Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

I smiled, assuming “the crown prince” was what Martin Bormann called his eldest son; it’s what anyone would have called his eldest son if he was a man as important as the Lord of Obersalzberg. I don’t know why I smiled because this gave me a good idea of just how long the Nazis planned on remaining in power. Clearly the crown prince was destined for higher things in the new Germany.

“Well, hurry up,” said Bormann. “I haven’t got all night. I have to read an important speech the Leader’s planning to make to the Reichstag. It’s his response to Roosevelt’s Jew-inspired demand for assurances that Germany has no intention of invading a whole shopping list of other countries, including America.”

I nodded as if taking this seriously, although everyone in Germany knew that following a fire at the real Reichstag in 1933, the Nazis had disposed of its powers, and moved all so-called parliamentary sessions to Berlin’s Kroll Opera House. Parliamentary consent was not required for anything the Nazis did. Which must have been convenient when you were preparing such an important speech.

Bormann sat down on an inadequate-looking chair and, as he leaned back, he smiled a grotesque, gap-toothed smile as if he’d had a recent sight of his Swiss bankbook. He reminded me of Lon Chaney in London After Midnight . This wasn’t so surprising, perhaps; all the top Nazis reminded me of someone in a horror movie.

“What happened to your face?” he asked. “I don’t remember you being quite so ugly before, Gunther.” He laughed out loud at his own good humor, which prompted Rattenhuber and Högl to laugh as well.

“I slipped and fell down a flight of stairs,” I said, staring hard at Högl. “Hurt my jaw. Maybe it’s broken, I don’t know. It’s less painful if I keep my jaw tied up.”

Bormann nodded. “I get that. But still, I prefer the people who come and see me to be smart, to wear a tie. That’s just good manners, see? Respect.” He opened his desk drawer and took out a mud-brown NSDAP tie. “Here. You can wear this one.”

I put on the tie and adjusted my shirt collar.

“Actually, now I come to think of it, the last person to wear that tie was Adolf Hitler. He wore that tie when Chamberlain came to visit him. So actually you’re very honored, Gunther. He gave it to me, personally, but I can always get another.”

“Thank you, sir.” I tried a smile, not that anyone would have recognized it as one. The idea of wearing Hitler’s own Nazi Party necktie was grotesque to me. A noose would have been more comfortable and, knowing Bormann, that could probably have been arranged just as readily.

“You should really see a doctor. I’ll tell Brandt to come and have a look at you.”

“I don’t have time to see a doctor, sir. Not while I’m still actively looking for the man who shot Karl Flex.”

The grin vanished and Martin Bormann stared at Högl with narrowing eyes. “Damn it, Högl, I thought you said you had some good news about that.”

“I do, sir,” said Högl. “The fact is that we have a man in custody at the Türken Inn who has confessed to the murder of Karl Flex and signed a witnessed statement to that effect.”

“That is good news.”

“Yes, it might be but for the fact that the commissar here is too clever for something as simple as this. He seems to disagree with the colonel and me that the man we have in custody is the assassin. He believes that his collection of carefully gathered clues trump this man’s admission of guilt.”

“Who is this man you have now?” said Bormann. He helped himself from a cigarette box on the table, lit one quickly, and dragged a large brass ashtray toward him. “Tell me more about him.”

“The assassin’s name is Johann Brandner and we’ve had some trouble from him before. He’s a local man. Knows the area very well. He was sent to Dachau concentration camp after he persisted in writing letters to the Leader when his business here in Obersalzberg was closed down for security reasons.”

“Yes, that’s right. I remember now. The photographer fellow. We made an example of him to discourage all the others from airing their grievances to the Leader. We even put an announcement in the local newspaper to this effect.”

“Johann Brandner was also a decorated marksman during the war,” added Högl.

I’d kept quiet through Högl’s preemptive explanation, hoping he’d trip himself up with a factual error, and now he did.

“When Brandner was arrested he was also in possession of a rifle with a sniper scope, of the kind that was used to shoot Flex.”

“I see.” Bormann frowned at me. “So what’s the damn problem, Gunther? You’ve got an excellent motive. A rifle. A confession. What more do you need?”

“Evidence has been the bedrock of German jurisprudence for longer than I’ve been carrying a warrant disc. And the plain fact of the matter is that there is none here. Johann Brandner confessed only because he was afraid of being tortured. Afraid of being sent back to Dachau. Frankly, the evidence against him is purely circumstantial. Which is to say, the present circumstances seem to dictate that when it comes to arresting someone for Flex’s murder, simply anyone will do.”

“Explain,” said Bormann.

“For example, the Mauser rifle he was found with could hardly be the Mannlicher carbine that was used to kill Flex. Sir, you saw me find the murder weapon, in the Villa Bechstein’s chimney. Just because he had a rifle when he was arrested or the fact that he’s a marksman doesn’t mean he shot Flex. There are plenty of other men living in Berchtesgaden who are pretty useful with a rifle. More than likely it was one of them who shot Flex. Moreover, I don’t see how Brandner could have killed Captain Kaspel and the assistant hunter from the Landlerwald, Udo Ambros, when he was three hundred kilometers away from here, in a Nuremberg hospital where he’d been since his release from Dachau.”

“There’s been another murder?” said Bormann. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“Because Ambros left a suicide note,” said Högl. “It’s mere conjecture on the part of the commissar that he was actually murdered. And the captain’s death was more likely a simple car accident. Kaspel was addicted to methamphetamine, sir. He lost control of the car he was in because he was driving too fast. He always drove too fast.”

“His brakes were tampered with,” I said. “Only, for some reason the major here seems to have set his face against any evidence I’ve managed to gather. I really don’t know why. Even a German jury used to be equal to the task of understanding evidence when it’s as clear and simple as this.”

“What is simple,” insisted Högl, “is that we have a man in custody who’s confessed to the murder of Karl Flex. Which is really all we need to put the Leader’s mind at rest, should he ever need to be told about this unfortunate occurrence.”

It was only now that I understood that Högl didn’t really care who killed Flex. And nor, it seemed, did Bormann.

“The major makes a very good point,” Bormann told me. “Whatever happens, we are going to need someone to blame for this before the Leader’s birthday. I should have thought of this before. And not even the Berlin Kripo can argue with a full confession.”

“On the contrary, sir. It’s my opinion that it’s always a detective’s job to think the unthinkable, ask the unaskable, and accuse those who are totally above suspicion. The number of innocent people who turn out to be guilty is truly remarkable, even in this day and age. Go to any jail in Germany, sir, and you’ll find that the cells are full of men who tell you they didn’t do it. Conversely, it’s my impression that this man’s confession is wholly unreliable. And that the Leader won’t be safe until the real assassin is in custody.”