Darkness into Light Box Set

by Michael Dean

And then he remembered his discussion with Kaspar – was it a row? – about whether photography was or was not art. Kaspar, of course, took the modern line and said it was. The youth, sensitive for all his brawn, had got upset when Glaser called it ‘the lying art’.

  ‘The surface tells lies, boy,’ he had said. ‘Only the Expressionists have inner truth. They paint from inside, from the heart and soul.’ Had he been too hard on Kaspar? Probably. Lotte was always telling him he was too hard on Kaspar.

  Alone in the deep silence, in the tiny room that still smelled of the old man, with Expressionist paintings on the walls, Glaser thought of life as fragile and precious. For the first time since boyhood, he shut his eyes and prayed. He asked God for deliverance for Lotte, for Kaspar and Magda, and for Germany.

  The Public Prosecutor walked through to the office where he had drunk lemon tea with Ascher Weintraub, and which was now the crime scene of the old man’s death. He sat in Weintraub’s swivel chair for a while, breathing deeply. Then he got down to business, checking the room, minutely examining the safe. While he was doing this, von Hessert arrived, all action, movement and smiles, flustering apologies for being late.

  ‘Where do we start?’ he said.

  Glaser frowned. ‘Herr Weintraub didn’t co-operate,’ he said, sitting down again and nodding backwards at the wall behind him.

  The plaster had been blown away, exposing the stonework beneath. In the corner of the office there were still some shards of green safe.

  ‘Safe blown with gelignite?’ von Hessert said, peering at it.

  Glaser swivelled in Weintraub’s chair and nodded. ‘Wad of gelignite held in place by putty. Detonator with a fuse attached.’

  ‘Noise?’

  Glaser shrugged. ‘Smother it with cushions.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Brought them with him. Part of his kit. He meant to blow the safe, not kill Herr Weintraub.’

  ‘So, Weintraub disturbed him?’

  Glaser nodded, filling and lighting his pipe. ‘Probably. Six o’clock in the evening. Herr Weintraub maybe came back to the gallery for something. The murderer ties him up, makes him play Russian roulette, because he won’t open the safe. Herr Weintraub holds out, the murderer loses patience, kills him, blows the safe anyway.’

  Von Hessert stared at the exposed stone, up close. He touched it with his fingertips.

  ‘Professional job?’

  Glaser swivelled again in the chair, so he was looking at him. ‘Shouldn’t think so. The safe was a cheap one. The back was screwed on. You can still see some screws there, look. It was painted with green enamel to make it look welded. The murderer could have simply unscrewed it. A real safe-cracker would have spotted that.’

  ‘This stolen painting ...?’

  Glaser nodded again, puffing smoke. ‘A real puzzle. Why blow a safe to steal a painting, when there are paintings all round the walls?’

  ‘And why would a handyman want a painting?’

  Glaser laughed. ‘That’s your aristocratic snobbery, von Hessert. I checked Sepp Kunde. He’s got a record. He had his own business once. No doubt, he worked as a handyman because he’s a convicted communist. It was the only job he could get.’

  Von Hessert strode athletically to the bits of green safe in the corner and squatted down by them. ‘So, why leave the gun?’

  ‘Why not? If the murderer isn’t Kunde. There are only Kunde’s prints on it.’

  ‘And why are Kunde’s prints on it?’

  ‘Because he moved it when he found the body.’

  ‘OK. But if it wasn’t Kunde, how did the murderer get in?’

  ‘The door’s been jemmied.’

  Herr Weintraub’s keys had not been found, Glaser recalled from Sauer’s report. But such items often disappear in the aftermath of an investigation. He did not share that information with von Hessert.

  Von Hessert frowned. ‘You really don’t think Sepp Kunde is our man, do you?’

  Glaser blew another plume of smoke. ‘I’d be surprised if he is.’

  ‘So what’s the next move?’

  ‘We go and see your friend Johannes Lange.’

  Chapter Three

  The distinguished doctor Johannes Lange was Departmental Director of the German Research Centre for Psychiatry. Tucked away discreetly in Munich’s tree-lined northern suburbs, the Research Centre turned out to be a newish glass annexe to the much older, stone-built, Kaiser Wilhelm Institute.

  When they arrived, Glaser and von Hessert were told at reception that Dr Lange had been delayed, but would be with them shortly. They were given directions to his office, but not escorted there. The office turned out to be surprisingly small. Von Hessert took a seat. Glaser went to look at the books on Lange’s bookcase.

  On the bottom shelf were two heavy blue-bound volumes of Studies on the Jewish Problem. Next to them, stacks of bound and unbound copies of the popular magazines People and Race and Magazine for Racial Hygiene.

  On the upper shelves were well-thumbed books in bright dust-jackets. Glaser ran his eye down them. There was Hans Günther’s Origins and Racial History of the Germans, the garish yellow dust-jacket of Hermann Esser’s The Jewish World Plague, and a disintegrating copy of Engelhardt’s The Jews and Us.

  At that moment, Lange swept in. He was immaculately besuited and suntanned, with swept-back greying hair. His appearance and manner were that of a middle-aged matinée idol. Without apology for keeping the lawyers waiting, he greeted von Hessert effusively, pumping his hand, but nodded curtly at Glaser, as if at someone below the salt.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he enquired briskly, taking a seat behind his desk.

  Glaser sat and began his questioning. ‘You placed Sepp Kunde as a handyman with the Weintraub Gallery, in which you are a partner,’ he said. ‘Why did you do that?’

  Lange leaned back in his chair. ‘Finding Sepp a job was part of an arrangement I made with the Kunde twins.’

  ‘Sepp Kunde has a twin?’ Glaser failed to mask his surprise. It wasn’t in Sauer’s report.

  Lange gave the Public Prosecutor a pitying look. ‘Yup. He certainly does. Sepp’s twin, August, is in Stadelheim for murder. In return for finding Sepp a job, Sepp and August let us run some tests on them here.’

  ‘What kind of tests?’ von Hessert said.

  Lange gave a small, impatient shrug. ‘This Institute studies monozygotic twins – twins from the same egg. We compare their body hair patterns. We take semen samples over two days. We put tubes through the nose into the lungs, then feed in coal gas, which makes them cough. We collect the sputum from the coughing and compare it. We give them two-litre enemas, so their rectums are hyper-distended ...’

  Von Hessert had had enough of this. ‘So that’s what you do here, Lange!’ he blurted out.

  After a short pause, Glaser asked ‘What view did you form of Sepp Kunde?’

  Lange stood athletically and fetched a thick file from a filing cabinet. It was marked ‘Kunde’ in thick black Gothic script. He opened it on his desk, turning over papers, reading aloud anything that caught his attention: ‘Family from Swabia. Father was a smelter, died young of heart trouble. Here they are, by the way, the twins ...’

  Lange passed over prison photographs, showing the twins full-face and in profile. The resemblance was astonishing. Sepp had slightly less hair and a more sensitive face. He was wearing a tie and a wing collar. His twin was wearing a jacket with a round velvet collar. Von Hessert leaned close to Glaser to look at the photographs.

  Lange continued to read snippets from the file. ‘Sepp was once accused of receiving but it turned out August had done it. Sepp is more intelligent, knows poetry off by heart – Greif, Heine, Goethe. And understands it. Got through school easily, despite being lazy. He was a Red Guard in the Councils Republic – fought against the Freikorps von Epp.’

  Glaser was impressed, though he tried not to show it. Like many sedentary men, he had a sneaking admiration for fighters, even fighters for a cause
as repugnant as the Councils Republic – which he viewed as an anarchist – communist mob which had resisted the attempts of SPD men like Erhard Auer to civilise it.

  ‘Became a clockmaker,’ Lange went on, still describing Kunde’s career, ‘then a cabinetmaker. August was a vagrant for a while.’

  Lange fell silent, turning over documents and carbon copies, some clipped together.

  Then he read on: ‘Their characters are identical. But Sepp blames his fate on problems with society, rather than his own innate criminality.’ He looked up from the file. ‘The point is, the Kunde twins are a classic example of how crime is in the blood. August is a born murderer; Sepp is a born murderer. Sepp committing his matching murder was completely predictable, from a study of August’s criminal record.’

  ‘Then why did you get him a job with Herr Weintraub?’

  Lange lost his temper. ‘Glaser, three to four births per thousand produce identical twins. We have waited a long, long time to find criminal twins, one of whom has committed a murder. Sepp committing his matching murder was a vital breakthrough. It validated the whole twin method. I have explained to you how important this work is. For heaven’s sake, man!’

  Again there was silence in the room. Von Hessert had a slight smile playing round his face.

  ‘When did you become a partner in the Weintraub Gallery?’ said Glaser.

  ‘At the beginning of this year.’

  ‘Just before you got Sepp Kunde a job there?’

  Lange was still angry. For a moment Glaser thought he was going to refuse to answer, but finally he said ‘Yes’.

  ‘When did you last see Ascher Weintraub?’

  ‘A couple of days before Sepp Kunde killed him.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  Lange expelled air in a kind of angry sigh. ‘Weintraub was planning to emigrate to Palestine. I offered to buy him out.’

  ‘Make him a good offer, did you?’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, Glaser. I don’t have to put up with this.’

  Glaser stood. ‘I think that is all for now, Dr Lange. Thank you for your time.’

  Lange ignored him and spoke to von Hessert. ‘I hope we meet again soon, von Hessert. Under more pleasant circumstances.’ This with a glance at Glaser.

  ‘By the way,’ Glaser said, as they were leaving. ‘There can be no sale of the Weintraub Gallery, or any part of it, until the criminal proceedings have run their course.’

  Lange took a deep breath. ‘We’ll see about that. Don’t try and obstruct me, Glaser. I warn you. I will be in touch with Dr Gürtner.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt you will. We can see ourselves out.’

  Chapter Four

  Glaser stood in front of the yellow villa where Ascher Weintraub had lived with his sister. It was on the edge of the Englischer Garten. Visible through the chestnut trees was the lilac end wall of Sauer’s house. He had not realised, from the address, that Herr Weintraub and the Chief Inspector had lived so near each other.

  All Glaser knew about the sister, Zipporah Ballat, was that she was a partner in the art gallery, she had testified that a painting in the safe called Blue Horses had been stolen, and that she was a professor of history at Munich University. Or rather she had been. All six Jewish professors had been dismissed. Of the others, one had committed suicide, four had emigrated.

  Glaser spent some time beating at the door. Eventually a young maid opened, looking furious, smoothing her black skirt down over her petticoats.

  ‘Yes!’ she snapped impertinently.

  ‘Public Prosecutor Glaser to see Frau Ballat. I am expected,’ Glaser said.

  The maid tut-tutted in annoyance and wordlessly let him in. As Glaser followed her along the brown linoleum passageway, he looked up the stairs and saw a brawny youth, dressed only in a pair of black trousers, looking down from the top of the stairs.

  The youth had the same sour expression as the maid. The maid abandoned Glaser in front of a closed door and went back upstairs to her paramour.

  Glaser knocked and entered a large drawing room. The furniture was a mix of Second Empire and art nouveau. His eye settled first on a Mackintosh dresser, then a huge Manchu rococo vase, edged in brass. Directly ahead of him, on a shelf, was an old-fashioned clock. Above the face, it had a so-called God’s Eye – a painted eye which moved every second, right to left and back again.

  Books were scattered everywhere, some open face down. There were stacked copies of the Jewish newspaper, the Jüdische Nachrichtenblatt, on a pouffé. The only modern element was a gleaming metal-and-glass vitrine, running the length of the room. It was crammed full of porcelain and pottery ornaments, plates and dishes.

  A remarkable figure sat at a round, walnut table in the bay window, overlooking the Englischer Garten. Frau Ballat was absorbedly playing Solitaire. In her late forties or early fifties, she had a long, sad face, narrow mouth and brown hair piled up elegantly, as if she were going to a ball. Despite her age, she wore a red-flounced velvet gown that showed one creamy shoulder completely, and barely covered her bosom. Despite himself, Glaser found the effect erotic, as he walked toward her.

  ‘What happened to your leg?’ called out a corncrake voice, as the cards snapped down.

  Glaser was disappointed. In his baggy grey plus-fours and long thick socks, the artificial limb did not show. Indoors, over a short stretch, his gait was even and not noticeably slow. Outside was a different matter. Today was one of the days when he was not using his ebony cane.

  ‘Riding accident,’ he lied cheerfully.

  As no invitation was forthcoming, he pulled up one of the walnut chairs with grey-blue cushions tied on, and sat opposite her. The slap of the cards going down did not slacken. She did not look at him.

  ‘Public Prosecutor Glaser,’ he murmured.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your brother. I will miss our friendship and the conversations I had with him.’

  The former professor shrugged her shoulders. The telephone rang shrilly from the hall. She put the cards down and strode off to answer it. She was gone for a long time. Glaser could not hear her conversation. When she returned there was no apology, but she did not resume her card game.

  ‘My friend Elsa Marx, from Franz-Josef Strasse,’ she said, waving one arm in the direction of the telephone. The loose red dress slid off her shoulder, down to her elbow.

  ‘What ...? Marx, the banking family?’

  She looked apprehensive for a moment, then decided she could trust him. ‘Yes. She’s married to Hugo Marx, of Heinrich and Hugo Marx, the bankers. Anyway, that didn’t stop them taking three of her paintings. Right off the walls.’

  ‘Taking? You mean stealing?’

  ‘That’s a difficult word to define, these days. They’ve given her about a third of their value. The Courbet was worth fifteen thousand. They gave her five, then took it away.’

  ‘Who did?’ Glaser said.

  ‘The Political Police. Three of them. The leader called himself Inspector Forster. He kept smiling at her, Elsa said. I think she’d rather he hadn’t.’

  ‘The Political ...’

  ‘Well, they’re just the muscle. The thugs. The one giving the orders is Buchner.’

  ‘Buchner?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Glaser was confused. ‘Excuse me, but who on earth ...?’

  ‘Ernst Buchner. Our new Director of Bavarian Art Galleries.’

  Glaser started to reply when the door banged open. The youth who had been naked to the waist now had a white shirt on. The black trousers were those of a waiter, Glaser now realised. Without a word, the waiter walked over to the vitrine and tried to open it. It was locked. He gave the glass a thump with his fist.

  ‘It’s locked,’ the waiter yelled at Zipporah Ballat, ignoring Glaser completely. His face was twisted with rage, veins standing out in his neck.

  ‘I’ll unlock it then,’ she said.

  ‘Who told you to lock it? You silly sow,’ the wait
er mumbled. He was drunk.

  Zipporah Ballat approached the vitrine with a tiny key. Glaser did not see where she had produced it from. She fumbled while unlocking it, the waiter tut-tutting impatiently, in the same way as the maid had, when she let Glaser in. Eventually, Frau Ballat got the vitrine open and lifted the glass.

  ‘What’s worth most in here?’ said the waiter, peering in.

  Zipporah Ballat wordlessly lifted a white plate with a blue motif from its stand. Glaser thought for a second it was Delft, then realised it was from his own home town, Ludwigsburg. She handed the plate to the waiter.

  ‘What’s it worth?’ he said.

  ‘You should get two hundred for it.’

  ‘What do I tell the Jew swindler, so he doesn’t cheat me?’

  ‘It’s mid-eighteenth century. Ludwigsburg porcelain. Onion pattern. Painted by Leinfelder from a Chinese ...’

  ‘OK, Professor,’ shouted the waiter. ‘I didn’t ask for a bleeding lecture.’ He stalked off with the plate, but turned at the door. ‘And next time, don’t lock the glass cupboard. Or you’ll get a clip round the ear.’

  He slammed the door as he left. Glaser heard the maid’s voice, talking to him, before the front door banged shut, presumably behind both of them.

  ‘My dear Frau Professor ...’ Glaser said. He stood and walked over to her at the vitrine. He was distraught.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she waved an arm at him. ‘Sit down. Sit down. I’m OK.’

  But she was white in the face, and she sat down heavily in front of her abandoned game of Solitaire.

  Glaser resumed his seat opposite her. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  Zipporah Ballat shrugged. ‘After six years in my employ, my maid has decided she’s a Nazi.’

  ‘And that entitles her ...’

  ‘It’s the villa they want,’ Frau Ballat said, waving a hand round the room. ‘My husband was killed in the war, you see. And now, with Ascher gone, there’s only me. They are trying to find an excuse to report me to the Gestapo. Get me carted off.’

  Glaser rubbed his beard. There was nothing he could do. Under the new Malicious Practices Act, anyone could be reported for insulting the Reich government, or any degradation of the National Revolution. Cases were heard in Special Courts for political crimes.