Metropolis

by Philip Kerr

  “No glasses here,” he said. “Only prison mugs.”

  He wrote his number on the bill—191819/22—and placed it underneath the champagne bucket.

  The champagne at least was cold. I poured some out and then toasted Rosa, who smiled at me nervously. She said something, but I couldn’t hear what because the man seated next to us was shouting at a pretty girl dressed in stockings and suspenders, a tight basque, and not much else; they were both smoking marijuana. After a few seconds she spat the chewing gum out of her mouth and began kissing him. Her partner kept calling her Helga, so I assumed that was her name. Just looking at her you knew she was tough enough to survive another Krakatoa.

  The champagne tasted a lot better than I’d expected, even in a tin mug. Rosa must have thought so, too, because she downed the mug in one and then came and sat on my knee.

  “At least I can hear you now,” she said, and let me pour her another.

  Using Rosa’s body as cover, I took the opportunity to look around. The place was set up like the mess hall at Plötzensee Prison, with heavy wooden tables, thick iron grilles on the windows, and, at the top of a tall stepladder, an observation guard who, our waiter informed us, was keeping an eye out for pickpockets. The place was full of Berlin lowlife, but I saw no one who fit the description of Prussian Emil I’d been given by the veteran outside the aquarium.

  Up front, there was a small stage with a black curtain and I kept thinking a cabaret performer was going to show up and entertain us, but even as I thought this a man came to our table and did just that. In his hands were a set of manacles.

  “Here,” he said. “Look at these bracelets. Genuine coppers’ clinkers, they are. Go on, folks. Check them out.”

  I took hold of the handcuffs and examined them carefully.

  “They look like the real thing,” I said.

  “Look like? Of course they’re the real thing. Go on, love, snap them on my wrists. Tight as you like. That’s it. Go on, you’re not putting on bandages, you know. There you are. Now what do you think? Am I your prisoner, or what?”

  Rosa nodded. “I’d say your goose is cooked and no mistake.”

  I didn’t see how he did it, but it took him less time to get out of the handcuffs than it took to take off his cap and solicit a coin, which I duly provided.

  We drank some more champagne and settled in. The man next to us was telling Helga about his time in Moabit Prison; in another place it was something you might have kept quiet about, but in Sing Sing it was like telling someone at the German Opera House that you were a trained tenor from Milan.

  “How long were you in the cement, Hugo?” she asked.

  “Five years.”

  “What for?”

  “Writing poetry,” he said, and laughed.

  “There’s a lot of poets who deserve to be in prison.”

  I couldn’t disagree with that, but I kept my eyes and my opinion to myself. Keeping your opinions to yourself was essential in Sing Sing; some of the patrons seemed likely to take offense at the slightest remark. A fight was already breaking out on the other side of the club but the spanner quickly broke it up by the simple means of breaking the heads of both the combatants with his truncheon, to loud cheers and applause. They were carried insensible to the door and thrown unceremoniously into the gutter.

  We’d been there almost an hour when desire for Rosa began to take precedence over my desire to find Prussian Emil; it seemed unlikely that he was going to show up now. I was about to pay the bill when a man dressed like a prison guard and wearing lots of makeup arrived onstage and blew a whistle. Some of the audience seemed to know what was going to happen and gave a loud cheer, and gradually the place fell silent.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, removing his peaked cap. “And welcome to Sing Sing!”

  More cheers.

  “Most Berlin clubs have bands or naked girls these days; or ventriloquists, or magicians. I’ve even heard it said that at certain clubs you can watch two people having sex. And sometimes three or four. So many cocks, so much mouse, so very passé. But Sing Sing has something unique in the annals of entertainment. I promise you that you will not forget what we have to show you. Because, ladies and gentlemen, and without further ado, once again I have the honor to introduce you to the greatest star in all Berlin cabaret. Please give a warm Sing Sing welcome to Old Sparky himself!”

  More cheers and more stamping on the sawdust-covered wooden floor as the curtains drew back to reveal a large wooden chair equipped with leather straps. The master of ceremonies sat down in the chair and crossed his legs nonchalantly.

  “As you can see, this is an exact working facsimile of the electric chair at Sing Sing prison in New York, which was most recently used to execute a Jewish housewife named Ruth Snyder who murdered her husband for his life insurance. Poor woman. As if such a thing was in any way unusual. In Berlin, they’d probably have given her a medal and a pension.”

  Cheers again.

  “Now, many of you will know that the use of the electric chair was introduced as a humane alternative to hanging. However, it has often been the case that the electrocution did not go as smoothly as the authorities or the condemned would have preferred. Sometimes they used too much electricity, in which case the victim caught fire; and sometimes they used not enough, in which case the victim lived and had to be electrocuted again. Of course it’s all a question of money and a lot depends on whether the prison has paid its electricity bill. Or not. Fortunately the Sing Sing Club has no such problems with the Berlin Electrical Company. We always pay our bills. Not always with our own money, mind you. But we pay because without electricity there would be no Old Sparky for your entertainment.

  “Yes, I’m pleased to announce that it’s that very special, not to say galvanizing, time of the night when we invite a member of the Sing Sing audience to join us up here onstage and volunteer to be put to death by electrocution. What more could you reasonably ask in the way of entertainment? If only some of our politicians in the Reichstag were similarly inclined to volunteer for electrocution, eh? It’s only what those bastards deserve. So do we have a volunteer? Come on, ladies and gentlemen, don’t be shy. Old Sparky is keen to say hello and good evening in his own peculiar way.

  “No? Well, I can’t say I’m very surprised. Old Sparky makes everyone a little shy, doesn’t he? After all, it’s no small thing to be fried in the electric chair for the amusement of your fellow citizens. Which is why we usually choose someone by ballot. So ladies and gentlemen: If you check your bill you’ll find that it contains a number. Please take a look at it while I select one of those numbers at random.”

  The master of ceremonies placed his hand into a large bag labeled SWAG, and came out with a piece of paper containing a number, which he read: “And the losing number tonight is 191819/22.”

  To my surprise and then horror I realized that the number was mine and I was about to crush the bill and head for the door but Hugo’s friend Helga had already spotted the number and was helpfully pointing me out to the master of these grotesque ceremonies.

  “He’s here,” she shouted excitedly, and suddenly everyone was looking at me. “The condemned man. He’s sitting right beside me.”

  I smiled at her, though I’d like to have bitten a piece out of Helga’s neck. But I was cornered. I had little choice but to fake good humor and participate in Sing Sing’s tasteless charade. With my ears full of applause I stood up as unseen hands started to pull and push me toward the stage. As I neared the MC, I looked around for Rosa, but all I could see were the sweating faces of my fellow citizens as they took a loud and sadistic pleasure at my obvious discomfort. A few people at the back were even standing on their chairs so as not to miss a minute of my last moments on earth and I was inevitably reminded of a public hanging on the old gallows at Neuer Markt, where Berlin’s citizenry had once flocked in their thous
ands to see a man die.

  “What’s your name, son?” asked the MC as I stepped up beside him and he pushed me down into the chair.

  “Helmut Zehr,” I said.

  The MC, who smelled strongly of illegal absinthe, took the bill from my hand and ostentatiously tore it up, as if my debt to the club had been canceled. Already two of the burliest convict waiters were strapping my arms and legs to the wooden chair; one of them rolled up my trouser legs and attached something cold and metallic to my calves as if they really did mean to electrocute me. It was about then that I saw the two huge H-switches on the bare brick wall, and another man standing beside these wearing heavy leather gauntlets. He seemed to be the only man present, apart from me, who wasn’t smiling.

  “Well, Helmut,” said the MC, “in case you don’t know how this works, there’s an applause meter, so the more convincing the show you put on in this chair, the more money you will leave with tonight. By the way, you’ll feel a small amount of current in your hands and legs, just to help with your performance.” He grinned and then added, “Always supposing that you manage to survive the experience. Not everyone does. Just once in a while everything goes wrong and the man seated in that chair really does get toasted. But only if he deserves it.”

  The MC stood back and at a sign from the two waiters that the straps on my legs and arms were secure, raised his hands for silence before shouting, “Roll on one” to the man wearing the gauntlets. My executioner threw one of the H-switches and, as the lights in the club turned suddenly much brighter, the MC addressed me again in sonorously judicial tones. I wanted to punch his painted face and might have done, but for the straps that held me.

  “Helmut Zehr: you have been sentenced to die by three judges of the German Supreme Court. Do you have anything to say before your sentence is carried out?”

  The Sing Sing audience greeted my death sentence with great enthusiasm and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if they’d have viewed the real thing with just as much enthusiasm.

  “Just get on with it,” I muttered.

  “Electricity shall now be passed through your body until you are dead, in accordance with Prussian state law. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  After a brief pause, the MC shouted, “Roll on two,” and the gauntleted man threw the second H-switch. At the same time, the lights in the club flickered like lightning and I felt an electric current in my limbs that was strong enough to be uncomfortable. Anxious to end this loathsome spectacle as quickly as possible and get out of the club, I let out a yell, jerked around spasmodically for several seconds, and played dead. Then, from underneath the chair, a small smoke bomb went off, which made me jump one last time, and finally my ugly ordeal was over.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” shouted the MC, “I give you Helmut Zehr.”

  With the straps on the chair undone, I struggled weakly to my feet and acknowledged the thunderous applause with a wave of my hand.

  “Take a bow,” said the MC. “You were a good sport, Helmut.”

  * * *

  —

  OUTSIDE THE SING SING CLUB I leaned on the exterior wall to catch a breath of what passed for fresh air in that part of Berlin. My hands were trembling as they steered a cigarette uncertainly toward the biggest hole in my face, lit it, and then fumbled the rest of the matches onto the ground. Rosa regarded me with concern.

  “That’s an evening I’m not going to forget in a hurry,” she said.

  “Me neither.”

  “For a minute back there I thought you were dead.”

  “Believe me, I had the same feeling. There was real electricity in that damn chair.”

  “Are you all right now?”

  “Just about. You might say what happened in there—touched a raw nerve. Once, when I was in the trenches, I found myself trapped up to my neck in a shell hole full of mud, unable to move my arms and legs and thinking I was going to drown. It’s a recurring fear I have in all my nightmares. Not being able to escape. Thinking I’m about to die. After ten years you’d think I was over it. But I’m not. Most of the time I can handle it, but now and again it’s every bit as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.” I took a deep drag of my cigarette. “I’ll be all right in a minute. In fact, I already am.”

  “What’s in the envelope?”

  I looked at the envelope in my hand; someone had put it there as we’d walked out Sing Sing’s door. “I think it’s the fee,” I said. “For my performance. Look here, I should never have taken you there. I’m sorry. That was criminal.”

  “I’d say you already paid the ultimate price for that particular crime, Bernie.”

  I tried a smile. It felt a little tight on my face, as if someone had glued it there.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you home. Let’s find a cab.”

  * * *

  —

  BUT THE EVENING was not quite over. We hadn’t walked very far when a brand-new Mercedes roadster pulled up and a man I half recognized leaned over the cream-colored door.

  “Hey. Helmut Zehr. Need a ride?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Get in,” he said curtly.

  It was Erich Angerstein, Eva’s father.

  I opened the door and nodded at a reluctant Rosa. “It’s all right,” I said. “We know each other. Sort of.”

  We climbed into the car, which still smelled strongly of the showroom.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “Nollendorfplatz,” I said.

  “Good. That’s on my way.”

  The big car took off smoothly. After a while Angerstein said, “You look like you need some schnapps. There’s a hip flask in the glove box.”

  I helped myself to a couple of bites of Angerstein’s liquor and then nodded some thanks his way. He was wearing a smart single-breasted silk suit and a nice white shirt with a green silk tie. Only, the leather gloves on his hands seemed a little out of place. Maybe the car was stolen. Then again, he was probably a man who was always careful about where he left his fingerprints.

  “You do know that was a ring bar you were in back there?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “What the hell possessed you?”

  “You were there?”

  “I saw the whole damn thing. You and Old Sparky. You’re lucky it was only me who recognized you, otherwise they might have fried you for real.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Am I?”

  “When we met earlier I told you I was a cop. Otherwise I’d be just another Fritz to you. Rosa, this is Erich Angerstein. He’s a gangster. But you can relax for now. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not unless there was profit in it.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Herr Angerstein. I think.”

  “It’s all right, sugar. I don’t bite. Not when I’m driving a new car.”

  “Nice. What is this, anyway? The Mercedes Getaway?”

  “Oh, I like her, Gunther. You should hang on to this one. She has courage.”

  “More than me, I think.”

  “Could be. Look here, Gunther, the people who run that club hate cops more than they hate losing money. Suppose I’d turned you in to them?”

  “Why would you do that when you know I’m trying to find your daughter’s killer?”

  “Maybe so. But I still don’t understand why you went there in the first place.”

  “I was looking for someone. A potential witness.”

  “To my daughter’s murder?”

  I didn’t want to say too much on this score. The last thing I wanted was for Angerstein to find Prussian Emil and question him on his own. There was no telling where that might end up.

  “I’m not really sure. It all depends on what he tells me when I catch up with him. He might know something useful. Then again he might not.”

  “Maybe I can
help you find him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “This Fritz have a name?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure I’m going to tell you what it is.”

  “Why not?”

  “In case you decide to go rogue and look for him on your own account. Maybe even find him, too. A man with your education and background, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you did find him. But you might get impatient. And not knowing the right questions to ask, you might come up with the wrong answers.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Look, under the circumstances I could hardly blame you for taking the law into your own hands. But it really wouldn’t help my investigation if you did.”

  “And if I gave you my word?”

  “Come on, you’re a Berlin gangster, not a Prussian Army officer.”

  “And that means my word isn’t worth anything?”

  “It could. Look, I don’t know about you but me, I’m a cynical bastard. It’s the secret of my charm.”

  “I told you before. I want to help you catch the man who killed my daughter.”

  “Sure, I get that. The difference is that I want to build a case against this Fritz and you want to murder him.”

  “In the long run, what’s the difference?”

  “Frankly, none. But my job is to see that the right man loses his head.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me his name.”

  “I don’t see how I can.”

  Angerstein sighed. “They’ve got a name for this in chess when, after several hours of playing, neither side can move and nobody can win or lose.”

  “A complete waste of time?”

  “Stalemate. What, you never played chess?”