If the Dead Rise Not

by Philip Kerr

  “Well, yes, it’s funny. Of course it is. Even I can see that. But somehow I feel it wouldn’t be happening in a more sophisticated place, such as Berlin. After all, there are people there with Jewish-sounding names who are Nazis, aren’t there? Liebermann von Sonnenberg? I ask you. Well, I’m sure he would understand my predicament.”

  I hardly liked to tell him that Berlin’s assistant police commissioner might have been a Party member but he also despised the Gestapo and all that it stood for.

  “What I feel is this,” he said earnestly. “That my name wouldn’t hold me back in a place like Berlin. Here in Würzburg there will always be the faintest suspicion that I’m not completely Aryan.”

  “Well, who is? I mean, you go far enough back and, if the Bible’s right, we’re all Jewish. Tower of Babel. Right.”

  “Hmm, yes.” He nodded uncertainly. “Besides all that, most of my caseload is so petty it’s hardly worth the effort of my investigating it. That’s why I became interested in Max Reles in the first place.”

  “And you want . . . ? Let’s be a bit more specific here, Captain.”

  “Nothing more than a chance. A chance to prove myself, that’s all. A word from the assistant commissioner to the Gestapo in Berlin would surely smooth my transfer. Don’t you think so?”

  “It might,” I admitted. “It might, at that.”

  We walked through the hotel entrance and made our way to the café, where I ordered us both coffee and cake.

  “When I get back to Berlin,” I told him, “I’ll see what can be done. As a matter of fact, I know someone in the Gestapo myself. He runs his own department in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. He might be able to help you. Yes, it’s possible he might. Always supposing that you can help me.”

  These days, that was how everything in Germany worked. For rats like Othman Weinberger, it was probably the only way to get on. And while personally I regarded him as something to be scraped carefully off the sole of my Salamanders, I could hardly blame him for wanting to get out of Würzburg. I’d been there for just twenty-four hours and already I felt as keen to leave the place as the wandering Jew’s stray dog.

  “But you know,” I said, “this case. Together we might yet make something out of it. Something a man might base a career on. You might not need anyone’s kind word if this impresses your superiors.”

  Weinberger smiled wryly and gave the pretty waitress a slow up-and-down as she stooped to serve our coffee and cake. “You think so? I doubt it. No one here seemed very much interested in what I had to tell them about Max Reles.”

  “I’m not here to pour coffee in my ears, Captain. Let’s hear it.”

  Ignoring his coffee and the excellent cake, Weinberger leaned forward excitedly. “This man is a real gangster,” he said. “Just like Al Capone and those other Chicago hoodlums. The FBI—”

  “Hold up. I want you to begin at the beginning.”

  “Well, then, you might know that Würzburg is the capital of the German quarrying business. Our limestone is highly prized by architects all over the country. But there are really only four companies that sell the stuff. One of them is a company called Würzburg Jura Limestone, and it’s owned by a prominent local citizen called Roland Rothenberger.” He shrugged, ruefully. “Does that sound any less Jewish than my name? You tell me.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Rothenberger is a friend of my father’s. My father’s a local doctor and a town councillor. A few months ago, Rothenberger came to see him in his capacity as a councillor and told him that he was being intimidated by a man named Krempel. Gerhard Krempel. He used to be an SA man, but now he’s a heavy for Max Reles. Anyway, Rothenberger’s story was that someone called Max Reles had offered to buy a share in his company, and that this Krempel character started to get rough when Rothenberger told him he didn’t want to sell. So I started to check it out, but I’d hardly finished opening the file when Rothenberger contacted me to say that he wished to withdraw the complaint. He said that Reles had substantially improved his offer and that there had been a simple misunderstanding and that Max Reles was now a shareholder in Würzburg Jura Limestone. That I should forget all about it. That’s what he told me.

  “But I’m afraid boredom got the better of me, and I thought I’d see what else I could find out about Reles. Right away I discovered he was an American citizen and, on the face of it, an offense had been committed right there. As you probably know, only German-owned companies are allowed to tender for Olympic contracts, and, it transpired, Würzburg Jura Limestone had just outbid the local competition to supply stone for Berlin’s new stadium. I also found out that Reles seemed to have important connections here in Germany, so I resolved to see what was known about him in America. Which is why I contacted Liebermann von Sonnenberg.”

  “What did the FBI tell you?”

  “A lot more than I bargained for, to be honest. Enough to persuade me to check him out with the Vienna KRIPO. The picture I’ve built of Reles is based on two separate sets of information. And what I’ve managed to work out for myself.”

  “You have been busy.”

  “Max Reles is from Brownsville, New York, and he’s a Hungarian-German Jew. That would be bad enough, but there’s a lot more. His father, Theodor Reles, left Vienna for America at the turn of the century, most likely to escape a murder charge. He was strongly suspected by the Vienna KRIPO of murdering someone—perhaps several people—with an ice pick. It was apparently a secret technique taught to him by a Viennese Jewish doctor by the name of Arnstein. When Theodor settled in America, he married and had two sons: Max and his younger brother, Abraham.

  “Now, Max has no convictions, although he was involved in the Prohibition rackets, as well as in loan-sharking and gambling. Since the end of Prohibition in March of last year, he’s built connections with the Chicago underworld. Little brother, Abraham, has a conviction for juvenile crime and is similarly involved in organized crime. He’s also believed to be one of the most cold-blooded killers in the Brooklyn mob and is reputed to use an ice pick for his murders, like his father. So skilled is he with this weapon that in some cases he leaves no trace.”

  “How does that work?” I asked. “You stab a man with an ice pick, you figure it leaves more than just a bruise.”

  Weinberger was grinning. “That’s what I thought. Anyway, there was nothing about this technique in the information I had from the FBI. But the Vienna KRIPO still have an old case file on Theodor Reles. You know, the father. Apparently what he used to do was ram the ice pick through the victim’s ear, right into his brain; and he was so good at it that many of his victims were thought to have died of a cerebral hemorrhage. Something natural, anyway.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered. “That must be how Reles killed Rubusch.”

  “What’s that?”

  I told Weinberger what I knew about the murder of Heinrich Rubusch, and how Würzburg Jura Limestone was now the new owner of the Rubusch Stone Company. “You said Max Reles has built connections with the Chicago underworld,” I said. “Such as what?”

  “Until recently, Chicago was run by Capone himself. Who also came from Brooklyn. But Capone is now in jail, and the Chicago organization has branched out into other areas, including construction and labor racketeering. The FBI suspects that the Chicago mob was involved in fixing construction contracts for the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics.”

  “That figures. Max Reles has a close friend on the American Olympic Committee who also owns a Chicago construction company. A fellow named Brundage. He’s getting some sort of kickback from our own committee in return for chasing off an American boycott.”

  “Money?”

  “No. He’s being drip-fed East Asian art treasures that were part of a collection donated to Berlin’s Ethnographical Museum by some old Jew.” I nodded appreciatively. “Like I said, you have been busy, Captain. I’m impressed at how much you’ve been able to find out. Frankly, I think the assistant commissioner is going to be as impressed as I am. With y
our talents, perhaps you ought to consider a career in the real police. In KRIPO.”

  “KRIPO?” Weinberger shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “The Gestapo is the police force of the future. The way I see it, the Gestapo and the SS will have to absorb KRIPO in the long run. No, no, I appreciate your compliment, but from the point of view of my career, I have to stay in the Gestapo. But preferably the Berlin Gestapo, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell me, Herr Gunther, you don’t think we’re eggs trying to be smarter than the hen, do you? I mean, this Reles may be a Jew and a gangster. But he’s got some important friends in Berlin.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Frau Rubusch about exhuming her husband’s body, which will prove he was murdered. I think I can even lay my hands on the murder weapon. Like most Amis, Reles likes a lot of ice in his liquor. There’s a lethal-looking ice pick on the sideboard of his hotel room. And if all that’s not enough, then there’s his being a Jew, like you said. I’d like to see what all of his important friends in the Party think about that. I don’t much like playing that domino, but in the end there might be no other way to nail the bastard. Liebermann von Sonnenberg was appointed by Hermann Goering himself. And possibly we’ll have to present all the salient facts to him. And since Goering isn’t on any Olympic committee, it’s hard to imagine him choosing to ignore corruption among the committee’s members, even if some others might.”

  “You’d better be certain of all your evidence before you do that. What’s the saying? The cock that crows too early gets the twisted neck.”

  “I suppose they teach you that at Gestapo training school. No, I won’t do anything until I have all the evidence. I can walk just as well as I can run.”

  Weinberger nodded. “I’ll need to see the widow. To get her written permission to exhume the body. Probably I’ll have to involve the Würzburg KRIPO, too. Such as it is. And a magistrate. All of that could take a little time. At least a week. Perhaps longer.”

  “Heinrich Rubusch has plenty of time, Captain. But he needs to rise up from the dead and start talking if this case is going to get anywhere. It’s one thing ignoring a construction racket. It’s quite another ignoring the murder of a prominent German citizen. Especially when he’s properly Aryan. You’re a little folksy for my taste, Weinberger, but we’ll make a first-rate policeman out of you yet. Back at the Alex, when I was police, we had a saying of our own. The bone won’t come to the dog. It’s the dog that goes to the bone.”

  29

  IT WAS THREE HOURS TO FRANKFURT on the passenger train. We stopped at almost every town along the Main valley, and when I wasn’t looking out of the window and admiring the scenery, I was writing a letter. I wrote it several different ways. It wasn’t the kind of letter I had written before or which made me feel happy, but all the same it needed to be written. And somehow I managed to persuade myself that it was a way to protect myself.

  I shouldn’t have been thinking of other women, but I was. At Frankfurt, I followed along the platform a woman who was built like a Stradivarius cello, and then felt a bow stroke of disappointment when she climbed up into the ladies’ compartment, leaving me in a first-class smoker beside a professional type with a pipe the shape of a tenor saxophone, and an SA leader who favored Zeppelin-sized cigars that smelled more lethal than the locomotive. In the eight hours it took the train to reach Berlin, we generated a lot of smoke—almost as much as the Borsig-built steam R101 itself.

  It was raining from a bucket when finally I arrived back in Berlin, and with a hole in the sole of my shoe, I had to wait awhile for a taxi at the rank in front of the station. The rain hit the big glass roof like stair rods and leaked onto the head of the line. The cabdrivers couldn’t see it, which meant they always pulled up to exactly the same spot so that the next in line would have to take a shower before he or she could climb inside, like something out of a Fat and Stupid movie. When it was my turn I pulled my coat over my head and ducked into the cab; I was able to wash one whole sleeve of my shirt without a trip to the laundry. But at least it was too early in the winter for snow. Whenever it snows in Berlin, it reminds you that it’s nearer to Moscow than Madrid by more than two hundred kilometers.

  The shops were closed. There was no booze at home, and I didn’t want to go to a bar. I told the driver to take me to the Adlon, remembering that there was half a bottle of Bismarck in my desk at work—the same bottle I’d confiscated from Fritz Muller. I figured I’d use just enough of it to warm myself up and, if Max Reles was out somewhere, to put enough blood and iron in my belly to check out my own typing skills on the Torpedo in his suite.

  The hotel was busy. There was a party in the Raphael Room, and undoubtedly the many patrons in the dining room were staring up at the Tiepolo panegyric ceiling, if only to remind themselves of what a blue and cloudless sky actually looks like. Pouches of thick white tobacco smoke gently rolled out of the door of the reading room like a quilt from Freyja’s bed in Asgard. A drunk wearing a white tie and tails was holding on to the front desk while he complained loudly to Pieck, the assistant manager, that the phonograph in his suite wasn’t working. I could taste his breath from the other side of the entrance hall. But even as I went to lend a hand, the man fell backward, as if he’d been sawn off at the ankles. Luckily for him, he hit a carpet that was even thicker than his head. His head bounced a bit, and then he lay still. It was a near-perfect impersonation of a fight I’d seen on the newsreels, when Mad-cap Maxie Baer laid out Frankie Campbell one night in San Francisco.

  Pieck rushed around the desk to help. So did a couple of bellboys, and in the confusion, I managed to lift the key for 114 and drop it into my pocket before kneeling down by the unconscious man. I checked his pulse.

  “Thank goodness you’re here, Herr Gunther,” said Pieck.

  “Where’s Stahlecker?” I asked. “The guy who’s supposed to be filling in for me?”

  “There was an incident in the kitchens earlier. Two members of the Brigade were involved in a fight. The rotisseur tried to stab the pastry chef. Herr Stahlecker went to break it up.”

  The Brigade was what we called the kitchen staff at the Adlon.

  “He’ll live,” I said, letting go of the drunk’s neck. “Passed out is all. He smells like the schnapps academy in Oberkirch. That’s probably what stopped him from hurting himself when he fell. You could stick a hat pin in this rumrunner, and he wouldn’t feel a thing. Here, give me some space here, and I’ll take him back to his room and let him sleep it off.”

  I grabbed the man by the back of his coat collar and dragged him to the elevator.

  “Don’t you think you should take the service elevator?” protested Pieck. “One of the guests might see you.”

  “You want to carry him there?”

  “Er . . . no. Perhaps not.”

  A page boy came after me with the guest’s room key. In return I handed him the letter I’d written on the train.

  “Post that, will you, kid? And not in the hotel. Use the box at the post office around the corner on Dorotheenstrasse.” I reached into my pocket and gave him fifty pfennigs. “Here. You’d better take this. It’s raining.”

  I dragged the still-unconscious man into the elevator car and glanced at the number on the key fob. “Three twenty,” I told Wolfgang.

  “Yes sir,” he said, and closed the door.

  I bent down, pulled the man forward onto my shoulder, and then lifted him up.

  A few minutes later the guest was lying on his bed, and I was wiping the sweat off my face and then helping myself from an open bottle of good Korn that was standing on the floor. It didn’t burn, didn’t even catch my collar stud. It was the smooth, expensive stuff that you drank to savor while reading a good book or listening to an impromptu by Schubert, not to help you handle an unhappy love affair. But it got the job done all the same. It went down like a clear conscience, or as near to the feeling of a clear conscience as I was going to get after posting that letter.


  I picked up the telephone and, disguising my voice, asked one of the hello girls to connect me with suite 114. She let it ring for a while before coming back on the line to tell me what I now knew, that there was no reply. I asked her to put me through to the concierge, and Franz Joseph came on the line.

  “Hey, Franz, it’s me, Gunther.”

  “Hey. I heard you were back. I thought you were on holiday.”

  “I was. But you know, I couldn’t keep away. Do you happen to know where Herr Reles is tonight?”

  “He’s having dinner at Habel. I booked the table myself.”

  Habel, on Unter den Linden, with its historic wine room and even more historic prices, was one of Berlin’s oldest and finest restaurants. Just the kind of place Reles would have chosen.

  “Thanks.”

  I pulled the shirt collar from the neck of the man now sleeping it off on the bed and then, thoughtfully, turned him onto his side. Then I capped his bottle and took it with me, slipping it into my coat pocket on the way out. It was two-thirds full, and I figured the guest owed me that much at least; more than either of us would ever know if he happened to throw up in his sleep.

  30

  I LET MYSELF INTO SUITE 114 and closed the door behind me before switching on the light. The French window was open, and the room was cold. The net curtains were billowing across the back of the sofa like a couple of comedy ghosts, and the heavy rain had soaked the edge of the expensive carpet. I closed the windows. That wouldn’t bother Reles. He’d only expect the maid to have done the same.

  Several packages lay open on the floor. Each contained some sort of East Asian objet d’art packed inside a bird’s nest of straw. I took a closer look at one. It was a bronze or possibly gold statuette of some Oriental god with twelve arms and four heads. About thirty centimeters high, the figure appeared to be dancing a tango with a rather scantily clad girl who reminded me a lot of Anita Berber. Anita had been the queen of Berlin’s nude dancers at the White Mouse Club on Jägerstrasse until the night she’d laid out one of the patrons with an empty champagne bottle. The story was he’d objected to her pissing on his table, which used to be her shtick. I missed the old Berlin.