by Philip Kerr
‘It’s a nice idea,’ he said, smiling reflectively. ‘But tell me about this fellow you’ve arrested. Think he might be our man?’
I glanced around the room for a moment, hoping to find greater conviction on the walls and the ceiling, and then lifted my hands almost as if I meant to disclaim Gottfried Bautz’s presence in a cell downstairs.
‘From a circumstantial point of view, he could fit the laundry list.’ I rationed myself to one sigh. ‘But there’s nothing that definitely connects him. The rope we found in his room is the same type as the rope that was used to bind the feet of one of the dead girls. But then it’s a very common type of rope. We use the same kind here at the Alex.
‘Some cloth we found underneath his bed could be stained with blood from one of his victims. Equally, it could be menstrual blood, as he claims. He has access to a van in which he could have transported and killed his victims relatively easily. I’ve got some of the boys checking it over now, but so far it appears to be as clean as a dentist’s fingers.
‘And then of course there is his record. We’ve locked his door once before for a sexual offence — a statutory rape. More recently he probably tried to strangle a snapper he’d first persuaded to be tied up. So he could fit the psychological bill of the man we’re looking for.’ I shook my head. ‘But that’s more “could-be” than Fritz fucking Lang. What I want is some real evidence.’
Nebe nodded sagely and put his boots on the desk. Tapping his fingers’ ends together, he said: ‘Could you build a case? Break him?’
‘He’s not stupid. It will take time. I’m not that good an interrogator, and I’m not about to take any short-cuts either. The last thing I want on this case is broken teeth on the charge sheet. That’s how Josef Kahn got himself folded away and put in the costume-hire hospital.’ I helped myself from the box of American cigarettes on Nebe’s desk and lit one with an enormous brass table lighter, a present from Goering. The prime minister was always giving away cigarette lighters to people who had done him some small service. He used them like a nanny uses boiled sweets.
‘Incidentally, has he been released yet?’
Nebe’s lean face adopted a pained expression. ‘No, not yet,’ he said.
‘I know it’s considered only a small detail, the fact that he hasn’t actually murdered anyone, but don’t you think it’s time he should be let out? We still have some standards left, don’t we?’
He stood up and came round the desk to stand in front of me.
‘You’re not going to like this, Bernie,’ he said. ‘No more than I do myself.’
‘Why should this be an exception? I figure that the only reason there aren’t any mirrors in the lavatories is so that nobody has to look himself in the eye. They’re not going to release him, right?’
Nebe leant against the side of the desk, folded his arms and stared at the toes of his boots for a minute.
‘Worse than that, I’m afraid. He’s dead.’
‘What happened?’
‘Officially?’
‘You can give it a shot.’
‘Josef Kahn took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed.’
‘I can see how that would read nicely. But you know different, right?’
‘I don’t know anything for certain.’ He shrugged. ‘So call it informed guesswork. I hear things, I read things and I make a few reasonable conclusions. Naturally as Reichskriminaldirektor I have access to all kinds of secret decrees in the Ministry of the Interior.’ He took a cigarette and lit it. ‘Usually these are camouflaged with all sorts of neutral-sounding bureaucratic names.
‘Well then, at the present moment there’s a move to establish a new committee for the research of severe constitutional disease — ’
‘You mean like what this country is suffering from?’
‘ — with the aim of encouraging “positive eugenics, in accordance with the Führer’s thoughts on the subject”.’ He waved his cigarette at the portrait on the wall behind him. ‘Whenever you read that phrase “the Führer’s thoughts on the subject”, one knows to pick up one’s well-read copy of his book. And there you will find that he talks about using the most modern medical means at our disposal to prevent the physically degenerate and mentally sick from contaminating the future health of the race.’
‘Well, what the hell does that mean?’
‘I had assumed it meant that such unfortunates would simply be prevented from having families. I mean, that does seem sensible, doesn’t it? If they are incapable of looking after themselves then they can hardly be fit to bring up children.’
‘It doesn’t seem to have deterred the Hitler Youth leaders.’
Nebe snorted and went back round his desk. ‘You’re going to have to watch your mouth, Bernie,’ he said, half-amused.
‘Get to the funny bit.’
‘Well, it’s this. A number of recent reports, complaints if you like, made to Kripo by those related to institutionalized people leads me to suspect that some sort of mercy-killing is already being unofficially practised.’
I leant forward and grasped the bridge of my nose.
‘Do you ever get headaches? I get headaches. It’s smell that really sets them off. Paint smells pretty bad. So does formaldehyde in the mortuary. But the worst are those rotten pissing places you get where the dozers and rum-sweats sleep rough. That’s a smell I can recall in my worst nightmares. You know, Arthur, I thought I knew every bad smell there was in this city. But that’s last month’s shit fried with last year’s eggs.’
Nebe pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle and two glasses. He said nothing as he poured a couple of large ones.
I threw it back and waited for the fiery spirit to seek out what was left of my heart and stomach. I nodded and let him pour me another. I said: ‘Just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse, you find out that they’ve always been a lot worse than you thought they were. And then they get worse.’ I drained the second glass and then surveyed its empty shape. ‘Thanks for telling me straight, Arthur.’ I dragged myself to my feet. ‘And thanks for the warmer.’
‘Please keep me informed about your suspect,’ he said. ‘You might consider letting a couple of your men work a friend-and-foe shift on him. No rough stuff, just a bit of the old-fashioned psychological pressure. You know the sort of thing I mean. Incidentally, how are you getting on with your team? Everything working out there? No resentments, or anything like that?’
I could have sat down again and given him a list of faults there that were as long as a Party rally, but really he didn’t need it. I knew that Kripo had a hundred bulls who were worse than the three I had in my squad. So I merely nodded and said that everything was fine.
But at the door to Nebe’s office I stopped and uttered the words automatically, without even thinking. I said it, and not out of obligation, in response to someone else, in which situation I might have consoled myself with the excuse that I was just keeping my head down and avoiding the trouble of giving offence. I said it first.
‘Heil Hitler.’
‘Heil Hitler.’ Nebe didn’t look up from whatever it was that he had started writing as he mumbled his reply, so he didn’t see my expression. I couldn’t say what it would have looked like. But whatever my expression, it was born of the realization that the only real complaint I had at the Alex was going to be against myself.
10
Monday, 19 September
The telephone rang. I wrestled my way across from the other side of the bed and answered it. I was still registering the time while Deubel was speaking. It was two a.m.
‘Say that again.’
‘We think we’ve found the missing girl, sir.’
‘Dead?’
‘Like a mouse in a trap. There’s no positive identification yet, but it looks like all the rest of them, sir. I’ve called Professor Illmann. He’s on his way now.’
‘Where are you, Deubel?’
‘Zoo Bahnhof.’
It
was still warm outside when I went down to the car, and I opened the window to enjoy the night air, as well as to help wake me up. For everyone but Herr and Frau Hanke asleep at their home in Steglitz, it promised to be a nice day.
I drove east along Kurfurstendamm with its geometric-shaped, neon-lit shops, and turned north up Joachimstaler Strasse, at the top of which loomed the great luminous greenhouse that was the Zoo Station. In front were several police vans, a redundant ambulance and a few drunks still intent on making a night of it, being moved on by a bull.
Inside, I walked across the floor of the central ticket hall towards the police barrier that had been erected in front of the lost property and left-luggage areas. I flashed my badge at the two men guarding the barrier and carried on through. As I rounded the corner Deubel met me halfway.
‘What have we got?’ I said.
‘Body of a girl in a trunk, sir. From the look and smell of her she’s been in there sometime. The trunk was in the left-luggage office.’
‘The professor here yet?’
‘Him and the photographer. They haven’t done much more than give her a dirty look. We wanted to wait for you.’
‘I’m touched by your thoughtfulness. Who found the mortal remains?’
‘I did, sir, with one of the uniformed sergeants in my squad.’
‘Oh? What did you do, consult a medium?’
‘There was an anonymous telephone call, sir. To the Alex. He told the desk sergeant where to find the body, and the desk sergeant told my sergeant. He rang me and we came straight down here. We located the trunk, found the girl and then I called you.’
‘An anonymous caller you say. What time was this?’
‘About twelve. I was just going off shift.’
‘I’ll want to speak to the man who took that call. You better get someone to check he doesn’t go off duty either, at least not until he’s made his report. How did you get in here?’
‘The night station-master, sir. He keeps the keys in his office when they close the left luggage.’ Deubel pointed at a fat greasy-looking man standing a few metres away, chewing the skin on the palm of his hand. ‘That’s him over there.’
‘Looks like we’re keeping him from his supper. Tell him I want the names and addresses of everyone who works in this section, and what time they start work in the morning. Regardless of what hours they work, I want to see them all here at the normal opening time, with all their records and paperwork.’ I paused for a moment, steeling myself for what was about to follow.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Show me where.’
In the left-luggage office, Hans Illmann sat on a large parcel labelled ‘Fragile’, smoking one of his roll-ups and watching the police photographer set up his flashlights and camera-tripods.
‘Ah, the Kommissar,’ he said, eyeing me and standing. ‘We’re not long here ourselves, and I knew you’d want us to wait for you. Dinner’s a little overcooked, so you’ll need these.’ He handed me a pair of rubber gloves, and then looked querulously at Deubel. ‘Are you sitting down with us, inspector?’
Deubel grimaced. ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, sir. Normally I would, but I’ve got a daughter about that age myself.’
I nodded. ‘You’d better wake up Becker and Korsch and get them down here. I don’t see why we should be the only ones to lose our rat.’
Deubel turned to go.
‘Oh, inspector,’ said Illmann, ‘you might ask one of our uniformed friends to organize some coffee. I work a great deal better when I’m awake. Also, I need someone to take notes. Can your sergeant write legibly, do you think?’
‘I assume he does, sir.’
‘Inspector, the one assumption that it is safe to make with regard to the educational standards that prevail in Orpo is that which allows only of the man being capable of completing a betting-slip. Find out for sure, if you wouldn’t mind. I’d rather do it myself than later have to decipher the cyrillic scrawl of a more primitive life-form.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Deubel smiled thinly and went to carry out his orders.
‘I didn’t think he was the sensitive type,’ Illmann commented, watching him go. ‘Imagine a detective not wanting to see the body. It’s like a wine merchant declining to try a Burgundy he’s about to purchase. Unthinkable. Wherever do they find these face-slappers?’
‘Simple. They just go out and shanghai all the men wearing leather shorts. It’s what the Nazis call natural selection.’
On the floor at the back of the left-luggage office lay the trunk containing the body, covered with a sheet. We pulled up a couple of large parcels and sat down.
Illmann drew back the sheet, and I winced a little as the animal-house smell rose up to greet me, turning my head automatically towards the better air that lay behind my shoulder.
‘Yes, indeed,’ he murmured, ‘it’s been a warm summer.’
It was a full-sized steamer trunk, and made of good quality blue leather, with brass locks and studs — the kind you see being loaded on to those high-class passenger liners that sail between Hamburg and New York. For its solitary occupant, a naked girl of about sixteen years old, there was only one kind of journey, the more final kind, which remained to be embarked upon. Partly swathed in what looked like a length of brown curtain material, she lay on her back with her legs folded to the left, a bare breast arching upwards as if there was something underneath her. The head lay at an impossibly contradictory angle to the rest of her body, the mouth open and almost smiling, the eyes half closed and, but for the dried blood in her nostrils and the rope around her ankles, you might almost have thought the girl was in the first stages of awakening from a long sleep.
Deubel’s sergeant, a burly fellow with less neck than a hipflask and a chest like a sandbag, arrived with a notebook and pencil, and sat a little way apart from Illmann and me, sucking a sweet, his legs crossed almost nonchalantly, apparently undisturbed at the sight which lay before us.
Illmann looked appraisingly at him for a moment and then nodded, before beginning to describe what he saw.
‘An adolescent female,’ he said solemnly, ‘about sixteen years of age, naked, and lying inside a large trunk of quality manufacture. The body is covered partially with a length of brown cretonne, and the feet are bound with a piece of rope.’ He spoke slowly, with pauses between the phrases in order to allow the sergeant’s handwriting to keep pace with him.
‘Pulling the fabric away from the body reveals the head almost completely severed from the torso. The body itself shows signs of advancing decomposition, consistent with it having been in the trunk for at least four to five weeks. The hands show no signs of defence wounds, and I’m wrapping them for further examination of the fingers in the laboratory, although since she clearly bit her nails I expect I’ll be wasting my time.’ He took two thick paper bags out of his case and I helped him secure them over the dead girl’s hands.
‘Hallo, what’s this? Do my eyes deceive me, or is this a bloodstained blouse which I see before me?’
‘It looks like her BdM uniform,’ I said, watching him pick up first the blouse, and then a navy skirt.
‘How extraordinarily thoughtful of our friend to send us her laundry. And just when I thought he was becoming just a little bit predictable. First an anonymous telephone call to the Alex, and now this. Remind me to consult my diary and check that it’s not my birthday.’
Something else caught my eye, and I leant forward and picked the small square piece of card out of the trunk.
‘Irma Hanke’s identity card,’ I said.
‘Well that saves me the trouble, I suppose.’ Illmann turned his head towards the sergeant. ‘The trunk also contained the dead girl’s clothing and her identity card,’ he dictated.
Inside the card was a smudge of blood.
‘Could that be a fingermark, do you think?’ I asked him.
He took the card out of my hand and looked carefully at the mark. ‘Yes, it could. But I don’t see the relevance. An actual fingerprint w
ould be a different story. That would answer a lot of our prayers.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not an answer. It’s a question. Why would a psycho bother to look at his victim’s identity? I mean, the blood indicates that she was probably already dead, assuming it’s hers. So why does our man feel obliged to find out her name?’
‘Perhaps in order that he might name her in his anonymous call to the Alex?’
‘Yes, but then why wait several weeks before making the call? Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’
‘You have a point there, Bernie.’ He bagged the identity card and placed it carefully in his case, before looking back into the trunk. ‘And what have we here?’ He lifted up a small but heavy-looking sack and glanced inside. ‘How’s this for strange?’ He held it open for my inspection. It was the empty toothpaste tubes that Irma Hanke had been collecting for the Reich Economy Programme. ‘Our killer does seem to have thought of everything.’
‘It’s almost as if the bastard were defying us to catch him. He gives us everything. Think how smug he’ll be if we still can’t nail him.’
Illmann dictated some more notes to the sergeant and then pronounced that he was finished with the preliminary scene-of-crime investigation, and that it was now the photographer’s turn. Pulling our gloves off we moved away from the trunk and found that the station-master had provided coffee. It was hot and strong and I needed it to take away the taste of death that was coating my tongue. Illmann rolled a couple of cigarettes and handed me one. The rich tobacco tasted like barbecued nectar.
‘Where does this leave your crazy Czech?’ he said. ‘The one who thinks he’s a cavalry officer.’
‘It seems that he really was a cavalry officer,’ I said. ‘Got a bit shell-shocked on the Eastern Front and never quite recovered. All the same, he’s no hop and skip, and frankly, unless I get some hard evidence I’m not confident of making anything stick to him. And I’m not about to send anyone up on an Alexanderplatz-style confession. Not that he’s saying anything, mind. He’s been questioned the whole weekend and still maintains his innocence. I’ll see if somebody from the left-luggage office here can identify him as the coat that left the trunk, but if not then I’ll have to let him go.’
