Prague Fatale

by Philip Kerr

  The body was naked. It lay in the middle of an enormous double bed, and surrounded by empty brandy bottles, most of them good-quality French brands. There was a neat hole in his forehead and a hammerless Sauer .38 in his right hand. For a small man – he couldn’t have been more than one sixty – he had an enormous penis. But it wasn’t any of these details that drew the eyes. Not even the telephone line that was coiled around one of his muscular arms like a Jew’s tefillin. It was what was written on the headboard in red lipstick that tugged at my eyeballs and made me think I had walked in on a major scandal.

  REICHSMARSHAL, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?

  I suppose the choice of words was meant to make you think of Jesus Christ, nailed to the cross, and abandoned by God the Father. But that wasn’t what I thought of; and it wasn’t what Inspector Heimenz thought of, either.

  ‘This is one homicide I’m happy to leave to you boys at the Alex,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks. Let me tell you, he looks how I feel.’

  ‘Cut and dried, isn’t it?’

  ‘So you take the case.’

  ‘Not me. I want to sleep at night.’

  ‘You’re in the wrong job for that.’

  ‘The Grunewald is not like the rest of Berlin. This is a quiet district.’

  ‘So I see. Who found the body?’

  ‘The girlfriend. Name of Inge Bleyle. She claims they were on the telephone when she heard the shot. So she drove straight over here in that modest little car you saw parked outside and found him dead.’

  ‘That Rolls is hers?’

  ‘So it would seem. Apparently Herr Udet had been drinking heavily all week.’

  ‘From the look of things, Martell and Rémy Martin are going to be inconsolable.’

  ‘It seems that he and the Air Ministry had had their differences concerning the success of the air war against the British.’

  ‘You mean the lack of it, don’t you?’

  ‘I know what I meant to say. Perhaps you’d better speak to Fräulein Bleyle yourself, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps I had. Where is she now?’

  ‘In the drawing room.’

  I followed him downstairs.

  ‘Hell of a place isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hard to imagine anyone who owned a place like this shooting himself.’

  ‘Is that what you think happened?’

  ‘Well, yes. The gun was in his hand.’

  I stopped on the stairs and pointed to one of the many photographs covering the wall: Ernst Udet and the actor Bela Lugosi, posing on a California tennis court.

  ‘Looks to me as if Ernst Udet was a lefty,’ I said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘The gun was in his right hand. I don’t know about you, but if I was going to shoot myself – and believe me I’ve considered it, seriously, these past few months – I’d probably hold the gun in my stronger hand.’

  ‘But the words written on the headboard, sir. Surely that was meant to be some sort of suicide message.’

  ‘I’m only sure that’s what it’s meant to look like. Whether it is or not we’ll only know when a doctor gets him on the slab. You’d expect a powder burn on the skin if he really did press the gun to his forehead, and I didn’t see one, that’s all.’

  The inspector nodded. He was a small man with small hands and a small way about him.

  ‘Like I said, this is one homicide I’m glad to leave to the Alex.’

  Inge Bleyle had stopped crying. She was about thirty years old, tall – much taller than Ernst Udet – and good-looking in an understated way. She was wearing her fur coat and there was a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, neither of which looked like she’d paid much attention to them since they came her way.

  I found an ashtray, held it under her cigarette and tapped the back of her hand. She looked up, smiled ruefully and then put out the cigarette in the ashtray while I continued holding it.

  ‘I’m Commissar Gunther. From the Alex. Feel like talking?’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess so. I guess I have to, right? I mean, I found him, and I made the call, so someone has to start the ball rolling.’

  ‘I believe you told the other detective that you were on the telephone with Herr Udet when the shot was fired. Is that correct?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What had you been talking about?’

  ‘When I first got to know him, well before the war, Ernst Udet was the life and soul of the party. Everyone liked him. He was a real gentleman. Kind, generous, impeccably well-mannered. But you couldn’t imagine he was even related to the Ernst Udet of recent memory. He drank, he was short-tempered, he was rude. He’d always drunk a lot. Half of those Great War pilots drank just to go up in those planes. But he always seemed like he could handle the drink. But lately he started drinking even more than usual. Mostly he drank because he was unhappy. Very unhappy. I’d left him because of his drinking, you see. And he wanted me back. And I didn’t want to come back because it was obvious that he was still drinking. As you have no doubt seen for yourself. It looks like a one-man house party in there.’

  ‘Why was he drinking? Any particular reason? I mean, before you left him.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. He was drinking because of what was happening at the Air Ministry. That Jew, Erhard Milch, was trying to undermine Ernst. All of the people in his department had been fired and Ernst took that very personally.’

  ‘Why were they fired?’

  ‘Because that bastard Göring didn’t have the guts to fire Ernst. He figured that if he fired all of Ernst’s people then Ernst’s sense of honour would compel him to resign. He blamed Ernst for the failure of our air attacks on Britain. That’s what he said to Hitler, to save his own skin. Of course it wasn’t true, not a damned word of it, but Hitler believed him anyway. But that was just one reason he was depressed.’

  I groaned, inside. After Prague I needed this case like I needed a pair of silk stockings of the kind Inge Bleyle was wearing on her lovely legs.

  ‘And another reason?’

  She shrugged. Suddenly she was looking evasive, as if it had dawned on her that she was talking to a cop.

  ‘What with the war in Russia, well that was getting him down too. Yes, he was depressed and drinking too much. Only – well, he wasn’t long back from a clinic in Bühlerhöhe. They’d dried him out. He did that for me, you know. Because he wanted me back and I’d made that a condition of our getting back together. But I wanted to wait a little, see? Just to see if it took – the cure.’ She sipped her whisky and grimaced. ‘I don’t like whisky.’

  ‘In this house? That’s not unusual.’ I took the glass and put it on the table between us.

  ‘Then, a couple of days ago, something happened to him. I don’t know what, exactly. Ploch, his chief of staff at the Ministry until Milch had him fired, had just returned from Kiev. He went to see Ernst and told him something. Something awful. Ernst wouldn’t say what it was, just that it was something happening in the East, in Russia, and that no one would ever believe it.’

  I nodded. You didn’t have to be a detective to know what Ploch had probably told him. And it wasn’t anything to do with aeroplanes.

  ‘Because of that, Ernst had telephoned Göring to ask him about it and they’d argued. Badly. And Ernst threatened to tell someone at the American Embassy what Ploch had told him.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yes. He had a lot of American friends, you see? Ernst was very popular. Especially with the ladies. The late ambassador’s daughter – I mean the American ambassador’s daughter, Martha Dodds, she was a very close friend. Perhaps more than just a friend. I don’t know.’

  She paused.

  ‘And he told you all of this on the telephone?’

  ‘Yes. We were talking. Ernst was crying some of the time. Begging me to come and see him. One thing I do remember him saying. It was that he could no longer believe in Germany; that Germany was a wicked country and deserved to lose th
e war.’

  The more I heard about Ernst Udet, the more I started to like him. But Inge Bleyle felt obliged to disagree; anyone would have felt the same.

  ‘I didn’t like it that he was saying such things. I mean, that kind of talk is not good, Commissar; even if you are a decorated hero like Ernst. I mean, you hear stories about the Gestapo. People being arrested for unpatriotic talk. I told Ernst to be quiet and to keep his mouth shut in case he got us both into trouble. Him for saying such things and me for listening to them without ringing off. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you hear those things. You understand, the only reason I stayed on the line was that I was concerned for his state of mind.’

  I nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Then I heard the shot.’

  ‘Had he talked about killing himself?’

  ‘Well, no. Not in so many words.’

  ‘Did you hear anything else? Voices, perhaps? Footsteps? A door closing?’

  ‘No. I put the telephone down and drove straight over here. I live only a short distance away in the West End. When I got here all the lights were on. And I still had my key so I let myself in. I shouted his name a couple of times and then went upstairs and found him dead, as you saw. I came back downstairs and used the telephone in the study – it’s a different line – to call the police. I didn’t want to touch the one in his hand. That was an hour ago. I’ve been here ever since.’

  ‘Do you think he killed himself?’

  She opened her mouth to say something; checked herself – the way you do – and said: ‘It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?’

  Sensible girl. No wonder she was driving a Rolls-Royce. They don’t hand those cars out to just anyone.

  After that two fellows from the Air Ministry showed up: Colonel Max Pendele, who was Udet’s adjutant, and another officer. That was at eight a.m. Then someone from the Ministry of the Interior turned up as well. That was at nine.

  At about eleven o’clock I drove back to the Alex to type out my report.

  After I’d done this Lüdtke asked me to come up to his office, and when I got there, he told me I was off the case.

  I didn’t ask why. By then I hardly needed to. It was plain that someone important didn’t want me asking any awkward questions, and there were plenty that could have been asked about the death of Ernst Udet; and it was only after Heydrich’s death that I learned it had been he who told Lüdtke to take me off the case.

  Five days later they buried Udet. It was a state funeral. They carried him out of the Air Ministry in a casket covered with a Nazi flag, placed him on a gun carriage and then processed up to Invaliden Cemetery, where they buried him close to his old pal the Baron von Richthofen. Of course, state funerals were for heroes, not suicides or enemies of the state, but that was okay because the story released by the authorities – and this was the reason behind my removal, since of course I knew different – was that Udet had been killed testing an experimental fighter plane.

  Hermann Göring delivered a eulogy; the nine-centimetre flak gun in the Tiergarten fired a salute that had many Berliners running for an air-raid shelter thinking that the RAF was back in our skies. A few days later they were back, although not to drop any bombs.

  It was as well I was off the case. Being a detective has made me unreasonably suspicious. I see connections and conspiracies where other people see only the need to look the other way and keep their suspicions to themselves. Another air ace, Werner Mölders, was killed flying back to Germany for Udet’s funeral, from the Crimea; and around the Alex there were whispers that there was a lot more to his death – the Heinkel on which he was a passenger crashed as it tried to land in Breslau – than had been allowed to meet the eye.

  Certainly the British thought so, for the RAF dropped leaflets over Germany alleging that, like Ernst Udet, Werner Mölders had been opposed to the Nazi regime. And that he had been murdered.

  Six days later, Mölders was also given a state funeral and he was buried alongside his great friend and confidant Ernst Udet in the Invaliden Cemetery.

  In retrospect both of those two state funerals felt like dress rehearsals for what followed six months later in June 1942.

  It was six a.m. I was on my way home after a night at the Alex when I received a telephone call to go and see Arthur Nebe in his office at RSHA headquarters in Prinz Albrechtstrasse. It was a summons I had been dreading. I knew of the attempt on Heydrich’s life: on 27 May, a group of Czech terrorists had thrown a grenade into his open car as it drove through the streets of Prague. Heydrich had been seriously injured but, as far as anyone knew, he was making a strong recovery. It was only what you might have expected of such a brave hero; at least that’s what the newspapers said.

  Nebe had already dispatched two senior detectives from the Alex – Horst Kopkow and Dr Bernhard Wehner – to Prague, to help with the investigation. The assailants were still at large and throughout Bohemia and Moravia a huge security operation was under way to catch them; everyone in Kripo – myself included – believed they would soon be arrested.

  Nebe, who was now back in Berlin after murdering tens of thousands of Jews in the Ukraine, looked wearier than usual. But it looked as if these efforts had been appreciated: there were even more decorations on his tunic than I remembered, and in this respect at least he was beginning to resemble a South American Generalissimo. His long nose had turned a little purple, no doubt a result of the heavy drinking that was required to complete our historic German tasks, and there were bags under his eyes; he was smoking almost continuously and there were patches of bad eczema on the backs of his hands. The hair on his head was almost silver now but his eyebrows remained dark and overgrown, like the forest of briars in The Sleeping Beauty, shielding the enchanted castle that was his soul from the discovery of the outside world.

  He came straight to the point.

  ‘Heydrich died at four-thirty this morning.’

  ‘He picked a nice day for it.’

  Nebe permitted himself a wry smile.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘Yes. I warned him to be more careful. But he wasn’t the careful type, I guess.’

  ‘I’m flying to Prague in an hour’s time. I’ll be part of an SS honour guard that will bring his body home to Berlin.’

  ‘I think you’ll find he was born in Halle, Arthur.’

  ‘While I am there I shall also be reviewing progress in the investigation. As a matter of fact, there isn’t any progress. It’s fucking chaos down there. Chaos of catastrophic proportions. The local Gestapo is arresting everyone.’

  ‘That’s one way of catching the murderers, I suppose.’

  ‘I need my own man. Someone whose abilities I respect. That’s why you’re coming with me, Bernie. To find some truth.’

  ‘Truth? You’re not asking for much, are you?’

  ‘We can argue about it in the car on the way to the airport. Anything you need while you’re there, you can buy.’

  We drove straight to Tempelhof Airport where a Heinkel was already fuelled and waiting for us. We climbed aboard and took off immediately. From the air, Berlin still looked good. Flying over it was probably the best way to see the city, which looked green and natural, a decent place to live, like the old Berlin of my youth. You couldn’t see the corruption and the savagery from up there.

  ‘You’ll observe what’s going on. Nothing more than that. Observe and report directly to me.’

  ‘Bernhard Wehner won’t like that. As a commissioner he outranks me, Arthur. From the way he behaves I think he outranks Hermann Göring.’

  ‘Wehner’s not a detective, he’s a bureaucrat. Not to mention a cunt.’

  ‘Is he in charge?’

  ‘No. Frank thinks he’s in overall charge. And so does Daluege. The criminal inquiry is being handled by Heinz Pannwitz.’

  ‘I’m beginning to understand the problem. What’s Dummi doing there?’

  Kurt ‘Dummi’ Daluege was the chief of Germany
’s uniformed regular police.

  ‘Apparently he was in Prague for medical treatment.’ Nebe grinned. ‘Not a well man, it seems.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Nothing trivial, I hope.’

  ‘Heinz Pannwitz. I don’t know him.’

  ‘He’s a Berliner, like you and me. And capable up to a point. But a bit of a thug, really. He’s been with the SD in Prague since 1940, so he has a fair bit of local knowledge.’