I flicked through the file. The camera angles changed but the subject remained the same: two gun-metal grey corpses, bald like Egyptian pharaohs, lay on the exposed and blackened springs of what had once been a bed, like sausages left too long under the grill.
‘Nice album. What were they doing, having a punch-up?’ I said, noticing the way in which each corpse had its fists raised like a bare-knuckle fighter.
‘A common enough observation in a death like this.’
‘What about those cuts in the skin? They look like knife wounds.’
‘Again, what one would expect,’ said Illmann. ‘The heat in a conflagration causes the skin to split open like a ripe banana. That is, if you can remember what a banana looks like.’
‘Where did you find the petrol cans?’
He raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Oh, you know about those, do you? Yes, we found two empty cans in the garden. I don’t think they’d been there very long. They weren’t rusted and there was still a small amount of petrol which remained unevaporated in the bottom of one of them. And according to the fire officer there was a strong smell of petrol about the place.’
‘Arson, then.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘So what made you look for bullets?’
‘Experience. With a post-mortem following a fire, one always keeps in mind the possibility that there has been an attempt to destroy evidence. It’s standard procedure. I found three bullets in the female, two in the male and three in the headboard of the bed. The female was dead before the fire started. She was hit in the head and the throat. Not so the male. There were smoke particles in the air passages and carbon monoxide in the blood. The tissues were still pink. He was hit in the chest and in the face.’
‘Has the gun been found yet?’ I asked.
‘No, but I can tell you that it was most probably a 7.65 mm automatic, and something quite hard on its ammunition, like an old Mauser.’
‘And they were shot from what sort of distance?’
‘I should say the murderer was about 150 cm from the victims when firing the weapon. The entry and exit wounds were consistent with the murderer having stood at the bottom of the bed; and, of course, there are the bullets in the headboard.’
‘Just the one weapon, you think?’ Illmann nodded. ‘Eight bullets,’ I said. ‘That’s a whole magazine for a pocket pistol, isn’t it. Somebody was making very sure. Or else they were very angry. Christ, didn’t the neighbours hear anything?’
‘Apparently not. If they did, they probably thought it was just the Gestapo having a little party. The fire wasn’t reported until 3.10 a.m., by which time there was no chance of bringing it under control.’
The hunchback abandoned his organ recital as the storm-troopers launched into a rendition of ‘Germany, Thou Art Our Pride’. One of them, a big burly fellow with a scar on his face the length and consistency of a piece of bacon-rind walked round the bar, waving his beer and demanding that the rest of the Kunstler Eck’s customers join in the singing. Illmann did not seem to mind and sang in a loud baritone. My own singing showed a considerable want of key and alacrity. Loud songs do not a patriot make. The trouble with these fucking National Socialists, especially the young ones, is that they think they have got a monopoly on patriotism. And even if they don’t have one now, the way things are going, they soon will.
When the song was over, I asked Illmann some more questions.
‘They were both naked,’ he told me, ‘and had drunk a good deal. She had consumed several Ohio Cocktails, and he’d had a large amount of beer and schnapps. More than likely they were quite drunk when they were shot. Also, I took a high vaginal swab in the female and found recent semen, which was of the same blood type as the male. I think they’d had quite an evening. Oh yes, she was eight weeks pregnant. Ah, life’s little candle burns but briefly.’
‘Pregnant.’ I repeated the word thoughtfully. Illmann stretched and yawned.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Want to know what they had for dinner?’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Tell me about the safe instead. Was it open or shut?’
‘Open.’ He paused. ‘You know, it’s interesting, you didn’t ask me how it was opened. Which leads me to suppose that you already knew that beyond a bit of scorching, the safe was undamaged; that if the safe was opened illegally, then it was done by someone who knew what he was doing. A Stockinger safe is no pushover.’
‘Any piano players on it?’ Illmann shook his head.
‘It was too badly scorched to take any prints,’ he said.
‘Let us assume,’ I said, ‘that immediately prior to the deaths of the Pfarrs, the safe contained — what it contained, and that it was, as it should have been, locked up for the night.’
‘Very well.’
‘Then there are two possibilities: one is that a professional nutcracker did the job and then killed them; and the other is that someone forced them to open it and then ordered them back to bed where he shot them. Still, it’s not like a pro to have left the safe door open.’
‘Unless he was trying hard to look like an amateur,’ said Illmann. ‘My own opinion is that they were both asleep when they were shot. Certainly from the angle of bullet entry I would say that both of them were lying down. Now if you were conscious, and someone had a gun on you, it’s more than likely you would be sitting up in bed. And so I would conclude that your intimidation theory is unlikely.’ He looked at his watch and finished his beer. Patting my leg, he added warmly, ‘It’s been good, Bernie. Just like the old days. How pleasant to talk to someone whose idea of detective work does not involve a spotlight and a set of brass knuckles. Still. I won’t have to put up with the Alex for much longer. Our illustrious Reichskriminaldirektor, Arthur Nebe, is retiring me, just as he’s retired the other old conservatives before me.’
‘I didn’t know you were interested in politics,’ I said.
‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘But isn’t that how Hitler got elected in the first place: too many people who didn’t give a shit who was running the country? The funny thing is that I care even less now than I did before. Catch me joining those March Violets on the bandwagon. But I won’t be sorry to leave. I’m tired of all the squabbling that goes on between Sipo and Orpo as to who controls Kripo. It gets very confusing when it comes to filing a report, not knowing whether or not one should be involving our uniformed friends in Orpo.’
‘I thought Sipo and the Gestapo were in the Kripo driving seat.’
‘At the higher levels of command that is the case,’ Illmann confirmed. ‘But at the middle and lower levels the old administrative chains of command still operate. At the municipal level, local police presidents, who are part of Orpo, are also responsible for Kripo. But the word is that Orpo’s head is giving undercover encouragement to any police president who is prepared to frustrate the thumbscrew boys in Sipo. In Berlin, that suits our own police president. He and the Reichskriminaldirektor, Arthur Nebe, hate each other’s guts. Ludicrous, isn’t it? And now, if you don’t mind, I really must be going.’
‘What a way to run a fucking bullring,’ I said.
‘Believe me, Bernie, you’re well out of it.’ He grinned happily. ‘And it can get a lot worse yet.’
Illmann’s information cost me a hundred marks. I’ve never found that information comes cheap, but lately the cost of private investigation does seem to be going up. It’s not difficult to see why. Everyone is making some sort of a twist these days. Corruption in one form or another is the most distinctive feature of life under National Socialism. The government has made several revelations about the corruption of the various Weimar political parties, but these were as nothing compared to the corruption that exists now. It flourishes at the top, and everyone knows it. So most people figure that they are due a share themselves. I don’t know of anyone who is as fastidious about such things as they used to be. And that includes me. The plain truth of it is that people’s sensitivity to corruption, whether it’s black-market foo
d or obtaining favours from a government official, is about as blunt as a joiner’s pencil stub.
6
That evening it seemed as though almost all of Berlin was on its way to Neukölln to witness Goebbels conduct the orchestra of soft, persuasive violins and brittle, sarcastic trumpets that was his voice. But for those unlucky enough not to have sight of the Popular Enlightener, there were a number of facilities provided throughout Berlin to ensure that they could at least have the sound. As well as the radios required by law in restaurants and cafés, on most streets there were loudspeakers mounted on advertising pillars and lamp-posts; and a force of radio wardens was empowered to knock on doors and enforce the mandatory civic duty to listen to a Party broadcast.
Driving west on Leipzigerstrasse, I met the torchlight parade of Brownshirt legions as it marched south down Wilhelmstrasse, and I was obliged to get out of my car and salute the passing standard. Not to have done so would have been to risk a beating. I guess there were others like me in that crowd, our right arms extended like so many traffic policemen, doing it just to avoid trouble and feeling a bit ridiculous. Who knows? But come to think of it, political parties were always big on salutes in Germany: the Social Democrats had their clenched fist raised high above the head; the Bolshies in the KPD had their clenched fist raised at shoulder level; the Centrists had their two-fingered, pistol-shaped hand signal, with the thumb cocked; and the Nazis had fingernail inspection. I can remember when we used to think it was all rather ridiculous and melodramatic, and maybe that’s why none of us took it seriously. And here we all were now, saluting with the best of them. Crazy.
Badenschestrasse, running off Berliner Strasse, is just a block short of Trautenau Strasse, where I have my own apartment. Proximity is their only common factor. Badenschestrasse, Number 7 is one of the most modern apartment blocks in the city, and about as exclusive as a reunion dinner for the Ptolemies.
I parked my small and dirty car between a huge Deusenberg and a gleaming Bugatti and went into a lobby that looked like it had left a couple of cathedrals short of marble. A fat doorman and a storm-trooper saw me, and, deserting their desk and their radio which was playing Wagner prior to the Party broadcast, they formed a human barrier to my progress, anxious that I might want to insult some of the residents with my crumpled suit and self-inflicted manicure.
‘Like it says on the sign outside,’ growled Fatso, ‘this is a private building.’ I wasn’t impressed with their combined effort to get tough with me. I’m used to being made to feel unwelcome, and I don’t bounce easily.
‘I didn’t see any sign,’ I said truthfully.
‘We don’t want any trouble, Mister,’ said the storm-trooper. He had a delicate-looking jaw that would have snapped like a dead twig with only the briefest of introductions to my fist.
‘I’m not selling any,’ I told him. Fatso took over.
‘Well, whatever it is you’re selling, they don’t want any here.’
I smiled thinly at him. ‘Listen, Fatso, the only thing that’s stopping me from pushing you out of my way is your bad breath. It’ll be tricky for you, I know, but see if you can work the telephone, and ring up Fraulein Rudel. You’ll find she’s expecting me.’ Fatso pulled the huge brown-and-black moustache that clung to his curling lip like a bat on a crypt wall. His breath was a lot worse than I could have imagined.
‘For your sake, swanktail, you’d better be right,’ he said. ‘It’d be a pleasure to throw you out.’ Swearing under his breath he wobbled back to his desk and dialled furiously.
‘Is Fraulein Rudel expecting someone?’ he said, moderating his tone. ‘Only, she never told me.’ His face fell as my story checked out. He put the phone down and swung his head at the lift door.
‘Third floor,’ he hissed.
There were only two doors, at opposite ends of the third. There was a velodrome of parquet-floor between them and, as if I was expected, one of the doors was ajar. The maid ushered me into the drawing room.
‘You’d better take a seat,’ she said grumpily. ‘She’s still dressing and there’s no telling how long she’ll be. Fix yourself a drink if you want.’ Then she disappeared and I examined my surroundings.
The apartment was no larger than a private airfield and looked about as cheap a set as something out of Cecil B. de Mille, of whom there was a photograph jostling for pride of place with all the others on the grand piano. Compared with the person who had decorated and furnished the place, the Archduke Ferdinand had been blessed with the taste of a troupe of Turkish circus dwarves. I looked at some of the other photographs. Mostly they were stills of Ilse Rudel taken from her various films. In a lot of them she wasn’t wearing very much - swimming nude or peering coyly from behind a tree which hid the more interesting parts. Rudel was famous for her scantily clad roles. In another photograph she was sitting at a table in a smart restaurant with the good Dr Goebbels; and in another, she was sparring with Max Schmelling. Then there was one in which she was being carried in a workman’s arms, only the ‘workman’ just happened to be Emil Jannings, the famous actor. I recognized it as a still from The Builder’s Hut. I like the book a lot better than I had liked the film.
At the hint of 4711 turned around, and found myself shaking the beautiful film star by the hand.
‘I see you’ve been looking at my little gallery,’ she said, rearranging the photographs I had picked up and examined. ‘You must think it terribly vain of me to have so many pictures of myself on display, but I simply can’t abide albums.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘It’s very interesting.’ She flashed me the smile that made thousands of German men, myself included, go weak at the chin.
‘I’m so glad you approve.’ She was wearing a pair of green-velvet lounging pyjamas with a long, gold, fringed sash, and high-heeled green morocco slippers. Her blonde hair was done up in a braided knot at the back of her head, as was fashionable; but unlike most German women, she was also wearing make-up and smoking a cigarette. That sort of thing is frowned on by the BdM, the Women’s League, as being inconsistent with the Nazi ideal of German Womanhood; however, I’m a city boy: plain, scrubbed, rosy faces may be just fine down on the farm, but like nearly all German men I prefer my women powdered and painted. Of course, Ilse Rudel lived in a different world to other women. She probably thought the Nazi Women’s League was a hockey association.
‘I’m sorry about those two fellows on the door,’ she said, ‘but you see, Josef and Magda Goebbels have an apartment upstairs, so security has to be extra tight, as you can imagine. Which reminds me, I promised Josef that I’d try and listen to his speech, or at least a bit of it. Do you mind?’
It was not the sort of question that you ever asked; unless you happened to be on first-name terms with the Minister of Propaganda and Popular Enlightenment, and his lady wife. I shrugged.
‘That’s fine by me.’
‘We’ll only listen for a few minutes,’ she said, switching on the Philco that stood on top of a walnut drinks cabinet. ‘Now then. What can I get you to drink?’ I asked for a whisky and she poured me one that was big enough for a set of false teeth. She poured herself a glass of Bowle, Berlin’s favourite summer drink, from a tall, blue-glass pitcher, and joined me on a sofa that was the colour and contours of an underripe pineapple. We clinked glasses and, as the tubes of the radio set warmed up, the smooth tones of the man from upstairs slipped slowly into the room.
First of all, Goebbels singled out foreign journalists for criticism, and rebuked their ‘biased’ reporting of life in the new Germany. Some of his remarks were clever enough to draw laughter and then applause from his sycophantic audience. Rudel smiled uncertainly, but remained silent, and I wondered if she understood what her club-footed neighbour from upstairs was talking about. Then he raised his voice and proceeded to declaim against the traitors — whoever they were, I didn’t know - who were trying to sabotage the national revolution. Here she stifled a yawn. Finally, when Joey got going on his favourite subject,
the glorification of the Führer, she jumped up and switched the radio off.
‘Goodness me, I think we’ve heard enough from him for one evening.’ She went over to the gramophone and picked up a disc.
‘Do you like jazz?’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Oh, it’s all right, it’s not negro jazz. I love it, don’t you?’ Only non-negro jazz is permitted in Germany now, but I often wonder how they can tell the difference.
‘I like any kind of jazz,’ I said. She wound up the gramophone and put the needle into the groove. It was a nice relaxed sort of piece with a strong clarinet and a saxophonist who could have led a company of Italians across no man’s land in a barrage.
I said: ‘Do you mind me asking why you keep this place?’
She danced back to the sofa and sat down. ‘Well, Herr Private Investigator, Hermann finds my friends a little trying. He does a lot of work from our house in Dahlem, and at all hours: I do most of my entertaining here, so as not to disturb him.’
‘Sounds sensible enough,’ I said. She blew a column of smoke at me from each exquisite nostril, and I took a deep breath of it; not because I enjoyed the smell of American cigarettes, which I do, but because it had come from inside her chest, and anything to do with that chest was all right by me. From the movement underneath her jacket I had already concluded that her breasts were large and unsupported.
‘So,’ I said, ‘what was it that you wanted to see me about?’ To my surprise, she touched me lightly on the knee.
‘Relax,’ she smiled. ‘You’re not in a hurry, are you?’ I shook my head and watched her stub out her cigarette. There were already several butts in the ashtray, all heavily marked with lipstick, but none of them had been smoked for more than a few puffs, and it occurred to me that she was the one who needed to relax, and that maybe she was nervous about something. Me perhaps. As if confirming my theory she jumped up off the sofa, poured herself another glass of Bowle and changed the record.