The Pale Criminal (8 page)

‘No,’ I said. ‘They’ve always seemed like a lot of work to me. When I stop work, that’s exactly what I do — stop work, not start digging in a garden.’

‘That’s too bad. At my home in Schlactensee we have a fine garden with its own croquet lawn. Are either of you familiar with the game?’

‘No,’ we said in unison.

‘It’s an interesting game; I believe it’s very popular in England. It provides an interesting metaphor for the new Germany. Laws are merely hoops through which the people must be driven, with varying degrees of force. But there can be no movement without the mallet — croquet really is a perfect game for a policeman.’ Nebe nodded thoughtfully, and Heydrich himself seemed pleased with this comparison. He began to talk quite freely. In brief about some of the things he hated — Freemasons, Catholics, Jehovah’s Witnesses, homosexuals and Admiral Canaris, the head of the Abwehr, German Military Secret Intelligence; and at length about some of the things that gave him pleasure — the piano and the cello, fencing, his favourite nightclubs and his family.

‘The new Germany,’ he said, ‘is all about arresting the decline of the family, you know, and establishing a national community of blood. Things are changing. For instance, there are now only 22,787 tramps in Germany, 5,500 fewer than at the start of the year. There are more marriages, more births and half as many divorces. You might well ask me why the family is so important to the Party. Well, I’ll tell you. Children. The better our children, the better the future for Germany. So when something threatens those children, then we had better act quickly.’

I found a cigarette and started to pay attention. It seemed like he was coming to the point at last. We stopped at a park bench and sat down, me between Heydrich and Nebe, the chicken-liver in the black-bread sandwich.

‘You don’t like gardens,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘What about children? Do you like them?’

‘I like them.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘It’s my own personal opinion that it is essential to like them, doing what we do — even the things we must do that are hard because they seem distasteful to us — for otherwise we can find no expression for our humanity. Do you understand what I mean?’

I wasn’t sure I did, but I nodded anyway.

‘May I be frank with you?’ he said. ‘In confidence?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘A maniac is loose on the streets of Berlin, Herr Gunther.’

I shrugged. ‘Not so as you would notice,’ I said.

Heydrich shook his head impatiently.

‘No, I don’t mean a stormtrooper beating up some old Jew. I mean a murderer. He’s raped and killed and mutilated four young German girls in as many months.’

‘I haven’t seen anything in the newspapers about it.’

Heydrich laughed. ‘The newspapers print what we tell them to print, and there’s an embargo on this particular story.’

‘Thanks to Streicher and his anti-Semitic rag, it would only get blamed on the Jews,’ said Nebe.

‘Precisely so,’ said Heydrich. ‘The last thing I want is an anti-Jewish riot in this city. That sort of thing offends my sense of public order. It offends me as a policeman. When we do decide to clear out the Jews it will be in a proper way, not with a rabble to do it. There are the commercial implications too. A couple of weeks ago some idiots in Nuremberg decided to tear down a synagogue. One that just happened to be well-insured with a German insurance company. It cost them thousands of marks to settle the claim. So you see, race riots are very bad for business.’

‘So why tell me?’

‘I want this lunatic caught, and caught soon, Gunther.’ He looked drily at Nebe. ‘In the best traditions of Kripo a man, a Jew, has already confessed to the murders. However, since he was almost certainly in custody at the time of the last murder, it seems that he might actually be innocent, and that an overzealous element in Nebe’s beloved police force may quite simply have framed this man.

‘But you, Gunther, you have no racial or political axe to grind. And what is more you have considerable experience in this field of criminal investigation. After all it was you, was it not, who apprehended Gormann, the strangler? That may have been ten years ago, but everyone still remembers the case.’ He paused and looked me straight in the eye — an uncomfortable sensation. ‘In other words, I want you back, Gunther. Back in Kripo, and tracking down this madman before he kills again.’

I flicked my cigarette-butt into the bushes and stood up. Arthur Nebe stared at me dispassionately, almost as if he disagreed with Heydrich’s wish to have me back on the force and leading the investigation in preference to any of his own men. I lit another cigarette and thought for a moment.

‘Hell, there must be other bulls,’ I said. ‘What about the one who caught Kürten, the Beast of Dusseldorf. Why not get him?’

‘We’ve already checked up on him,’ said Nebe. ‘It would seem that Peter Kürten just gave himself up. Prior to that it was hardly the most efficient investigation.’

‘Isn’t there anyone else?’

Nebe shook his head.

‘You see, Gunther,’ said Heydrich, ‘we come back to you again. Quite frankly I doubt that there is a better detective in the whole of Germany.’

I laughed and shook my head. ‘You’re good. Very good. That was a nice speech you made about children and the family, General, but of course we both know that the real reason you’re keeping the lid on this thing is because it makes your modern police force look like a bunch of incompetents. Bad for them, bad for you. And the real reason you want me back is not because I’m such a good detective, but because the rest are so bad. The only sort of crimes that today’s Kripo is capable of solving are things like race-defilement, or telling a joke about the Führer.’

Heydrich smiled like a guilty dog, his eyes narrowing.

‘Are you refusing me, Herr Gunther?’ he said evenly.

‘I’d like to help, really I would. But your timing is poor. You see, I’ve only just found out that my partner was murdered last night. You can call me old-fashioned, but I’d like to find out who killed him. Ordinarily I’d leave it to the boys in the Murder Commission, but given what you’ve just told me it doesn’t sound too promising, does it? They’ve all but accused me of killing him, so who knows, maybe they’ll force me to sign a confession, in which case I’ll have to work for you in order to escape the guillotine.’

‘Naturally I’d heard about Herr Stahlecker’s unfortunate death,’ he said, standing up again. ‘And of course you’ll want to make some inquiries. If my men can be of any assistance, no matter how incompetent, then please don’t hesitate. However, assuming for a moment that this obstacle were removed, what would be your answer?’

I shrugged. ‘Assuming that if I refused I would lose my private investigator’s licence–’

‘Naturally . . .’

‘ — gun permit, driving licence–’

‘No doubt we’d find some excuse . . .’

‘ — then probably I would be forced to accept.’

‘Excellent.’

‘On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘That for the duration of the investigation, I be given the rank of Kriminalkommissar and that I be allowed to run the investigation any way I want.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ said Nebe. ‘What’s wrong with your old rank of inspector?’

‘Quite apart from the salary,’ said Heydrich, ‘Gunther is no doubt keen that he should be as free as possible from the interference of senior officers. He’s quite right of course. He’ll need that kind of rank in order to overcome the prejudices that will undoubtedly accompany his return to Kripo. I should have thought of it myself. It is agreed.’

We walked back to the Palais. Inside the door an SD officer handed Heydrich a note. He read it and then smiled.

‘Isn’t that a coincidence?’ he smiled. ‘It would seem that my incompetent police force has found the man who murdered your partner, Herr Gunther. I wonder, does the name Klaus Hering mean anything to you?’

‘Stahlecker was keeping a watch on his apartment when he was killed.’

‘That is good news. The only sand in the oil is that this Hering fellow would appear to have committed suicide.’ He looked at Nebe and smiled. ‘Well, we had better go and take a look, don’t you think, Arthur? Otherwise Herr Gunther here will think that we have made it up.’

It is difficult to form any clear impression of a man who has been hanged that is not grotesque. The tongue, turgid and protruding like a third lip, the eyes as prominent as a racing dog’s balls — these things tend to colour your thoughts a little. So apart from the feeling that he wouldn’t be winning the local debating-society prize, there wasn’t much to say about Klaus Hering except that he was about thirty years old, slimly built, fair-haired and, thanks in part to his necktie, getting on for tall.

The thing looked clear-cut enough. In my experience hanging is almost always suicide: there are easier ways to kill a man. I have seen a few exceptions, but these were all accidental cases, where the victim had encountered the mishap of vagal inhibition while going about some sado-masochistic perversion. These sexual nonconformists were usually found naked or clothed in female underwear with a spread of pornographic literature to sticky hand, and were always men.

In Hering’s case there was no such evidence of death by sexual misadventure. His clothes were such as might have been chosen by his mother; and his hands, which were loose at his sides, were unfettered eloquence to the effect that his homicide had been self-inflicted.

Inspector Strunck, the bull who had interrogated me back at the Alex, explained the matter to Heydrich and Nebe.

‘We found this man’s name and address in Stahlecker’s pocket,’ he said. ‘There’s a bayonet wrapped in newspaper in the kitchen. It’s covered in blood, and from the look of it I’d say it was the knife that killed him. There’s also a bloodstained shirt that Hering was probably wearing at the time.’

‘Anything else?’ said Nebe.

‘Stahlecker’s shoulder-holster was empty, General,’ said Strunck. ‘Perhaps Gunther might like to tell us if this was his gun or not. We found it in a paper bag with the shirt.’

He handed me a Walther PPK. I put the muzzle to my nose and sniffed the gun-oil. Then I worked the slide and saw that there wasn’t even a bullet in the barrel, although the magazine was full. Next I pulled down the trigger-guard. Bruno’s initials were scratched neatly on the black metal.

‘It’s Bruno’s gun, all right,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t look like he even got his hand on it. I’d like to see that shirt please.’

Strunck glanced at his Reichskriminaldirektor for approval.

‘Let him see it, Inspector,’ said Nebe.

The shirt was from C & A, and heavily bloodstained around the stomach area and the right cuff, which seemed to confirm the general set-up.

‘It does look as though this was the man who murdered your partner, Herr Gunther,’ said Heydrich. ‘He came back here and, having changed his clothes, had a chance to reflect upon what he’d done. In a fit of remorse he hanged himself.’

‘It would seem so,’ I said, without much uncertainty. ‘But if you don’t mind, General Heydrich, I’d like to take a look round the place. On my own. Just to satisfy my curiosity about one or two things.’

‘Very well. Don’t be too long, will you?’

With Heydrich, Nebe and the police gone from the apartment, I took a closer look at Klaus Hering’s body. Apparently he had tied a length of electrical cord to the banister, slipped a noose over his head, and then simply stepped off the stair. But only an inspection of Hering’s hands, wrists and neck itself could tell me if that had really been what happened. There was something about the circumstances of his death, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, that I found questionable. Not least was the fact that he had chosen to change his shirt before hanging himself.

I climbed over the banister on to a small shelf that was made by the top of the stairwell’s wall, and knelt down. Leaning forward, I had a good view of the suspension point behind Hering’s right ear. The level of tightening of the ligature is always higher and more vertical with a hanging than with a case of strangulation. But here there was a second and altogether more horizontal mark just below the noose which seemed to confirm my doubts. Before hanging himself, Klaus Hering had been strangled to death.

I checked that Hering’s shirt collar was the same size as the bloodstained shirt I had examined earlier. It was. Then I climbed back over the banister and stepped down a few stairs. Standing on tiptoe I reached up to examine his hands and wrists. Prising the right hand open I saw the dried blood and then a small shiny object, which seemed to be sticking into the palm. I pulled it out of Hering’s flesh and laid it carefully on to the flat of my hand. The pin was bent, probably from the pressure of Hering’s fist, and although encrusted with blood, the death’s-head motif was unmistakable. It was an SS cap badge.

I paused briefly, trying to imagine what might have happened, certain now that Heydrich must have had a hand in it. Back in the garden at the Prinz Albrecht Palais, had he not asked me himself what my answer to his proposition would be if ‘the obstacle’ that was my obligation to find Bruno’s murderer, were ‘removed’? And wasn’t this as completely removed as it was possible to achieve? No doubt he had anticipated what my answer would be and had already ordered Hering’s murder by the time we went for our stroll.

With these and other thoughts I searched the apartment. I was quick but thorough, lifting mattresses, examining cisterns, rolling back rugs and even leafing through a set of medical textbooks. I managed to find a whole sheet of the old stamps commemorating the fifth anniversary of the Nazis coming to power which had consistently appeared on the blackmail notes to Frau Lange. But of her son’s letters to Dr Kindermann there was no sign.

It felt strange being back in a case-meeting at the Alex, and even stranger hearing Arthur Nebe refer to me as Kommissar Gunther. Five years had elapsed since the day in June 1933 when, no longer able to tolerate Goering’s police purges, I had resigned my rank of Kriminalinspektor in order to become the house detective at the Adlon Hotel. Another few months and they would have probably fired me anyway. If anyone had said then that I’d be back at the Alex as a member of Kripo’s upper officer class while a National Socialist government was still in power, I’d have said that he was crazy.