Prussian Blue

  Winkelhof, the villa’s butler, turned up to see what all the commotion was about. Calmly and without complaint, he took charge of everything—even the stitching of my hand. It turned out he’d been a medical orderly during the war—and I had to remind myself that he, too, was on the list of the disgruntled and dispossessed Obersalzberg locals that Karl Schenk had compiled on my orders. This case had it all, I told myself: absurdity, alienation, existential anxiety, and no shortage of likely and unlikely suspects. If I’d been a very clever German of the kind who knew the difference between the sons of Zeus, Reason and Chaos, I might have been dumb enough to think I could write a book about it.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  April 1939

  I ate a tasteless breakfast at the Berghof. Alone. I was dreading seeing Anni Kaspel and telling the poor woman that her husband, Hermann, was dead, and I wondered why I had been foolish enough to tell the spotty young lieutenant at the Türken that I would volunteer for this onerous duty. It wasn’t like I’d spent that much time with Kaspel. And it was only when Major Högl and the cold herring he called his personality joined me in the dining room that I suddenly remembered why I’d said I would do it at all. It was like having breakfast with Conrad Veidt. After a few tense moments Högl confessed, smugly, that he’d already been up to Kaspel’s house in Buchenhohe to break the news to the widow. Hearing this I winced and tried to contain my irritation with him, which he was at least perceptive enough to notice.

  “Look here, as Kaspel’s senior officer it was my duty to give her bad news like that, not yours,” he said. “Besides, it’s obvious why you told Lieutenant Dietrich that you wanted to tell her yourself.”

  “Is it?”

  Högl’s eel-like lips writhed across his long Bavarian undertaker’s face until they were a sarcastic imitation of a smile. Now he really did look like Conrad Veidt in The Man Who Laughs.

  “Anni Kaspel is a very attractive woman. It’s generally accepted that she’s the most beautiful woman in Obersalzberg. Doubtless you thought you might ingratiate yourself with the woman and provide her with a convenient shoulder to cry on. You Berliners are so unscrupulous, so sure of yourselves, aren’t you?”

  I let that one go and, for a moment, diverted my thoughts away from this egregious insult by asking myself who among those with access to the Berghof might also have been a secret artist talented enough to draw a well-rendered caricature of Hitler in my notebook. It seemed a more considered reaction to what Högl had just said than grabbing him by the neat dark hair on his El Greco head and banging his bony nose on the breakfast table. Although it might at least have helped summon the waiter to bring me another pot of coffee. But after injuring two Gestapo men, I was in no hurry to gain myself a reputation for violence, even if it was probably warranted.

  “How did she take it?”

  “How do you think? Not well. But I wouldn’t flatter yourself that your telling her would have made any difference to how the poor woman feels about it now. Her husband is dead and there’s no way of polishing that table.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Högl poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and stirred some milk into it with a monogrammed teaspoon. If it hadn’t been for the fact I’d just drunk some myself I could have wished it was poisoned.

  “Besides,” he said, “we’re quite a close community up here in Obersalzberg. We don’t like outsiders very much and prefer to handle these things privately, among ourselves.”

  “You mean like murdering Hermann Kaspel? Or informing the Linz Gestapo that I had supposedly libeled the Leader? Yes, I can see how close you all are.”

  “I have to tell you, Commissar Gunther. This whole thing strikes me as fantastical. Cutting through someone’s brakes? I never heard of such a thing. No, it’s quite unthinkable.”

  “And I suppose that Dr. Flex was shot by accident.”

  “Frankly, I’m still not convinced he wasn’t. I’ve seen no hard evidence yet that he really was murdered. In my own humble opinion he was probably killed by a stray shot from a careless hunter. A poacher, most probably. In spite of our best efforts we still get a few of those around here.”

  “What about the rifle found in the chimney at the Villa Bechstein? I suppose it was left there by Shockheaded Peter.”

  “There’s no telling how long it had been there. It was certainly very dusty. Besides, it’s no proof of intent. A poacher might just as easily have wanted to hide a rifle quickly as an assassin. The punishments for poaching are severe.”

  I was already regretting that I hadn’t banged Högl’s head on the breakfast table; it might have knocked some sense into it. The man had the forensic skills of a rubber plant.

  “By the way, Major, I meant to ask. That rifle of yours at the Türken Inn. The Mannlicher carbine with the scope. Was that the same rifle Hermann Kaspel gave you? The one that was found in the Landlerwald.”

  “I really couldn’t say.” Högl shrugged. “I suppose it might have been.”

  “Hermann said he thought it was a poacher’s rifle. Because it was fitted with an oil filter sound suppressor. Just like the one I found in the chimney at the Villa Bechstein.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I don’t remember there being an oil filter suppressor fitted to the rifle when Kaspel gave it to me. But why is that important?”

  “Whoever fitted your rifle with a sound suppressor may well have done the same with the assassin’s rifle. It could be important evidence.”

  “If you say so.”

  I smiled patiently. “I know you were a cop, Major. With the Bavarian Police. It says so in your file. But I do wonder why you don’t see that this could be important. Perhaps it’s fortunate for the Leader that your master, Martin Bormann, thinks differently.”

  “For now,” said Högl. “I wouldn’t bank on him thinking that way forever.”

  “Anyone would think you’ve got something to hide, Major.”

  “Perhaps you suspect me of shooting Flex, is that it? And doing whatever you say someone did to poor Hermann’s brakes.”

  It was then—rather too late, perhaps—that I remembered what Udo Ambros, the assistant hunter at the Landlerwald had told me: that Peter Högl had been in the Sixteenth Bavarian with Adolf Hitler. As Hitler’s former NCO he was much more powerful than he seemed.

  “No, of course I don’t suspect you, sir,” I said, backtracking hopelessly. It was only too easy for me to picture him telling Hitler that he wanted me arrested and thrown in jail as quickly as possible, and Hitler agreeing with him. “I’m sure that your primary concern, as is mine, is the Leader’s safety. But the fact remains the brakes were cut. And a man died as a result. My assistant, Friedrich Korsch, used to be a mechanic. He’ll confirm what I said.”

  “I’m sure he would. You Berliners do like to stick together, don’t you? But it seems rather more obvious to me that Kaspel simply lost control of his car. These roads can be treacherous. Which is why so much effort has gone in to widening them to improve safety. Not only that, but he was almost a methamphetamine addict. He was an accident waiting to happen.”

  “It’s not the roads that are treacherous, Major Högl. I’m afraid it’s someone in this community. I wish that wasn’t the case. But I can see no alternative.”

  “Nonsense. I don’t mind admitting to you, Gunther, that I place very little faith in the other half of your story, either. This idea that someone drew a cartoon of the Leader in your notebook. It’s quite ridiculous.”

  “And it was me who informed the Linz Gestapo that I was guilty of high treason? Is that what you mean?”

  “Perhaps I might see this offensive drawing? And judge the matter for myself.”

  “I burned it.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I should have thought it was obvious. I’m not keen to be framed a second time.”

  “By whom???
?

  “The Gestapo, of course. They have a habit of throwing a man out of a window first and asking questions later.”

  “Without the evidence of the offending cartoon, it makes your story very hard to substantiate, doesn’t it?”

  “My story doesn’t need substantiation, Major. I’m a senior police officer investigating a crime at the request of Martin Bormann. I flatter myself that I was asked here because he thought the services of a real detective were called for.”

  I wanted to add, And I’m beginning to see why, but I managed to restrain myself. I kept walking away from Högl’s insults and contempt but they always came after me to offer some more of the same.

  “Yes, I’m glad you mentioned that, Commissar Gunther. Shall I tell you what I think?”

  “I wish you would, sir,” I said patiently. “Two heads are better than one, eh?”

  “It occurs to me that this whole story has been concocted by you to deflect attention from your obvious failure to resolve this matter quickly.”

  “I tell you what was concocted, Major. Evidence. Evidence that might have put me under a falling ax in Linz. The fact is, earlier tonight, while I was elsewhere, someone entered the room I’ve been using at the Berghof and made a libelous sketch of the Leader in my notebook. I would of course have locked the door to my room except for the fact there are no locks and no keys.”

  “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  “Doubtless whoever made the drawing intended it as a backup plan in case I escaped the car accident that had killed Kaspel. Someone in Obersalzberg or Berchtesgaden wants me dead, and soon. Even if it requires the help of Kaltenbrunner and the Austrian Gestapo.”

  Of course, for the secret artist I had no shortage of suspects: Zander, Brandt, Schenk, Rattenhuber, Arthur Kannenberg, Brückner, Peter Högl, of course, even Gerdy Troost, and more or less everyone else, including Martin Bormann. I didn’t trust any of them although it was harder to see Gerdy Troost sliding under a car and cutting through some brake hoses, or even knowing what they were. Not with those shoes and stockings.

  “You’re really suggesting that someone with access to the Berghof—one of the Leader’s intimate circle—that they would do such a thing?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, yes. Ask Bormann about it. He used to run the National Socialist Automobile Corps, didn’t he? I bet he knows a thing or two about cars.”

  “You’re just being paranoid, Commissar.”

  “Who’s paranoid?” said a third voice. “Let’s not have any talk like that. We’re Germans, gentlemen. We don’t use Jewish words like ‘paranoid.’”

  Joining us at the Berghof breakfast table and smelling strongly of tobacco was Johann Rattenhuber, an SS-Standartenführer and Högl’s superior. About the same age as his junior officer, Rattenhuber was a thickset, jollier man with a beer-hall voice, a ruddy face, and an Oktoberfest manner. I didn’t doubt his pork-butcher’s fists had seen a lot of action on the Leader’s behalf. He probably punched holes in cast-iron buckets to keep in shape. He, too, was a Bavarian policeman by profession but much more obviously so than Peter Högl; even on his own he constituted a formidable bodyguard and just looking at him, I figured he could probably have protected the Sabine women from a whole truckload of randy Roman soldiers with one arm tied behind his broad back.

  “The commissar here was just about to explain why he thinks I might have shot Karl,” said Högl.

  “Nonsense, of course he wasn’t,” said Rattenhuber. “Were you, Gunther?”

  “Not really, sir, no. Not for a minute. The major and I were merely having a useful discussion about the case.”

  And then, as if this were all that needed to be said on the matter, Rattenhuber moved straight on to the subject of Hermann Kaspel, for which I was grateful. Talking to Högl was like playing chess with a snake; at any moment I had the idea he might stretch across the board and swallow my knight.

  “It’s terrible news about Hermann’s accident,” said Rattenhuber. “He was an excellent officer.” He glanced at Högl. “Does Anni know?”

  “Yes, sir. I told her myself,” said Högl.

  “Good. That must have been hard for you, Peter. It’s hard for us all.”

  “And it’s a real loss to the RSD. I was very upset when I heard about it.”

  “So was I,” I said. “Especially when I discovered it wasn’t an accident.”

  I explained about the brake hoses and while I did so, Rattenhuber nodded his closely cropped steel-gray head. It looked like a medieval mace and was probably just as hard. It made a noise like emery paper when he scratched it thoughtfully.

  “Another murder, you say. But this is terrible. Bormann will go crazy when I tell him.”

  I waited for Högl to contradict me but, to my surprise, the major said nothing.

  “Obviously someone wanted you dead, Commissar,” said Rattenhuber. “And you, not Hermann Kaspel. He was very much liked here in Obersalzberg, and I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but you are not, by virtue of who you are and what you are doing.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “I’m sure you are. But look here, you must be getting close to finding the murderer. It can be the only possible explanation for why this has happened, don’t you think? Of course, there’s no question of telling the Leader about this. I mean, about what happened to poor Captain Kaspel. Not until the criminal has been safely apprehended. We wouldn’t like Hitler to get the idea that his motorcars are as unsafe as the terrace. Don’t you agree, Herr Commissar?”

  “I think that would be wise, Colonel.”

  “By the way, these are for you.”

  Rattenhuber handed over several telegrams, which I pocketed for later. But Rattenhuber wasn’t having any of it.

  “Well, aren’t you going to read those?” demanded Rattenhuber. “Damn it, man, they’re telegrams, not love letters. There can be no secrets among men for whom the Leader’s safety and welfare is paramount. Especially when his arrival is now so close. There’s no time to lose. He’ll be here in less than five days.”

  I wasn’t inclined to argue with that, not with the head of the RSD. So I opened them up and read them, providing a description of each for the sake of good manners.

  “This is from the Gestapo in Salzburg. Johann Brandner, my leading suspect, hasn’t been seen at the address where he’s been living since before Flex was murdered. He’s a trained marksman and a local man with a grudge, so you can see why he’s of interest to me. The Gestapo has no idea where he’s gone. At least that’s what they say. They don’t seem inclined to help me look for him, either. Perhaps Kaltenbrunner—”

  “Kurt Christmann is in charge of the Salzburg Gestapo,” said Rattenhuber. “He’s an old friend of mine. So to hell with Kaltenbrunner. I’ll telephone him later this morning and explain the urgency of finding this man.”

  I opened another telegram. “My assistant, Friedrich Korsch, has traced the Krauss brothers to Dachau concentration camp.”

  “The Krauss brothers. Who are they?”

  “They are also suspects,” I lied. “At least they were. Before Dachau, it seems they were banged up in Stadelheim Prison and so they couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Flex’s murder.” Quickly I opened another telegram and glanced over the contents. “But this is better news. They’ve traced the serial number of the Mannlicher carbine that was used to shoot Flex. The one I found dropped down the chimney at the Villa Bechstein. It turns out that the rifle was sold to Herr Udo Ambros.”

  “I know that name,” said Rattenhuber.

  “The assistant hunter,” I said. “At the Landlerwald.”

  “Geiger’s man. Yes, of course.”

  “I interviewed him yesterday.” I was speaking carefully now. The last thing I wanted was Ambros arrested by the RSD and a confession beaten out of him in the cells belo
w the Türken. People have a habit of saying anything when they’re guests of the Gestapo. If I was going to pinch anyone, I wanted to be sure that the person arrested had actually shot and killed Karl Flex. Besides, I could hardly see how Ambros might have had the access to the Berghof he would have needed to have drawn the obscene cartoon of Hitler in my notebook. At the very least he had to have had an accomplice. Perhaps more than one. “I think it’s time I questioned him again.”

  I opened the last of my telegrams and glanced over it quickly. Heydrich had ordered his own adjutant to join me on Hitler’s mountain. To watch my back, he said; after the visit from the Linz Gestapo this ought to have sounded just fine to me.

  “We’ll come with you. Perhaps we can help.”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t, sir. Not yet anyway. We wouldn’t want to scare him into confessing to something he might not actually have done. When the Leader gets here, I don’t want there to be any doubt that we have the right man in custody.”

  “But it’s his rifle, isn’t it?” said Rattenhuber.

  “Yes, but all the same, I’d prefer to hear his story as to why the rifle is no longer in his possession before I arrest him. It might actually be that there’s a reasonable explanation for that.”

  I didn’t really think this was likely but I wanted to handle Ambros by myself. Rattenhuber said his office at the Türken would provide me with the man’s address. For a Bavarian and a Nazi, he wasn’t a bad fellow. But he still looked a little peeved about staying behind.

  “Very well, Herr Commissar.”

  “By the way, sir. Since Captain Kaspel is dead and my own assistant is currently in Munich, Captain Neumann is going to join me here in Obersalzberg. General Heydrich feels his adjutant can help me with this investigation. Perhaps you would be good enough to inform Deputy Chief of Staff Bormann.”