Bernard Gunther 06 - If the Dead Rise Not (v5)

by Philip Kerr

  . I remember. So that’s why you went.” “His guests included the sports leader. Funk from Propaganda. Some army general called von Reichenau. The rest I didn’t recognize. But I’ll bet they were all Nazis.” “Those you mentioned are all on the German Olympic Organizing Committee,” she said. “And I’ll bet the rest were, too.” She shook her head. “So you went back to the Adlon and searched his room while you knew he was safely otherwise engaged. What else did you find?” “A lot of letters. Reles employs a stenographer I found for him, and it seems he keeps her very busy writing to companies who are bidding for Olympic contracts.” “Then he must be on a kickback. Maybe lots of kickbacks. The GOC, too, maybe.” “I took some carbon copies from his wastepaper basket.” “Great. Can I see them?” When we were in the car once again I handed them over. She started to read one. “Nothing incriminating here,” she said. “That’s what I thought. At first.” “It’s just a bid for a contract to supply cement to the Ministry of the Interior.” “The other one is a bid for a contract to supply propane gas for the Olympic flame.” I paused. “Don’t you get it? That’s a carbon. It means that it was typed by the Adlon’s own stenographer in his suite. Contracts are supposed to be for German companies only. And Max Reles is an American.” “Maybe he bought these companies.” “Maybe. I think he’s probably got enough money. Probably that’s why he went to Zurich before he came here. There’s a bag in his room containing thousands of dollars and gold Swiss francs. Not to mention a submachine gun. Even in Germany you don’t need a machine gun to run a company these days. Not unless you have some serious problems with your labor force.” “I need to think about this.” “We both do. I’ve a feeling we’re getting in over our heads, and I’m kind of attached to mine. I mention that only because we have the falling ax in this country, and it’s not just criminals who get haircuts. It’s communists and republicans and probably anyone the government doesn’t like. Look, you really won’t mention any of this to von Tschammer und Osten, will you?” “No, of course I won’t. I’m not ready to get thrown out of Germany just yet. Especially since last night.” “I’m glad to hear it.” “While I’m thinking about Max Reles, that idea you had. About looking for Isaac Deutsch’s uncle and basing my story on him. It’s a good one.” “I only said that to get you back in the car.” “Well, I’m back in the car, and it’s still a good idea.” “I’m not so sure. Suppose you did write a story about Jews helping to build the new stadium. Maybe all those Jews will end up losing their jobs as a result of that. And what happens to them then? How are they going to feed their families? It might even be that some of them end up in concentration camps. Have you thought about that?” “Of course I’ve thought about it. What do you take me for? I’m a Jew, remember? The human consequences of what I might write are always on my mind. Look, Bernie, the way I see it is this: There’s a much bigger issue at stake here than a few hundred people losing their jobs. The USA is by far the most important country in any Olympics. In L.A., we won forty-one gold medals, more than any other country. Italy, which was next, won twelve. An Olympiad without America would be meaningless. That’s why a boycott is important. Because if the games are not held here, it would be just about the most serious blow that Nazi prestige could suffer inside Germany. Not to mention it being one of the most effective ways that the outside world has of showing the youth of Germany its true opinion of Nazi doctrine. That has to be more important than whether a few Jews can feed their families. Wouldn’t you agree?” “Maybe. But if we go to Pichelsberg looking for answers about Isaac Deutsch, we might find ourselves asking questions of the very people who tossed him into the canal. They might not take kindly to being written about. Even if it is in a New York newspaper. Looking for Joey Deutsch could turn out to be just as dangerous as investigating Max Reles.” “You’re a detective. An ex-cop. I’d have thought a certain amount of danger is written into your job description.” “A certain amount, yes. But that doesn’t make me bulletproof. Besides, when you’re back in New York collecting a Pulitzer Prize for reporting, I’ll still be here. That’s the hope, at least. I can float in the canal just as easily as Isaac Deutsch.” “If it’s a question of money.” “Given what happened last night, I might tell you it’s not a question of money. At the same time, I have to admit that money is always a very persuasive answer.” “Money talks, huh, Gunther?” “Sometimes it seems you just can’t shut it up. I’m a hotel detective because I have to be, Noreen, not because I want to be. I’m broke, angel. When I quit KRIPO, I left behind a reasonable salary and a pension, not to mention what my father used to call ‘good prospects.’ I don’t see myself rising to the rank of hotel manager, do you?” Noreen smiled. “Not in the kind of hotel I’d ever want to stay in.” “Exactly.” “How does twenty marks a day sound?” “Generous. Very. But it’s a different kind of dialogue I’m looking for.” “Pulitzer Prizes don’t pay that much, you know.” “I’m not after a slice. Just a loan. A business loan, with interest. What with the Depression, the banks aren’t lending. Not even to each other. And I can hardly ask the Adlons to stake me enough to hand in my notice.” “To do what?” “To do this. Be a private investigator, of course. It’s about the one thing I’m good at. I figure about five hundred marks would let me set up on my own.” “How do I know you’d stay alive long enough to pay me back?” “That would be an incentive, of course. I’d hate to lose my life. And I’d hate to see you lose your money as a result of that, of course. Fact is, I could probably pay you a twenty-percent return on your investment.” “You’ve obviously given this some thought.” “Ever since the Nazis came into power. Human tragedies like the one we just witnessed in front of the town hall back there are happening all over this city. And it’s going to get worse before it gets better. A lot of people—Jews, Gypsies, Freemasons, communists, homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses—they already figure they can’t go to the cops and get a hearing from anyone. So they’re going to go somewhere else. Which just has to be good for someone like me.” “So you could end up making a profit under the Nazis?” “That’s always a possibility. At the same time, it’s just possible I might actually end up helping someone as well as myself.” “You know what I like about you, Gunther?” “I sure could use a bit of reminding.” “It’s that you can make Copernicus and Kepler look so very short-sighted and impractical and yet still cut a convincingly romantic figure.” “Does that mean you still find me attractive?” “I don’t know. Ask me later when I’ve forgotten that I’m no longer just your employer but your banker, too.” “Does that mean you’re going to give me the loan?” Noreen smiled. “Why not? But on one condition. You never tell Hedda that you got the money from me.” “It’ll be our secret.” “One of two, it now looks like.” “You do realize you’re going to have to sleep with me again,” I said. “To guarantee my silence.” “Of course. In fact, as your banker, I was banking on it. With interest.”

  19 I

  DROPPED NOREEN OFF at the Ministry of the Interior for her interview with von Tschammer und Osten, and drove back to the hotel and then kept on driving, west, again. Now that she was out of the way, I wanted to nose around the Olympic site at Pichelsberg on my own. The fact was I had only the one pair of gum boots; and then there was the fact that I didn’t want to draw any attention while I was doing the nosing, which was almost impossible when Noreen was on my arm. She commanded attention like a nudist playing the trombone. Pichelsberg Racecourse was at the north end of the Grunewald. In the center of the racecourse was the stadium, laid out from a design by Otto March and opened in 1913. Encircling the course were running and cycling tracks, while to the north was a swimming pool—all built for the canceled Berlin Olympiad of 1916. In stands that could accommodate almost forty thousand people were sculptures, including a goddess of victory and a Neptune group. Except that none of them were there anymore. Nothing was. Everything—the racecourse, the stadium, and the pool—had been demolished and replaced by an enormous earthwork: a huge mass of soil had been created from the
excavation of a vaguely circular pit, where I assumed the new stadium was going to be built. As assumptions go, this one seemed unlikely. The Berlin Olympics were less than two years away and nothing had been built. Indeed, a perfectly serviceable and recently constructed stadium had been knocked down to make way for the Battle of Verdun as imagined by D. W. Griffith. As I got out of the car I half expected to see the French front lines, our own line, and heavy shell bursts in the air. For a moment I was back in uniform and feeling fairly sick with fear at the sudden recollection of that earlier dun-colored wilderness. And then the shakes were on me, as if I had just woken up from the same nightmare I always had, which was about being back there . . . . . . carrying a box of ammunition through the mud and clay while shells were falling all around. It took me two hours to move 150 meters up to our front line. I kept throwing myself on the ground or simply falling over until I was soaked to the skin and caked with earth, like a man made of mud. I had almost reached our redoubt when I stepped into a shell hole and found myself waist deep in mud and sinking. I shouted for help, but the noise of the barrage was too loud for anyone to hear. Struggling only seemed to make me sink more quickly, and in less than five minutes I was up to my neck and facing the horrible fate of being drowned in a small sea of brown glue. I’d seen horses stuck in the mud, and nearly always they were shot, such was the effort of pulling one out. I struggled to take hold of my pistol so that I might shoot myself in the head before being drowned, but that was hopeless, too. The mud held me tightly now. I tried to lean back so that I might “float” on the surface, but that was no use, either. And then, just as the mud was up to my jaw, there was an enormous explosion a few meters away as a shell hit the ground and, miraculously, I was lifted right out of the morass and high into the air to land twenty meters away, winded but uninjured. Had it not been for the mud enveloping me, the shock of the blast would certainly have killed me. That was my recurring nightmare, and I never had it without waking up, soaked with perspiration and out of breath, as if I had just sprinted across no-man’s-land. Even now, in broad daylight, I had to drop down on my haunches and take several deep breaths in an effort to pull myself together. A few spots of color in the once fertile but now devastated landscape served my mental recovery: some blue thistle at the edge of the distant tree line; red dead nettle close to where I’d left the car; some yellow-flowered tansy ragwort; a robin redbreast picking a juicy pink worm out of the ground; the empty blue sky; and finally an army of workmen and a railway line conveying a small red train of earthmoving wagons from one end of the site to the other. “Are you all right?” The man wore a workman’s peaked cap and a quilted jacket as voluminous as a smock. His black trousers ended several centimeters above boots doubled in size by several kilos of clay. Over a shoulder as big as Jutland rested a sledgehammer. His blond hair was almost white, and his eyes were as blue as the thistle flowers. His chin and cheekbones might have been sketched by one of those Nazi artists, like Josef Thorak. “I’m okay.” I stood up, lit a cigarette, and waved it at the landscape. “When I saw no-man’s-land, I went off a bit like August Stramm, you know? ‘Yielding clod lulls iron off to sleep, Blood clots the patches where they oozed, Rust crumbles, flesh is slime, Sucking lusts around decay.’ ” To my surprise, he completed the verse: “ ‘Murder on murder blinks in childish eyes.’ Yes, I know that poem. Me, I was Second Royal Württemburg, Twenty-seventh Division. You?” “Twenty-sixth Div.” “Then we were in the same battle.” I nodded. “Amiens. August 1918.” I offered him a cigarette, and he took a light from my own, trench style, not to waste a match. “Two graduates of the university of mud,” he said. “Scholars of human evolution.” “Ah, yes. The ascent of man.” I grinned, remembering the old saying. “When someone kills you not with a bayonet, but with a machine gun; not with a machine gun, but with a flamethrower; not with a flamethrower, but with poison gas.” “What are you doing here, friend?” “Just looking around.” “Well, you’re not allowed. Not anymore. Didn’t you see the sign?” “No,” I answered truthfully. “We’re way behind schedule as it is. We’re already working three shifts. So we don’t have time for visitors.” “It doesn’t look too busy here.” “Most of the lads are on the other side of that earthwork,” he said, pointing to the west of the site. “You sure you’re not from the ministry?” “Of the Interior? No. Why do you ask?” “Because they’ve threatened to replace any construction companies that aren’t pulling their weight, that’s why. I thought you might be spying on us.” “I’m no spy. Hell, I’m not even a Nazi. The truth is, I came out here to look for someone. A fellow by the name of Joey Deutsch. Maybe you know him.” “No.” “Maybe the site foreman’s heard of him.” “That would be me. The name’s Blask, Heinrich Blask. Why are you looking for this fellow, anyway?” “It’s not like he’s in trouble or anything. And I’m not about to tell him he’s won a fortune on the lottery.” I was wondering exactly what I was going to tell him, until I remembered the fight tickets in my pocket: the ones we’d bought off Gypsy Trollmann. “The fact is, I manage a couple of fighters, and I want Joey to train them. I don’t know what he’s like with a pick and a shovel, but Joey’s a pretty good trainer. One of the best. He’d be in the game right now, but for the obvious reason.” “Which is?” “With a name like Deutsch? He’s a kike. And kikes aren’t allowed in gyms. At least not the gyms that are open to the public. Me, I’ve got my own gym. So no one’s offended, right?” “Maybe you don’t know, but we’re not allowed to employ non-Aryan labor here,” said Blask. “Sure I know that. I also know that it happens. And who can blame you with the ministry breathing down your neck about getting this stadium built in time? Pretty tall order if you ask me. Listen, Heinrich, I’m not here to make trouble for you. I just want to find Joey. Maybe his nephew’s working with him. Isaac. He used to be a fighter himself.” I took two tickets out of my pocket and showed them to the foreman. “Maybe you’d like some tickets to a fight yourself. Scholz versus Witt at the Spichernsaele. How about it, Heinrich? Can you help me here?” “If there were kikes working on this site,” said Blask, “and I’m not saying that there are, but you would do best to speak to the hiring boss. A man called Erich Goerz. He’s not on site very much. Mostly he works out of a bar on the Schildhorn.” He took one of the tickets. “There’s a monument there.” “The Schildhorn Column.” “’Sright. From what I heard, if you want to work, no questions asked, that’s where you go. Every morning around six there’s a whole crowd of illegals that waits there. Jews, gyppos, you name it. Goerz turns up, decides who works and who doesn’t. Mostly on account of how they each pay him a commission. He calls the names, gives them a work tab, they report to wherever they’re needed most.” He shrugged. “They’re good workers, he finds, so what am I going to do, me with my schedule? He doesn’t tell me, and I don’t need to be told, right? I just do what the bosses order me to do.” “Any idea what the bar’s called?” “Albert the Bear or something.” He took the other ticket. “But let me give you some free advice, comrade. Be careful. Erich Goerz wasn’t in the Royal Württemburg, like me. His idea of comradeship owes more to Al Capone than the Prussian army. You follow me? He’s not as big as you, but he’s pretty handy with his fists. Maybe you’ll like that. You look like a fellow who can take care of himself. But Erich Goerz also carries a gun. And not where you’d expect him to carry one. It’s strapped to his ankle. If ever he stops to tie up his shoelaces, don’t hesitate. Kick him in the teeth before he shoots you.” “Thanks for the warning, friend.” I flicked my cigarette into no-man’s-land. “You already said he’s not as big as me. Anything else you can tell me about what he looks like?” “Let me see.” Blask dropped the sledgehammer and stroked his anvil-sized chin. “For one thing, he smokes Russian cigarettes. I think they’re Russian, anyway. Flat ones that smell like a nest of burning weasels. So when he’s in the room, you’ll know about it. Otherwise he’s a pretty regular guy, at least to look at. Aged about thirty, thirty-five, pimp mustache, bit swarthy—looks like he sho
uld be wearing a fez. Owns a new Hanomag with a Brandenburg license plate. Matter of fact, that might be where he’s from, originally. The driver’s from somewhere south of there. Wittenberg, I think. He’s a slugger, too, with a reach like the Palace Bridge, so mind you watch out for him as well.” TO THE SOUTH OF PICHELSBERG, a high road affording pretty views but now much used by construction traffic skirted the Havel River and led to Beelitzhof and the two-kilometer peninsula of Schildhorn. Close to the riverbank were a little group of bars and ivy-covered restaurants, and a series of stone steps that rose steeply up to a group of pine trees that hid the Schildhorn monument and whatever else went on there at six o’clock in the morning. The monument was well chosen as a place for picking up illegal workers. From the road it was impossible to see anything that happened around the monument. Albert the Bear was shaped a bit like a boot or a shoe and was of such an age that it looked as if the shoe might have an old woman who lived in it with so many children she didn’t know what to do. Outside the door was a new Hanomag with an IE license plate. It looked as if I’d arrived at the right time. I drove on for about three or four hundred meters and parked. In the trunk of Behlert’s car was a pair of overalls. Behlert was always messing around under the hood of the W. I put on the overalls and walked back into the village, stopping only to push my hands into some damp soil to give myself a workingman’s manicure. A cold easterly wind was blowing off the river and carried a strong hint of the coming winter, not to mention a whiff of something chemical from the Hohenzollerndamm Gasworks on the edge of Wilmersdorf. Outside the Albert, a tall man with a courtroom artist’s idea of a face was leaning on the Hanomag reading the Zeitung