by Philip Kerr
‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I never forget. I’m a fucking elephant. Take this other patient of yours, for instance.’ I picked up one of the two files I had brought with me from Kindermann’s office and tossed it back over the seat. ‘You see, until quite recently I was a private detective. And what do you know? It turns out that even though you’re a lump of shit we have something in common. Your patient there was a client of mine.’
He switched on the courtesy light and picked up the file.
‘Yes, I remember her.’
‘A couple of years ago, she disappeared. It so happens she was in the vicinity of your clinic at the time. I know that because she parked my car near there. Tell me, Herr Doktor, what does your friend Jung have to say about coincidence?’
‘Er ... meaningful coincidence, I suppose you mean. It’s a principle he calls synchronicity: that a certain apparently coincidental event might be meaningful according to an unconscious knowledge linking a physical event with a psychic condition. It’s quite difficult to explain in terms that you would understand. But I fail to see how this coincidence could be meaningful.’
‘No, of course you don’t. You have no knowledge of my unconscious. Perhaps that’s just as well.’
He was quiet for a long while after that.
North of Brunswick we crossed the Mittelland Canal, where the autobahn ended, and I drove south-west towards Hildesheim and Hamelin.
‘Not far now,’ I said across my shoulder. There was no reply. I pulled off the main road and drove slowly for several minutes down a narrow path that led into an area of woodland.
I stopped the car and looked around. Kindermann was dozing quietly. With a trembling hand I lit a cigarette and got out. A strong wind was blowing now and an electrical storm was firing silver lifelines across the rumbling black sky. Maybe they were for Kindermann.
After a minute or two I leant back across the front seat and picked up my gun. Then I opened the rear door and shook Kindermann by the shoulder.
‘Come on,’ I said, handing him the key to the handcuffs, ‘we’re going to stretch our legs again.’ I pointed down the path which lay before us, illuminated by the big headlights of the Mercedes. We walked to the edge of the beam where I stopped.
‘Right that’s far enough,’ I said. He turned to face me. ‘Synchronicity. I like that. A nice fancy word for something that’s been gnawing at my guts for a long time. I’m a private man, Kindermann. Doing what I do makes me value my own privacy all the more. For instance, I would never ever write my home telephone number on the back of my business card. Not unless that someone was very special to me. So when I asked Reinhard Lange’s mother just how she came to hire me in the first place instead of some other fellow, she showed me just such a card, which she got out of Reinhard’s jacket pocket before sending his suit to the cleaners. Naturally I began to start thinking. When she saw the card she was worried that he might be in trouble, and mentioned it to him. He said that he picked it off your desk. I wonder if he had a reason for doing that. Perhaps not. We’ll never know, I guess. But whatever the reason, that card put my client in your office on the day she disappeared and was never seen again. Now how’s that for synchronicity?’
‘Look, Gunther, it was an accident, what happened. She was an addict.’
‘And how did she get that way?’
‘I’d been treating her for depression. She’d lost her job. A relationship had ended. She needed cocaine more than seemed apparent at the time. There was absolutely no way of knowing just by looking at her. By the time I realized she was getting used to the drug, it was too late.’
‘What happened?’
‘One afternoon she just turned up at the clinic. In the neighbourhood, she said, and feeling low. There was a job she was going for, an important job, and she felt that she could get it if I gave her a little help. At first I refused. But she was a very persuasive woman, and finally I agreed. I left her alone for a short while. I think she hadn’t used it in a long time, and had less tolerance to her usual dose. She must have aspirated on her own vomit.’
I said nothing. It was the wrong context for it to mean anything anymore. Revenge is not sweet. Its true flavour is bitter, since pity is the most probable aftertaste.
‘What are you going to do?’ he said nervously. ‘You’re not going to kill me, surely. Look, it was an accident. You can’t kill a man for that, can you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t. Not for that.’ I saw him breathe a sigh of relief and walk towards me. ‘In a civilized society you don’t shoot a man in cold blood.’
Except that this was Hitler’s Germany, and no more civilized than the very pagans venerated by Weisthor and Himmler.
‘But for the murders of all those poor bloody girls, somebody has to,’ I said.
I pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger once; and then several times more.
From the narrow winding road, Wewelsburg looked like a fairly typical Westphalian peasant village, with as many shrines to the Virgin Mary on the walls and grass verges as there were pieces of farm-machinery left lying outside the half-timbered, fairy-story houses. I knew I was in for something weird when I decided to stop at one of these and ask for directions to the SS-School. The flying griffins, runic symbols and ancient words of German that were carved or painted in gold on the black window casements and lintels put me in mind of witches and wizards, and so I was almost prepared for the hideous sight that presented itself at the front door, wreathed in an atmosphere of wood smoke and frying veal.
The girl was young, no more than twenty-five and but for the huge cancer eating away at one whole side of her face, you might have said that she was attractive. I hesitated for no more than a second, but it was enough to draw her anger.
‘Well? What are you staring at?’ she demanded, her distended mouth, widening to a grimace that showed her blackened teeth, and the edge of something darker and more corrupt. ‘And what time is this to be calling? What is it that you want?’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I said, concentrating on the side of her face that was unmarked by the disease, ‘but I’m a little lost, and I was hoping you could direct me to the SS-School.’
‘There’s no school in Wewelsburg,’ she said, eyeing me suspiciously.
‘The SS-School,’ I repeated weakly. ‘I was told it was somewhere hereabouts.’
‘Oh that,’ she snapped, and turning in her doorway she pointed to where the road dipped down a hill. ‘There is your way. The road bends right and left for a short way before you see a narrower road with a railing rising up a slope to your left.’ Laughing scornfully, she added, ‘The school, as you call it, is up there.’ And with that she slammed the door shut in my face.
It was good to be out of the city, I told myself walking back to the Mercedes. Country people have so much more time for the ordinary pleasantries.
I found the road with the railing, and steered the big car up the slope and on to a cobbled esplanade.
It was easy enough to see now why the girl with the piece of coal in her mouth had been so amused, for what met my eyes was no more what one would normally have recognized as a schoolhouse, than a zoo was a pet-shop, or a cathedral a meeting hall. Himmler’s schoolhouse was in reality a decent-sized castle, complete with domed towers, one of which loomed over the esplanade like the helmeted head of some enormous Prussian soldier.
I drew up next to a small church a short distance away from the several troop trucks and staff cars that were parked outside what looked like the castle guard-house on the eastern side. For a moment the storm lit up the entire sky and I had a spectral black-and-white view of the whole of the castle.
By any standard it was an impressive-looking place, with rather more of the horror film about it than was entirely comfortable a proposition for the intendant trespasser. This so-called schoolhouse looked like home from home for Dracula, Frankenstein, Orlac and a whole forestful of Wolfmen — the sort of occasion where I might have been prompted to re-l
oad my pistol with nine millimetre cloves of snub-nosed garlic.
Almost certainly there were enough real-life monsters in the Wewelsburg Castle without having to worry about the more fanciful ones, and I didn’t doubt that Himmler could have given Doctor X quite a few pointers.
But could I trust Heydrich? I thought about this for quite a while. Finally I decided that I could almost certainly trust him to be ambitious, and since I was effectively providing him with the means of destroying an enemy in the shape of Weisthor, I had no real alternative but to put myself and my information in his murdering white hands.
The little church bell in the clock-tower was striking midnight as I steered the Mercedes to the edge of the esplanade and beyond it, the bridge curving left across the empty moat towards the castle gate.
An S S trooper emerged from a stone sentry-box to glance at my papers and to wave me on.
In front of the wooden gate I stopped and sounded the car horn a couple of times. There were lights on all over the castle, and it didn’t seem likely that I’d be waking anyone, dead or alive. A small door in the gate swung open and an S S corporal came outside to speak to me. After scrutinizing my papers in his torchlight, he allowed me to step through the door and into the arched gateway where once again I repeated my story and presented my papers, only this time it was for the benefit of a young lieutenant apparently in command of the guard-duty.
There is only one way to deal effectively with arrogant young SS officers who look as though they’ve been specially issued with the right shade of blue eyes and fair hair, and that is to outdo them for arrogance. So I thought of the man I had killed that evening, and fixed the lieutenant with the sort of cold, supercilious stare that would have crushed a Hohenzollern prince.
‘I am Kommissar Gunther,’ I rapped at him, ‘and I’m here on extremely pressing Sipo business affecting Reich security, which requires the immediate attention of General Heydrich. Please inform him at once that I am here. You’ll find that he is expecting me, even to the extent that he has seen fit to provide me with the password to the castle during these Court of Honour proceedings.’ I uttered the word and watched the lieutenant’s arrogance pay homage to my own.
‘Let me stress the delicacy of my mission, lieutenant,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘It is imperative that at this stage only General Heydrich or his aide be informed of my presence here in the castle. It is quite possible that Communist spies may already have infiltrated these proceedings. Do you understand?’
The lieutenant nodded curtly and ducked back into his office to make the telephone call, while I walked to the edge of the cobbled courtyard that lay open to the cold night sky.
The castle seemed smaller from the inside, with three roofed wings joined by three towers, two of them domed, and the short but wider third, castellated and furnished with a flagpole where an SS penant fluttered noisily in the strengthening wind.
The lieutenant came back and to my surprise stood to attention with a click of his heels. I guessed that this probably had more to do with what Heydrich or his aide had said than with my own commanding personality.
‘Kommissar Gunther,’ he said respectfully, ‘the general is finishing dinner and asks you to wait in the sitting-room. That is in the west tower. Would you please follow me? The corporal will attend to your vehicle.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ I said, ‘but first I have to remove some important documents that I left on the front seat.’
Having recovered my briefcase, which contained Weisthor’s medical case-history, Lange’s statement and the Lange-Kindermann letters, I followed the lieutenant across the cobbled courtyard towards the west wing. From somewhere to our left could be heard the sound of men singing.
‘Sounds like quite a party,’ I said coldly. My escort grunted without much enthusiasm. Any kind of party is better than late-night guard-duty in November. We went through a heavy oak door and entered the great hall.
All German castles should be so Gothic; every Teutonic warlord should live and strut in such a place; each inquisitorial Aryan bully should surround himself with as many emblems of unsparing tyranny. Aside from the great heavy rugs, the thick tapestries and the dull paintings, there were enough suits of armour, musket-stands and wall-mounted cutlery to have fought a war with King Gustavus Adolphus and the whole Swedish army.
In contrast, the sitting-room, which we reached by a wooden spiral staircase, was furnished plainly and commanded a spectacular view of a small airfield’s landing lights a couple of kilometres away.
‘Help yourself to a drink,’ said the lieutenant, opening the cabinet. ‘If there’s anything else you need, sir, just ring the bell.’ Then he clicked his heels again and disappeared back down the staircase.
I poured myself a large brandy and tossed it straight back. I was tired after the long drive. With another glass in my hand I sat stiffly in an armchair and closed my eyes. I could still see the startled expression on Kindermann’s face as the first bullet struck between the eyes. Weisthor would be missing him and his bag of drugs badly by now, I thought. I could have used an armful myself.
I sipped some more of the brandy. Ten minutes passed and I felt my head nodding.
I fell asleep and my nightmare’s terrifying gallop brought me before beast men, preachers of death, scarlet judges and the outcasts of paradise.
23
Monday, 7 November
By the time I finished telling Heydrich my story the general’s normally pale features were flushed with excitement.
‘I congratulate you, Gunther,’ he said. ‘This is much more than I had expected. And your timing is perfect. Don’t you agree, Nebe?’
‘Yes indeed, General.’
‘It may surprise you, Gunther,’ Heydrich said, ‘but Reichsführer Himmler and myself are currently in favour of maintaining police protection for Jewish property, if only for reasons of public order and commerce. You let a mob run riot on the streets and it won’t just be Jewish shops that are looted, it will be German ones too. To say nothing of the fact that the damage will have to be made good by German insurance companies. Goering will be beside himself. And who can blame him? The whole idea makes a mockery of any economic planning.
‘But as you say, Gunther, were Himmler to be convinced by Weisthor’s scheme then he would certainly be inclined to waive that police protection. In which case I should have to go along with that position. So we have to be careful how we handle this. Himmler is a fool, but he’s a dangerous fool. We have to expose Weisthor unequivocally, and in front of as many witnesses as possible.’ He paused. ‘Nebe?’
The Reichskriminaldirektor stroked the side of his long nose and nodded thoughtfully.
‘We shouldn’t mention Himmler’s involvement at all, if we can possibly avoid it, General,’ he said. ‘I’m all for exposing Weisthor in front of witnesses. I don’t want that dirty bastard to get away with it. But at the same time we should avoid embarrassing the Reichsfuhrer in front of the senior SS staff. He’ll forgive us destroying Weisthor, but he won’t forgive us making an ass of him.’
‘I agree,’ said Heydrich. He thought for a moment. ‘This is Sipo section six, isn’t it?’ Nebe nodded. ‘Where’s the nearest SD main provincial station to Wewelsburg?’
‘Bielefeld,’ Nebe replied.
‘Right. I want you to telephone them immediately. Have them send a full company of men here by dawn.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Just in case Weisthor manages to make this Jew allegation against me stick. I don’t like this place. Weisthor has lots of friends here in Wewelsburg. He even officiates at some of the ludicrous SS wedding ceremonies that take place here. So we might need to mount a show of force.’
‘The castle commandant, Taubert, was in Sipo prior to this posting,’ said Nebe. ‘I’m pretty certain we can trust him.’
‘Good. But don’t tell him about Weisthor. Just stick to Gunther’s original story about KPD infiltrators and have him keep a detachment of men on full alert. And while you’re about it,
you’d better have him organize a bed for the Kommissar. By God, he’s earned it.’
‘The room next to mine is free, General. I think it’s the Henry I of Saxony Room.’ Nebe grinned.
‘Madness,’ Heydrich laughed. ‘I’m in the King Arthur and the Grail Room. But who knows? Perhaps today I shall at least defeat Morgana le Fay.’
The courtroom was on the ground floor of the west wing. With the door to one of the adjoining rooms open a crack, I had a perfect view of what went on in there.
The room itself was over forty metres long, with a bare, polished wooden floor, panelled walls and a high ceiling complete with oak beams and carved gargoyles. Dominating was a long oak table that was surrounded on all four sides with high-backed leather chairs, on each of which was a silver disk and what I presumed to be the name of the SS officer who was entitled to sit there. With the black uniforms and all the ritualistic ceremony that attended the commencement of the court proceedings, it was like spying on a meeting of the Grand Lodge of Freemasons.
First on the agenda that morning was the Reichsführer’s approval of plans for the development of the derelict north tower. These were presented by Landbaumeister Bartels, a fat, owlish little man who sat between Weisthor and Rahn. Weisthor himself seemed nervous and was quite obviously feeling the lack of his cocaine.
When the Reichsfuhrer asked him his opinion of the plans, Weisthor stammered his answer: ‘In, er . . . in terms of the, er . . . cult importance of the . . . er . . . castle,’ he said, ‘and, er ... its magical importance in any, er ... in any future conflict between, er . . . East and West, er . . .’
Heydrich interrupted, and it was immediately apparent that it was not to help the Brigadefuhrer.
‘Reichsführer,’ he said coolly, ‘since this is a court, and since we are all of us listening to the Brigadefuhrer with enormous fascination, it would I believe be unfair to you all to permit him to go any further without acquainting you of the very serious charges that have to be made against him and his colleague, Unterscharfuhrer Rahn.’
