Prague Fatale

by Philip Kerr

  Kahlo nodded again.

  ‘But how? How can they be under suspicion? That little gold Party badge is supposed to mean something.’

  ‘I only know what I’ve been told. And that’s not everything. Hildebrandt is a suspect because for two years, from 1928 until 1930, he was in America. While he was there he went bankrupt as a farmer but someone paid off all his debts and then helped to set him up as a bookseller in New York. The suspicion in the SD is that it was the British Secret Service. And that it was them who persuaded him to return to Germany and join the SS in 1931 to spy for the British.

  ‘Von Eberstein was a banker after the war and a bit of a weekend Nazi, if you know what I mean. He actually quit the Party after the putsch, which automatically makes him suspect. For three years he had no Party affiliation at all. And during this time he goes from being a banker with the Commerce and Private Bank to running his wife’s factory in Gotha; but when that goes belly up his debts are paid off anonymously and he starts a travel agency. That business takes him to London for much of 1927 and 1928. But by 1929 he’s back in the Party again. So did the Tommies set him up with the travel agency and train him to operate a radio while he was in London? That’s the sort of thing Heydrich wants to know.’

  Kahlo grinned and wagged his finger.

  ‘You see how easy it is to fall under suspicion? And it doesn’t matter who you are, or how high up in the Party you have flown. Doctor Jury is a suspect because before he joined the Austrian Nazi Party in 1932 he attended several medical conferences in Paris and London. While he was in Paris he had an affair with a woman who also had an affair with a French colonel in their intelligence service. Also his friendship with Martin Bormann automatically makes him a suspect in Himmler’s eyes, since it seems Himmler would love to discredit any friend of Bormann’s in the eyes of Hitler.

  ‘General Frank is a suspect because of something his exwife Anna has told her new husband, Doctor Kollner. He succeeded Frank as the deputy governor of the Sudetenland and he has made certain allegations based on what Anna Kollner told him about his loyalty to the Leader. And also because his new wife, Karola Blaschek, is suspected of having contact with several Czech resistance figures. She comes from the local town of Brux and there’s a suspicion that some of her friends and relations in that town may have been part of UVOD. The Home Resistance.’

  ‘What about von Neurath? Not him, surely. He was the Foreign Minister for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Konstantin von Neurath is suspected of being recruited as a British spy as early as 1903, when he served as a diplomat at the German Embassy in London; or possibly when he was at the German Embassy in Denmark in 1919. While he was German Ambassador to London in 1930 he came under the suspicion of the Abwehr but he was cleared after an investigation; but in 1937 the Abwehr was burgled by a special SS team and certain papers were removed that showed the whole investigation to have been a sham. Subsequent to this, von Neurath joined the Nazi Party for the first time, as a sign of his loyalty. As if he suddenly needed to underline his loyalty. Instead of which it seems to have put him under suspicion.’

  Kahlo stubbed out his cigarette and helped himself to coffee. But he wasn’t yet finished.

  ‘And that’s possibly the reason Major Thummel is suspected of being the traitor X. He was in charge of the Abwehr section that was supposed to have investigated von Neurath. He may be a friend of Heinrich Himmler and he may wear a gold Party badge, but he’s also a close friend of the Abwehr’s boss, Admiral Canaris, who is Himmler’s most bitter rival. Heydrich’s too.

  ‘Let’s see now. Who else was on that list? Brigadier Voss? He commands the SS Officer School at Beneschau. Until 1938, he was in charge of the officers’ training school at Bad Tolz where there’s a powerful radio transmitter. When officers from that school were mobilized for the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1938, someone tipped off the Czech Intelligence Service about it. Voss was one of only a handful of people who knew the invasion was about to happen. He’s also a keen amateur radio enthusiast. Who better to broadcast secrets to the Czechos? He even speaks the language.

  ‘Walter Jacobi was dismissed from the SD in 1937 by his then boss, General Werner Lorenz. I’m afraid I don’t know why. In the spring of 1938, he took a holiday in Marienbad, in the Sudetenland. Coincidentally perhaps, or perhaps not, one of the other guests taking the cure at the Spa was a retired British naval commander who is currently believed to be the head of an operational Czech section within the British SIS. After his holiday, Jacobi rejoined the SD.’

  ‘Guilt by association.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Kahlo nodded.

  ‘Henlein – well, you heard what I said to him. And Fleischer’s been under suspicion for a while now because of his failure to arrest the third of the Three Kings. You probably know as much about that as I do. It’s common knowledge that the Czechos were making a fool of him for a while. The rest of the cauliflower, I really don’t remember or I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ I said. ‘And by the way, what happened to “I’m keen to learn” and “You have my full cooperation” and “It’s a puzzle, sir”?’

  ‘You don’t think it’s a puzzle?’

  ‘Of course it is. I just don’t much like the fact you’ve had one of the pieces in your trouser pocket all along.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose you’ve ever kept your mouth shut about something?’ Kahlo shook his head. ‘Come on, sir. We both know that saying one thing and thinking another is what this job is all about. Tell me it’s not like that for you. Go on.’

  I found myself silent.

  ‘Tell me that you’ve told me everything. That there’s something you’re not keeping from me.’

  Still I didn’t answer. How could I when Arianne was back at the hotel? If I’d told him less than half of what I knew about Arianne Tauber there was no telling what might happen to her.

  Kahlo grinned. ‘No, I thought not. You see, when it comes right down to it, Commissar, I reckon your piss is just as yellow as mine.’

  I sighed and fetched myself a brandy from the decanter. Suddenly I felt very tired and I knew the brandy wasn’t going to help.

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Look, sir. You want to know what I think? I think we should go through the motions of trying to find Kuttner’s killer, just like you were told to do. We ask the right questions, we do our duty, right? Like regular cops. That’s all we can do and it’s pointless thinking we can do any more than that. But when it comes right down to it, what does it fucking matter, eh? You tell me. Who cares who killed the bastard? Not me, not you. From what I heard, he did his own fair share of murder out east. And the chances are he had it coming. Probably we all do. But what’s one more murder, eh? One tiny drop in a very tall glass of beer, that’s what it is. Take my advice, sir. Don’t sweat it. Enjoy the free forage and the booze and the cigarettes. For as long as we can, eh?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, sir. And who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky. Even a blind chicken finds the corn now and again.’

  I needed a walk and some fresh air after all that information, although it might have been the brandy and the Mish-Mash. I went around the house to the little Winter Garden that Kuttner’s room looked out on. Inside the glass house was a fountain shaped like a shrine with a water nymph’s head spouting water and above him a bronze statue of a centaur with a winged cherub on his back. On either side of the fountain was a veritable jungle of sago palms and geraniums. It seemed an odd place to find a centaur, or a cherub, but I wasn’t surprised at anything any more. The water nymph could have told me my fortune lay in farming guinea pigs and I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. Anything looked like a better bet than being a detective in Jungfern-Breschan.

  A ladder lay on the ground, and assuming that this was probably the one Kritzinger had ordered Fendler, the footman, to fetch around to Captain Kuttner’s window, I spent the next
ten minutes propping it up against the wall of the house. Then I climbed up to take a look at the window ledge. But that told me only that the glass roof needed cleaning, that the sun was still strong for the first week in October, and that I was not at all certain to kill myself cleanly if I threw myself from the top. I descended the ladder and found one of the footmen waiting at the bottom.

  ‘Fendler, sir,’ he said, unprompted. ‘Herr Kritzinger saw you were out here and sent me to see if I could be of any assistance, sir.’

  He was not far off being two metres tall. He wore a white mess jacket with SS collar patches, a white shirt, a black tie, black trousers, a white apron, and grey over-sleeves, as if he might have been cleaning something before receiving his order from the butler to wait on me. He was lumpish in appearance, with an expression that suggested he was none too bright, but I’d gladly have changed places with him. Polishing silver or removing the ash from a fireplace looked like more rewarding work than the domestic task I had been set.

  ‘You’re the one who Kritzinger told to fetch the ladder to look in Captain Kuttner’s window, are you not?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘And what did you see, when eventually you got up there? By the way, what time was that, do you think?’

  ‘About a quarter past seven, sir.’

  I tugged my shirt off the sweat on my chest.

  ‘I was about to ask you why it took so long to fetch a ladder and prop it up against the window, but I think I know the answer to that already. It’s heavy.’

  ‘Yes sir. But it wasn’t in the Winter Garden like it is now, sir.’

  ‘That’s right. It was locked up, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Bruno, the gardener – Bruno Kopkow – he helped me carry it around here and prop it up.’

  ‘How did you know which window to choose?’

  ‘Kritzinger told me it was the room overlooking the Winter Garden, sir. And to be careful I didn’t drop it on the glass roof, sir.’

  ‘So, you prop the ladder up against the window. Then what? Tell me everything you saw and did.’

  Fendler shrugged. ‘We – Kopkow and I – we heard a loud bang, sir, and then just as I was stepping on the lowest rung, sir, General Heydrich looks out of the window, and seeing me and Bruno tells us that there’s no need to bother coming up now as they had just broken down the Captain’s bedroom door.’

  ‘And what did you say? If anything?’

  ‘I asked him if everything was all right and he said that it wasn’t, because it looked as if Captain Kuttner had probably killed himself with an overdose.’

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  ‘We took the ladder down and left it where you found it, sir, just in case anyone decided they needed it again.’

  ‘How did he seem? The General.’

  ‘A bit upset, I suppose. Like you would be, sir. He and the Captain were friends, I believe.’ The footman paused. ‘I knew he must be upset because he was smoking a cigarette. Usually the General doesn’t smoke at all in the morning and never before he fences, sir. Mostly he only smokes in the evening. He’s very disciplined that way, sir.’

  I glanced up at the window of Kuttner’s room and nodded. ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

  ‘No. That’s all, thank you.’

  I went back to the Morning Room. Kahlo was waiting for me.

  ‘Police Commissar Trott telephoned while you were out, sir. From the Alex. He said to tell you that he went to see Lothar Ott at Captain Kuttner’s apartment in Petalozzi Strasse and told him that the Captain was dead. Apparently Ott wept like a baby. The Commissar’s exact words. That would seem to confirm it, wouldn’t you say? That the Captain was warm?’

  I nodded. It only confirmed what I already knew.

  ‘Who’d have thought it?’ said Kahlo. ‘I mean, the fellow seemed quite normal in a lot of ways. Like you or me, really.’

  ‘I guess that’s the point. That maybe they are just like you or me.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, sir.’

  ‘I used to think like you. But the Nazis have taught me to think differently. I’ll say that for them. These days I say live and let live, and if we can learn to do that, then maybe we can behave like a civilized country again. But I suspect it’s already too late for that.’

  I glanced at my wristwatch. A cheap Bulova, it had two ways to remind me that we had an autopsy to view at the Bulovka Hospital at four and that only one of them was the time.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Kahlo. ‘We’d better get going. You’re about to discover just how like you and me Albert Kuttner really was.’

  Sergeant Klein had returned from Hradschin Palace in Prague to drive us out to the hospital. He’d read the Leader’s Sports Palast speech in the morning newspaper and, instead of depressing him, Hitler’s ‘facts and figures’ had left him feeling optimistic about our prospects in the East.

  ‘Two and a half million Russian prisoners,’ he said. ‘No country could ever recover from losing that many men. If that was all, it would be enough; but as well, fourteen thousand Russian planes have been shot down and eighteen thousand of their tanks destroyed. It’s hard to imagine.’

  ‘And yet the Leader still believes we have a fight on our hands,’ I remarked.

  ‘Because he’s wise,’ insisted Klein. ‘He’s saying that so as not to raise our hopes in case the impossible should happen. But it’s obvious, the Ivans are as good as beaten, that’s what I think.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Kahlo.

  ‘I hate to think what we’re going to do with two and a half million Russian prisoners if he’s wrong,’ I said. ‘If it comes to that I hate to think what we’re going to do with them if he’s right.’

  I paused for a moment before adding what was sometimes called ‘the political postscript’ – something that was usually said for the purposes of self-preservation.

  ‘Not that I expect him to be wrong, of course. And I don’t doubt that the Leader will be delivering a victory speech in Moscow before very long.’

  Then I bit off the end of my tongue and spat it onto the road, only I did it subtly so that Klein didn’t notice.

  Set on a hill overlooking the north-east of the city, Bulovka Hospital was a four- or five-storey building made of beige-coloured stone with a red mansard roof and a greenish little bell-tower that stuck up in the air like an infected finger. Built before the Great War, the hospital was surrounded with lush gardens where recuperating patients could sit on wooden benches, enjoy the many blooms in the flower beds and generally appreciate the democratic ideals of the sovereign state of Czechoslovakia; at least they could have done when there had still been a sovereign state of Czechoslovakia. Like every other public building in Prague the hospital was now flying the flag of the least democratic European state since Vlad the Third impaled his first Wallachian Boyar.

  Klein drew up in front of the entrance. Two men wearing surgical gowns were already waiting for us, which only seemed excessively servile until you remembered Heydrich’s reputation for obsessive punctuality and ruthless cruelty. One of the men was Honek, the Czech doctor who had attended the crime scene at the Lower Castle earlier that day. He introduced the other man, a handsome German-Czech in his early forties.

  ‘This is Professor Herwig Hamperl,’ said Honek, ‘who is most distinguished in the field of forensic medicine. He has kindly agreed to take charge of this autopsy.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said.

  Swiftly, as if he wanted us to be gone and out of his hair as quickly as possible, Hamperl muttered a curt ‘good afternoon’ and led the way upstairs and along a wide bright corridor with walls that showed the grimy blank squares where signs and posters written in Czech had been displayed until German became the official language of Bohemia. Hamperl might have been a German Czech, but I soon discovered he was no Nazi.

  ‘Has either of you two gentlemen attended an autopsy before?’ he asked.

>   ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Many.’

  ‘This is my first,’ said Kahlo.

  ‘And you’re feeling nervous about it, perhaps?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Being dead is like being a whore,’ said Hamperl. ‘You spend most of your time on your back while someone else – in this case, me – gets on with the business in hand. The procedure can seem embarrassing, sometimes even a little preposterous, but it is never disgusting. My advice to anyone who hasn’t witnessed an autopsy before is to try to see only the lighter side of things. If it starts to seem disgusting then that’s the cue to leave the room before an accident occurs. The smell of a dead body is usually quite bad enough without the smell of vomit to cope with. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Hamperl unlocked a wooden door with smoked windows and led us into an autopsy suite where a stout-looking body lay under a sheet on a slab. As Hamperl started to draw back the sheet to reveal Kuttner’s head and shoulders I saw Kahlo’s eyes widen.