The Pale Criminal (3 page)

‘Come now, Frau Lange, there’s no need to be the cat creeping around the hot milk. Just walk right up and lap it.’ I waited for a moment, watching her grow awkward. ‘I’ll say it for you if you like. You mean, how good a detective am I.’

‘I’m afraid I know very little of these matters.’

‘No reason why you should.’

‘But if I am to confide in you I feel I ought to have some idea of your credentials.’

I smiled. ‘You’ll understand that mine is not the kind of business where I can show you the testimonials of several satisfied customers. Confidentiality is as important to my clients as it is in the confessional. Perhaps even more important.’

‘But then how is one to know that one has engaged the services of someone who is good at what he does?’

‘I’m very good at what I do, Frau Lange. My reputation is well-known. A couple of months ago I even had an offer for my business. Rather a good offer, as it happened.’

‘Why didn’t you sell?’

‘In the first place the business wasn’t for sale. And in the second I’d make as bad an employee as I would an employer. All the same, it’s flattering when that sort of thing happens. Of course, all this is quite beside the point. Most people who want the services of a private investigator don’t need to buy the firm. Usually they just ask their lawyers to find someone. You’ll find that I’m recommended by several law firms, including the ones who don’t like my accent or my manners.’

‘Forgive me, Herr Gunther, but in my opinion the law is a much overrated profession.’

‘I can’t argue with you there. I never met a lawyer yet that wasn’t above stealing his mother’s savings and the mattress she was keeping them under.’

‘In nearly all business matters I have found my own judgement to be a great deal more reliable.’

‘What exactly is your business, Frau Lange?’

‘I own and manage a publishing company.’

‘The Lange Publishing Company?’

‘As I said, I haven’t often been wrong by trusting my own judgement, Herr Gunther. Publishing is all about taste, and to know what will sell one must appreciate something of the tastes of the people to whom one is selling. Now, I’m a Berliner to my fingertips, and I believe I know this city and its people as well as anyone does. So with reference to my original question, which was to do with your being observant, you will answer me this: if I were a stranger in Berlin, how would you describe the people of this city to me?’

I smiled. ‘What’s a Berliner, eh? That’s a good question. No client’s ever asked me to leap through a couple of hoops to see how clever a dog I am before. You know, mostly I don’t do tricks, but in your case I’ll make an exception. Berliners like people to make exceptions for them. I hope you’re paying attention now because I’ve started my act. Yes, they like to be made to feel exceptional, although at the same time they like to keep up appearances. Mostly they’ve got the same sort of look. A scarf, hat and shoes that could walk you to Shanghai without a corn. As it happens, Berliners like to walk, which is why so many of them own a dog: something vicious if you’re masculine, something cute if you’re something else. The men comb their hair more than the women, and they also grow moustaches you could hunt wild pig in. Tourists think that a lot of Berlin men like dressing-up as women, but that’s just the ugly women giving the men a bad name. Not that there are many tourists these days. National Socialism’s made them as rare a sight as Fred Astaire in jackboots.

‘The people of this town will take cream with just about anything, including beer, and beer is something they take very seriously indeed. The women prefer a ten-minute head on it, just like the men, and they don’t mind paying for it themselves. Nearly everyone who drives a car drives much too fast, but nobody would ever dream of running a red light. They’ve got rotten lungs because the air is bad, and because they smoke too much, and a sense of humour that sounds cruel if you don’t understand it, and even crueller if you do. They buy expensive Biedermeier cabinets as solid as blockhouses, and then hang little curtains on the insides of the glass doors to hide what they’ve got in there. It’s a typically idiosyncratic mixture of the ostentatious and the private. How am I doing?’

Frau Lange nodded. ‘Apart from the comment about Berlin’s ugly women, you’ll do just fine.’

‘It wasn’t pertinent.’

‘Now there you’re wrong. Don’t back down or I shall stop liking you. It was pertinent. You’ll see why in a moment. What are your fees?’

‘Seventy marks a day, plus expenses.’

‘And what expenses might there be?’

‘Hard to say. Travel. Bribes. Anything that results in information. You get receipts for everything except the bribes. I’m afraid you have to take my word for those.’

‘Well, let’s hope that you’re a good judge of what is worth paying for.’

‘I’ve had no complaints.’

‘And I assume you’ll want something in advance.’ She handed me an envelope. ‘You’ll find a thousand marks in cash in there. Is that satisfactory to you?’ I nodded. ‘Naturally I shall want a receipt.’

‘Naturally,’ I said, and signed the piece of paper she had prepared. Very businesslike, I thought. Yes, she was certainly quite a lady. ‘Incidentally, how did you come to choose me? You didn’t ask your lawyer, and,’ I added thoughtfully, ‘I don’t advertise, of course.’

She stood up and, still holding her dog, went over to the desk.

‘I had one of your business cards,’ she said, handing it to me. ‘Or at least my son did. I acquired it at least a year ago from the pocket of one of his old suits I was sending to the Winter Relief.’ She referred to the welfare programme that was run by the Labour Front, the DAF. ‘I kept it, meaning to return it to him. But when I mentioned it to him I’m afraid he told me to throw it away. Only I didn’t. I suppose I thought it might come in useful at some stage. Well, I wasn’t wrong, was I?’

It was one of my old business cards, dating from the time before my partnership with Bruno Stahlecker. It even had my previous home telephone number written on the back.

‘I wonder where he got it,’ I said.

‘I believe he said that it was Dr Kindermann’s.’

‘Kindermann?’

‘I’ll come to him in a moment, if you don’t mind.’ I thumbed a new card from my wallet.

‘It’s not important. But I’ve got a partner now, so you’d better have one of my new ones.’ I handed her the card, and she placed it on the desk next to the telephone. While she was sitting down her face adopted a serious expression, as if she had switched off something inside her head.

‘And now I’d better tell you why I asked you here,’ she said grimly. ‘I want you to find out who’s blackmailing me.’ She paused, shifting awkwardly on the chaise longue. ‘I’m sorry, this isn’t very easy for me.’

‘Take your time. Blackmail makes anyone feel nervous.’ She nodded and gulped some of her gin.

‘Well, about two months ago, perhaps a little more, I received an envelope containing two letters that had been written by my son to another man. To Dr Kindermann. Of course I recognized my son’s handwriting, and although I didn’t read them, I knew that they were of an intimate nature. My son is a homosexual, Herr Gunther. I’ve known about it for some time, so this was not the terrible revelation to me that this evil person had intended. He made that much clear in his note. Also that there were several more letters like the ones I had received in his possession, and that he would send them to me if I paid him the sum of 1,000 marks. Were I to refuse he would have no alternative but to send them to the Gestapo. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Herr Gunther, that this government takes a less enlightened attitude towards these unfortunate young men than did the Republic. Any contact between men, no matter how tenuous, is these days regarded as punishable. For Reinhard to be exposed as a homosexual would undoubtedly result in his being sent to a concentration camp for up to ten years.

‘So I paid, Herr Gunther. My chauffeur left the money in the place I was told, and a week or so later I received not a packet of letters as I had expected, but only one letter. It was accompanied by another anonymous note which informed me that the author had changed his mind, that he was poor, that I should have to buy the letters back one at a time, and that there were still ten of them in his possession. Since then I have received four back, at a cost of almost 5,000 marks. Each time he asks for more than the last.’

‘Does your son know about this?’

‘No. And for the moment at least I can see no reason why we should both suffer.’ I sighed, and was about to voice my disagreement when she stopped me.

‘Yes, you’re going to say that it makes catching this criminal more difficult, and that Reinhard may have information which might help you. You’re absolutely right, of course. But listen to my reasons, Herr Gunther.

‘First of all, my son is an impulsive boy. Most likely his reaction would be to tell this blackmailer to go to the devil, and not pay. This would almost certainly result in his arrest. Reinhard is my son, and as his mother I love him very dearly, but he is a fool, with no understanding of pragmatism. I suspect that whoever is blackmailing me has a shrewd appreciation of human psychology. He understands how a mother, a widow, feels for her only son — especially a rich and rather lonely one like myself.

‘Second, I myself have some appreciation of the world of the homosexual. The late Dr Magnus Hirschfeld wrote several books on the subject, one of which I’m proud to say I published myself. It’s a secret and rather treacherous world, Herr Gunther. A blackmailer’s charter. So it may be that this evil person is actually acquainted with my son. Even between men and women, love can make a good reason for blackmail — more so when there is adultery involved, or race defilement, which seems to be more a cause for concern to these Nazis.

‘Because of this, when you have discovered the blackmailer’s identity, I will tell Reinhard, and then it will be up to him what is to be done. But until then he will know nothing of this.’ She looked at me questioningly. ‘Do you agree?’

‘I can’t fault your reasoning, Frau Lange. You seem to have thought this thing through very clearly. May I see the letters from your son?’ Reaching for a folder by the chaise she nodded, and then hesitated.

‘Is that necessary? Reading his letters, I mean.’

‘Yes it is,’ I said firmly. ‘And do you still have the notes from the blackmailer?’ She handed me the folder.

‘Everything is in there,’ she said. ‘The letters and the anonymous notes.’

‘He didn’t ask for any of them back?’

‘No.’

‘That’s good. It means we’re dealing with an amateur. Someone who had done this sort of thing before would have told you to return his notes with each payment. To stop you accumulating any evidence against him.’

‘Yes, I see.’

I glanced at what I was optimistically calling evidence. The notes and envelopes were all typewritten on good quality stationery without any distinctive features, and posted at various districts throughout west Berlin — W.35, W.40, W.50 — the stamps all commemorating the fifth anniversary of the Nazis coming to power. That told me something. This anniversary had taken place on 30 January, so it didn’t look like Frau Lange’s blackmailer bought stamps very often.

Reinhard Lange’s letters were written on the heavier weight of paper that only people in love bother to buy — the kind that costs so much it just has to be taken seriously. The hand was neat and fastidious, even careful, which was more than could be said of the contents. An Ottoman bath-house attendant might not have found anything particularly objectionable about them, but in Nazi Germany, Reinhard Lange’s love-letters were certainly sufficient to earn their cheeky author a trip to a KZ wearing a whole chestful of pink triangles.

‘This Dr Lanz Kindermann,’ I said, reading the name on the lime-scented envelope. ‘What exactly do you know about him?’

‘There was a stage when Reinhard was persuaded to be treated for his homosexuality. At first he tried various endocrine preparations, but these proved ineffective. Psychotherapy seemed to offer a better chance of success. I believe several high-ranking Party members, and boys from the Hitler Youth, have undergone the same treatment. Kindermann is a psychotherapist, and Reinhard first became acquainted with him when he entered Kindermann’s clinic in Wannsee seeking a cure. Instead he became intimately involved with Kindermann, who is himself homosexual.’

‘Pardon my ignorance, but what exactly is psychotherapy? I thought that sort of thing was no longer permitted.’

Frau Lange shook her head. ‘I’m not exactly sure. But I think that the emphasis is on treating mental disorders as part of one’s overall physical health. Don’t ask me how that differs from that fellow Freud, except that he’s Jewish, and Kindermann is German. Kindermann’s clinic is strictly Germans only. Wealthy Germans, with drink and drug problems, those for whom the more eccentric end of medicine has some appeal –chiropracty and that sort of thing. Or those just seeking an expensive rest. Kindermann’s patients include the Deputy Führer, Rudolf Hess.’

‘Have you ever met Dr Kindermann?’

‘Once. I didn’t like him. He’s a rather arrogant Austrian.’

‘Aren’t they all?’ I murmured. ‘Think he’d be the type to try a little blackmail? After all, the letters were addressed to him. If it isn’t Kindermann, then it has to be somebody who knows him. Or at least somebody who had the opportunity to steal the letters from him.’

‘I confess that I hadn’t suspected Kindermann for the simple reason that the letters implicate both of them.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I know it sounds silly, but I never gave any thought as to how the letters came to be in somebody else’s possession. But now you come to mention it, I suppose that they must have been stolen. From Kindermann I would think.’

I nodded. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Now let me ask you a rather more difficult question.’

‘I think I know what you’re going to say, Herr Gunther,’ she said, heaving a great sigh. ‘Have I considered the possibility that my own son might be the culprit?’ She looked at me critically, and added: ‘I wasn’t wrong about you, was I? It’s just the sort of cynical question that I hoped you would ask. Now I know I can trust you.’