The Pale Criminal

by Philip Kerr

  ‘Gentlemen, here I’d like to introduce you all to Frau Kalau vom Hofe. I say “Frau”, as she’s not allowed to call herself a doctor, although she is one, because she is very evidently a woman, and we all know, don’t we, that a woman’s place is in the home, producing recruits for the Party, and cooking the old man’s dinner. She is in fact a psychotherapist, and is an acknowledged expert on that unfathomable little mystery that we refer to as the Criminal Mind.’

  My eyes looked and licked at the creamy woman who sat at the far end of the table. She wore a magnolia skirt and a white marocain blouse, and her fair hair was pinned up in a tight bun at the back of her finely sculpted head. She smiled at my introduction and took a file out of her briefcase and opened it in front of her.

  ‘When Josef Kahn was a child,’ she said, ‘he contracted acute encephalitis lethargica, which occurred in epidemic form among children in Western Europe between 1915 and 1926. This produced a gross change in his personality. After the acute phase of the illness, children may become increasingly restless, irritable, aggressive even, and appear to lose all moral sense. They beg, steal, lie and are often cruel. They talk incessantly and become unmanageable at school and at home. Abnormal sexual curiosity and sexual problems are often observed. Post-encephalitic adolescents sometimes show certain features of this syndrome, especially the lack of sexual restraint, and this is certainly true in Josef Kahn’s case. He is also developing Parkinsonism, which will result in his increased physical debilitation.’

  Count von der Schulenberg yawned and looked at his wristwatch. But the doctor was not deterred. Instead she seemed to find his bad manners amusing.

  ‘Despite his apparent criminality,’ she said, ‘I do not think that Josef killed any of these girls. Having discussed the forensic evidence with Professor Illmann, I am of the opinion that these killings show a level of premeditation of which Kahn is simply incapable. Kahn is capable only of the kind of frenzied murder that would have had him leave the victim where she fell.’

  Illmann nodded. ‘An analysis of his statement reveals a number of discrepancies with the known facts,’ he said. ‘His statement says that he used a stocking for the strangulations. The evidence, however, shows quite clearly that bare hands were used. He says that he stabbed his victims in the stomach. The evidence shows that none of them was stabbed, that they were all slashed across the throat. Then there is the fact that the fourth murder must have occurred while Kahn was in custody. Could this murder be the work of a different killer, someone copying the first three? No. Because there has been no press coverage of the first three to copy. And no, because the similarities between all four murders are too strong. They are all the work of the same man.’ He smiled at Frau Kalau vom Hofe. ‘Is there anything you wish to add to that, madam?’

  ‘Only that that man could not possibly be Josef Kahn,’ she said. ‘And that Josef Kahn has been the subject of a form of fraud that one might have thought was impossible in the Third Reich.’ There was a smile on her mouth as she closed her file and sat back in her chair, opening her cigarette case. Smoking, like being a doctor, was something else that women weren’t supposed to do, but I could see that it wasn’t the sort of thing that would have given her too many qualms.

  It was the count who spoke next.

  ‘In the light of this information, may one inquire of the Reichskriminaldirektor if the ban on news-reporting that has applied in this case will now be lifted?’ His belt creaked as he leant across the table, apparently eager to hear Nebe’s reply. The son of a well-known general who was now the ambassador to Moscow, young von der Schulenberg was impeccably well-connected. When Nebe didn’t answer, he added: ‘I don’t see how one can possibly impress upon the parents of girls in Berlin the need for caution without some sort of official statement in the newspapers. Naturally I will make sure that every Anwärter on the force is made aware of the need for vigilance on the street. However, it would be easier for my men in Orpo if there were some assistance from the Reich Ministry of Propaganda.’

  ‘It’s an accepted fact in criminology,’ said Nebe smoothly, ‘that publicity can act as an encouragement to a murderer like this, as I’m sure Frau Kalau vom Hofe will confirm.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ she said. ‘Mass murderers do seem to like to read about themselves in the newspapers.’

  ‘However,’ Nebe continued, ‘I will make a point of telephoning the Muratti building today, and asking them if there is not some propaganda that can be directed towards young girls being made more aware of the need to be careful. At the same time, any such campaign would have to receive the blessing of the Obergruppenführer. He is most anxious that there is nothing said which might create a panic amongst German women.’

  The count nodded. ‘And now,’ he said, looking at me, ‘I have a question for the Kommissar.’

  He smiled, but I wasn’t about to place too much reliance on it. He gave every impression of having attended the same school in supercilious sarcasm as Obergruppenführer Heydrich. Mentally I lifted my guard in readiness for the first punch.

  ‘As the detective who ingeniously solved the celebrated case of Gormann the strangler, will he share with us now his initial thoughts in this particular case?’

  The colourless smile persisted beyond what might have seemed comfortable, as if he was straining at his tight sphincter. At least, I assumed it was tight. As the deputy of a former SA man, Count Wolf von Helldorf, who was reputed to be as queer as the late SA boss Ernst Röhm, Schulenberg might well have had the kind of arse that would have tempted a short-sighted pickpocket.

  Sensing that there was even more to be made of this disingenuous line of inquiry, he added: ‘Perhaps an indication as to the kind of character we might be looking for?’

  ‘I think I can help the administrative president there,’ said Frau Kalau vom Hofe. The count’s head jerked irritatedly in her direction.

  She reached down into her briefcase and laid a large book on to the table. And then another, and another, until there was a pile as high as one of von der Schulenberg’s highly polished jackboots.

  ‘Anticipating just such a question, I took the liberty of bringing along several books dealing with the psychology of the criminal,’ she said. ‘Heindl’s Professional Criminal, Wulf-fen’s excellent Handbook of Sexual Delinquency, Hirschfeld’s Sexual Pathology, F. Alexander’s The Criminal and his Judges — ’

  This was too much for him. He collected his papers off the table and stood up, smiling nervously.

  ‘Another time perhaps, Frau vom Hofe,’ he said. Then he clicked his heels, bowed stiffly to the room and left.

  ‘Bastard,’ muttered Lobbes.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ she said, adding some copies of the German Police Journal to the pile of textbooks. ‘You can’t teach Hans what he won’t learn.’ I smiled, appreciating her cool resilience, as well as the fine breasts which strained at the material of her blouse.

  After the meeting was concluded, I lingered there a little in order to be alone with her.

  ‘He asked a good question,’ I said. ‘One to which I didn’t have much of an answer. Thanks for coming to my assistance when you did.’

  ‘Please don’t mention it,’ she said, starting to return some of her books to the briefcase. I picked one of them up and glanced at it.

  ‘You know, I’d be interested to hear your answer. Can I buy you a drink?’

  She looked at her watch. ‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘I’d like that.’

  Die Letze Instanz, at the end of Klosterstrasse on the old city wall, was a local bar much favoured by bulls from the Alex and court officials from the nearby court of last instance, from which the place took its name.

  Inside it was all dark-brown wood-panelled walls and flagged floors. Near the bar, with its great draught pump of yellow ceramic, on top of which stood the figure of a seventeenth-century soldier, was a large seat made of green, brown and yellow tiles, all with moulded figures and heads. It had the look of a very cold an
d uncomfortable throne, and on it sat the bar’s owner, Warnstorff, a pale-skinned, dark-haired man wearing a collarless shirt and a capacious leather apron that was also his bag of change. When we arrived he greeted me warmly and showed us to a quiet table in the back, where he brought us a couple of beers. At another table a man was dealing vigorously with the biggest piece of pig’s knuckle either of us had ever seen.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ I asked her.

  ‘Not now I’ve seen him,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean. It does put you off rather, doesn’t it? You’d think he was trying to win the Iron Cross the way he’s battling that joint.’

  She smiled, and we were silent for a moment. Eventually she said, ‘Do you think there’s going to be a war?’

  I stared into the top of my beer as if expecting the answer to float to the surface. I shrugged and shook my head.

  ‘I haven’t really been keeping that close an eye on things lately,’ I said, and explained about Bruno Stahlecker and my return to Kripo. ‘But shouldn’t I be asking you? As the expert on criminal psychology you should have a better appreciation of the Fuhrer’s mind than most people. Would you say his behaviour was compulsive or irresistible within the definition of Paragraph Fifty-one of the Criminal Code?’

  It was her turn to search for inspiration in a glass of beer.

  ‘We don’t really know each other well enough for this kind of conversation, do we?’ she said.

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I will say this, though,’ she said lowering her voice. ‘Have you ever read Mein Kampf?’

  ‘That funny old book they give free to all newlyweds? It’s the best reason to stay single I can think of.’

  ‘Well, I have read it. And one of the things I noticed was that there is one passage, as long as seven pages, in which Hitler makes repeated references to venereal disease and its effects. Indeed, he actually says that the elimination of venereal disease is The Task that faces the German nation.’

  ‘My God, are you saying that he’s syphilitic?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m just telling you what is written in the Führer’s great book.’

  ‘But the book’s been around since the mid-twenties. If he’s had a hot tail since then his syphilis would have to be tertiary.’

  ‘It might interest you to know,’ she said, ‘that many of Josef Kahn’s fellow inmates at the Herzeberge Asylum are those whose organic dementia is a direct result of their syphilis. Contradictory statements can be made and accepted. The mood varies between euphoria and apathy, and there is general emotional instability. The classic type is characterized by a demented euphoria, delusions of grandeur and bouts of extreme paranoia.’

  ‘Christ, the only thing you left out was the crazy moustache,’ I said. I lit a cigarette and puffed at it dismally. ‘For God’s sake change the subject. Let’s talk about something cheerful, like our mass-murdering friend. Do you know, I’m beginning to see his point, I really am. I mean, these are tomorrow’s young mothers he’s killing. More childbearing machines to produce new Party recruits. Me, I’m all for these by-products of the asphalt civilization they’re always on about — the childless families with eugenically dud women, at least until we’ve got rid of this regime of rubber truncheons. What’s one more psychopath among so many?’

  ‘You say more than you know,’ she said. ‘We’re all of us capable of cruelty. Every one of us is a latent criminal. Life is just a battle to maintain a civilized skin. Many sadistic killers find that it’s only occasionally that it comes off. Peter Kurten for example. He was apparently a man of such a kindly disposition that nobody who knew him could believe that he was capable of such horrific crimes as he committed.’

  She rummaged in her briefcase again and, having wiped the table, she laid a thin blue book between our two glasses.

  ‘This book is by Carl Berg, a forensic pathologist who had the opportunity of studying Kurten at length following his arrest. I’ve met Berg and respect his work. He founded the Diisseldorf Institute of Legal and Social Medicine, and for a while he was the medico-legal officer of the Düsseldorf Criminal Court. This book, The Sadist, is probably one of the best accounts of the mind of the murderer that has ever been written. You can borrow it if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  ‘That will help you to understand,’ she said. ‘But to enter into the mind of a man like Kurten, you should read this.’ Again she dipped into the bag of books.

  ‘Les Fleurs du mal,’ I read, ‘by Charles Baudelaire.’ I opened it and looked over the verses. ‘Poetry?’ I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, don’t look so suspicious, Kommissar. I’m being perfectly serious. It’s a good translation, and you’ll find a lot more in it than you might expect, believe me.’ She smiled at me.

  ‘I haven’t read poetry since I studied Goethe at school.’

  ‘And what was your opinion of him?’

  ‘Do Frankfurt lawyers make good poets?’

  ‘It’s an interesting critique,’ she said. ‘Well, let’s hope you think better of Baudelaire. And now I’m afraid I must be going.’ She stood up and we shook hands. ‘When you’ve finished with the books you can return them to me at the Goering Institute on Budapesterstrasse. We’re just across the road from the Zoo Aquarium. I’d certainly be interested to hear a detective’s opinion of Baudelaire,’ she said.

  ‘It will be my pleasure. And you can tell me your opinion of Dr Lanz Kindermann.’

  ‘Kindermann? You know Lanz Kindermann?’

  ‘In a way.’

  She gave me a judicious sort of look. ‘You know, for a police Kommissar you are certainly full of surprises. You certainly are.’

  7

  Sunday, 11 September

  I prefer my tomatoes when they’ve still got some green left in them. Then they’re sweet and firm, with smooth, cool skins, the sort you would choose for a salad. But when a tomato has been around for a while, it picks up a few wrinkles as it grows too soft to handle, and even begins to taste a little sour.

  It’s the same with women. Only this one was perhaps a shade green for me, and possibly rather too cool for her own good. She stood at my front door and gave me an impertinent sort of north-to-south-and-back-again look, as if she was trying to assess my prowess, or lack of it, as a lover.

  ‘Yes?’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m collecting for the Reich,’ she explained, playing games with her eyes. She held a bag of material out, as if to corroborate her story. ‘The Party Economy Programme. Oh, the concierge let me in.’

  ‘I can see that. Exactly what would you like?’

  She raised an eyebrow at that and I wondered if her father thought she wasn’t still young enough for him to spank.

  ‘Well, what have you got?’ There was a quiet mockery in her tone. She was pretty, in a sulky, sultry sort of way. In civilian clothes she might have passed for a girl of twenty, but with her two pigtails, and dressed in the sturdy boots, long navy skirt, trim white blouse and brown leather jacket of the BdM — the League of German Girls — I guessed her to be no more than sixteen.

  ‘I’ll have a look and see what I can find,’ I said, half amused at her grown-up manner, which seemed to confirm what you sometimes heard of BdM girls, which was that they were sexually promiscuous and just as likely to get themselves pregnant at Hitler Youth Camp as they were to learn needlework, first aid and German folk history. ‘I suppose you had better come in.’

  The girl sauntered through the door as if she were trailing a mink wrap and gave the hall a cursory examination. She didn’t seem to be much impressed. ‘Nice place,’ she murmured quietly.

  I closed the door and laid my cigarette in the ashtray on the hall table. ‘Wait here,’ I told her.

  I went into the bedroom and foraged under the bed for the suitcase where I kept old shirts and threadbare towels, not to mention all my spare house dust and carpet fluff. When I stood up and brushed myself off she was lean
ing in the doorway and smoking my cigarette. Insolently she blew a perfect smoke-ring towards me.

  ‘I thought you Faith-and-Beauty girls weren’t supposed to smoke,’ I said, trying to conceal my irritation.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ she smirked. ‘There are quite a few things we’re not encouraged to do. We’re not supposed to do this, we’re not supposed to do that. Just about everything seems to be wicked these days, doesn’t it? But what I always say is, if you can’t do the wicked things when you’re still young enough to enjoy them, then what’s the point of doing them at all?’ She jerked herself away from the wall and stalked out.

  Quite the little bitch, I thought, following her into the sitting-room next door.

  She inhaled noisily, like she was sucking at a spoonful of soup, and blew another smoke-ring in my face. If I could have caught it I would have wrapped it round her pretty little neck.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I hardly think one little drummer is going to knock over the heap, do you?’

  I laughed. ‘Do I look like the sort of dog’s ear who would smoke cheap cigarettes?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ she admitted. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Plato.’

  ‘Plato. It suits you. Well, Plato, you can kiss me if you want.’

  ‘You don’t creep around it, do you?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard the nicknames they have for the BdM? The German Mattress League? Commodities for German Men?’ She put her arms about my neck and performed a variety of coquettish expressions she’d probably practised in front of her dressing-table mirror.

  Her hot young breath tasted stale, but I let myself equal the competence in her kiss, just to be affable, my hands squeezing at her young breasts, kneading the nipples with my fingers. Then I cupped her chubby behind in both my moistening palms, and drew her closer to what was increasingly on my mind. Her naughty eyes went round as she pressed herself against me. I can’t honestly say I wasn’t tempted.