by Philip Kerr
Belinsky’s nose wrinkled with disgust. ‘What the hell are these?’
‘Teeth.’ I handed him the torch and picked one of the spiky white objects out of the tray to hold it up to the light. ‘Extracted teeth. And several mouthfuls of them too.’
‘I hate dentists,’ Belinsky hissed. He fumbled in his waistcoat and found one of his picks to chew.
‘I’d say these normally end up in the drum of acid.’
‘So?’ But Belinsky had noticed my interest.
‘What kind of dentist does nothing but full extractions?’ I asked. ‘The appointment-book is booked for nothing but full extractions.’ I turned the tooth in my fingers. ‘Would you say that there was much wrong with this molar? It hasn’t even been filled.’
‘It looks like a perfectly healthy tooth,’ agreed Belinsky.
I stirred the sticky mass in the tray with my forefinger. ‘Same as the rest of them,’ I observed. ‘I’m no dentist, but I don’t see the point of pulling teeth that haven’t even been filled yet.’
‘Maybe Heim was on some kind of piece work. Maybe the guy just liked to pull teeth.’
‘Better than he liked keeping records. There are no records for any of his recent patients.’
Belinsky picked up another kidney-tray and inspected its contents. ‘Another full set,’ he reported. But something rolled in the next tray. It looked like several tiny ball bearings. ‘Well, what have we here?’ He picked one up and regarded it with fascination. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, I should say each one of these little confections contains a dose of potassium cyanide.’
‘Lethal pills?’
‘That’s right. They were very popular with some of your old comrades, kraut. Especially the SS and senior state and party officials who might have had the guts to prefer suicide to being captured by the Ivans. I believe that these were originally developed for German secret agents, but Arthur Nebe and the SS decided that the top brass had a greater need of them. A man would have his dentist make him a false tooth, or use an existing cavity, and then put this little baby inside. Nice and snug — you’d be surprised. When he was captured he might even have a decoy cyanide brass cartridge in his pocket, which meant our people wouldn’t bother with a dental examination. And then, when the man had decided the right time had come, he would work off the false tooth, tongue out this capsule and chew the thing until it broke. Death is almost instantaneous. That’s how Himmler killed himself.’
‘Goering too, I heard.’
‘No,’ said Belinsky, ‘he used one of the decoys. An American officer smuggled it back to him while he was in gaol. How about that, eh? One of our own people going soft on the fat bastard like that.’ He dropped the capsule back into the tray and handed it to me.
I poured a few into my hand to get a closer look. It seemed almost astonishing that things which were so small could also be so deadly. Four tiny seed pearls for the deaths of four men. I did not think I could have carried one in my mouth, false tooth or not, and still enjoyed my dinner.
‘You know what I think, kraut? I think we’ve got ourselves a lot of toothless Nazis running round Vienna.’ I followed him back into the surgery. ‘I take it that you’re familiar with dental techniques for the identification of the dead.’
‘As familiar as the next bull,’ I said.
‘It was damned useful after the war,’ he said. ‘The best way we had of establishing the identity of a corpse. Naturally enough there were many Nazis who were keen for us to believe that they were dead. And they went to a great deal of trouble to try and persuade us of it. Half-charred bodies carrying false papers, you know the sort of thing. Well of course the first thing we did was have a dentist take a look at a corpse’s teeth. Even if you don’t have a man’s dental records you can at least determine his age from his teeth: periodontosis, root resorption, etc. — you can say for sure that a corpse isn’t who it is supposed to be.’
Belinsky paused and looked about the surgery. ‘You finished looking around in here?’
I told him I was and asked if he had found anything in the house. He shook his head and said he hadn’t. Then I said that we had better get the hell out of there.
He resumed his explanation as we climbed into the car.
‘Take the case of Heinrich Müller, chief of the Gestapo. He was last seen alive in Hitler’s bunker in April 1945. Müller was supposed to have been killed in the battle for Berlin in May 1945. But when after the war his body was exhumed, a dental expert specializing in jawbone surgery at a Berlin hospital in the British sector couldn’t identify the teeth in the corpse as those belonging to a forty-four-year-old male. He thought that the corpse was more probably that of a man of no more than twenty-five.’ Belinsky turned the ignition, gunned the engine for a second or two, and then slipped the car into gear.
Crouched over the steering-wheel, he drove badly for an American, double-declutching, missing his gears and generally over-steering. It was clear to me that driving required all of his attention, but he continued with his calm explanation, even after we had almost killed a passing motorcyclist.
‘When we catch up with some of these bastards, they’ve got false papers, new hairstyles, moustaches, beards, glasses, you name it. But teeth are as good as a tattoo, or sometimes a fingerprint. So if any of them have had all their teeth pulled it removes yet another possible means of identification. After all, a man who can explode a cartridge under his arm to remove an SS number probably wouldn’t baulk at wearing false teeth, would he?’
I thought of the burn scar under my own arm and reflected that he was probably right. To disguise myself from the Russians I would certainly have resorted to having my teeth out, assuming that I would have the same opportunity for painless extraction as Max Abs and Helmut König.
‘No, I guess not.’
‘You can bet your life on it. Which is why I stole Heim’s appointment-book.’ He patted the breast of his coat where I assumed he was now keeping it. ‘It might be interesting to find out who these men with bad teeth really are. Your friend König, for instance. And Max Abs too. I mean, why would a little SS chauffeur feel the need to disguise what he had in his mouth? Unless he wasn’t an SS corporal at all.’ Belinsky chuckled enthusiastically at the thought of it. ‘That’s why I have to be able to see in the dark. Some of your old comrades really know how to mix the maps. You know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we’re still chasing some of these Nazi bastards when their kids are having to sugar their strawberries for them.’
‘All the same,’ I said, ‘the longer it is before you catch them, the harder it will be to get a positive identification.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ he snarled vindictively. ‘There won’t be a shortage of witnesses willing to come forward and testify against these shits. Or perhaps you think people like Muller and Globocnik should be allowed to get away with it?’
‘Who’s Globocnik, when he’s having a party?’
‘Odilo Globocnik. He headed up Operation Reinhard, establishing most of the big death camps in Poland. Another one who is supposed to have committed suicide in ’45. So come on, what do you think? There’s a trial going on in Nuremberg right now. Otto Ohlendorf, commander of one of those SS special action groups. Do you think he should hang for his war crimes?’
‘War crimes?’ I repeated wearily. ‘Listen, Belinsky, I worked in the Wehrmacht’s War Crimes Bureau for three years. So don’t think you can lecture me about fucking war crimes.’
‘I’m just interested to know where you stand, kraut. Exactly what kind of war crimes did you Jerries investigate anyway?’
‘Atrocities, by both sides. You’ve heard of Katyn Forest?’
‘Of course. You investigated that?’
‘I was part of the team.’
‘How about that?’ He seemed genuinely surprised. Most people were.
‘Frankly, I think that the idea of charging fighting men with war crimes is absurd. The murderers of women and children should be punished, yes. B
ut it wasn’t just Jews and Poles who were killed by people like Müller and Globocnik. They murdered Germans, too. Perhaps if you’d given us half a chance we could have brought them to justice ourselves.’
Belinsky turned off Währinger Strasse and drove south, past the long edifice of the General Hospital and on to Alser Strasse where, encountering the same recollection as myself, he slowed the car to a more respectful pace. I could tell he had been about to answer my point, but now he grew quiet, almost as if he felt obliged to avoid giving me any cause for offence. Drawing up outside my pension, he said: ‘Did Traudl have any family?’
‘Not that I know of. There’s just Becker.’ I wondered at that, though. The photograph of her and Colonel Poroshin still preyed on my mind.
‘Well, that’s all right. I’m not going to lose any sleep worrying about his grief.’
‘He’s my client, in case you’d forgotten. In helping you I’m supposed to be working to prove him innocent.’
‘And you’re convinced of that?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘But surely you must know he’s on the Crowcass list.’
‘You’re pretty cute,’ I said dumbly, ‘letting me make all the running like this, only to tell me that. Supposing that I do get lucky and win the race, am I going to be allowed to collect the prize?’
‘Your friend is a murdering Nazi, Bernie. He commanded an execution squad in the Ukraine, massacring men, women and children. I’d say that he deserved to hang whether he killed Linden or not.’
‘You’re pretty cute, Belinsky,’ I repeated bitterly, and started to get out of the car.
‘But as far as I’m concerned, he’s small fry. I’m after bigger fish than Emil Becker. You can help me. You can try and repair some of the damage that your country has done. A symbolic gesture, if you like. Who knows — if enough Germans do the same then maybe the account could be settled.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I said, from the road. ‘What account?’ I leaned on the car door and bent forward to see Belinsky take out his pipe.
‘God’s account,’ he said quietly.
I laughed and shook my head in disbelief.
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you believe in God?’
‘I don’t believe in trying to make a deal with him. You speak about God as if he sells secondhand cars. I’ve misjudged you. You’re much more of an American than I thought you were.’
‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. God likes making deals. Look at that covenant he made with Abraham, and with Noah. God’s a huckster, Bernie. Only a German could mistake a deal for a direct order.’
‘Get to the point, will you? There is a point, isn’t there?’ His manner seemed to indicate as much.
‘I’m going to level with you —’
‘Oh? I seem to remember you doing that a little earlier on.’
‘Everything I told you was true.’
‘There’s just more to come, right?’
Belinsky nodded and lit his pipe. I felt like smacking it out of his mouth. Instead I got back into the car and closed the door.
‘With your penchant for selective truth, you should get a job in an advertising agency. Let’s hear it.’
‘Just don’t make a hot throat at me until I’m through, right?’
I nodded curtly.
‘All right. For a start, we — Crowcass — believe Becker is innocent of Linden’s murder. You see, the gun which killed him was used to kill somebody else in Berlin almost three years ago. The ballistics people matched that bullet with the one that killed Linden, and they were both fired from the same gun. For the time of the first killing Becker has a pretty good alibi: he was a Russian prisoner of war. Of course he could have acquired the gun since then, but I haven’t come to the interesting part yet, the part that actually makes me want Becker to be innocent.
‘The gun was a Standard SS-issue Walther P38. We traced the serial-number records held at the US Documents Centre and discovered that this same pistol was one of a batch that was issued to senior officers within the Gestapo. This particular weapon was given to Heinrich Müller. It was a long shot but we compared the bullet that killed Linden with the one that killed the man we dug up who was supposed to be Müller, and what do you know? Jackpot. Whoever killed Linden might also have been responsible for putting a false Heinrich Müller in the ground. Do you see, Bernie? It’s the best clue that we’ve ever had that Gestapo Müller is still alive. It means that only a few months ago he might have been right here in Vienna, working for the Org, of which you are now a member. He may even still be here.
‘Do you know how important that is? Think about it, please. Müller was the architect of the Nazi terror. For ten years he controlled the most brutal secret police the world has ever known. This was a man almost as powerful as Himmler himself. Can you imagine how many people he must have tortured? How many deaths he must have ordered? How many Jews, Poles — even how many Germans he must have killed? Bernie, this is your opportunity to help avenge all those dead Germans. To see that justice is done.’
I laughed scornfully. ‘Is that what you call it when you let a man hang for something he didn’t do? Correct me if I’m wrong, Belinsky, but isn’t that part of your plan: to let Becker take the drop?’
‘Naturally I hope that it doesn’t come to that. But if it’s necessary, then so be it. So long as the military police have Becker, Müller won’t be spooked. And if that includes hanging him, yes. Knowing what I know about Emil Becker, I won’t lose much sleep.’ Belinsky watched my face carefully for some sign of approval. ‘Come on, you’re a cop. You appreciate how these things work. Don’t tell me you’ve never had to nail a man for one thing because you couldn’t prove another. It all evens up, you know that.’
‘Sure, I’ve done it. But not when a man’s life was involved. I’ve never played games with a man’s life.’
‘Provided you help us to find Müller we’re prepared to forget about Becker.’ The pipe emitted a short smoke signal, which seemed to bespeak a growing impatience on its owner’s part. ‘Look, all I’m suggesting is that you put Müller in the dock instead of Becker.’
‘And if I do find Müller, what then? He’s not about to let me walk up and put the cuffs on him. How am I supposed to bring him in without getting my head blown off?’
‘You can leave that to me. All you have to do is establish exactly where he is. Telephone me and my Crowcass team will do the rest.’
‘How will I recognize him?’
Belinsky reached behind his seat and brought back a cheap leather briefcase. He unzipped it and took out an envelope from which he removed a passport-sized photograph.
‘That’s Müller,’ he said. ‘Apparently he speaks with a very pronounced Munich accent, so even if he should have radically changed his appearance, you’ll certainly have no trouble recognizing his voice.’ He watched me turn the photograph towards the streetlight and stare at it for a while.
‘He’d be forty-seven now. Not very tall, big peasant hands. He may still even be wearing his wedding ring.’
The photograph didn’t say much about the man. It wasn’t a very revealing face; and yet it was a remarkable one. Müller had a squarish skull, a high forehead, and tense, narrow lips. But it was the eyes that really got to you, even on that small photograph. Müller’s eyes were like the eyes of a snowman: two black, frozen coals.
‘Here’s another one,’ Belinsky said. ‘These are the only two photographs of him known to exist.’
The second picture was a group shot. There were five men seated round an oak table as if they had been having dinner in a comfortable restaurant. Three of them I recognized. At the head of the table was Heinrich Himmler, playing with his pencil and smiling at Arthur Nebe on his right. Arthur Nebe: my old comrade, as Belinsky would have said. On Himmler’s left, and apparently hanging on every one of the Reichsführer-SS’s words, was Reinhard Heydrich, chief of the RSHA, assassinated by Czech terrorists in 1942.
‘When was
this picture taken?’ I asked.
‘November 1939.’ Belinsky leaned across and tapped one of the two other men in the picture with the stem of his pipe. ‘That’s Müller there,’ he said, ‘sitting beside Heydrich.’
Müller’s hand had moved in the same half-second that the camera-shutter had opened and closed: it was blurred as if covering the order paper on the table, but even so, the wedding ring was clearly visible. He was looking down, almost not listening to Himmler at all. By comparison with Heydrich, Müller’s head was small. His hair was closely cropped, shaven even until it reached the very top of the cranium, where it had been permitted to grow a little in a small, carefully tended allotment.
‘Who’s the man sitting opposite Müller?’
‘The one taking notes? That’s Franz Josef Huber. He was chief of the Gestapo here in Vienna. You can hang on to those pictures if you want. They’re only prints.’
‘I haven’t agreed to help you yet.’
‘But you will. You have to.’
‘Right now I ought to tell you to go and fuck yourself, Belinsky. You see, I’m like an old piano — I don’t much like being played. But I’m tired. And I’ve had a few. Maybe I’ll be able to think a little more clearly tomorrow.’ I opened the car door and got out again.
Belinsky was right the body work of the big black Mercedes was covered in dents.
‘I’ll call you in the morning,’ he said.
‘You do that,’ I said, and slammed the door shut.
He drove away like he was the devil’s own coachman.
28
I did not sleep well. Troubled by what Belinsky had said, my thoughts made my limbs restless, and after only a few hours I woke before dawn in a cold sweat and did not sleep again. If only he hadn’t mentioned God, I said to myself.
