The Pale Criminal (23 page)

I looked out of the window of my apartment at the backs of the adjoining buildings, and into several sitting-rooms where each family was already grouped expectantly round the radio. From the window at the front of my apartment I could see that Fasanenstrasse was deserted. I walked into my own sitting-room and poured myself a drink. Through the floor I could hear the sound of classical music coming from the radio in the pension below. A little Beethoven provided a nice top and tail for the radio speeches of the Party leaders. It's just what I always say: the worse the picture, the more ornate the frame.

Ordinarily I'm no listener to Party broadcasts. I'd sooner listen to my own wind. But tonight's was no ordinary Party broadcast. The Führer was speaking at the Sportspalast on Potsdamerstrasse, and it was widely held that he would declare the true extent of his intentions towards Czechoslovakia and the Sudetenland.

Personally, I had long ago come to the conclusion that for years Hitler had been deceiving everyone with his speeches about peace. And I'd seen enough westerns at the cinema to know that when the man in the black hat picks on the little fellow standing next to him at the bar, he's really spoiling for a fight with the sheriff. In this case the sheriff just happened to be French, and it didn't take much to see that he wasn't much inclined to do anything but stay indoors and tell himself that the gunshots he could hear across the street were just a few firecrackers.

In the hope that I was wrong about this, I turned on the radio, and like 75 million other Germans, waited to find out what would become of us.

A lot of women say that whereas Goebbels merely seduces, Hitler positively fascinates. It's difficult for me to comment on this. All the same, there is no denying the hypnotic effect that the Führer's speeches seem to have on people. Certainly the crowd at the Sportspalast seemed to appreciate it. I expect you had to be there to get the real atmosphere. Like a visit to a sewage plant.

For those of us listening at home, there was nothing to appreciate, no hope in anything that the number one carpet-chewer said. There was only the dreadful realization that we were a little closer to war than we had been the day before.

The afternoon saw a military parade on Unter den Linden, one which looked more ready for war than anything ever seen before on the streets of Berlin. This was a mechanized division in full field equipment. But to my astonishment, there were no cheers, no salutes and no waving of flags. The reality of Hitler's belligerence was in everyone's mind and seeing this parade, people just turned and walked away.

Later that same day, when at his own request I met Arthur Nebe away from the Alex, at the offices of Gunther & Stahlecker, Private Investigators – the door was still awaiting the sign-writer to come and change the name back to the original I told him what I had seen.

Nebe laughed. ‘What would you say if I told you that the division you saw were this country's probable liberators?'

‘Is the army planning a
putsch?'

‘I can't tell you very much except to say that high officers of the Wehrmacht have been in contact with the British prime minister. As soon as the British give the order, the army will occupy Berlin and Hitler will be brought to trial.'

‘When will that be?'

‘As soon as Hitler invades Czechoslovakia the British will declare war. That will be the time. Our time, Bernie. Didn't I tell you that Kripo would be needing men like you?'

I nodded slowly. ‘But Chamberlain has been negotiating with Hitler, hasn't he?'

‘That's the British way, to talk, to be diplomatic. It wouldn't be cricket if they didn't try to negotiate.'

‘Nevertheless, he must believe that Hitler will sign some sort of treaty. More importantly, both Chamberlain and Daladier must themselves be prepared to sign some sort of treaty.'

‘Hitler won't walk away from the Sudeten, Bernie. And the British aren't about to renege on their own treaty with the Czechs.'

I went over to the drinks cabinet and poured a couple.

‘If the British and French intended to keep their treaty, then there would be nothing to talk about,' I said, handing Nebe a glass. ‘If you ask me, they're doing Hitler's work for him.'

‘My God, what a pessimist you are.'

‘All right, let me ask you this. Have you ever been faced with the prospect of fighting someone you didn't want to fight? Someone larger than you, perhaps? It may be that you think you'll get a good hiding. It may be that you simply haven't got the stomach for it. You try and talk your way out of the situation, of course. The man who talks too much doesn't want to fight at all.'

‘But we are not larger than the British and the French.'

‘But they don't have the stomach for it.'

Nebe raised his glass. ‘To the British stomach, then.'

‘To the British stomach.'

‘General Martin has supplied the information about Streicher, sir.' Korsch looked at the telegraph he was holding. ‘On the five dates in question it would seem that Streicher was known to be in Berlin on at least two of them. With regard to the other two that we don't know about, Martin has no idea where he was.'

‘So much for his boast about his spies.'

‘Well, there is one thing, sir. Apparently on one of the dates, Streicher was seen coming from the Furth aerodrome in Nuremberg.'

‘What's the flying time between here and Nuremberg?'

‘Couple of hours at the most. Do you want me to check with Tempelhof airport?'

‘I've got a better idea. Get on to the propaganda boys at the Muratti. Ask them to supply you with a nice photograph of Streicher. Better ask for one of all the Gauleiters so as not to draw too much attention to yourself. Say it's for security up at the Reichs Chancellery, that always sounds good. When you've got it, I want you to go and talk to the Hirsch girl. See if she can't identify Streicher as the man in the car.'

‘And if she does?'

‘If she does, then you and I are going to find that we have made a lot of new friends. With one notable exception.'

‘That's what I was afraid of.'

Chamberlain returned to Munich. He wanted to talk again. The Sheriff came too but it seemed that he was only going to look the other way when the shooting started. Mussolini polished his belt and his head and turned up to offer support to his spiritual ally.

While these important men came and went, a young girl, of little or no account in the general scheme of things, disappeared while doing the family shopping at the local market.

Moabit Market was on the corner of Bremerstrasse and Arminius Strasse. A large red-brick building, about the same size as a warehouse, it was where the working class of Moabit–which means everyone who lived in the area – bought their cheese, fish, cooked meats and other fresh provisions. There were even one or two places where you could stand and drink a quick beer and eat a sausage. The place was always busy and there were at least six ways in and out of the place. It's not somewhere that you just wander round. Most people are in a hurry, with little time to stand and stare at things they cannot afford; and anyway, there is none of those sort of goods in Moabit. So my clothes and unhurried demeanour marked me out from the rest.

We knew that Liza Ganz had disappeared from there because that was where a fishmonger had found a shopping bag which Liza's mother later identified as belonging to her.

Apart from that, nobody saw a damn thing. In Moabit, people don't pay you much attention unless you're a policeman looking for a missing girl, and even then it's just curiosity.

In the afternoon I was summoned to Gestapo headquarters on Prinz Albrecht Strasse.

Glancing up as I passed through the main door, I saw a statue sitting on a truck-tyre of a scroll, working at a piece of embroidery. Flying over her head were two cherubs, one scratching his head and the other wearing a generally puzzled sort of expression. My guess was that they were wondering why the Gestapo should have chosen that particular building to set up shop. On the face of it, the art school formerly occupying number eight Prinz Albrecht Strasse and the Gestapo, who were currently resident there, didn't seem to have much in common beyond the rather obvious joke that everyone made about framing things. But that particular day I was more puzzled as to why Heydrich should have summoned me there, instead of to the Prinz Albrecht Palais on nearby Wilhelmstrasse. I didn't doubt that he had a reason. Heydrich had a reason for doing everything, and I felt sure that I would dislike this one just as much as all the others I'd ever heard.

Beyond the main door you went through a security check, and walking on again you found yourself at the foot of a staircase that was as big as an aqueduct. At the top of the flight you were in a vaulted waiting hall, with three arched windows that were of locomotive proportions. Beneath each window was a wooden bench of the kind you see in church and it was there that I waited, as instructed.

Between each window, on plinths, sat busts of Hitler and Goering. I wondered a bit at Himmler leaving Fat Hermann's head there, knowing how much they hated each other. Maybe Himmler just admired it as a piece of sculpture. And then maybe his wife was the Chief Rabbi's daughter.

After nearly an hour Heydrich finally emerged from the two double doors facing me. He was carrying a briefcase and shooed away his S S adjutant when he caught sight of me.

‘Kommissar Gunther,' he said, appearing to find some amusement at the sound of my rank in his own ears. He ushered me forwards along the gallery. ‘I thought we could walk in the garden once again, like the last time. Do you mind accompanying me back to the Wilhelmstrasse?'

We went through an arched doorway and down another massive set of stairs to the notorious south wing, where what had once been sculptors' workshops were now Gestapo prison cells. I had good reason to remember these, having once been briefly detained there myself, and I was quite relieved when we emerged through a door and stood in the open air once again. You never knew with Heydrich.

He paused there for a moment, glancing at his Rolex. I started to say something, but he raised his forefinger and, almost conspiratorially, pressed his finger to his thin lips. We stood and waited, but for what I had no idea.

A minute or so later a volley of shots rang out, echoing away across the gardens. Then another; and another. Heydrich checked his watch again, nodded and smiled.

‘Shall we?' he said, striding on to the gravel pathway.

‘Was that for my benefit?' I said, knowing full well that it was.

‘The firing squad?' He chuckled. ‘No, no, Kommissar Gunther. You imagine too much. And anyway, I hardly think that you of all people require an object lesson in power. It's just that I am particular about punctuality. With kings this is said to be a virtue, but with a policeman this is merely the hallmark of administrative efficiency. After all, if the Führer can make the trains run on time, the least I ought to be able to do is make sure that a few priests are liquidated at the proper appointed hour.'

So it was an object lesson after all, I thought. Heydrich's way of letting me know that he was aware of my disagreement with Sturmbannfuhrer Roth from 4B1.

‘Whatever happened to being shot at dawn?'

‘The neighbours complained.'

‘You did say priests, didn't you?'

‘The Catholic Church is no less of an international conspiracy than Bolshevism or Judaism, Gunther. Martin Luther led one Reformation, the Fuhrer will lead another. He will abolish Roman authority over German Catholics, whether the priests permit him or not. But that is another matter, and one best left to those who are well versed in its implementation.

‘No, I wanted to tell you about the problem I have, which is that I am under a certain amount of pressure from Goebbels and his Muratti hacks that this case you are working on be given publicity. I'm not sure how much longer I can stave them off.'

‘When I was given this case, General,' I said, lighting a cigarette, ‘I was against a ban on publicity. Now I'm convinced that publicity is exactly what our killer has been after all along.'

‘Yes, Nebe said you were working on the theory that this might be some sort of conspiracy engineered by Streicher and his Jew-baiting pals to bring down a pogrom on the heads of the capital's Jewish community.'

‘It sounds fantastic, General, only if you don't know Streicher.'

He stopped, and thrusting his hands deep inside his trouser pockets, he shook his head.

‘There is nothing about that Bavarian pig that could possibly surprise me.' He kicked at a pigeon with the toe of his boot, and missed. ‘But I want to hear more.'

‘A girl has identified a photograph of Streicher as possibly the man who tried to pick her up outside a school from which another girl disappeared last week. She thinks that the man might have had a Bavarian accent. The desk sergeant who took an anonymous call tipping us off where exactly to find the body of another missing girl said that the caller had a Bavarian accent.

‘Then there's motive. Last month the people of Nuremberg burnt down the city's synagogue. But here in Berlin there are only ever a few broken windows and assaults at the very worst. Streicher would love to see the Jews in Berlin getting some of what they've had in Nuremberg.

‘What is more,
Der Stürmer's
obsession with ritual murder leads me to make comparisons with the killer's
modus operandi.
You add all that to Streicher's reputation and it starts to look like something.'