by Philip Kerr
“Then again,” I said, “I expect with all of the responsibilities resting on your shoulders, the work takes its toll on a man.”
“Yes it does. We’ve had to accomplish some massive tasks in less time than was needed. The Kehlstein tea house, for example. That particular feat of engineering gave Herr Bormann’s previous adjutant, Captain Sellmer, a heart attack. And as one thing ends another begins. The Platterhof-Resten Road has had to be entirely replanned, because a bridge has had to be built. And just consider this, Commissar—that all the work has to be achieved without damaging a single tree. The Leader is most insistent that trees are to be preserved at all costs.”
“Well, that’s reassuring anyway, about the trees. We certainly need lots of those in Germany. Exactly what is the Platterhof, sir?”
“A people’s hotel, formerly the Pension Moritz, that is being created using only the finest materials, to house the many eager visitors who come to see the Leader when he’s here. Currently it’s one of the largest projects in Obersalzberg. And when it’s complete it will be one of the finest hotels in Europe.”
I wondered just how many would come when the whole of Europe was at war. Perhaps some, looking for Hitler’s head on a stick, or perhaps none at all. Schenk looked at his watch, which reminded me that it was time for me to put him on the spot, or at least to try; he was slippery.
“Well, I won’t keep you, sir. I can see you’re a very busy man. I just wanted to ask you why you think that your assistant Karl Flex was one of the most hated men in the area. And if perhaps you might believe that someone local might have shot him out of revenge for being overzealous in carrying out your instructions. Such as serving a compulsory purchase order on the original owners of the Pension Moritz, perhaps. Or demanding more of your local workers than seemed at all reasonable. Men have been killed, I believe. Perhaps unnecessary risks were taken. That’s the kind of thing that can easily produce a motive for murder.”
“I really couldn’t speculate on such a distasteful thing. And I don’t mean to teach you your duties, Commissar, but you shouldn’t ask me to, either. You’re the detective, not me.”
“I’m glad you understand that, sir. And I’m under a certain amount of pressure, too. From the same man as you, I believe. So please don’t think I take my job any less seriously than you do yours. Or that it’s any less important. In fact, right now, I rather think that my job may be more important. You see, last night when I met Martin Bormann he told me two things. One was this—and I’m quoting him here: ‘When I talk it’s as if the Leader were here now, telling you what the fuck to do.’ And the other thing he told me was that I enjoyed his full authority to catch this man before the Leader’s own birthday. Which is in a week’s time, as I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, Dr. Schenk. His full authority. Isn’t that right, Hermann?”
“That’s right. Those were his exact words. His full authority.”
It was my turn to bang a tabletop, so I did and Schenk’s coffee cup bounced pleasingly on its saucer, so I banged the table a second time and stood up to make my point even more forcefully. I might even have smashed a cup or a saucer on the engineer’s carefully combed head but for the AH monogram on the pattern, which gave me a little pause for thought. The meth was coursing through me now and even Kaspel was looking surprised.
“His full authority,” I yelled. “You hear that? So think again and think fast, Dr. Schenk. I want some better answers than ‘Another time, today’s my birthday’ and ‘I really couldn’t speculate’ and ‘You’re the detective, not me.’ What are you wasting my time for? I’m a policeman, and a commissar to boot, not some fucking toothless peasant with a pickax in his hand and a dumb look on his gormless face. It’s a murder I’m trying to solve—a murder at the Leader’s house—it isn’t the crossword in today’s newspaper. If Adolf Hitler can’t come down here next week because I couldn’t catch this maniac then it won’t just be my guts hanging on the Leader’s perimeter fence, it’ll be yours and every other tongue-tied bastard who calls himself an engineer on this fucking mountain. And as the first administrator, you’d better make sure they know that. Do you hear?”
It was all an act, of course, but Schenk didn’t know that.
“I must say, you have a most violent temper,” said Schenk.
He flushed the same color as the chair he was on and stood up, only I put my hand on his shoulder and shoved him back down. I could be a bit of a bully myself, when I tried; only I never once thought I’d be trying to pull it off in Hitler’s own dining room. I was starting to like Dr. Temmler’s magic potion. Kaspel seemed to like it, too. At least, he was smiling as if he’d been wanting a chance to slap Schenk himself.
“Most violent and unpleasant.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet. And I’ll tell you when I’m through stiffening your ears, Dr. Schenk. I want a list of names. People you’ve upset and pissed off. Maybe one or two of them threatened you and your boy Flex. You and he have done a lot of that, haven’t you?”
Schenk swallowed uncomfortably and then raised his voice. “Anything I have done has been done with the full knowledge of the deputy chief of staff himself, with whom I shall certainly be lodging a formal complaint regarding your egregious conduct.”
“You do that, Bruno. Meanwhile, I shall certainly call General Heydrich in Berlin and have the Gestapo take you into custody, for your own protection, of course. Salzburg, isn’t it, Hermann? The nearest Gestapo HQ?”
“That’s right. In an old Franciscan monastery on Mozartplatz. And a horrible place it is, too, sir. Even the spirits of the saints walk carefully past that monastery. We can have him there in half an hour.”
“You hear that, Bruno? And after you’ve had a few days in a cold cell on bread and water, we’ll talk again and see how you feel then about my conduct.”
“But please, you’ve no idea how bad things had got here,” he bleated. “For example, on the southern side of the Haus Wachenfeld there was a path for cows, which local sightseers were starting to use to catch a glimpse of the Leader, even in bad weather. Local farmers were charging visitors, some of whom would even bring binoculars to get a better look at him. This situation had become unacceptable—the Leader’s security was becoming compromised—and in 1935, we began to purchase property around the house, piece by piece, lot by lot. But as, in the beginning, Hitler didn’t allow us to apply pressure on these property owners, we were obliged to pay some outrageous prices. Local farmers—many of whom had been heavily indebted before—were now making a fortune from selling their little gold mines. This had to stop, and in due course it did. In order to establish the transformation of the Obersalzberg the way the Leader wanted it, we’ve had to demolish over fifty houses, and yes, it’s true that some of these people were not happy with the price they received, in comparison with the price they were asking. Please, Commissar, there’s no need to involve Himmler and Heydrich, is there?”
“They are involved,” I snarled back. “Who do you think it was asked me to come here? Now go out there and speak to your colleagues waiting in the Great Hall and when I come back here, I want a list of names. Resentful workers, angry homeowners, sons of aggrieved widows, anyone with a grudge against you, Flex, or even Martin Bormann. Understood?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll do as you say. Immediately.”
I grabbed my coat and walked out of the dining room. I’d enjoyed my breakfast but I’d eaten too much. Either that or talking to a Nazi like Schenk just gave me a rotten feeling in my stomach.
“I don’t know where any of this is going to go,” said Kaspel, following me out of the Berghof and down the icy steps to the car. “But I do like working with you.”
NINETEEN
April 1939
The Villa Bechstein was a five-minute drive down the hill from the Berghof and on the other side of a stone-built SS guardhouse that covered the entire road. Kaspel told me that after He
lene Bechstein had been obliged to sell her house to Bormann, Albert Speer had lived there while his own house—and a studio—much farther to the west, was being constructed to his own design. Having seen quite a bit of Speer’s architectural talent on show in Berlin, I doubt it could have improved on the Villa Bechstein, which sat in a nest of deep snow like a fancy gingerbread house. It was a large, three-story villa with two wraparound wooden balconies, a high mansard roof with a dormer window, and a bell tower made of marzipan and chocolate. It was the sort of house you could only have afforded if you’d been Martin Bormann or someone who sold a great many pianos to a great many Germans.
Almost immediately I got out of the car I turned and looked back up the mountain at the Berghof, only there were several trees in the way. From inside the hallway a butler had appeared, hovering silently in the doorway like a black-and-white dragonfly. He bowed gravely and then ushered me up the heavy wooden stairs to the second floor. The house might have been old but everything had been recently refurbished and was of the very highest quality, which is a style of interior decoration that always seems to suit the simple tastes of the rich and powerful.
“Has the deputy leader arrived yet?” I asked the butler, who answered—with a local accent—to the name of Winkelhof.
“Not yet. We expect him sometime this morning, sir. He’ll be occupying his apartments on the upper floor, as usual. You’ll hardly notice each other.”
I had my doubts about that. Top Nazis aren’t known for being shy and retiring. At the top of the stairs was a long case clock with a Nazi eagle on top and next to this a life-sized bronze nude of a bewildered woman who looked as if she was trying to find the bathroom. Winkelhof showed me into a large, chintzy bedroom with a green Biedermeier sofa, a single bed, and a small portrait of the Leader. My bag was already waiting for me on the bed and although a log fire was laid it wasn’t lit and the room was cold. I was already wishing I hadn’t handed over my coat. The butler apologized for the room’s temperature and immediately set about trying to light the fire, only the chimney flap seemed to be firmly stuck, which caused him some irritation.
“I do apologize, sir,” said Winkelhof. “Perhaps I’d better show you to another room.”
So we found another room, with another portrait of Hitler—this one was just a face on a black background, which was a little more pleasing to me, given that the Leader’s head seemed almost to have been severed, in accordance with my earlier hopes and dreams. A big French window opened onto the wooden balcony and the fireplace worked. While the butler lit the fire with a candle match, I went onto the snow-covered balcony and inspected the view, which wasn’t a view at all in that I could only see more of the same trees I’d already seen at ground level.
“This is east facing, right?” I asked the butler.
“That’s correct, sir.”
“So the Berghof is behind those trees.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Before the deputy leader gets here, I’d like to take a look out of the windows immediately above this room. And from that dormer window on the roof, too.”
“Certainly, sir. But may I ask why?”
“I just want to satisfy my own curiosity about something,” I explained.
We went upstairs. The deputy leader’s apartments were predictably opulent and included several Egyptian artifacts, but his biggest window afforded no better a view of the Berghof than the one I’d seen from the floor below. It was only the dormer window on the floor above that gave me what I’d been hoping for, which was a clear, uninterrupted sight of the Berghof terrace about a hundred meters to the southeast of the Villa Bechstein. I looked at the butler and quietly sized him up for the murder, and it took just a second to see that he’d had nothing to do with the shooting; after twenty years in the job you get a nose for these things. Besides, the lenses in his horn-rimmed spectacles were as thick as the bottom on a glass-bottomed boat. He wasn’t the most obvious sniper I’d ever seen. I opened the window—which took a bit of doing because of the ice—and poked my head outside for a moment or two.
“Winkelhof, is anyone staying in this room now?”
“No, sir.”
“Was anyone in it yesterday morning?”
“No, sir.”
“Could anyone have had access to this room that you don’t know about?”
“No, sir. And you saw me unlock the door.”
“Are all the rooms in the villa locked like this one?”
“Yes, sir. It’s standard practice at the Villa Bechstein. Some of our guests have sensitive government papers and they prefer to have a lock on the doors to their rooms and apartments.”
“Were you on duty yesterday morning at around nine o’clock?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you hear anything that sounded like a shot? A car backfiring? An avalanche charge, perhaps? A door closing loudly?”
“No, sir. Nothing.”
I went downstairs again and took a quick walk around the exterior of the house along a pathway that had been recently cleared of snow. The ground floor of the Villa Bechstein was made of rough stone with a covered terrace, where I found an armory of snow shovels and a pile of logs that looked like enough fuel for a short ice age. Seeing this it crossed my mind that perhaps the Leader’s pious wish to look after the local trees wasn’t such a high priority after all. It didn’t take very long to find what I was looking for: on the eastern side of the house there was a scaffolding tower, which went all the way up to the icicled eaves, about nine to twelve meters above the ground; beside it was a neat ziggurat of tiles, a bucket, and some ropes. Tied to the tower was a sign from a local roofing company but there were no ladders that might have enabled a man to climb up to the roof. Even with ladders it looked like a hazardous job in winter, but not quite as hazardous, perhaps, as going up there with a rifle to take a shot at Hitler’s private terrace. I knew I was right about that now because I found an empty brass cartridge lying on the ground immediately below the dormer window. I spent another fifteen minutes looking for others but found only one.
In the villa’s hallway, I summoned Winkelhof and asked him about the roofer.
“Müller? He’s been repairing some tiles and a chimney pot that came off in a recent storm. He’d be working up there now but it seems that someone has stolen his ladders. But don’t worry, sir, it won’t disturb you. I’m certain of that.”
“Stolen? When?”
“I’m not sure, sir. He reported them missing about an hour ago, when he arrived here first thing this morning. But yesterday he didn’t come at all. So really, there’s no telling how long the ladders have been gone. Please don’t concern yourself. Really, it’s not important.”
But something made me think that I’d had something to do with this theft and so I picked up the telephone and asked the Obersalzberg operator to connect me with the Berghof; a few moments later the mystery of the missing ladders had been solved. Arthur Kannenberg had asked the RSD to find him a ladder so that I might have one on the Berghof terrace and they’d borrowed the roofer’s ladders from the Villa Bechstein without telling anyone. If only all feats of criminal detection were so straightforward.
“They’re bringing the ladders back now,” I said to the butler. “Telephone Herr Müller and tell him I’d like to speak with him as soon as he gets here. The sooner, the better, Winkelhof.”
In the drawing room I found Friedrich Korsch warming himself in front of a large fire and reading a newspaper while he listened to the radio. In Berlin there was much outrage at the military pact the British had signed with Poland and I wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad news—if this would deter Hitler from invading Poland, or bring about an immediate declaration of war by the Tommies if he did.
“I was beginning to think something might have happened to you,” said Korsch. “I had a terrible feeling I might be kicking my heels here all day.�
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I glanced around the drawing room and nodded appreciatively. Kicking your heels didn’t look so bad in a room like that. Even the tropical fish in the aquarium looked warm and dry. Kicking arses felt altogether more hazardous; for all I knew, Bormann was going to be furious at the way I’d just treated his first administrator.
“As it happens, you’re in luck, Friedrich. You’re right in the center of things after all. This villa is now a crime scene.”
“It is? It certainly doesn’t feel like one. I slept like a top last night.”
“Lucky you.” I told him about Karl Flex, as much as I knew. Then I showed him the brass cartridges. “I found these on the path outside. By the way, this is Captain Kaspel. I think you met, briefly, earlier on.”
The two nodded at each other. Korsch lifted the cartridge up to the firelight.
“Looks like a standard rimless bottleneck eight-millimeter rifle cartridge.”
“My guess is that we’ll find more of these on the roof. Just as soon as the RSD comes back with the ladders.”
I explained about the roofer before handing Korsch the spent bullets we’d dug out of the balcony at the Berghof.
“Get someone to take a look at these. Might have to be the Police Praesidium in Salzburg. And I’m going to need a rifle with a telescopic sight. I also want these films developed and printed. And discreetly. Bormann wants this matter handled very discreetly. And you’d better warn whoever does it that these prints are for adult eyes only.”
“There’s a photographer in Berchtesgaden who can do the job,” said Kaspel. “Johann Brandner. On Maximilianstrasse, just behind the railway station. I’ll organize a car for you. Although now I come to think about it, I’m not altogether sure if he’s still there.”
“I’ll sort it out,” said Korsch, and pocketed the films. “There must be someone local who can do your dirty pictures. You have been busy, sir.”
“Not as busy as Karl Flex,” I said. “By the way, Hermann. Where does a man go if he wants some female company in this town?”
