The Butchers of Berlin (44 page)

Stella wanted a cigarette. When he said he didn’t smoke she produced one of her own and lit it.

‘He liked beating up, but I wouldn’t have said then he was capable of killing. It’s cold out here. What do you want?’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Dead for all I know. The woman was a thorough bitch. She was so jealous she tried to have me killed. Grigor beat one woman so badly she died and he skinned her afterwards.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Word travels.’

‘What about her friend?’

‘Lore. She’ll be dead too. She had no stomach for the job. We’re all trapped. The difference is some fight to survive. Are you a fighter?’

‘Do I look like one?’

‘I like you. You’re confused. You’re confused about Jews and even more confused about women. I could eat you for breakfast.’

She laughed, ostentatiously dropped her unfinished cigarette and ground it out with her foot.

‘Ah, well, we step back into our lives.’

She brushed his cheek with her hand, the
femme fatale
act back in place. Schlegel felt lonely for both of them.

It was the first night his bed hadn’t been cold to get into. Sybil was dead or in danger. From the beginning she had always been just ahead, running away from the Metzler
shooting just before he got there. As for her whereabouts, she could be anywhere. Then he thought, no she wasn’t. People were creatures of habit, even in extremes.

He took out Metzler’s diary again. The man’s obsession with Sybil seemed more obvious. He wondered about the razored pages.

He got up and went up on the roof and leaned over, looking down, trying to work out the exact point where night turned to total darkness.

Schlegel walked into his office, ignored as usual by Frau Pelz in her alcove. His unexpected good mood brought on by the good weather evaporated with her indomitable presence.
Outside, the most pleasing feature of a beautiful spring day was the sight of adventurous girls wearing no overcoats.

It sounded like Morgen was already in. As Schlegel entered the room he was stopped short by the sight of Nebe, sitting at his desk, going through its contents, not looking at all put out to be
discovered. He subjected Schlegel to his camel-like gaze, then continued to inspect drawers until he came across the animal stun gun, which Schlegel had done nothing about.

‘What are we to make of this?’

‘Confiscated, sir.’

Nebe sat back and folded his hands. ‘Where do we start?’

‘I am not sure what you mean, sir.’

‘With your arrest, my bribes, flayed bodies, the impossible Morgen or forged money?’

His bribes?!

‘Do you know what Morgen was up to when he was away?’

‘He hasn’t said.’

Apart from human lampshades.

Nebe studied his manicured nails. ‘I hear he went off to Weimar and was staying in the Elephant Hotel, which you don’t do on a budget. Heads previously believed to have been firmly
attached to shoulders are starting to roll. These are dangerous times, revolutionary even for the old guard. From what I understand, Gersten could easily have lost you in the system.’

‘Who told you, sir?’ he asked without meaning to.

‘Morgen. Who else?’

Who wasn’t in bed with whom? Schlegel experienced that face-pressed-against-the-glass moment and wondered who his bedmate was supposed to be.

‘The Italians say keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’

Schlegel felt he had enough leeway, just, to ask which he was. The remark verged on the insubordinate, but he knew Nebe didn’t mind because it made him appear tolerant.

‘For you to work out, dear boy. In the meantime, watch Morgen. He has a soft spot, but don’t be fooled. His behaviour in Weimar was astonishingly ruthless.’

Nebe, usually so smooth, grew awkward. Schlegel presumed he was about to be told something he didn’t want to hear.

‘I like to think of you as the son I never had.’

Schlegel felt they were all swimming in molasses. The man’s eyes were moist. Whatever the emotion, he was sure it wasn’t paternal. He was as slippery as they came. Schlegel
couldn’t believe Nebe had made reference to his own bribes. Was it a brush-off or a dangle he was supposed to pick up on?

Nebe went on, seeming to address himself more than Schlegel. ‘These are hard times to read. We did our best to get rid of religion, yet we seem to be entering an age that can only be
described as biblical, perhaps even pre-revolutionary.’

Was this seditious talk, or was Nebe trying to trap him by hinting at such matters?

Nebe stood up and again Schlegel wondered if he hadn’t been meant to bite. Nebe rested his hand briefly on his shoulder.

‘Let’s leave it at that.’

Instead of going, he went and looked out of the window, hands stuck in his pockets, a picture of easy authority.

‘Spring is in the air but sometimes it is better to stay hibernating,’ he said, seeming to imply Schlegel should make himself scarce.

Schlegel had had enough. ‘Is there anyone who can tell me what is going on, sir?’

Nebe looked at him sharply. The question was far too direct.

‘Your name is starting to come up in the wrong way. Someone mentioned it in connection to Konto five.’

Nebe cocked his head, studying Schlegel’s Adam’s apple.

‘You don’t go there, whatever Morgen tells you. The situation is extralegal and I state that categorically. The one that can go is Nöthling. He’s a ladies’ man. Take
care of that. Use a woman.’

‘A sex trap, sir?’

Nebe sighed. ‘Oh, do grow up. Do it now. The time is right.’

Schlegel was sitting at his desk in uneasy contemplation when Frau Pelz rushed in breathless with excitement to ask if he knew where Morgen was. Schlegel didn’t and saw
it was her own news Frau Pelz was bursting to share, even with him.

She had spoken to Reichsführer-SS Himmler’s personal attaché who wished to speak to Morgen. Never did she believe such a thing would happen in their little outpost. She
proffered the telephone number, written in her neatest hand, with double exclamation marks after the caller’s name.

After all the flannelling with Nebe, it was a relief just to tell her to go away. She left, resentful and deflated. Another bridge burned, thought Schlegel, another twist. Morgen had given no
hint.

Morgen was no more forthcoming when he came in. His mood was foul.

‘What are you doing anyway?’ he asked, accusatory.

‘Thinking about where you were when you were away.’

Morgen gave him a look of warning.

‘The Reichsführer’s office wishes to speak to you. I have never seen Frau Pelz excited.’

He pointed to her note, supposing Morgen would take the news in his stride.

Instead his hands shook as he reached for the inevitable cigarette. Morgen slowly picked up the receiver and told Frau Pelz to place the call, which had to be the most thrilling moment of her
desiccated life.

Morgen announced himself and was told to wait while he was put through. He looked tight and tense. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

Not only was the call to Himmler’s private office, it was to Heine himself. Seeing Schlegel studying him, Morgen stood and turned his back.

Himmler; no wonder Nebe was worried.

Morgen stood for the call, answering in a series of affirmatives. Schlegel counted eight. He had never seen the underling in Morgen before, so clipped and wary.

Morgen hung up and said, ‘Fuck.’

He sat down and stared for a long time at the replaced receiver. Frau Pelz came into the room in a dither. Morgen said not now, shooed her out and shut the door. Hanging on the back of it was
the reprimanding sight of the yellow suit made by Sybil for Schlegel’s mother’s friend, which he had failed to deliver.

Schlegel pretended to work, thinking he needed to sort out the suit. It reminded him of the attic above the shop where Sybil had hidden Lore. A place with sentimental associations, worth
checking. He could take the suit back as well. He must have been mad to think he would get around to delivering it.

Morgen’s apathy lifted and he seemed visibly to shift up several gears.

‘I had intended to spend the day taking Haager from the slaughterhouse apart, a pleasure that will have to wait, as I now have to go out. Get him in and sweat him in the cells. Say we have
evidence linking him to the death of Keleman.’ Morgen nodded at the stun gun on the top of the desk. ‘I am sure Lipchitz will oblige us with whatever forensics we need. And while you
are about it, issue a warrant for Gersten’s arrest, citing financial irregularities.’

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on with that business just now?’

‘You mean as partners?’ Morgen snapped.

‘No,’ said Schlegel coldly, addressing the papers on his desk. ‘You are a temporary associate. Go and attend to whatever you have to.’

Morgen pointed to the telephone as the real object of his anger.

‘We are talking about rarefied levels of stupefying intrigue here, and it has to do with us.’

‘Us!’ exclaimed Schlegel.

Morgen looked around the room and gestured for him to follow. He led the way to the washroom. After checking the cubicles were empty he ran the basin taps.

‘Excuse the precaution. I’ve heard that the whole of the Ministry of Propaganda is bugged, as well as the Foreign Press Club, so one can’t be too careful.’

Reichsführer Himmler had a new whim. It had come to his attention that an occasional clandestine smuggling service had been operating whereby a few Jews were allowed to buy their way to
safety.

Schlegel presumed Himmler wanted Gersten brought to book, given the arrest warrant.

‘Quite the opposite. The Reichsführer wishes privately to sponsor one such train himself.’

Schlegel cast around in disbelief.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Morgen, as though such a
volte face
was obvious. ‘It’s called hedging your bets.’

Schlegel continued to flounder.

Morgen said, ‘It’s astonishing how it all clicks. Gersten will provide the service as usual, in exchange for his slate being wiped clean.’ He paused. ‘I agree, it is an
upside-down world. On the other hand, Gersten will have to resurface. We have maybe forty-eight hours, maybe as little as twenty-four, to get to the bottom of this.’

‘Metzler’s dead. There’s no broker.’

‘The money will be paid in US dollars.’

Schlegel could not believe what he was hearing. A grubby deal involving fake money and a venal Gestapo man had been piggybacked by none other than the Reichsführer-SS with US money now
being waved around.

‘Who’s the broker?’

‘Not the right question. I am appointing you.’

‘The world has gone crazy.’

‘Quite some time ago.’ Morgen caught Schlegel’s eye in the mirror. ‘Yes. Lampshades made of human skin. The thought disgusts the Reichsführer. He is a fastidious
man. He hates cruelty. When they showed him firing squads in the east he went green and raved. The closed door, Schlegel, the closed door. What exactly goes on behind it we may never know. There is
no time to lose.’

He walked out, leaving Schlegel to stare at his reflection and see the dangling man; he was unable to decide whether Morgen was responsible, prior to letting him drop.

The yellow suit hung reprovingly on the back of the door. Schlegel was alone in the office. Morgen had not said where he was. Whatever was going on, it could play out too many
ways, none good.

Like a man facing long exile, he decided to put his affairs in order.

He applied for a fortnight’s leave.

He ordered the local flatfoots to arrest Haager and hold him until he could send a van from headquarters.

He took pleasure in drawing up the warrant for Gersten’s arrest.

He had a brainwave about Nebe’s trap for Nöthling.

He decided to take the yellow suit back to Sybil’s employer, embarrassing as that was, and see if Sybil had used the attic. He even had the crazy notion of staying there himself until she
showed up, as he was sure she would.

First he went to Grosse Hamburger Strasse to speak with Stella Kübler. They talked outside again, sitting on a garden bench in the spring sun. She thought he
couldn’t get enough of her. When he said he needed someone to set up a trap she didn’t look surprised. He told her who the target was and it needed a compromising rendezvous.

‘You want it to be a race thing, is that why you are asking?’

Yes, he said a bit desperately. ‘He will be charged with protecting you, and the other thing.’

‘Carnal relations, darling. Don’t be shy. Call a spade a spade. I’m racial defilement.’

‘We need proof.’

‘A big brute of a photographer kicking down the door?’

The woman was impossible. He was out of his depth.

‘No. We have technical people who can rig a room.’

‘Whatever you say, darling. It will make a change. I must say, I didn’t have you down for a sex intriguer. What’s in it for me?’

‘You will remain safe of course.’ How pompous he sounded.

‘I am safe as it is.’

He supposed he could find her something from the contraband deposits.

She asked what was in the bag he was carrying. It was the suit Sybil had made; Stella was all over it in seconds.

‘It’s beautiful! Look at the stitching. It must be worth a fortune.’

Schlegel had never seen anyone covet something so nakedly.

‘You can’t find anything like this now. Where did you get it? Who made it?’

He thought it better not to say.

Stella shrugged off her jacket and put the other on.

‘I’m an absolute fit.’

Looking around conspiratorially, she reached out for his hand as she removed her shoes. She took off her skirt so she was standing in her slip. Schlegel glimpsed white thigh above stocking top
as she changed into the yellow skirt. He experienced a stab of desire and saw it register as she reached for his hand to slip her shoes back on.

The sad thing was the suit didn’t look that good on her. The yellow was all wrong for her hair, but she twirled for him like a model.

‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘So clever of you to think of it and know my size. And so much more tasteful and personal than the financial transaction, don’t you think? We should
go on a date and I’ll wear it for you.’ She looked at him, all innocence, and said, ‘You are sweet,’ as though they had agreed all along the suit was the price of the
transaction.