by Philip Kerr
From the second-floor balcony at the Berghof it was clear exactly why Hitler had chosen this place to live in. The view from the house was breathtaking. It was impossible to look at this view of Berchtesgaden and the Untersberg behind it without hearing an alphorn or a simple cowbell, but not Wagner. At least not for me. Give me a cowbell any day to the high priest of Germanism. Besides, a cowbell only has one note, which is a lot easier on the backside than five hours in the Bayreuth Festival Hall. In truth I spent very little time admiring the postcard view from Hitler’s mountain; the sooner I was away from there and back to the combusted blue air of Berlin, the better. And so with Hermann Kaspel holding one end of the measuring tape at the top of the ladder, I retreated to the wall at the edge of the terrace and the place where Flex had been shot, and positioned the length of dowelling like a rifle along the same descending angle.
“Would you agree,” I asked Kaspel, “that the end of this piece of dowelling seems to be pointing toward those lights to the west of here?”
“Yes.”
“What is that building?”
“That is probably the Villa Bechstein. The place where your assistant is currently staying.”
“Yes, I’d forgotten about Korsch. I hope he slept better than me.” I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven o’clock. I’d been in Obersalzberg for seven hours but it felt like seven minutes. I suppose that was the methamphetamine. And of course I knew I was going to have to take some more, and soon. “Well, we’ll soon find out. Because that’s where we’re going just as soon as we’ve had breakfast in the Leader’s dining room. To the Villa Bechstein. Korsch can go and find a ballistics expert to look at these bullets and tell us some more about them while I unpack my bag and clean my teeth. Maybe get this film developed, too.”
Kaspel came down the ladder and followed me through the winter garden, the Great Hall, and into the dining room, where there was too much knotted-pine paneling and a built-in display cabinet that contained various pieces of fussy-looking china with a dragon design. I hoped they might be fire-breathing dragons because for all its pretensions to grandeur the room was cold. There were two tables, a smaller round one in a bay window set for six, and a larger rectangular one set for sixteen. Kaspel and I took the smaller table, threw off our coats, drew up two terra-cotta-red leather armchairs, and sat down. Without thinking, I tossed my cigarettes onto the tablecloth. Somewhere I could smell fresh coffee brewing.
“Are you serious?” said Kaspel.
“Sorry. I forgot our orders.” Hurriedly, I put the cigarettes away, seconds before a waiter wearing white gloves appeared in the room, as if he had materialized out of a brass lamp to grant us both three wishes. But I had a lot more than three.
“Coffee,” I said. “Lots of hot coffee. And cheeses, lots of cheeses. And meats, too. Boiled eggs, smoked fish, fruit, honey, plenty of bread, and more piping-hot coffee. I don’t know about you, Hermann, but I’m hungry.”
The waiter bowed politely and went away to fetch our German breakfast. I had high hopes of the kitchen at the Berghof; if you couldn’t get a good German breakfast at Hitler’s house, then all hope was surely lost.
“No,” said Kaspel. “I meant are you serious about an investigation at the Villa Bechstein? That place is for Nazi VIPs.”
“Is that what I am? That’s interesting. Never saw myself that way before now.”
“They put you there because it’s the nearest place to the Berghof that’s not someone else’s house. So you wouldn’t have too far to go.”
“Very considerate.”
“I don’t suppose Bormann ever considered that you might be looking for a gunman at the Villa Bechstein. The deputy leader, Rudolf Hess himself, is due to arrive any time now.”
“Doesn’t he have his own house?”
“Not yet. And actually Hess doesn’t really like it here. Even brings his own food. So he doesn’t come that often. But when he does, he always stays at the villa, with his dogs.”
“I’m not fussy who I stay with. Or what I eat, as long as there’s plenty of it.” I glanced around, disliking the dining room almost as much as I’d disliked the Great Hall. It was like being inside a walnut shell. “I guess this must be the new wing we’re in now.”
“Bormann isn’t going to like it.”
“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”
“No, really, Bernie. Relations between Bormann and Hess are already poor. If we start poking our noses around the Villa Bechstein, Hess is likely to view it as an attempt to undermine his authority as deputy leader.”
“Bormann’s going to like it even less if I don’t catch this shooter and soon. Look, Hermann, you saw where those bullets were. They’re the angles we have to work with. Just like in billiards. Maybe someone who works there didn’t like Flex. Who knows, maybe the butler got bored and stuck a rifle out of the master-bedroom window to see who he could hit on the terrace. I always like the butler for a murder. They’ve usually got something to hide.”
The coffee arrived and I took out my cigarettes again before putting them away, again. It’s only when your habit bothers someone else that you start to notice how much of a habit it really is. So I swallowed a couple of Pervitin with the coffee and bit my lip.
“What happens to people who smoke in this fucking house?” I said. “Seriously? Are they sent to Dachau? Or are they just hurled off the Tarpeian Rock by locals high on meth?”
“Give me a couple of pills,” said Kaspel. “I’m starting to slow down. And I’ve a feeling I’m going to need to keep going for a while longer.”
“Could be.” I laid the four misshapen bullets on the tablecloth. They looked like the teeth from a witch doctor’s kit bag. Who knows? Maybe they would enable me to divine the name of Flex’s murderer. Stranger things had happened in the ballistics lab at the Alex. “There are five bullets in a standard rifle magazine,” I said. “That means either our murderer shot at Karl Flex four times and missed, or he tried to shoot more than one man on the terrace. But why didn’t anyone hear anything? If the shots came from somewhere as close as the Villa Bechstein, someone must have heard shots being fired. Even the butler. This is supposed to be a secure area.”
“You heard the explosion,” said Kaspel. “The one made by the construction workers. And especially first thing in the morning, shots are often fired to make small avalanches up on the Hoher Göll, in order to prevent larger ones. So it’s possible that people did hear a shot and connected it with an avalanche. Equally, there are lots of historic shooters’ clubs in Berchtesgaden that like to meet up on public holidays and discharge old black powder weapons. Blunderbusses and dragoon pistols. Any excuse. Frankly, we’ve tried to put a stop to them but it’s no use. They pay no attention.”
The waiter returned with an enormous breakfast tray on which was a large piece of honeycomb, still attached to the wooden tray that had come out of the hive. Seeing it, I let out a groan of childish excitement. It had been a while since anyone in Berlin had seen honey.
“My God, that’s what I call luxury,” I said. “Ever since I was a boy I’ve never been able to resist honeycomb.” Even before the waiter had laid all the things on the breakfast table, I’d gouged off a piece, scraped off the beeswax capping with my knife, and started sucking the honey greedily.
“Is it local?” I looked at the label on the side of the wooden tray. “Honey from the Leader’s own apiary at Landlerwald. Where’s that?”
“On the other side of the Kehlstein,” said Kaspel. “The deputy chief of staff is an expert on agriculture. That’s Bormann’s background, you know. He trained to be an estate manager. The Gutshof is a farm that produces all sorts of produce for the Berghof. Including honey. When we drive up the mountain, the main farmhouse is on our left. There’s eighty hectares of farmland. All the way around the mountain.”
“I’m beginning to see why the Leader likes it he
re so much. I’ll want to talk to someone at that apiary.”
“I’ll speak to Kannenberg,” said Kaspel. “He’ll fix it with Hayer, the fellow who’s in charge of things at the Landlerwald. But why?”
“Let’s just say I have a bee in my bonnet.”
Not long after we’d finished eating breakfast several of the other men who’d also been on the terrace when Flex was shot turned up. Freda Kannenberg came and told me “the engineers” were waiting for me in the Great Hall.
“How many are there?”
“Eight.”
“Is anyone else likely to come in here for breakfast?”
“No,” she said. “Frau Braun usually has breakfast in her own rooms upstairs, with her friend. And Frau Troost doesn’t ever eat breakfast.”
“Very well,” I told Freda, “I’ll see them in here. One at a time.”
Freda nodded. “I’ll tell the waiter to bring some fresh coffee.”
EIGHTEEN
April 1939
The first man I spoke to was the state engineer August Michahelles. He was a handsome man wearing military uniform, who bowed politely as he presented himself at the breakfast table. I stood up, shook his limp hand, and then invited him to sit down and help himself to coffee. I opened my file of witness statements and found the list that Högl had compiled.
“You’re the head of the state construction bureau for Deutsche Alpenstrasse, is that right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I thought there would be more of you out there. According to my list there were twelve people on that terrace yesterday morning. Including the dead man. And yet there are only eight people here at the Berghof today.”
“Professor Fich, the architect—I believe he had to go to Munich to meet with Dr. Todt and Dr. Bouhler. As did Professor Michaelis.”
I shrugged. “How is it that people feel they can absent themselves so quickly from a murder investigation?”
“You’d have to ask them. And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I’m not sure what else I can add to the statement I made to Captain Kaspel yesterday.”
In spite of his uniform he seemed uncertain of himself. He didn’t even pour himself a coffee.
“Probably not much,” I said. “Only your statement was about what happened. What you saw. I’m more interested to hear what the meeting was all about. Martin Bormann was rather vague about that. All these very well-qualified engineers meeting up at the Berghof. I’m sure there must have been something of real importance that brought you all together. And I’d also like to hear more about Dr. Flex.”
The state engineer looked thoughtful for a moment and played with a rather scabby-looking earlobe that he’d clearly worried before.
“So,” I said. “What was the purpose of the meeting?”
“It’s a regular meeting. Once a month.”
“And is this meeting well-known about, generally?”
“There’s nothing secret about it. In order to accomplish the transformation of the Obersalzberg in accordance with Herr Bormann’s wishes, it’s necessary that from time to time we meet to review the progress of construction work. For example, there’s the construction of the new Platterhof Hotel, which has required the demolition of almost fifty old houses. Also the construction of new technical installations, such as an electricity supply station. The current from Berchtesgaden has proved to be unreliable. At present we are laying new electrical and telephone cables in the area, widening access roads, and digging new access tunnels. This requires skilled workers of course—”
“I’d like to take a look at this work sometime,” I said.
“You’ll have to ask Bormann,” said Michahelles. “Some of the work is for the security of the Leader and therefore secret. I should need to see something in writing and signed by him in order to answer a question like that.”
“So it’s military then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“All right. That’s fair enough. I will ask Bormann. So tell me about Dr. Flex, instead. Did you know him well?”
“No, not well.”
“Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to kill him? Any reason at all?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Really?”
Michahelles shook his head.
“You know it’s strange, Herr Michahelles, I’ve been here in Obersalzberg for less than ten hours. And yet I’ve already heard that Karl Flex was one of the most unpopular men in the Bavarian Alps.”
“I wouldn’t know. But you’re speaking to the wrong person.”
“So who should I be speaking to? Ludwig Gross? Otto Staub? Walter Dimroth? Hans Haupner? Bruno Schenk? Hanussen the clairvoyant? Who? Give me a clue. I’m supposed to solve a murder here. If everyone on this damn list is as uninformative as you, that might take a while. For obvious reasons I’d like to be gone before summer.”
“I don’t mean to be unhelpful, Commissar Gunther. The two men who worked most closely with him and knew him best were Hans Haupner and Bruno Schenk. Schenk’s the first administrator and had worked closely with Flex. I’m sure he could tell you more than I can.”
“That wouldn’t be difficult.”
Michahelles shrugged, and suddenly I was having a hard job holding on to my temper, although quite possibly that was the magic potion kicking in again. My heart was already working like it was being paid treble-time.
“A busy man, is he? Dr. Schenk.”
“I should say so, yes. He’s what we call the fire brigade man for sensitive situations involving local construction work.”
“Let’s talk about you, Herr Michahelles. Are you popular in Berchtesgaden?”
“I have no idea.”
“Is it possible that someone would like to kill you, too? I mean, apart from me. Like someone who used to own one of those fifty houses you mentioned just now. The ones that were demolished.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Has anyone ever threatened you? Perhaps even told you they were going to shoot you?”
“No.”
I spread the four spent bullets across the tablecloth like a waiter’s crummy tip. “You see these? These are four bullets we found in the woodwork of the balcony immediately above the terrace. So it’s just possible the gunman took a shot at you, too. Maybe more than one. And missed. How about it?”
“No, I’m sure there isn’t anyone.”
“I hope you’re right, August. You’re a brainy fellow, I can tell. And I’d hate to see those brains end up on someone’s floor like Karl Flex’s, just because you couldn’t quite bring yourself to tell me if there’s anyone you know who’d like to kill you, too. If the shooter did try to murder you, then he might try again, you know.”
“Is that all?” he said stiffly.
“Yes, that’s all. Oh, ask Dr. Schenk if he’d mind coming in here next, would you?”
Bruno Schenk was about forty years old with a high forehead and an even higher manner. He wore a gray suit, a neat white shirt and collar, and a tie with a Party pin. He wasn’t much taller than his walking stick but he was the section head of Polensky & Zöllner, with responsibility, he quickly informed me, for building all of the connecting roads between the Kehlstein and Berchtesgaden, which made him feel taller, I suppose.
“I hope this won’t take too long,” he added to the pompous sum total of that. “I’m a busy man.”
“Oh, I know. And I appreciate you coming here to help me out with my questions.”
“What do you want to know, Commissar?”
“P&Z. That must be a rich company by now with all this construction work. Paid for by the state, I believe.”
“P&Z. Sager & Woerner. Danneberg & Quandt. Umstaetter. Reck brothers. Höchtl & Sauer. Hochtief. Philipp Holzmann. There are more companies contracted to do work here by the Obersalz
berg Administration than you could possibly imagine, Commissar. And more work than anyone might reasonably conceive.”
I could tell that I was supposed to be impressed by all that. I wasn’t.
“As first administrator, you must be an important man.”
“I enjoy the confidence of the deputy chief of staff in all matters affecting building development on the mountain, that’s true. Between Martin Bormann and myself there’s only the chief administrator, Dr. Reinhardt, who’s tasked with more responsibility.”
Schenk’s voice and his grammar were no less correct than his appearance and most of the time he didn’t even look at me, as if I were beneath his influence and concern. Instead he turned his coffee cup on its saucer, one way and then the other as if he wasn’t sure which way the handle should face—toward him, or toward me—a bit like a snake trying to decide where it should park its rattle. He didn’t know it yet but he was looking for a slap.
“So tell me about the work,” I said. “I’m interested.”
“Perhaps another time,” he said. “But today’s my birthday. I have a number of appointments to keep before an important luncheon date. With my wife.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “How old are you anyway?”
“Forty.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you look older.”
Schenk frowned for a moment but tried to contain his irritation, the way I’d just contained my own. I was being given the runaround and getting tired of it; there seemed little point in my murder investigation having the full backing of Martin Bormann if no one else around the Berghof seemed to appreciate this. It was beginning to look as if I would have to get tough with someone—tougher than I’d been with August Michahelles—if I were to make some progress before Bormann saw me. Bruno Schenk looked made for a little roughhousing. I always say if you’re going to get tough with someone, you might as well enjoy it.
