by Philip Kerr
“Only because you’ve never seen what the falling ax can do. I have. It’s not a pretty sight. One time I saw the condemned man—a real skinny-looking Fritz, like you—pull his head back in the lunette, just a couple of centimeters, but enough for the blade to lodge in the skull instead of slicing cleanly through the neck. It was a terrible situation. Took us almost fifteen minutes to get the blade out of his cranium. And all the time this Fritz was still alive, screaming like a pig—it was a real mess. I almost threw up, myself.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“That’s what they all say, sonny. But believe me, when they first catch sight of the man in the top hat, they soon change their minds.”
I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair. “Your father. Let’s talk about him, shall we?”
“Must we? I hate him.”
“Oh sure. That goes without saying. All fifteen-year-old boys hate their fathers. I know I did. But I would think that his is an interesting job. He must see a lot of plays. In his theater. You, too, for that matter.”
“Could I have one of those, please?” he said, nodding at my cigarettes. He placed a hand on the table between us; it was a violinist’s hand, slender, delicate, with badly bitten fingernails.
“You’re too young to be smoking.”
Gröning bit his lip, perhaps irritated he wasn’t being treated with the respect he had expected.
“Well, does he? See a lot of plays?”
“Dumb question.”
“I guess it was. All right. Let’s get to it, Siggy. Why did you kill them? That’s more to the point. Wouldn’t you agree? I mean, I have to write something on my report to the public prosecutor. It doesn’t look good in court if I just write down any old reason. I killed them because I could and stopped because I got bored. Nobody will believe you. That is the point of you coming in here and confessing, isn’t it? You do want us to believe you, don’t you, Sigmar?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you do it? Why did you shoot those five men?”
“Like I said in my letter. They’re Germany’s shame, not to mention a burden on society.”
“You don’t actually believe that crap, do you?”
“Of course I believe it. Just as I believe that this country has a destiny.”
“And you really think Hitler has the answers?”
“I think only he can deliver Germany from its present humiliation, yes.”
“Fair enough. You know, I expect this will make you famous, Sigmar. I can’t think of any other fifteen-year-old boys who’ve killed five people. You’ll probably end up a Nazi hero. They seem to admire this kind of decisive action.”
“The deed is everything, the glory nothing.”
I smiled, recognizing a quote from Goethe’s Faust, and suddenly I thought I understood exactly what he was doing. I got up and wandered around the room before coming back to him and blowing some smoke in his face. What I really wanted to do was hit him very hard with my fist. To knock some of the arrogance out of him before it was too late—for him and for Germany.
“You know what I think? That you’re playing a part. Like an actor playing Faust in your daddy’s theater. You’ve taken on this very difficult and challenging role—the part of a murderer—and you want to play it out, to see how far you can get with it before an expensive lawyer pulls your chestnuts off the brazier and tells the court that your confession is all a pack of lies. You fancy yourself to be a great actor—the next Emil Jannings. Get your name in the paper, and everyone will be impressed that you’ve pulled this off. That you’ve convinced those dumb cops you did it. Now, those are real notices that any actor would be proud of.”
The boy reddened.
“That’s it, isn’t it? Look, did someone at school put you up to this nonsense, Sigmar? Or is there someone in the theater you want to impress? A girl perhaps. An actress.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do, sonny. Maybe you think you can beat the rap, like Paul Krantz did. That in spite of your confession people will look at your sweet chorister’s face and think it impossible you could have done such a thing. Or maybe you think the worst that can happen is that you’ll be charged with wasting police time. Although a good lawyer could probably make that go away, too. ‘My client is just a boy, Your Honor. It was all a stupid prank that got out of hand. He’s at a good gymnasium and is a promising student. It would be a shame to spoil his chances of his Abitur and going to university by imposing a custodial sentence.’
“So you know what we do with snot-nosed kids like you who waste our valuable time? We let the police dogs have them for a few minutes. That way we can let the dogs take the blame when you get injured. Nobody’s about to prosecute an Alsatian for police brutality.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
I stood up and took hold of his ear, twisting it hard for good measure. I was tired and pissed off and keen to go home. And much as I would have liked to have left him alone with a police dog, it was time to put a quick end to the whole charade.
“All right, sonny, out you go.”
I hauled him onto his feet and dragged him to the door of the interview room, picking up speed as we passed through the main hall. One or two uniformed cops laughed as they realized what was happening; none of us liked time wasters, especially when they were just out of short trousers. Once through the big door, I let go of the Pifke’s ear and then kicked his skinny behind, hard.
“And don’t come back. Not without a sick note from your mother.”
I watched him sprawled on the pavement for a moment and smiled, recalling my own gymnasium days.
“I always thought I should have been a schoolteacher.”
* * *
—
“I’D LIKE YOU both to listen to my theory,” I told Weiss and Gennat. My office was the size of a goldfish bowl and, walled mostly with glass, just as public. A phone was ringing in the next office, and the hot twilight and the noise of traffic were coming in through the open window.
“A theory,” said Gennat. “You need a long gray beard to make one of those sound persuasive in this temple of cynicism, Gunther. Like Feuerbach. Or Marx.”
“I can stop shaving if it helps.”
“I doubt it. A cop with a theory is like a lawyer going into court with an empty briefcase; he doesn’t have a shred of evidence. And that’s what matters in this place.”
“Not a theory, then. A new interpretation of some facts.”
“Still sounds like a theory.”
“Just hear me out. Then you can have as much fun as you like picking it apart.”
“Let the boy talk, Ernst,” said Weiss. “He’s been right before.”
“I don’t wind up my pocket watch and it’s still right, twice a day.”
I pointed to the cripple-cart I’d brought with me, which now lay on the floor like a child’s toy.
“I found this klutz wagon at the entrance to a courtyard on Wormser Strasse. On the same night Eva Angerstein was killed.”
“I told you to drop that damn case,” said Gennat.
“It was previously used by a yokel catcher and burglar’s lookout called Prussian Emil. From what I’ve heard he’s not even disabled. He positions himself outside a house that’s being turned over by his partner and then blows a bugle if the owner comes back or a cop shows up. I’ve been wondering why the cart was left abandoned at the scene of Eva Angerstein’s murder. So I checked with Commissar Körner. There was a burglary in an apartment on the corner of Bayreuther Strasse on that same night. Just a short way along from the Wormser Strasse courtyard.”
“Interesting,” said Weiss.
“So what are you saying?” asked Gennat.
“I’m saying that Prussian Emil may have seen the ma
n who killed Eva Angerstein. Maybe even recognized him. And legged it before Winnetou could murder him, too. Since when he’s been trying to do exactly that.”
“So you’re saying that Winnetou is also Dr. Gnadenschuss,” said Gennat. “Jesus Christ. Is that your damn theory?”
“That’s right. Look, it can’t have escaped your attention that Winnetou hasn’t struck since Dr. Gnadenschuss started killing disabled war veterans.”
“It’s nice and neat. I’ll give you that. Two murderers for the price of one. They should put you in charge of the shop floor at Teitz.”
“It might just be that he’s killing them in the hope of eliminating someone who could identify him as Eva Angerstein’s killer. Since when, maybe he’s developed a taste for it. Maybe he prefers what he’s doing now. After all, there was never anything sexual about the Winnetou killings.”
“Killing and scalping a girl seems like a very different crime from shooting a klutz in the head,” said Gennat.
“True. But you said yourself that it was murder for the sake of it. He enjoys killing and nothing else. That and tormenting the police, of course.”
“Maybe Prussian Emil abandoned his klutz wagon when the police showed up to investigate Eva Angerstein’s murder,” objected Gennat. “That seems just as likely, to me. Where does that leave your theory?”
“In tatters,” I conceded. “But why suppose yours is the only explanation, when there’s at least a possible chain of causation between Winnetou and Gnadenschuss? That’s the kind of chain of causation that helps us.”
“Or wastes valuable police time.”
“You’re both right,” said Weiss. “And you’re both wrong. But that’s the true character of police work. Right now we have to work on the assumption that you’re both right. I can’t think of any other way of advancing this investigation, Ernst. We’ll let Gunther run with his theory for a while and see how far it carries us. Any ideas on that, Bernie?”
“There’s a club on Chausseestrasse, near Oranienburger Tor. A place called Sing Sing. Prussian Emil has been known to drink there with other members of his ring. I thought I’d go there and see what I can find out.”
“Bar work.” Gennat laughed. “I might have known. Just up your street, I’d have thought.”
“That used to be the Café Roland,” said Weiss. “I’ve never been there myself but I’ve heard about it. The headwaiter is a loan shark called Gustav. Wasn’t a Schupo man found dead near there, a year ago?”
“On Tieckstrasse,” said Gennat. “But it was an accident. Live wire underneath the pavement electrocuted him when he walked through a deep puddle after some heavy rain.”
“I have a question that potentially undermines your theory, Bernie,” said Weiss. “If Dr. Gnadenschuss saw Prussian Emil run away from the scene of Eva Angerstein’s murder, then surely he’d know that Emil was a yokel catcher. A fraud. And that there was no point in shooting other disabled veterans on klutz wagons. So why bother with them at all?”
“Prussian Emil isn’t the only yokel catcher in Berlin. Everyone knows that a good percentage of these men are faking it to make a living. In his first letter, Dr. Gnadenschuss actually mentions he’d seen one get up and walk away from his cripple-cart as if his middle name had been Lazarus. Well, suppose it was Prussian Emil that he saw get up and walk away. Suppose he concentrates only on men who are using klutz wagons. Suppose he figures that maybe he’ll shoot the right man eventually.”
“Why suppose when you can say pretend?” said Gennat. “Or presume? Or once upon a time?”
“At the same time, he starts to get it into his head that he’s performing a valuable public service in getting rid of these men. And that he can taunt us about it in the newspapers. That there’s nothing we can do about it until we get lucky. Which is probably what it’s going to take to crack a case like this.”
“This is the part I don’t understand,” said Weiss. “The need to taunt us. Does he do it to have us chasing our tails, or just for the hell of it?”
“Simple,” said Gennat. “He hates the police. I’ve heard it said that lots of people do, chief.”
“And here was me thinking to run for election to the Reichstag,” said Weiss. “Pity.”
“Meanwhile, he helps build his notoriety by creating the public perception that we’re just a bunch of village idiots,” said Gennat.
I glanced at my watch. “I’d better get going.”
Weiss smiled. “You’re going to that ring bar, Bernie? The Sing Sing? Tonight?”
“I thought I might.”
“With any luck they’ll kill him,” said Gennat. “Even the rats tiptoe past the front door of that place.”
“Ernst is right, Bernie. Be careful. They don’t like cops in there.”
“I know. That’s why I thought I’d take someone with me. Someone no one would ever suspect of being with a cop in a million years.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“A girl.”
* * *
—
WHEN ROSA BRAUN finished playing her saxophone in the Haller-Revue orchestra, we left the club and walked north up Friedrichstrasse toward Oranienburger Tor. It was almost one a.m., but the streets were still full of sweaty Berliners gathered like damp moths outside the more brightly lit bars, loudly enjoying the high summer temperatures and the prospect of even further intoxication.
“I certainly didn’t expect to see you tonight,” she said. “And certainly not wearing that suit. Where on earth did you get it?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“Says the woman wearing male evening dress.”
“These are my working clothes.”
“So are mine, as a matter of fact. This bar we’re going to, it’s full of thieves and murderers. Which means it’s best if I try to blend in.”
“It’s a little hard to imagine that suit blending in anywhere except a shooting party or a racecourse.”
“Well, you’re not so far from the mark. A couple of years ago, I had to spend a bit of time hanging around Hoppegarten, looking for some pimp we were after. And I bought this and the matching cap on expenses to make me look more like a sporting man.”
“More Irish pimp, I’m afraid.”
“Good.”
“So you’re working then?”
“In a manner of speaking. In truth I’m just keeping my eyes peeled for someone. But I thought it would be a good idea to invite you along and combine business with pleasure. Especially as the whole evening’s on expenses. Which reminds me. The one subject we never mention in this place is that I’m a cop. Got that? You’ll see why when we get there.”
“So what’s your name. Just in case anyone should ask.”
“Zehr. Helmut Zehr.”
“Nice to meet you, Helmut. But aren’t you afraid someone will recognize you?”
“I’m a police sergeant, not the deputy commissioner. Besides, I figure by this time most of the patrons at Sing Sing will be too drunk to know me from a leprechaun.”
“I’ve heard of this place, of course. People say Sing Sing is the most dangerous bar in Berlin.”
“That’s probably true.”
“So what makes you think I’d like to go there?”
“Any girl who wears green lipstick and matching nail varnish strikes me as someone who likes to live dangerously. With a color combination like that, you should fit right in.”
“I think we make a good combination ourselves, don’t you? Your looks, Irish. My talent. My green lipstick. Your green suit. People will think we’re a couple. Albeit a couple without much in the way of taste. Mostly on your side.”
“We are a couple. Seriously. While we’re in Sing Sing we should watch out for each other like we’re two convicts manacled at the wrist. Anything you hear that sounds remot
ely untoward, you should say so immediately.”
“You’re scaring me.”
I put my arm around her. “You’ll be quite safe as long as you mind what I say, Rosa.”
“Ah, now I understand your technique, Irish. It’s very sneaky. You aim to frighten me into your arms and, after that, who knows where?”
“I think we both know where, don’t you?”
I stopped and moved to kiss her green lips.
“No, wait,” she said. “Do you want to spoil my lipstick? You can kiss me all you want after we’ve been to this place. But for now, I need you to behave like Tannhäuser and treat me like a virgin princess. Does that sound about right?”
“It’s a deal.”
We walked on. She said: “Isn’t Sing Sing a prison in China?”
“No, it’s in New York. But don’t ask me why it’s called that. More famously they have an electric chair at Sing Sing called Old Sparky. Which is more of a nickname, is my guess. I’m told they have one at the club, too. But it’s just for show.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
We arrived at the rusticated club door. Like everything else in the place, it was designed to look as if it belonged in a prison, with a window grille and a door within a door. I rang the bell, and an eye and then a mouth like a vicious-looking mollusk appeared at the grille and demanded to know the password.
Without much confidence I said, “Hitler.”
A few seconds later I heard the door being unlocked and bolts being drawn.
“Let’s hope it’s just as easy to get out of this place,” I murmured, and then the inner door swung open, releasing a lot of boozy, smoky noise.
The spanner on the door was part man and part bull mastiff. His nose had a big scar running down the center so that it looked like it was two noses and one of his ears reminded me of an unborn fetus. He wasn’t anyone’s idea of a reasonable man unless your idea of one was Frankenstein. Wearing the uniform of a prison guard and carrying a truncheon, he smelled strongly of beer and when he smiled it was like looking at an ancient graveyard. He slammed the door shut behind us, locked it, and waved a waiter over. The shaven-headed waiters, all dressed like convicts, with numbers on their backs, were as tough-looking as the spanner. The one who fetched us to table 191819 looked like the rail tracks at Potsdam Station, he had so many scars on his face. I gave him five marks and told him to bring us a bottle of German champagne and two glasses; he was back quickly with a bottle of Henkell and two enamelware cups.
