Philip Kerr - A Man Without Breath

I bent down and retrieved the object I’d seen on the ground: a cigarette end. There was more than enough left on it for a Berlin street vendor to have put it on his tray of half-smoked cigarettes, which was how most people – the poor anyway – went about supplementing their daily ration of three johnnies. Had she been smoking at the scene of the crime? I couldn’t remember.

Then there was the Spanish connection. I had a strong feeling there was a lot more about her time in Spain that Ines wasn’t telling me.

*

Von Gersdorff had a little glass in his fingers; the gramophone was playing something improving, only I wasn’t improved enough to recognize it. But he wasn’t alone: he was with General von Tresckow. They had a carafe of vodka, some caviar, pickles, slices of toast on an engraved silver salver, and some hand-rolled cigarettes. It wasn’t the German Club but it still looked pretty exclusive.

‘Henning, this is the fellow I was telling you about. This is Bernhard Gunther.’

To my surprise Von Tresckow stood up and bowed his bald head politely, which had my eyebrows up on my scalp: I wasn’t used to being treated with courtesy by the local flamingos.

‘I am delighted to meet you,’ he said. ‘We are in your debt, sir. Rudi told me what you did for our cause.’

I nodded back at him politely, but all the same it irritated me the way he’d talked about ‘our cause’ as if you needed a red stripe down your trouser leg or a gold signet ring with your family crest engraved on the face to want to be rid of Adolf Hitler. Von Tresckow and his piss-elegant, aristocratic friends had some airs – that was understandable – but this struck as me the worst air of all.

‘You make that sound like a kind of plutarchy, sir,’ I said. ‘I had the impression that half the world would like to see the back of that man. With a couple of holes in it.’

‘Quite right. Quite right.’ He puffed his cigarette and grinned. ‘According to Rudi here you’re a bit of a tough guy.’

I shrugged. ‘I was tough last year. And perhaps the year before. But not any more. Not since I got to Smolensk. I found out how easy it is to wind up dead, in an unmarked grave with a bullet in the back of your head just because there’s a “ski” at the end of your name. A tough guy is someone who’s hard to kill, that’s all. I guess that makes Hitler the toughest guy in Germany right now.’

Von Tresckow took that one on the chin.

‘You’re a Berliner, yes?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He made a fist that he held up in front of his face and mine; it was clear he’d been drinking. ‘ Good . The ideal of freedom can never be disassociated from real Prussians like us, Gunther. Between rigour and compassion, pride in oneself and consideration for our fellow man, there must exist a balance. Wouldn’t you say so?’

I’d never really thought of myself as a Prussian, but there’s a first time for everything, so I nodded, patiently: like most German generals, von Tresckow was a little too fond of the sound of his own natural leadership.

‘Oh surely,’ I said. ‘I’m all in favour of a little balance. Where and when you can find it.’

‘Will you have some vodka, Gunther?’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘A little caviar, perhaps?’

‘No sir. Not for me. I’m here on business.’

That sounded provincial and dull – as if I was out of my depth – but I couldn’t have cared less what they thought. That’s the Berliner in me, not the Prussian.

‘Trouble?’

‘I’m afraid so. Only before I get to that I want to tell you – what we talked about earlier this evening, me rocking the boat with my own plans – you can forget what I said. It was a very bad idea. One way or another I get a lot of those. And I realized that I’m not as independently minded as I thought I was.’

‘Might I ask what those plans were?’ asked the general.

Henning von Tresckow was not much more than forty and was one of the youngest generals in the Wehrmacht. That might have had something to do with his wife’s uncle, Field Marshal Fodor von Bock, but his many decorations told a more inspiring story. The fact is, he was as bright as a polished cavalry sabre and cultured, and everyone seemed to love him – Von Kluge was forever asking Von Tresckow to recite the poet Rilke in the officer’s mess. But there was something ruthless about the man that made me wary. I had the strong feeling he, as with all of his class, disliked Hitler a lot more than he had ever loved the republic and democracy.

‘Let’s just say that I went for a walk, like Rilke. And I was grasped by what we cannot grasp and which changed me into something else.’

Von Tresckow smiled. ‘You were in the mess, the other night.’

‘Yes sir. And I heard your rendition. I thought it was good, too. You make quite a performer. But it so happens I always did like Rilke. He might just be my favourite poet.’

‘And why is that d’you think?’

‘Trying to say what can’t be said seems a very German dilemma. Especially in these anxious, disquieting times. And I’ve changed my mind about that drink. On account of how things just became a little more disquieting than they were before.’

‘Oh?’ Von Gersdorff poured me one from the carafe. ‘How so?’

He handed me the drink and I put it away quickly, just to keep things tidy in his small but well-appointed quarters: Von Gersdorff’s bed had an eiderdown as thick as a cumulus cloud and his furniture looked as if it had all come from home – or at least one of his homes. He poured me another. After the brandy, it was probably a mistake, but since the war I never mind mixing my drinks. My policy on drinking is simply the result of the shortages and what the Austrian school of economics call praxeology: I accept whatever is offered – mostly – whenever it’s offered.

‘Someone has murdered the Spanish expert from the international commission. Professor Berruguete. Shot him right between the eyes. It doesn’t get much more disquieting than that.’

‘Here at Krasny Bor?’

I nodded.

‘Who did it?’ asked Von Tresckow.

‘That’s a good question sir. I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘That is disquieting.’

I nodded. ‘What’s even more disquieting is that they used your gun to do it, colonel.’

‘My gun?’ He glanced at the cross-belts and holster hanging off the end of his bedstead.

‘Not that one. I mean the broom-handle Mauser in the door pocket of your car. I hope you don’t mind but I already checked. I’m afraid it’s not there.’

‘Lord, does that make me a suspect?’ asked Von Gersdorff, smiling wryly.

‘How many people knew it was there?’ I asked.

‘In the door pocket? Any number of people. And I didn’t ever lock the car. As doubtless you have just found out. After all, this is supposed to be a secure area here at Krasny Bor.’

‘Ever use it down here in Smolensk?’ I asked.

‘In anger? No. It was a back-up firearm. Just in case. There’s also a machine-pistol in the trunk. Well, you can’t be too careful on these Russian country roads. You know what they say: keep one gun for show and another to blow someone’s head off. The Walther is all right at close range, but the Mauser is as accurate as a carbine when the shoulder-stock is attached and it packs a hell of a punch.’

‘The shoulder-stock is missing, too,’ I said, ‘but so far it hasn’t been found.’

‘Damn.’ Von Gersdorff frowned. ‘That’s a pity. I was fond of that rig. It belonged to my father. He used it when he was in the guards.’

He reached under the bed and took out the empty carry-case, which was complete with gun oil and several stripper clips, each holding nine bullets.