The Lady from Zagreb

by Philip Kerr

  “Good idea,” said Scarface, and he fetched the bottle and some glasses. “My hands are still shaking.”

  “I’m grateful to you both,” I said. “And to our host, whoever he might be.”

  “He’s away right now. Delivering milk to some of his customers. But you’ll meet Gottlob later, perhaps. He’s a good Nazi.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  The Gestapo man held out his hand. “Walter Nölle,” he said.

  We shook hands, toasted each other with schnapps, and for a while at least, behaved like we were friends. Half an hour passed before I said, “Where’s the other fellow? The one who was driving my car.”

  “Edouard—he’ll be here in a minute. Probably sending a message on the radio.” He glanced at his watch. “We usually clock in around this time.” He poured some more schnapps. “So what did you tell the Amis?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I told them it was a case of mistaken identity so I could hardly answer questions they’d set for Schellenberg. I think they were planning to get rough this afternoon. Which doesn’t bear thinking of. There’s nothing worse than being asked questions to which you just don’t know the answers. But I’m sure you know all about something like that.”

  “Someone in the Swiss police obviously tipped them off,” said Nölle. “About the car.”

  I nodded. “That’s the way it looks.”

  “Did General Schellenberg tell you why he’s exporting a car to this Swiss Wood Syndicate?”

  “He’s a general,” I said. “He’s not in the habit of explaining himself to a mere captain.”

  Nölle let out a deep sigh.

  “Look here, Gunther,” he said, “we’re going to have to make a full report on what we did today, to our superiors in Bern. You’re a cop. You understand how all that works. Our superiors won’t be at all happy that we’ve shot three Americans in Zurich. The Swiss are going to make a real stink about this. Because even without any evidence, the Americans will almost certainly point the finger at us. I’ve got to give my boss a full explanation for why we did what we did—for rescuing you—and somehow I don’t think the fact that you’re a fellow German is going to satisfy him. So, anything you can tell us will be gratefully appreciated. Anything at all. But we’ve got to tell those bastards in Berlin something.”

  He paused.

  “All right, perhaps you can tell us why Goebbels sent you all the way down here to see Dalia Dresner? Is he fucking her? Is that it?”

  “I’m sorry. Don’t think I’m not grateful, but my lips are sealed. I’d like to help you out here. Really I would. As far as I know the minister wants her to star in a new movie called Siebenkäs, based on some crappy novel of the same name. In his capacity as head of the UFA film studios in Babelsberg. Nothing more. Schellenberg oiled the wheels for my trip. That’s all.”

  “Goebbels sent you all the way here, just for that? Christ, that’s a nice trip. He must be fucking her.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Look, as far as I can determine, the Swiss manufacture wooden barracks for the German Army and the SS. The car was meant to sweeten some deal the SS has going with the Swiss, that’s all.”

  “The SS, you say?”

  “Yes. But I don’t think it’s much of a secret.” I frowned. “Unless.”

  “What?”

  For a moment I thought of the camp at Jasenovac.

  “I was just thinking that some of those wooden barracks must have been used to help build German concentration camps. For the SS. Places like Dachau and Buchenwald. I mean, it stands to reason that with the German Army on the move and living under canvas or in cities it’s conquered, there’s less of a need for them to have wooden barracks. Concentration camps need wooden barracks, right? It just occurred to me that the Swiss might be a little embarrassed if this became public knowledge. Which would certainly help to explain the murder of Dr. Heckholz last year.”

  I pictured the scene in the lawyer’s Wallstrasse office, in Berlin-Charlottenburg: Heckholz’s body lying on the white floor, his head surrounded with a halo of blood after someone had smashed it in with a bronze bust of Hitler. No wonder I hadn’t read the crime scene properly—I’d been much too concerned with being amused at the idea that Hitler had killed the man. I’d ignored the fact that instead of writing the name of his killer with his own blood, Heckholz had used it to make a cross on the white floor—a white cross in red blood.

  “Of course,” I said again. “It was a Swiss flag he was trying to make with his own blood. It wasn’t Schellenberg’s people who killed him. It was the Swiss. That’s what he was trying to tell us. That Meyer, or more likely that other fellow who was with him—Leuthard—must have killed him. They went to the German Opera that night, which is just around the corner. Leuthard claimed he’d slept all the way through act three of Weber’s The Marksman. He must have killed him then. To stop Heckholz from exposing what the Swiss had been up to in association with Stiftung Nordhav; to stop him from going to the international press.”

  “I’m delighted for you,” said Nölle, “but none of this helps me. I’m supposed to find out what the hell you’re doing down here. If Schellenberg is a traitor. If he’s seeking to make a secret deal with the Allies on Himmler’s personal instructions. That’s what I want to know. And if Goebbels is having an affair with Dalia Dresner. So far you’ve told me fuck-all. That won’t do, Gunther. That won’t do at all.” He shook his head. “I’m asking you nicely. Please. Tell me everything you know. Given the fact that I just saved your life, it’s the least you can do.”

  “I don’t know anything about Schellenberg betraying us to the Allies. That doesn’t make sense at all. Look, surely the fact that the Amis kidnapped me and were questioning me on the assumption that I was General Schellenberg confirms that they don’t know anything about it, either. No, that doesn’t work at all. The Swiss are in business with the SS. And more particularly, Stiftung Nordhav—a company owned by a few select members of the SS. That’s a secret worth killing for.”

  A strong sense of relief at having escaped from the Amis and now this realization that I had most likely “solved” Heckholz’s murder had perhaps blinded me to the threat that was now right in front of me; but how all of this might eventually play out was now delayed as the other Gestapo man came through the kitchen door. He wasn’t wearing a jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, there was oil on his face and hands, and he looked as if he’d been working.

  “You’d better come and look at this, boss,” he said.

  Thirty-two

  We went through the kitchen door into a large garage where my car was now parked over an inspection pit lit with an electric light illuminating its underside. It was dark outside and through a high window into the farmyard, cooler air full of moths and the sweet smell of cow dung flowed into the garage. A sign above the door said Beware of the Bull. A few chickens wandered in and out of the garage to see what had happened to my car, which was hardly surprising. The Mercedes looked as if a small grenade had exploded inside it. The bonnet and trunk and all of the doors were wide open. The spare wheel was on the hay-strewn floor next to the flask of rakija I’d been intending to give Dalia as a present. The leather panels had been removed from the inside of the doors. Even the rocker panels under the doors had been opened up. It was now very clear what the other Gestapo man had been up to while I’d been talking to Nölle.

  “What did you find, Edouard?”

  “Gold,” said the other man. “This car looks as if it was owned by Rumpelstiltskin.”

  He reached into the rocker panel and withdrew a gold bar. And then another. Within minutes eight gold bars lay shining on the garage floor. I picked one up. It was heavy.

  “Must weigh at least ten kilos,” I said, and gave it to Nölle.

  “More like twelve,” he said, hefting it in his hand. “At thirty-five dollars an ounce, each one of
those bars is probably worth what—fourteen thousand dollars? Which is about two hundred and fifty thousand reichsmarks.”

  “Two million in gold,” I said. “No wonder the car’s steering felt heavy. And why I was using so much petrol. I was driving half the Reichsbank across the Swiss border.”

  Nölle tossed the bar onto the floor.

  “Are you saying you didn’t know anything about this?” Nölle asked me.

  “Of course I didn’t. If I’d known, I’d be in hiding by now preparing for a new life in Mexico. But it certainly explains why Schellenberg didn’t want to drive this car into Switzerland himself. Why take the risk when I could do that? The question is, who does the gold belong to? Is it Schellenberg’s personal supply? Stiftung Nordhav’s gold? That’s the company I was telling you about. Or is this Himmler’s gold?”

  “I’m not following you,” said Nölle.

  “Well, look, this is your idea, not mine,” I said. “But it occurs to me that if you and your bosses are right and Himmler is using Schellenberg to try to extend peace feelers to the Allies, then that’s going to need finance. This country’s neutrality doesn’t extend to money. The Swiss don’t like our paper money. Nobody does. Very sensibly, they much prefer gold. Alternatively, the gold might be intended to make sure that the Reichsführer himself is well insured against a rainy day. If the war goes against us, he’s going to need a supply of money outside Germany, wouldn’t you say? I’d have thought a hefty deposit of gold in a Swiss bank will prevent a few sleepless nights for the Reichsführer.”

  “You’re a smooth talker, Gunther,” said Nölle, and he reached under his jacket. “That’s what your file says. It’s easy to see why Schellenberg picked you for this job. And if anyone could talk his way out of a spot, it’s you, probably. The way you picked up what I said earlier—about Himmler’s peace feelers—and threw it back to me, just now, with some spin on it. That was clever. Wasn’t it, Edouard?”

  “He’s a clever bastard right enough,” said the other man. “Typical Kripo. Makes a better criminal than the criminals.”

  The broom-handle Mauser in Nölle’s hand didn’t escape my attention. Not least because it was pointed at me. And there were three bodies in an apartment somewhere in Zurich that told me he was quite prepared to use it.

  “I like you, Gunther. I really do. It’s just a shame we’ve got orders to kill you.” He shrugged. “But we have. Just as soon as we found out what the hell you were up to in Switzerland. Well, I reckon now we have. Or at least now we have something we can get a fix on. But I really don’t think I’ll mention half of all that shit you said in the house. Frankly, I couldn’t remember half of it anyway. I daresay you’re right about nearly everything. But my pay grade doesn’t really cover me to think very much.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You were pretty quick with the math on those gold prices.”

  “Before the war I worked in a bank. But I think it’s best I just tell my superiors that you were smuggling gold out of Germany and leave it at that. Frankly, anything else is likely to get me into trouble just for mentioning it. What the generals do is for them to fight about, not the likes of me. Now I can make my report and wash my hands of the whole affair.”

  “I know that feeling very well myself,” I said. “Crime doesn’t seem to matter so much when there’s so much of it around. When it’s completely out of control. After a while you just want to keep your head down and get by without comment. You have my sympathies.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way.”

  “Sure. I’d probably do the same myself. We’re cut from the same piece of wood, Nölle. We’re both of us ordinary cops just trying to get along. The way I see it, there’s plenty of gold for all three of us to live out the rest of our lives in considerable luxury.”

  “You’d really do that? Steal the gold?”

  “Why not? They stole it from someone. The Jews, probably. What’s to stop us stealing it back? Two million in gold split three ways? That’s seven hundred and fifty thousand for each of you and half a million for me. How about it?”

  He looked at the other man, who shook his head slowly.

  “Sorry,” said Nölle. “But we can’t do that. It’s not that we don’t want to. But we’re not like you, Gunther. It’s that we just don’t have the guts, I think. Besides, there’s Gottlob to consider. Our friend the farmer. He’s what you might call a die-hard Nazi. He’d never agree to what you’re proposing.”

  “So you’re really going to shoot me.”

  He nodded. “I’m afraid so. I could shoot you here but I wouldn’t like to risk the neighbors hearing the shots. Sound carries around here. Especially at night. Besides, I figure the Zurich cops have probably had enough shootings for one day. So we’ll go for a drive, I think. Edouard, bring the car around. And get the bottle. We’ll share a last drink before the end, Gunther. I’ve no wish to make this any more unpleasant than it needs to be.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, I’m sure.”

  “You’ve no idea. Gottlob would probably feed you to his pigs.”

  After Nölle had forced me to put the gold back into the Mercedes we all climbed into the black Citroën and drove out of Ringlikon, up a winding mountain road, and across an open railway line, to the top of the Uetliberg, which, at almost nine hundred meters, is the highest spot in Zurich. It took about ten minutes to reach the top from the safe house. In any other circumstances I’d have been pleased to be there. There was a hotel—the Uto Kulm—and a thirty-meter-high viewing tower, as if the mountaintop itself and its many precipitous footpaths were not enough for the Swiss. It seemed almost blasphemous to try to improve on what nature had done, but that’s the Swiss for you, I suppose.

  The darkness and a sudden heavy shower of rain had deterred the usual lovers and happy wanderers and it seemed we had the place to ourselves. We stepped out of the car and I looked around. For a moment my eyes caught some awful sculptures of deer that looked more like camels and I wondered how it was that the Swiss had permitted such an important beauty spot to have these ugly ornaments. Whatever Schellenberg said about the Swiss, they were still capable of the most appalling lapses of taste.

  At gunpoint, the two Gestapo men forced me to climb up the tower. I didn’t think it was to appreciate the spectacular night views of the city or the red rooftops of the hotel itself. I’ve never much liked heights and this one was already beginning to bore me.

  “This is nice,” I said. “I needed some air.”

  “There’s plenty of that up here,” said Nölle. “All the air anyone could want.”

  “I assume we’re not here to enjoy the view,” I said when we had reached the top of the tower.

  “You’re right,” said Nölle, and he produced the flask of rakija he’d found in my car. “This is journey’s end for you, Gunther, so drink up, there’s a good fellow.”

  Reluctantly I took a swig. With a gun shoved in my face I could hardly do otherwise. The rakija tasted like liquid lava and was probably every bit as inflammable.

  “You’re not drinking?” I asked.

  “Not this time. Which is good because there’ll be more for you. I want you to drink all of it. All of it, you understand?”

  Reluctantly I took another swig. “I get it. I’m going to get drunk and have an accident. Is that it? The way some communists used to fall in the Landwehr Canal and drown. With a little help from the Gestapo.”

  “Something like that,” said Nölle. “As a matter of fact, this is a popular place for suicides. The Swiss have one of the highest suicide rates in Europe. Did you know that? Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that assisted suicide has been legal in this country since 1941.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “So what we’re doing, you might almost say it’s legal,” he said. “Helping you to commit suicide. You see, the local police will like it a whole lot bet
ter if you jump instead of them finding you with a bullet in your head. That is, when they eventually find you. Drink up. That’s it. You can take my word for it, the trees are rather thick down there. We’ll write you a nice suicide note when we get back to the house and leave it in your hotel room tomorrow.”

  “That’s a nice touch. The lonely German abroad. Away from home, he gets depressed and starts drinking heavily. Maybe he had something to do with the deaths of those Americans. That would tie a nice bow on everything.”

  “To understand all is to forgive all,” said Nölle.

  “Drink up,” said Edouard. “You’re not drinking. You know, you’ll feel a whole lot better about this with a few drinks inside of you. I know I will.”

  He was holding the bottle to my lips and tipped some more in my mouth. I gulped at the fiery liquid and retched over the railing a little. But already I was starting to feel a little drunk. I sank onto my knees, cowering in the corner against the railing. The Mauser was pressed right under my ear. I knew if I finished the bottle I would die anyway, that they wouldn’t have to push me off the tower to kill me.

  “Don’t throw up,” said Nölle. “That will spoil everything.”

  A faint breath of wind stirred the hair on my head but that was nothing beside the effect that the height was having on the sinews of my heart. I glanced over the railings. Through the glass rooftop of the hotel’s brightly lit winter garden I could see people enjoying drinks and cigarettes and reading newspapers with not the least clue of what was about to befall me.

  “Listen,” I spluttered, “if you’re going to kill me, for Christ’s sake give me a nail. At least let me have a last smoke with my drink. I never much liked one without the other.”

  “Sure. We’ll all have a cigarette. And then you can finish your drink. Before you take wing, so to speak.”

  I stood up, fumbled a cigarette into my mouth with trembling hands, lit it, handed them the pack, and then took as large a mouthful of that filthy rakija as I could manage, only this time I didn’t swallow it. Neither of the two Gestapo men was looking at me. I waited just long enough for them to get a cigarette in their mouths and then dip them to the lighter now springing into life in Nölle’s hands. And then I spat the whole mouthful of rakija at the steady flame between their two bowed heads.