Pale Horse Riding

by Chris Petit

  Stone of heaven? Mine?

  Schlegel heard footsteps running upstairs. He waited, listening, his mind empty of excuses. The footsteps ran on, up another flight.

  He felt exhilarated, almost giddy.

  He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

  More stairs led to a top floor in the eaves, with two doors off a landing. He made no effort to disguise his arrival, didn’t bother knocking, calculating it would be just staff. The first room was full of women sewing, surrounded by rolls and rolls of fabric. They worked in silence, a quiet that said they had been talking away before they heard him coming. He inspected them as if searching for someone, shook his head, bade them good morning and excused himself.

  He repeated the action with the second room, which showed more of the same. At least a dozen seamstresses worked up there. One would have been Sybil. The biggest shock was the astonishing array of fabrics, enough to satisfy a small factory.

  He went back downstairs. As he stepped into the hall the kitchen door opened and he was confronted by a big, raw-boned man with high cheekbones, handsome in an obvious way and about the same age as him. The man was in his socks, with one hand inserted into the shoe he was cleaning, of superior quality. Schlegel smelled frying fish coming from the kitchen. The man was dressed like a dandy in an embroidered waistcoat and leather trousers. He seemed quite at ease, though from the menial task he was performing Schlegel presumed he was a prisoner and the kitchen joker.

  Some sixth sense told Schlegel the man had as little right to be there as he did.

  For a moment everything was normal then the man swore under his breath, ran back into the kitchen and scampered out again carrying the other shoe, winked at Schlegel and disappeared through a door. Schlegel stood blinking in surprise. He stepped forward and saw the commandant, preoccupied and muttering to himself as he approached across the lawn.

  Schlegel stood paralysed between taking the front door and following the man. He could hear the commandant’s boots on the steps up to house.

  He stepped inside the second door. A dim bulkhead light was on. Steps led down to darkness. He heard the back door open and close and waited for the commandant, who continued talking to himself. He remembered Schulze on the habit of inappropriate laughter and had to stifle a fit of the giggles.

  He heard the commandant go upstairs and trod gingerly down the flight of steps, wondering how he was supposed to get out. He could hear no sign of the other man, so supposed there must be a way. He switched on lights. One was for a laundry room. He could hear staff moving in the kitchen above.

  The second space took up most of the footprint of the house. Schlegel, thinking of the bolts of fabric upstairs, decided there was a big difference between storage and hoarding. He was looking at a veritable Aladdin’s cave of stashed goods: shelves of jars, tins, preserved meats, cans of Seville oranges, exotic teas, coffee beans, pharmaceuticals, bulging sacks of sugar, flour, logs and coal, and what looked like cans of gasoline or paraffin. At a time of such shortages the sight was beyond belief. And none of it locked away, presumably because the staff wouldn’t dare touch it for fear of their jobs.

  A whole section was given over to cartons of cigarettes. Schlegel helped himself to an armful. At least they would float him for a while. He took one of several string shopping bags, hanging on a peg, to carry them.

  He looked around, wondering about the other man. On the garden side of the cellar stood a thick steel door on a latch.

  Schlegel opened it and saw darkness. He could find no light switch. He was without matches as he didn’t smoke; he didn’t remember seeing any but went back and checked. He was right; enough candles to light up a football pitch but no matches. He told himself he wasn’t afraid of the dark.

  As the door shut behind him Schlegel could see nothing. It was as though his eyelids had been glued shut. He stuck his arms out, like in blind man’s buff, feeling the shopping bag dangle ridiculously. He stretched his eyes wide trying to sense something and saw nothing. Was this the perpetual darkness that awaited them all? Was this the place where the dead rose up? He was assailed by primal fears, however hard he tried to exercise his reason. He badly wanted a drink and would have given anything for a torch.

  He felt his way forward, hands outstretched, until his hand reached the wall, which he took for a guide. He once lost contact and spent an age trying to find it again, deprived of all spatial awareness. The wall should have been within touching distance, yet wasn’t, and he supposed he must have stumbled around in panic after losing contact. After that he found it easiest to shuffle sideways, back to the wall, using both hands to guide him.

  All he could hear was his wet breathing in the dank air.

  The tunnel seemed to go on and on. What purpose it served he had no idea. If the other man was an interloper Schlegel supposed it served as his regular exit and entrance. Perhaps he was having a romance with one of the household staff. He ransacked his head for inconsequential, ordinary thoughts to stave off panic.

  At last he came to what felt like a fork and grew dimly aware of the possibility of light. This came to seem even more disturbing than total darkness, because of the fallen world it would take him back into.

  Morgen was impressed by the cigarettes and immediately helped himself. They were the brand Broad smoked. Morgen pronounced them disgusting but in terms of petty cash it was a start.

  ‘Everything is forgiven,’ he said ominously.

  ‘Where’s Schulze?’ asked Schlegel.

  ‘Avoiding us. She knows I am keen to pick her brains and she is not. It must be hard living in this world without having done anything technically wrong.’

  Morgen treated Schlegel’s snooping around the commandant’s house as though it were perfectly normal. Schlegel showed him the letter from Pohl to Frau Hoess. Morgen looked impressed and, like him, asked what was the stone of heaven and what sort of mine.

  ‘Recent gifts, it says. Can we suppose the good lady is bribing her husband’s boss?’

  Morgen appeared diverted by the prospect.

  Schlegel reported what he had seen in the attic and cellar storeroom.

  ‘Acquisitive, would you say?’ enquired Morgen mildly.

  ‘Pathologically so.’

  ‘Canada, would you say?’

  ‘I have heard her described as a top shopper.’

  ‘If the stone of heaven is from Canada, being passed on to Pohl in Berlin . . .’

  Morgen sat with his head wreathed in smoke. Jade, thought Schlegel.

  ‘What if you had got caught?’

  ‘I nearly was.’

  Schlegel was still puzzled by the existence of the tunnel, which had brought him out into trees and undergrowth outside the garrison, beyond the commandant’s garden.

  Morgen shrugged and said, ‘You are a strange boy. What’s your next move, if I may be so bold?’

  ‘I thought I might join the photography club.’

  Morgen looked surprised at that. ‘I didn’t know you were a snapper.’

  ‘Palitsch’s description of the man photographing Tanner at the sex parties matches Haas, who took the pictures of the beaten women and—’

  ‘Was hanging around the bath morgue when Bock died,’ Morgen finished for him.

  Schlegel added that he had gone through Frau Hoess’s visitors’ book and, while Pohl was a frequent guest, Fegelein had at least nine recorded visits.

  Schlegel saw Morgen became animated for the first time since his return.

  ‘Here, let me see.’

  He pored over the scribbled dates. ‘Fegelein was here when Tanner was killed. The point is, was he here at the time of any of the beatings or disappearances?’

  ‘The beatings were domestic.’

  Morgen gave him a withering look. ‘They say. Apropos of them, I had an interesting conversation with the commandant’s wife. Not a conversation as such, more a series of loaded remarks.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Probably while you wer
e prowling around her house.’

  He had run across her on the main street and was pretending he hadn’t seen her when she came over and chatted about the unseasonal heatwave before suddenly asking how the investigation into Tanner and the garrison women was going.

  ‘I told her we were in possession of photographs of some of the cases, and she gave one of her big sighs and asked, “Who do you think alerted you?” ’

  Schlegel reminded Morgen, ‘You thought she rather than her husband might be the one behind our recall.’

  ‘I am not sure now. I suspect Pohl, the better to keep an eye on us.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’

  ‘She leaned forward – reeking of violets – and told me not to be obtuse. I had to understand she could not be seen to be directly involved.’

  Schlegel hung around the photography club. An exhibition space displayed members’ photographs – still lives, landscapes, animals, portraits, a lot of children, uplifting stuff. No photographs of the garrison or the camps; not that you would want them. Most areas had ‘no photography’ signs, along with the plethora of other warnings. Several members were keen to share their enthusiasm. Schlegel said he was a novice. He was shown darkrooms, a small library in a separate room, a seating area with technical magazines. The equipment itself was kept under heavy lock and key.

  Sad, but there it was, said the man showing him. The club was still recovering from the theft of a large part of its stock a year ago.

  ‘Fortunately, top camera companies use us to test new equipment.’

  While Schlegel waited he sat reading technical magazines and tried to look interested.

  Haas, previously blasé, seemed nervous upon spotting Schlegel. Perhaps he had been told about their investigation. The man was clearly desperate to resist any overtures but soon succumbed to flattery as it was probably the first time anyone had paid his work the slightest attention. Schlegel talked enthusiastically about the pictures he had bought and asked if there were more.

  Haas had albums of rabbits in hutches, goats, donkeys, and what he described as a humorous photograph: a stallion with his tool out, reaching almost to the ground. Humorous photograph number two was of mating donkeys.

  Schlegel laughed loudly, as he was supposed to. He made appreciative noises for the longest time and suggested a beer. He knew a stall nearby, used by lorry drivers.

  Schlegel paid. He said he was interested in a certain kind of photographs. He wanted to learn how to take them.

  ‘I’ve been told you’re the man to see.’

  Haas’s eyes said he guessed where this was going.

  ‘Perhaps I could pay you, for a tutorial.’

  Haas said nothing. Schlegel produced a packet of cigarettes. He watched Haas’s greed overcome caution, until he broke off and said he wasn’t the one Schlegel was looking for.

  Hooked nonetheless, Schlegel saw.

  ‘What equipment do you use?’

  For what he called special work Haas used a tiny Minox camera not even on the market but sent by the company to try out.

  ‘A spy camera. Fits in the hand.’

  He demonstrated by showing his cupped palm, leaving it there.

  Schlegel handed him the pack of cigarettes and counted out a further five.

  ‘Another beer?’

  He could see Haas thought him a fool for giving away so much.

  They walked back to the club drinking their beer.

  Haas said he was turning some of his pet pictures into greetings cards. He had even talked to the commandant’s wife about perhaps letting prisoners buy them with their credit points to send to relatives.

  Haas appeared quite at home in the club. Schlegel wondered about his domestic circumstances. He saw him living alone. Haas seemed in no hurry. He fiddled around with his albums while Schlegel wondered how much longer he could feign enthusiasm. Haas argued the merits of crinkled borders against straight edges and decided the former were better suited to casual photographs.

  ‘Last year we were given the new Agfa colour stock to test, much faster, permitting shooting at lower light levels. I got some interesting results. Would you like to see?’

  He took a box from a locked cabinet and suggested they go to one of the darkrooms. The club was not crowded but people were around.

  Haas switched on the light outside the door to show the room was in use. He pointed proudly to the enlarger, the latest model. He showed the developing trays and explained how they worked and why it was necessary to use a red light to protect the light-sensitive paper. There was standing room only. Schlegel was forced into closer proximity than he would have liked. Haas smelled of cheap aftershave.

  He produced three contact sheets, each with 36 frames. Some had been separately enlarged.

  The images shared the appearance of having been taken surreptitiously. Some ordinary party shots showed young men and women lounging with drinks.

  In one he spotted Fegelein in casual clothes on a sofa with his arm around a woman. In another, he was standing with his back to the camera, holding a champagne glass. Schlegel stared at Tanner looking at the lens, with bright reckless eyes that told of more than alcohol.

  ‘How did you know Tanner?’ Schlegel asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘She did some modelling for me.’

  Haas couldn’t resist, and out of the box came a series of enlarged, crisp black-and-white nature shots: dappled sunlight, soft contours, wholesome, revealing Tanner’s spectacular naked body, with her arms aloft to greet the light. She appeared totally at ease, the camera in love with her.

  Schlegel pointed to the contact sheets, ‘Were these her idea?’

  ‘She wanted me to photograph her, to see how she looked.’

  Haas said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Schlegel supposed Tanner’s appetite had made it seem quite natural. He was equally sure for Haas she had existed only as a demonstration for his skills, and what greater technical challenge than clandestinely photographing her having public sex at orgiastic parties.

  At first Haas had thought it impossible for technical reasons.

  ‘I couldn’t just go and set up a camera and ask permission. Then the Minox came along and I was curious to see how the new Agfa stock performed.’

  A further challenge was to learn to frame by not looking through the viewfinder, which would draw attention.

  ‘I was quite pleased with the results.’

  He showed Schlegel two more contact sheets, saying they were his first efforts.

  ‘It shows you the problems with this kind of work.’

  Erratic framing often missed or cropped the subject.

  By the second sheet Haas had mastered the method. The camera had a lot of depth of field, he explained.

  The photographs of Tanner stood out because she knew the camera was there and adjusted accordingly. Schlegel inappropriately thought how eminently fuckable she looked, consuming men for her pleasure. In one shot she appeared transfixed in ecstasy as some unseen male ploughed away behind.

  Schlegel asked for a magnifying viewer. Two of the contact squares interested him. One showed Tanner face-down naked on a couch, with the man on top partly visible, face missing, still dressed, his flexed arms taking his weight. The point was what he wore. Schlegel compared it with the earlier picture of Fegelein. Same outfit.

  The second frame showed Tanner still dressed and standing, with Fegelein behind, one arm around her waist, the other stuck down the front of her dress. Tanner’s head was arched, showing a long white throat. Her hands were driven hard between her thighs. Fegelein was glassy-eyed. The hand fondling Tanner’s breast threw into relief the brooch pinned to her dress, now in Schlegel’s pocket.

  Schlegel asked if Haas knew the man.

  Only that he came from Berlin.

  ‘You do realise,’ Schlegel began. Haas looked expectant. ‘Some of these pictures could be worth a lot of money.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Haas slowly.
r />   ‘It depends. You would have to ask him.’

  Schlegel said what Fegelein did and watched Haas’s reaction.

  ‘Special envoy to the Reichsführer?’ Haas repeated.

  Schlegel watched Haas grow carried away, a little man suddenly presented with big dreams.

  ‘How would it be possible?’

  Schlegel gave him a clap on the shoulder. ‘Fegelein’s always up and down. Ask Groenke, if you know Groenke; he’ll know when he’s next due.’

  ‘Everyone knows Groenke. Do you really think so?’

  ‘Speak with Fegelein. I am sure he’ll see the point of you putting a value to them.’

  Haas looked pleased, more important.

  ‘As we understand each other, I have a question. Who authorises the injections?’

  Haas saw no objection in answering. ‘It’s a medical initiative. Others decide. Senior doctors. It’s a due process.’

  He smiled, frighteningly plausible.

  ‘Who selects?’

  ‘That’s easy. Hartmann, basically. He’s the one who signs off on them.’

  ‘And Wirths.’

  Haas shook his head. ‘He only does external selections.’

  ‘You mean at the station.’

  Haas gave a tight smile.

  Schlegel pointed to the contact sheets. ‘Make sure to keep them safe. You could be talking a lot of money for such specialist work.’

  Schlegel was on his way back to the office when he saw one of the lobby telephone booths full of enough smoke to suggest it was on fire. He knew it was Morgen before the door was pushed open and he was waved at to wait. Schlegel watched the switchboard girls with their headsets, connecting and disconnecting calls, fluent in their actions and confident of their skills. It was like watching a mime show or an elaborate guessing game.

  Morgen emerged, trailing smoke.

  ‘That was the Kattowice traffic police. Fegelein was here at the time of that hit-and-run accident.’

  ‘The woman no one could identify?’

  ‘The dates match. What’s more, two of the numbers in Tanner’s little black book, when you add the Berlin area code, take you through to the Chancellery, with the second a direct line to Fegelein’s office.’