by Philip Kerr
“So the way I look at it is this: Fifty dead Volga Germans in Berlin is fifty damned Russians we won’t have to send back to the eastern swamps when finally we elect a proper government that believes in protecting our borders.” He smiled thinly. “Was there anything else?”
“No, I think we’ve covered it.”
“It’s not too late, you know,” said Jachode. “For you, I mean. Personally. You could always join us. In the Stahlhelm. In making the new Germany.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid it’s the always part I don’t care for.”
“Get out. Before I throw you out.”
Most of the time I’m very proud to be a cop. I think there’s nothing wrong with being a cop—unless there’s something wrong with the cop, of course. But sometimes it took a great deal of courage to see the Berlin police force with all its faults and still love it.
* * *
—
THE NEUES THEATER was a tall neo-Baroque building with a high mansard roof and a bell tower. It was under the management and direction of Max Reinhardt and it frequently staged operettas and musicals. I never much liked musicals. It’s the music I don’t care for, but as well, it’s the relentlessly jolly theater folk who cavort across the stage—I hate them. But mostly it’s the idea that when the nearly always tenuous story reaches its greatest dramatic intensity, someone sings or dances, or sings and dances, and for no discernible reason. Speaking as someone who doesn’t much care to be entertained, I always prefer dialogue to song because it takes half the time to get through and brings the sanctuary of the bar, or even home, just that little bit closer. I never yet saw a musical I didn’t think could be improved by a deeper pit for the orchestra, and a bottomless chasm for the cast.
They were rehearsing a new opera when I showed up at the stage door and from the sound of it I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy The Threepenny Opera any more than I’d enjoyed The Cheerful Vineyard, which was the last musical I’d seen at the Neues Theater some three years before. The band sounded desperately out of tune, like a waterlogged barrel organ, while the mezzo-soprano could hold a note no better than I could hang on to a hot poker. She was plain, too—I caught a glimpse of her onstage as I made my way up to one of the dressing rooms—one of those thin, pale-faced, red-haired Berlin girls who reminded me of a safety match.
By contrast, Brigitte Mölbling was an Amazonian blonde whose perfectly proportioned windswept head looked like the mascot on the hood of a fast car. She had a cool smile, a strong nose, and eyebrows that were so perfectly drawn they might have been put there by Raphael or Titian. She wore a plain black dress, more bracelets than Cleopatra’s pawnbroker, a long gold necklace, a big ring on almost every finger, and an enormous single earring, on the end of which was a little frame containing a laughing Buddha. I figured the Buddha was laughing at me for playing along with Weiss’s crazy idea. He was probably trying to work out what kind of animal I was going to be in the next life: a rat or a louse, or just another cop.
There was a black cigarette burning in the ashtray and a glass of something cold in her hand. She put the glass down and then rose from her armchair, before sitting again, this time on the edge of a big table that was covered with pots and bottles, a finished game of solitaire, and some ice in a bowl that matched the ice in her glass. “So you’re the policeman who thinks he can play a klutz,” she said, sizing me up through narrowed eyes.
“I know what you’re thinking: He’s more leading man than character actor, but that’s the part I’ve been assigned, yes.”
She nodded, reclaimed the cigarette, and did some more sizing up.
“It’s not going to be easy. For one thing, you’re in good shape. Too healthy to have been living on the street. Your hair is wrong and so’s your skin.”
“That’s what all the magazines are saying.”
“We can fix that, I suppose.”
“That’s why I’m here, doc.”
“And as for your teeth, they could use a bit more yellow. Right now they look like you chew tree bark. But we can fix that, too.”
“I’m all ears.”
“No, they’re fine. A little clean maybe. It’s the rest of you that needs some close attention.”
“My mother would be pleased to hear it. She always said that in the final analysis it all comes down to clean ears and clean underwear.”
“Your mother sounds very sensible.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t take after her. If I did I wouldn’t be a cop and I wouldn’t have volunteered to play the klutz.”
“So what you’re doing, is it dangerous?”
“Could be.”
“Yes. I suppose there’s always the possibility that Dr. Gnadenschuss might shoot you, too. That’s what Bernhard Weiss said this was about, anyway. The crazy who’s been shooting disabled veterans: I suppose he’s more important than Winnetou. Isn’t that just the thing? You murder a girl in this town and no one gives a damn. You murder a disabled war vet, they ask questions in the Reichstag. But you’re taking a risk, surely.”
“There’s a risk, yes. But now that I’m here talking to you, it seems like a risk worth running.”
“Smooth, aren’t you? For a cop, that is. Most of the ones I’ve met were bullies in bad suits with ugly cigars and beer guts.”
“You forgot the flat feet. But I seem to remember you didn’t like my skin or my hair.”
“No, your skin is good. That’s why I don’t like it. At least for what you’ve got in mind. But as I said, we can fix that. We can even fix your hair.”
“I imagine there’s not a lot you can’t fix when you put your mind to it. Like some refreshment, perhaps. Is that a drink you’re drinking?”
“I’m sorry. Would you like one?”
“Let’s just say one will do for now.”
She opened a bottle of Scotch and poured a generous measure on top of a piece of ice. Meanwhile, all her gold jewelry shifted in a vain attempt to distract my eyes from her breasts. She handed me the drink and I toasted her. Apart from the medicine I was holding, she was just what I’d have told the doctor to order.
“Here’s to you and the opera. Whatever it is. From what I’ve seen on the poster outside, it looks as if I might actually be able to afford a ticket.”
“You remind me of a comedian I used to know. He thought he was funny, too.”
“Only you didn’t.”
“Not only me. Lots of other girls didn’t think he was funny, either.”
“I’ve had no complaints so far.”
“You surprise me.”
“I’m working on that.”
“Save your breath. Didn’t you know? There are no surprises in the theater. That’s why we have rehearsals.”
“Is that what’s happening onstage?”
“It is. That’s Lotte singing. She’s married to the show’s composer, Kurt.”
“I guess that explains a lot.”
“You don’t like her voice?”
“I like it fine. The music, too. It’s been a useful reminder that I need to call a piano tuner.”
“It’s supposed to sound like that.”
“Is that why it’s called the threepenny opera?”
“You are a detective, aren’t you?”
“That’s what they tell me at the Alex.”
“You should really come and see the show. It’s about cops and gangsters, beggars and pimps, a murderer called Macheath and a whore called Polly.”
“I get plenty of the real thing at the office.”
Brigitte smiled. “I bet you do.”
“On the other hand, if you’re asking me, then I’ll check my schedule.”
“We’ll see, shall we?” She looked at the cripple-cart I’d brought with me. “This is a curious-looking contraption.”
“That’s a klutz wagon,” I said. “But this o
ne was made for a man who isn’t crippled at all. He’s a yokel catcher. A con man. He used to put his legs inside the thing, which made him look like he was a double amputee. Clever, eh?”
“I don’t know. Seems a lot of trouble to go to for a few lousy coins.”
“The main part of his work is selling coke and acting as a lookout for a burglar.”
“So he wasn’t sitting in this all day.”
“No.”
“And you’re planning to be in this for how long?”
“I hadn’t given that much thought.”
“Then perhaps you should. I was at UFA studios before I came here and we made a movie featuring a character with one leg. A pirate. Only, he was played by an actor with two legs so he had to strap one up every day. He found it was very uncomfortable. After an hour or two his leg lost feeling and worse, he got cramps. So I recommend you get some liniment. And an alcohol rub. Better still, make friends with a good masseur. You’ll need one.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“How do they propel themselves?” she asked.
“Most of them wear leather gloves and use their hands. But I’ve seen one or two use short crutches. I’m going to see how I get on with leather gloves.”
“And are you just going to beg, or actually sell something? Like some genuine Swedish matches?” She said the words genuine Swedish matches as if she’d been a beggar herself.
“I’m just going to beg. I’m not actually interested in making money. I’m watching people, not pennies.”
“Good point.” She finished her cigarette and stubbed it out. “I see you also brought your old army uniform. Well, put it on and let’s see how you look, soldier. You can get changed behind that curtain.”
I picked up my uniform and eyed it uncomfortably.
“Go ahead. I promise not to peek.”
“That’s not why I’m hesitating. I haven’t worn this since 1919.”
“Then let’s hope it still fits, for my sake, otherwise I’ll have to have it altered.”
I went behind the curtain and put the uniform on. It felt strange wearing it again. It gave me a bad feeling of the kind that felt a lot better with some strong drink in my hand.
“What happened to this yokel catcher anyway?” she asked.
“He’s disappeared.”
I swept the curtain aside and stood to attention while Brigitte looked at me even more critically.
“Not bad,” she said. “Now all you need is a rifle and a sweetheart.”
“Are you volunteering?”
“I don’t have a rifle. And I don’t even have a sweet tooth. But I do recommend we shave your head. That way you’ll also avoid catching head lice. We can do that now if you like. Your skin is going to be harder to fix. You could chew a small piece of cordite but it will make you feel sick and you don’t want to deal with that every day. Better to use some white face paint. Like you were a Pierrot. I’ll show you how to apply it. I also recommend you wear dark glasses, as if your eyes had been damaged; yours are much too healthy-looking. But the Iron Cross is a nice touch. Did you win it, or is it a prop?”
“No, they gave me that for cleaning out a trench.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure. There were some Tommies in it at the time, but you know how it is when you want to clean up a bit.”
“So you’re a hero.”
“No. Don’t say that. I used to know some real heroes. And I certainly don’t fit that description. Not like they did. Besides, I wouldn’t like you to get any ideas about me being brave or honorable.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. Now let’s see what you look like in the wagon.”
I emptied my glass, knelt down in the contraption, winced, and then stood up again.
“Need a cushion?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She picked one off the armchair and arranged it in the klutz wagon. I knelt in it once again and nodded to Brigitte.
“Better?” she asked.
“Much.”
She nodded. “Not bad. Where are you going to beg? Any ideas about that?”
“I was thinking just across the river at the Friedrichstrasse railway station. There are plenty of pitches over there. Lots of people. Lots of trains. The killer likes it noisy, you see. A train rolls in, a shot rings out. Only, no one hears it because of the train. That’s his cover.”
“Maybe I’ll come and see you. Check you’re still alive. Toss a coin your way if you’re breathing. Call an ambulance if you’re not.”
“I’d like that. But don’t speak to me. That would spoil everything. Just treat me like vermin.”
“Ask me to do something more difficult than that, please.”
I thought for a moment. Of course I knew she’d made a joke because that was how we were talking, as if we didn’t care for each other’s company one little bit, but already I could see that this wasn’t how it really was between us. I amused her and she amused me and we were like two fencers trying each other out with foils because that’s how it is with men and women sometimes; it’s fun not saying what you mean and not meaning what you say. Only now it suddenly occurred to me that if I leveled with Brigitte, then perhaps I could count on her to do something that really was difficult.
“Can I tell you something in confidence?”
“I’d like to hear you try.”
“I’m serious. Look, what you were saying about Winnetou. I certainly haven’t given up looking for that bastard. But before I say any more I’m going to need your promise that you won’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you now, Brigitte.”
“All right, soldier. I promise.”
“I think the yokel catcher who was using this klutz wagon witnessed the most recent Winnetou murder: Eva Angerstein. I found this cripple-cart near where her body was found. I think the owner ran away and I think that her murderer is killing other disabled war vets in the hope that he’ll eventually eliminate someone who can identify him.”
“You mean that Winnetou and Dr. Gnadenschuss are one and the same?”
“It’s just a theory, but yes, I think so.”
“Hell of a difference killing a whore and killing a klutz, I’d have thought.”
“You might think so, but a lot of people believe that they’re both bad for the moral climate of the city. That too many whores and too many beggars make Berlin look ugly and degenerate. That the city needs cleaning up.”
“I’ve heard that opinion. And it’s true, perhaps something does need to be done. Maybe things have gone a little too far and a bit of order and decorum need to be restored. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve been solicited on my way home from this theater. And once worse than just solicited. But some of these girls need help to get them off the streets—proper wages, for a start—maybe some of those poor men, too.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying—that and that the killer seems to want to embarrass the Berlin police. From the letters the newspapers have published, he seems to be playing with us. Trying to cause us maximum embarrassment. Maybe he’s a Nazi, maybe he hates the fact that there’s a Jew in charge of the criminal police. Then again, maybe it’s just enough that he hates. There’s a lot of it around these days.”
“I can buy that. But what’s the reason you’re telling me all this?”
“What time do you start work?”
“I usually begin here around midday. Why?”
“Because it occurred to me that you might do a lot more than show me how to make myself look like a klutz.”
“Go on.”
“What you said about the one-legged actor at UFA. That was smart. It’s got me thinking that I haven’t really thought this through, not nearly enough. I realize now that there’s going to be a limit to how much time I can tolerate in this contraption. And perhaps, left to my own
devices, to how convincing I am. Look, I know it’s asking a great deal, Brigitte, but I was thinking I might come to this theater every day, at about eleven, before you start your proper work, when you could help fix me up, make me look like a proper klutz before I head across the bridge to beg. I could come back after a few hours and then go home. Maybe even leave my costume and the wagon here.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I think you’re a smart person, and helping me beats sitting around in here playing solitaire. Because I think that like any woman in Berlin, you want Winnetou caught. And because right now I’m the best chance of making that happen.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Not in the least. When I said chance I meant one chance in a hundred. This is a long shot, bright eyes, a very long shot, with a long gun and a deep breath and only the slightest chance of succeeding or being accurate. But right now it’s the only shot we’ve got.”
* * *
—
THE NEXT DAY was almost worthy of a short poem by Goethe about a German summer, with the sparrows on the linden trees singing in the sun’s warm clear rays. Above Berlin’s grim gray buildings the sky was as blue as the stripes on a Strandbad chair and the air was already cooking nicely as if ready to steam all the human sausage that inhabited the metropolis. In front of the Neues Theater, the rippling river Spree glinted like a cut sapphire. Inside the theater, onstage, the band was already rehearsing one of the numbers from the opera, but it hardly seemed to be the weather to be playing anything that was deliberately out of tune. Call me old-fashioned but there’s something about a perfect day that demands perfect music. Schubert, probably.
In Brigitte Mölbling’s room I changed into my uniform and sat in the makeup chair. She tucked a sheet into the collar of my old army tunic and went to work on my shaven head with paints and sponges. I liked her attention to my face; it brought her own beautiful face nearer to mine, which felt like a good place for it to be. Up close I could smell the Nivea on her face and the perfume on her fingers; in other circumstances I might even have tried to kiss her. She hummed along with the band as she worked and before long I was humming, too; one of the tunes they were rehearsing was unfeasibly catchy.
