Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

Gerdy Troost was reading Hitler’s book in her comfortable upstairs rooms at the Berghof when I turned up.

“My, but you’re a sight, aren’t you?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m practicing to be a ventriloquist. This is the best way to learn, according to the instruction manual.”

“I think you’ve been reading the one for the dummy.”

I smiled and regretted it immediately.

“What happened, anyway? And don’t tell me you slipped on the ice. Nobody slips around here unless they’re meant to.”

“Someone hit me.”

“Now, why would they do that?”

“The usual reason.”

“Is there just the one?”

“There is where I’m concerned.”

The room was dimly lit and now she switched on another lamp to take a closer look at me, which was when I noticed the German shepherd lying in the corner. The dog growled as Frau Troost touched my face solicitously. Her fingers were cool and gentle and caring and her fingernails were unvarnished, as if she wasn’t much interested in that kind of thing. Maybe Hitler didn’t like women who looked too much like women.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when I laugh, so really not at all.”

The dog kept on growling but this time it stood up.

“Quiet, Harras,” she said. “Just ignore him, Commissar. He’s jealous. But he certainly wouldn’t do anything about it. Which is more than can be said for whoever clobbered you. They caught you a good one, didn’t they?”

“Being hit is an occupational hazard for someone like me. I’ve got that kind of a face, I think. People just seem to want to punch it. Nazis, mostly.”

“Well, that certainly narrows it down. It’s probably too late to put something cold on it, but I could do that, if you like. It might still help to take the swelling down.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“I hope you’re right. Because Obersalzberg has no shortage of Nazis. Me included, in case you’d forgotten.”

“I hadn’t; not in this house. But you’ll forgive me if I say that you don’t look like the kind of Nazi who hits people in the face. Not without a very good reason.”

“Don’t be too sure, Gunther. I can get pretty worked up about a lot of things.”

“You don’t have to worry about me upsetting you, Professor. My opinion on design and architecture counts for absolutely nothing. I don’t know a pediment from a pedicure. And when it comes to art, I’m a complete philistine.”

“Then it seems to me you’re a lot nearer to being a Nazi than you might think, Gunther.”

“You know, you certainly don’t sound like the Leader’s girlfriend.”

“Whatever gave you the idea I was?”

“You, maybe.”

“I like him. I like him a lot. But not like that. Besides, he already has a girlfriend. Her name is Eva Braun.”

“Does she know much about art?”

Gerdy smiled. “Eva doesn’t know much about anything. Which is the way the Leader seems to like it. Except for me and the Leader, this whole administration is run by complete philistines.”

“If you say so. You see? I’m not disposed to disagree with you about anything very much. But if you do feel like hitting me, then maybe you’d be kind enough to ask the dog to bite me instead. I can probably spare a leg more than my face right now. And not because it’s so handsome but because my face has my mouth in it. I figure I’m going to need that if I am going to solve this case in the allotted time.”

“Like that, is it?”

I said it was.

“Bormann putting on the pressure?”

I nodded again. “Like I was the prime minister of Czechoslovakia.”

“He’s good at that.” She picked up the telephone. “Still, I think you’d better eat something . Keep your strength up. I was about to request dinner service. I suggest you have some scrambled eggs. You’ll have no problem with that. And a Moselle to take the edge off the pain. And what about a hot banana cooked in cream and sugar? The Leader’s very fond of that himself.”

“Did someone smack him, too?”

While Professor Troost gave my dinner order to someone in the Berghof kitchens I walked around her rooms looking at the paintings, the architectural models, and the bronze sculptures. I don’t have much of an eye for art, but I can usually recognize a good picture when I see one. Mostly it’s the frame that gives it away and helps to distinguish it from what’s happening on the wallpaper. After she had replaced the cream-colored receiver in its cradle she came and stood beside me in front of a rather nicely rendered watercolor of mad King Ludwig’s famous castle in Bavaria. After all the cheap cologne I’d been smelling, her own Chanel No. 5 was a breath of fresh air.

“Recognize it?”

“Of course. It’s Neuschwanstein. I’ve got one just like it tattooed on my chest.”

“Adolf Hitler painted that.”

“I knew he painted houses,” I said, “but I didn’t know he did whole castles, too.”

“How do you like it?” she asked, ignoring both my attempts at humor.

“I like it,” I said, nodding appreciatively and thinking better of making another joke. Besides, I had to admit, it was a good painting. A little predictable for some, perhaps, but there’s nothing wrong with that kind of thing in my book; I like a proper madman’s castle to look like a madman’s castle, not just a chaotic collection of cubes.

“He painted this in 1914.”

“It certainly doesn’t look like something anyone would have painted in 1918.” I shrugged. “But it’s nice. You see? As I already told you, I’m a philistine. Was it a gift?”

“No. Actually I bought it from Hitler’s old frame maker in Vienna. Cost me quite a bit, too. I’m planning to give it to him for his fiftieth birthday. The dog is a gift from Hitler. He and I are hoping that eventually his own dog Blondi and Harras will mate and have puppies. But right now, they don’t seem to like each other very much.”

I nodded and tried to look sympathetic to their plight but I was thinking that if Hitler’s dog was the one I’d seen sitting behind him in the photograph on Bormann’s bookshelves, then I could easily understand Harras’s problem. I’d seen friendlier dogs with rabies.

“Like I always say, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it have sex with a mare against her will. There are laws prohibiting that sort of thing. Even in Germany. Especially when the mare turns out to be a different breed.”

“Oh, they’re the same breed, all right. They just don’t get along.”

“Sure, I get it. Like me and the Nazis.”

The dog seemed to realize it was being discussed and, sitting down, it raised its right paw in the air.

“That’s another problem,” she explained. “Harras sits down and gives a paw when people give the Hitler salute. It’s like — it’s like he’s saluting back. It looks disrespectful.”

I tried it and when the dog gave me a stiff right arm, I grinned. “Clever dog. I like him better already.”

Gerdy Troost smiled an awkward smile.

“Are you always this outspoken?”

“Only when I think I can get away with it.”

“And you think you can get away with it with me, is that it?”

“I think so.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I’ve been a loyal Party member since 1932. I may not hit you in the face. But I probably know a man who will.”

“I don’t doubt it. But isn’t that why you agreed to help me? Because there’s been a bit too much of that on Hitler’s mountain? Because Bormann is a bully and corrupt? Because he’s been getting away with murder?”

Gerdy Troost was silent for a minute.