by Philip Kerr
* * *
—
OUTSIDE THE THEATER I resumed my position in front of the Trianon’s poster. Recently transferred from the smaller Rose Theater, The Spendthrift, a play by Ferdinand Raimund, was now booking. Someone with a sense of humor had crossed out Raimund’s name and substituted the name of Heinrich Köhler, the present finance minister. I could already hear the sound of police and ambulance sirens to the west. And so could the local control girls. One in particular was staring nervously into the distance, wondering if she dared risk taking her even more nervous-looking client around the back of the theater to conduct their business. She was wearing a pink cloche hat and a low-cut, thin pink dress that afforded me a fine view of her large unsupported pink breasts; evidently she’d been sunbathing. Then she saw me.
“Hey,” she said. “Hindenburg. Can you see?”
“Yes.”
“Then why the glasses?”
“It’s sunny.”
She shrugged. “Fair enough. Well, now you’ve had your free look at today’s special, do you want to make yourself some money?”
“Sure. Why not? How, and how much?”
She tossed a coin into my cap and then handed me a police whistle. “That was twenty-five pfennigs. There’s another twenty-five if you keep a lookout while I take care of this Fridolin’s signal box. If a bull shows up before I come back, just give a toot on that whistle, right?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, love,” I said, keen to avoid any kind of role in their transaction. “There’s been a shooting outside the station on Friedrichstrasse that should keep the bastards busy for hours. That’s what all the commotion is about.”
“I’m not worried. It’s my friend here who’s worried. Just blow that whistle if a bull turns up, right? One blast, that’s all. Got that?”
“How long will you be?”
The whore looked at her client, whose blushing face told us both he was young and inexperienced, and grinned.
“We’d better ask him, hadn’t we?” She looked at the boy and smiled. “How about it, Fritz. How long will it take to get you off?”
The boy blushed a deeper shade of red, at which point the whore looked at me and said: “Ten minutes, tops.”
But as things turned out they were gone for a lot less than ten minutes. I didn’t see where the two Greenies came from who arrested them, but as they marched the pair out from behind the theater and around the corner to the police station, the whore shot me a look every bit as homicidal as the one I’d seen on the face of the man in the yellow Dixi.
“What, are you blind as well as stupid, you legless prick?” she yelled. “Christ, I hope you’re a better beggar than you’re a lookout. Did you actually lose those legs, or just forget where you left them?”
“Sorry.” I shrugged an apology but thought no more about it until half an hour later, when I was awoken from a light sleep and a dream of summer rain by something wet and the sound of a woman’s laughter. I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was a woman’s genitals close to my face; it was another few seconds before I realized that the whore who’d been arrested by the Greenies had come back to the Trianon to hoist her dress up, plant one foot on the wall above my head, and then piss on me like a dog. By the time I realized what she’d done, she’d dropped her skirt and run off, shrieking with laughter, leaving me soaked in her stinking urine.
“That’ll teach you, dumbhead,” she yelled back at me. “Next time someone asks you to keep a lookout, try opening your fucking eyes.”
* * *
—
IT’S HARD TO DESCRIBE the shame I felt at this latest turn of events. I told myself it was no less than what Anita Berber used to do at the White Mouse on Jägerstrasse, until the place had closed. But the fact was, I felt curiously emasculated by what had happened. So much so that when I returned to the Schiffbauerdamm Theater and saw Brigitte again, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her exactly what had happened and instead chose to make a joke out of it; at least, that’s how I explained it to myself.
“A dog pissed on me,” I said, removing my reeking army tunic. “I must have dozed off in the sunshine and when I woke up a damn dog was pissing on me. I guess it mistook my field-gray uniform for a street corner. If I wasn’t so disgusted with myself I’d be laughing, so go right ahead, be my guest. Because it is kind of funny. Some detective, huh? If the boys at the Alex find out about this I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“You worry about me. Not them. My sense of humor is every bit as cruel as any man I ever met.”
“I can believe that.”
“What kind of a dog was it, anyway?” she asked, restraining a smile.
“A big one. With lots of teeth.”
“That’s not much of a description.”
“I don’t know about breeds. Next time I’ll pat it on the head, ask if it has a name, and get it to go and fetch me a stick to beat it with.”
“The poor thing was just marking out its territory.” Brigitte fetched a bottle of cologne from her bag and sprayed the air with it. “Really, you should feel flattered.”
“That’s just what I’ve been telling myself on the way back here. But that’s a little hard; now that the sun’s dried it off and I smell you, I realize I stink like a schnapper.”
I draped the tunic on a hanger, hung it out the window, slipped off the army pants, and washed my hands and face. Brigitte lit a black cigarette, which helped with the smell, and then threaded it in my mouth. I sucked the smoke down like it had come from an altar boy’s thurible.
“I can get that uniform cleaned if you like. Overnight. The cleaners we use here are very reliable.”
“If they’re anything like the overnight service I got from you then they must be the best in Berlin.”
Brigitte smiled. “I’m very glad to hear it. But that wasn’t a service. That was an errand of mercy.”
“So you’re an angel as well.”
“There are a lot of angels in the theater. Someone has to pay for these shows. My dad, mostly.” She shook her head. “You know, talking of angels, I thought of you today. As a matter of fact, for a while back there I got quite worried. There was a murder on Friedrichstrasse and I thought it might be you who was playing a harp.”
“What persuaded you it wasn’t, angel?”
“As soon as I heard about it I walked down to Friedrichstrasse and asked a cop.”
“What did he say?”
“Said it was a gang thing. But by then I knew it wasn’t you. The dead guy’s hand was sticking out from under the sheet. You didn’t have a girl’s name tattooed on the base of your thumb when you left here. Or pants with a cuff. And I wasn’t sure you had that amount of blood in you. No one does.”
“You were worried about me? I’m touched.”
“Don’t make a big thing about it. Besides, I needed the exercise and the fresh air.”
“And when you knew it wasn’t me who was dead?”
“I came back here.”
“Is that all?”
“No, I lit a candle in St. John’s, went down on my knees, and gave thanks to the Almighty.”
“You on your knees. I’d like to see that.”
“Your memory stinks worse than your army uniform, copper.”
“As a matter of fact, I was a witness to that murder. I saw the whole thing. I even recognized the killer.”
“What does that make you? An innocent bystander?”
“Kind of. Except that I wasn’t standing. And unless it’s a blue moon or a Sunday, I’m not so innocent.”
“After last night’s errand of mercy I can testify to that. But it is handy that it should be you who happened to see the whole thing. You being a cop ’n’ all. You think the defense lawyers will believe you? When it goes to court? I just happened to be sitting in a klutz wagon on another case when your cli
ent shot the dead man. Meanwhile, maybe the police commissioner will give you a promotion. Or a medal. Or a new magnifying glass. Whatever he does when you hand him the murderer’s head on a plate.”
“As soon as I get my own clothes on I’m going to telephone the Alex to make a report.”
“What’s your hurry? I like you just fine with your pants off.” She kicked off her shoes and showed me her toes. “Besides, the victim looked as though he would keep for a while.”
“You’re forgetting the killer. He might get away.”
“I very much doubt that. You look like the kind of cop who always gets his man. Not to mention his woman. And if not his woman then someone else’s. Maybe anyone else’s.”
“Now, what makes you say a thing like that?”
“You’ve got a way with women, Gunther. A nice way, but a way nonetheless. The same way a professional gambler knows the way to count cards. Or a good jockey knows how to handle racehorses.”
“You make me sound very cynical.”
“No. That’s not it. I’ll work out a name for it the next time I have a thesaurus in front of me. Anyway, now that I know you’re all right I was thinking of celebrating by locking the door again.”
“Just as long as I’m on the inside.”
“I can’t think of a better place for you to be.”
* * *
—
THE NEXT DAY, after my army uniform had been cleaned and Brigitte had swept the floor with it for good effect, I decided to cut my losses at Trianon and beg somewhere else: I chose Lehrter Bahnhof, which was west of the theater. It was a little farther away, but I was gaining confidence on the klutz wagon. I could go faster now. My arms and shoulders were stronger and I could bowl along without raising a sweat. On the journey down Friedrich-Krause-Ufer, I’d gone so fast I’d dropped my cigarette case and had to stop to look for it. The station was right at the junction of the canal and the river and, with its central nave and aisles, resembled the basilica of a site of modern pilgrimage, receiving millions of visitors per year, which wasn’t so far from the truth. There’s nothing Germans worship more than getting to work on time.
It was only when I got there and saw the newsstands that I found out a fifth disabled veteran had been murdered. I bought the lunchtime edition of an evening newspaper and discovered that Dr. Gnadenschuss had struck again, only this time he’d killed someone I’d actually met: Johann Tetzel, the one-legged sergeant with the bushy white mustache. I’d talked to him in front of the Berlin Zoo aquarium, and that’s where he was killed. It had been Tetzel who’d given me the tip about looking for Prussian Emil at the Sing Sing. Like the others, he’d been shot through the forehead at point-blank range by a small-caliber pistol.
My first thought was that Tetzel was the only one-legged man that Dr. Gnadenschuss had shot; and this only seemed remarkable when I remembered that Tetzel had partnered with another veteran, a man called Joachim who, like all the previous victims, was a double amputee. Why had Dr. Gnadenschuss killed the one-legged man and not the other? Unless Joachim had moved his pitch. My second thought was that I was probably wasting my time; it seemed highly unlikely that Dr. Gnadenschuss would kill again so soon. He was probably already composing another boasting letter for the newspapers alleging police incompetence. Possibly he was right about that. We seemed to be no nearer to catching him.
In my mind’s eye I pictured Weiss and Gennat in front of the Berlin Zoo aquarium with the murder wagon and I could already hear Gennat grumbling about my not being there. He had a point, too; and for a while I considered abandoning my disguise and reporting back to the Alex, sober and ready to do my proper job. Try as I might I couldn’t help but think there was something demeaning about what I was doing, especially after the events of the previous day. And I still had to make my report about the shooting in Friedrichstrasse. I’d already telephoned Bernhard Weiss a couple of times but, on both occasions, he’d been with Grzesinski at the Ministry of the Interior. Given that only he knew I was working undercover I had been reluctant to speak to anyone else for fear that I’d have to explain how it was that I’d come to be on Friedrichstrasse in the first place.
I was still processing this new information when I saw a gang of wild boys swaggering down Wilhelm-Ufer. In their distinctive attire—leather shorts, top or bowler hats, striped vests, and large pirate earrings—they were easy to spot. Unfortunately they had also spotted me and I found myself quickly surrounded.
“Well, well, well,” said the leader, a tall, muscular youth of about seventeen, with a cowboy-style bandanna around his neck. He carried a heavy blackthorn walking stick and was covered with tattoos proclaiming his allegiance to the “Forest Pirates”—which meant nothing to me. “And what do we have here? The legless wonder, is it? The human centipede, perhaps? The Red Baron? Half man, half shopping cart.”
His four delinquent friends thought all this was very funny. But the leader hadn’t finished with me; indeed, it seemed he’d hardly started.
“That’s a nice medal you’re wearing,” he said. “The Iron Cross. First class. Did they give you that for courage? For raping Belgian women? Nice work if you can get it. Or just for killing Franzis? You know, you should paint your cripple-cart red, like Manfred von Richthofen. And you could fly around Berlin as the red klutz. Then you really would look like that medal was deserved. I think I’d like a medal like that. In fact I think I’d like your medal. It will match my vest. What do you say, boys? Don’t you think a nice medal would suit me?”
More laughter from the pack of hungry young wolves. Other Berliners coming out of the station were wisely giving them a wide berth and I could see no one was going to come to my aid. I was in trouble and was already reaching inside my tunic for the automatic.
Except that it wasn’t there. And realizing it must have fallen out of my tunic when I’d dropped my cigarette case on Friedrich-Krause-Ufer, I felt a look of alarm on my face which, to my interrogator’s hard blue eyes, must have looked very like fear.
“Don’t worry, Baron. We won’t hurt you, not unless we have to. Just hand the medal over and we’ll leave you alone.”
He patted the thick handle of the blackthorn walking stick meaningfully. I didn’t doubt that if he hit me with it, I’d be in serious trouble. Already I was flexing the muscles in my hidden legs in the expectation that I was going to have to stand up and defend myself. Which, of course, was misinterpreted as another sign of fear on my part.
“Look, Erich.” One of the bull’s acolytes laughed. “The bastard’s shitting himself.”
“Is that right, Manfred? Are you shitting yourself?”
I was beginning to think that perhaps Gennat had been right about the Gnadenschuss killings—that it was vicious kids who were responsible after all.
“You’re not getting this medal, sonny,” I said. “Since I was almost killed winning it, I’m not about to hand it over because I’m scared of getting killed again, least of all by a nasty little queer like you. If you want a medal, why don’t you go and buy one from a joke shop? Better still, why don’t you join the army yourself and then win one? Posthumously. Yes, that might be best, I think. Best for you and best for society in general. Because what the country certainly doesn’t need are cowardly pipsqueaks in greasy shorts whose idea of courage is to try and rob a man with no legs.”
The rest of the wild-boy gang uttered a long and girlish groan of camp horror and one of them whistled as if this insult from me would have to be answered. The bull of the gang was going to do something now, I could see that.
“I’m sorry. What was that you said, Manfred?”
“I think you heard him clearly enough,” said someone out of my sight line. “But in case you’re deaf as well as stupid, the man said that if you want a medal of your own you should join the army and win one, posthumously. And I must say I agree with every word.”
The gang leader turned ar
ound and was immediately felled by a big-fisted right hook, which looked to have broken his nose. One of the others took a savage blow on the shoulder from a thick rattan cane. And then the rest ran off. All of which left me looking up at my impeccably dressed rescuer. And moreover at a rescuer I recognized.
It was Police Inspector Kurt Reichenbach.
* * *
—
I TOOK OFF my sunglasses to make sure it was him, at which point he frowned and then looked down at me, rubbing his eyes incredulously. When he stood immediately in front of the sun it was like he was a black hole in space. Someone who wasn’t there at all, but it was my good fortune that he was.
“Jesus Christ. Gunther? Bernhard Gunther? Is that you down there?”
My disguise was good, but it wasn’t so good it could deceive a man I’d known for several years, moreover one who was a good detective. But as usual Kurt Reichenbach was more flaneur than cop. He was wearing a smart lightweight beige suit with a blue-and-white-striped shirt, a white waistcoat and a white tie, a blue silk handkerchief in his top pocket and a carnation in his buttonhole; a light brown bowler worn at a jaunty angle topped off the whole ensemble. He might have been off to the racecourse in Grünewald, or to a nice lunch in Wannsee. His gray beard was longer and more luxuriant than usual and there was a ruby twinkle in his eye; he almost made being a cop look like it might be fun.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? I could—you could have been killed. Those young bastards—I mean, they’re vicious. Heartless.” He kicked one of the wild boys still lying on the sidewalk, which stirred the youth enough to drag himself away. “I was at the local apothecary getting some drops for my eyes. It’s just as well I hadn’t yet used them, otherwise I might not have seen you at all and you’d be on your way to the Charité. One more bleeding body for my poor wife to patch up. You know she’s a nurse, right? Why, just the other night she had to fix up a hotel doorman who got himself beat up by some of these feral queers because they wanted to steal his top hat. Maybe these were the very ones who did it. But I still don’t understand—why the hell are you sitting here dressed up like a half-eaten war bagel?”
