where a mosquito had bitten me. Inside the house, everything was of the best quality, expensive and heavy, as you might have expected in that part of the world and in a house that size. Evidently it was owned by someone important, which is to say, a Nazi. Nazis like to buy furniture by the ton.

In the split-level drawing room I picked up a framed photograph of a very tall, scar-faced senior SS officer — one of several placed on the grand piano — which explained the dueling sabers. I didn’t recognize him but I did recognize the two uniformed men he was standing behind; one was Heinrich Himmler, the other was Kurt Daluege, the chief of the HA-Orpo — the security police. In another photograph, the same scar-faced officer was pictured with the Reich governor of Bavaria, Franz Ritter von Epp. And in another, he was shaking hands with Adolf Hitler. The man with the scars on his face was obviously very well connected.

“Whose house is this, anyway?” I asked Neumann.

“I thought you were supposed to be a detective, Gunther.”

“That used to be true. Now I’m just a spanner like you. Someone for your master to use to twist a few stubborn nuts and bolts.”

“It’s Ernst Kaltenbrunner’s country house,” said Neumann.

“I take it he doesn’t know we’re here.”

“He’ll find out soon enough.”

“Which makes me wonder how you obtained the keys to the front door.”

“There’s not much that Heydrich can’t get hold of when he puts his mind to it. We had someone borrow them a while ago so that we could make copies.” Neumann looked at Aneta. “Why don’t you go upstairs and make yourself comfortable, my dear. In fact, why don’t you take a nice hot shower?”

“A shower?”

“Yes, you must be feeling a little grimy after — after, you know. I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t mean to embarrass you. Merely to make you feel as comfortable as possible. You’re going to be here for a while, Aneta. Meanwhile, I will find some of those lovely clothes I was talking about. There are dresses here by Schiaparelli. I think they’ll be your size. You’re a thirty-eight, aren’t you? I take it you do know about Elsa Schiaparelli.”

“Every woman in Europe knows Schiaparelli,” said Aneta. “And yes, I’m a thirty-eight.” She smiled happily at the prospect of wearing these expensive clothes.

“Splendid. You’ll find clean towels, soap, and lots of perfume in the bathroom. I’ll bring the dresses up to you in a minute and you can pick one that you like. As well as a change of underclothes, stockings.”

“Five hundred reichsmarks, you say?”

“Five hundred.” Neumann took out his wallet and showed her a good centimeter of banknotes.

Aneta went upstairs meekly, as asked, leaving me alone with Captain Neumann.

“I think I’m beginning to see what you’re up to,” I said. “A few pictures of the girl here, in Kaltenbrunner’s country house, holding his framed photograph fondly. A signed statement that she was having an affair with him, perhaps. After which Heydrich has him on a tight leash. Behave and keep in line or Hitler will see the evidence of your egregious adultery. It’s what you people are good at, isn’t it? Blackmail.”

“Something like that,” said Neumann. “Didn’t you know? I thought we told you in Berlin. Ernst Kaltenbrunner is a happily married man. It’s true, his wife, Elisabeth, knows everything about his affairs. That’s probably why he’s happily married. He has several mistresses. One of them is the Baroness von Westarp. Those dresses I was talking about belong to her. They’re in a closet upstairs. But it will be a surprise to both wife and mistress to learn of his fondness for the local whores. Not just that but the lowest kind of whores who work in a brothel frequented by construction workers. And it will be a surprise to Hitler, of course. The fact that Kaltenbrunner was having sex with a Slav prostitute will be especially offensive to the Leader. And the fact that she came from a local brothel run by Martin Bormann should make things even more interesting.”

Neumann lit a cigarette and then sniffed at a decanter on the sideboard. His hand was shaking a little, which surprised me. Perhaps his skills as a blackmailer weren’t quite as innate as I had imagined. “Would you care for a brandy? I’m going to have one. Kaltenbrunner likes very good brandy, I hear. Which this is. And which probably explains why he drinks so much of the stuff.”

“Sure. Why not?”

He poured us each a large one and then drained his glass in one, which persuaded me he must have needed it. Forgetting he had a cigarette burning in the ashtray, Neumann lit another. I tried to catch his eye in an attempt to fathom what was bothering him but he turned his back on me so I decided to leave him to it, whatever it was. I didn’t need to be present when the photographs were taken.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’ve got work to do. I’ll leave you to your work.”

Neumann pulled a face. “I have my orders. Just like you, Gunther. So don’t go all holy on me. Perhaps you forget that Kaltenbrunner planned to have you murdered. Whatever we have in the back of the shop for him I can assure you that bastard has got it coming. You can call it blackmail, if you like. I’d prefer to call it politics.”