Metropolis Page 14

  “A brown shirt is at least a clean shirt. But if ever those bastards get into power they’ll arrest everyone in this place. Mark my words. They’re recruiting homeless men today, but they’ll be arresting them tomorrow. On the grounds of being a public nuisance or something like that.”

  “They can’t arrest them all,” I said. “Besides, they’d only have to accommodate them somewhere else.”

  “You think that will stop them? I don’t.”

  “Poor bastards.”

  “Why? Because they’re homeless? Listen, for a lot of them that’s the life they’ve chosen. And the rest are just crazy.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You’re hard enough to ice skate on, Otto, do you know that?”

  * * *

  —

  WHY IT WAS CALLED the Palme, Trettin didn’t know for sure.

  “It might have been because there used to be a palm tree in the entrance hall,” he said. “At least there was back in 1886, when the Palme got started.”

  “A palm tree? In Berlin? Someone’s idea of a joke, perhaps.”

  He pulled a face. “I agree, that does sound unlikely.” He fetched a little tin from his vest pocket and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Mentholated camphor. I keep some in my pocket in case I have to attend a police autopsy. Wipe some on your nostrils. It will help with the smell when we’re in there.”

  We left the car and, pushing our way through the line of unwashed bodies, went inside. Trettin had been right about the mentholated camphor. The place smelled like a trench on a hot day. Toothless, gnarled gray faces surrounded us; it was like stepping onto the page of some mildewed engraving of grim metropolitan life.

  Trettin led the way to the closed-in admissions counter, showed the warder his beer token, and asked to see the director.

  Five minutes later we were in a large office overlooking the courtyard of the main building. On one wall was a portrait of the Berlin planning commissioner who’d helped found the Palme, and on another a picture of St. Benedict Joseph Labre. The director, Dr. Manfred Ostwald, was a stout man with white hair and very dark eyes; with his stiff collar and morning coat he reminded me of a badger in a children’s story. On his desk were several copies of a magazine called The Tramp; he said it was published by the International Brotherhood of Vagabonds, which sounded like a joke but wasn’t. He listened to our request and then invited us to use a newly installed public address system that, he explained, was connected to a loudspeaker in every one of the Palme’s forty dormitories.

  “If I might add a word of advice, gentlemen,” he said. “Write down what you want to say first. That way you won’t repeat yourself and you’ll avoid any hesitation while you work out what to say.”

  “Good idea,” said Trettin, and then handed me his copy.

  “You want me to read it?”

  “You’ve had more to drink than I have.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You’re relaxed. I get nervous when I read my wife a story in the newspaper.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve seen your wife and that doesn’t surprise me. She’d frighten a hyena with a law degree.”

  Trettin chuckled. “That she would.”

  After reading our appeal for information under my breath several times, I read it out loud into the microphone, and while we waited to see if anyone would come forward, Dr. Ostwald pressed a glass of schnapps on us, which was brutal of him, but we weren’t about to complain. There’s nothing like a glass in your fingers to make a line of inquiry seem as if it’s going well. Fifteen minutes passed and then Ostwald’s secretary knocked on the door to tell him that we had someone who wanted to give us some information. But she also added a name that made her boss hesitate.

  “Well, show him in,” said Trettin. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  By now Dr. Ostwald’s hesitation was accompanied by a grimace. “Wait, I know this fellow of old,” he said. “Stefan Rühle is one of our regulars and a little bit of a troublemaker. Quite apart from the fact that he will want money, he has some eccentric, not to say lunatic, ideas. And by the way, don’t give him any money, at least not right away, or there’ll be another ten just like him in this office. You spend six minutes talking to this man and if you’re still in your right mind, then you can tell me I was wrong. Otherwise I’ll simply say I told you so.”

  “We can spare him six minutes,” I said. “Even those Nazis outside probably gave him more than that.”

  “All right. Just remember not to swallow all of what he says. Not unless you want your stomach pumped.” Dr. Ostwald waved at his secretary. “Show him in, Hanna, dear.”

  She went outside and returned trying not to smell the air surrounding the man behind her. He was a shifty, pop-eyed individual, with a cap that looked like it was moss growing on his head, and a jacket that was more grease than wool. Seeing us, he grinned and swung his arms excitedly.

  “You the police?”

  “That’s right.”

  “If you’re the police, where are your warrant discs? I’ll need to see some identification before I say anything. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  I showed him my beer token. “So. Have you got some information for us, Herr Rühle?”

  “Stefan. Nobody calls me Herr Rühle. Not these days. Not unless I’m in trouble. I’m not in any trouble, am I?”

  “No trouble at all,” I said. “Now then. How about it? Have you any information about this man who’s been killing disabled war veterans?”

  “If I tell you what I know, how can I be sure that you’re not going to kill me?”

  “Why would we want to kill you?” asked Trettin.

  “You’ll know why when I give you the information you’re looking for. Besides, you’re police. That means you have the right to hurt people like me.”

  Trettin smiled patiently. “We promise not to kill you, Stefan. Don’t we, Bernie?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Sounds like a copper’s promise. Which is to say not a promise at all. Maybe if I had a drink. That might help me believe you’re sincere.”

  I looked at Ostwald, who shook his head.

  “If you tell us something interesting then we’ll take you out for a beer,” said Trettin. “As many beers as you like if we get a name.”

  “Don’t like beer. Schnapps. I like schnapps. Same as you fellows. I can smell it on your breath.”

  “All right. We’ll buy you a schnapps. Until then, why not have a cigarette?” Trettin opened his case and let Rühle help himself to several. He put them in his pocket for later.

  “Thanks. Well, then, to business, as you say. The man who is killing these war veterans is a copper, like you. I know that because I saw him shoot a man.”

  It was my turn to smile patiently. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s true. I recognized him. It was a policeman who killed those men. I saw him do it. And if you ask me, it was an act of mercy.”

  “Was he wearing a uniform?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you know he was a policeman?”

  “How? I mean, I knew. All right? I’d seen him before. Somewhere. I don’t remember where, exactly. But I’m sure that at the time he identified himself as a policeman. This was the same man who shot one of those schnorrers.”

  Rühle spoke in an abrupt, runaway manner, with almost no eye contact, which immediately made me think he was a little unhinged. Most of the time he was staring at the carpet as if there was something in the pattern he found fascinating.

  “Yes, but why would a policeman do such a thing?” asked Trettin.

  “Oh, simple. Because he probably believes that these men are vagabonds. That they’re part
of an infectious epidemic that’s afflicting this city. Because they are indecent and beneath contempt. That’s why he’s doing it, for sure. Because beggars force their poverty upon people in the most repulsive way for their own selfish purposes. People will only feel that things are improving in Germany when someone launches a successful action against beggars of all descriptions. That’s why he’s doing it. I should have thought that was obvious. He’s doing it for reasons of urban hygiene. And frankly I agree with him. It’s a necessary defensive measure against uneconomic behavior.”

  “What my colleague was saying,” I said, “is that he doesn’t believe that a policeman is capable of cold-blooded murder like this.”

  “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Everyone believes that policemen are a necessary evil. But they are evil. They—you—do the devil’s work. When a policeman shoots someone because he’s committed a crime it’s the most cold-blooded murder there is because it’s his job, see? He gets paid to do it. There’s no emotion or feeling involved. A policeman does that work because we need evil men to do evil work to keep us safe from other evil men. Or so he imagines. But really he does it because the devil told him to. And when he goes home at night he can sleep because he can tell himself that he was only obeying the devil’s orders.”

  “The devil.” Trettin sighed and shook his head. It was clear he’d already given up hope of getting any sensible information from Stefan Rühle.

  “What did this policeman look like?” I asked.

  “He looked like a demon, that’s what he looked like. I’m not sure which one. But his face was covered in hair. His eyes were red. And he wore the very finest clothes available to man. As if money was no object. His shoes were like snow. The scepter he carried was the symbol of his power on earth. And his smile was as white as a wolf’s. I don’t doubt he would have torn out my throat with his teeth if I’d stayed to speak with him. If you have a police artist I will be glad to help him draw the man’s portrait.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said, looking at my watch. The man had had his six minutes. And when finally we managed to get rid of him, Dr. Ostwald looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.

  “I told you so.”

  * * *

  —

  THE ROUNDUP and temporary detention of Berlin’s wild boys went ahead as planned but revealed very little that was of interest to us in the Murder Commission. Petty crime and general delinquency. Ernst Gennat shrugged off the disappointment. Just because the sweep hadn’t found anything didn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to do; that was the way he looked at it. Meanwhile, the Berliner Tageblatt published the article by Bernhard Weiss and, as predicted, the department was quickly overwhelmed with men—and one lesbian transvestite—who claimed to be Dr. Gnadenschuss. And it was perhaps fortunate for us that almost immediately afterward a fourth war veteran turned up dead and we were able to shoo them all out the door with a warning about wasting police time.

  Age thirty-seven, Walther Frölich had been born in Dresden and served with the Third Army’s Ninth Landwehr Division as a corporal, winning a second-class Iron Cross. Shot through the spine at Verdun in October 1918 and paralyzed from the waist down; his body was found under the Oberbaum Bridge, near Schlesisches Tor, which was a stone’s throw from the Wolfmium factory, its blackened ruins still overlooking the Spree like a modern gate of hell. He’d been shot just once through the head.

  * * *

  —

  IF BERNHARD WEISS still didn’t realize that his newspaper article was a mistake, it wasn’t very long before he had to.

  At Uncle Pelle’s Circus in Wedding, there was a famous freak show. Some of its members were actually war veterans, including a man without arms and legs who was billed on the posters as “the human centipede.” A couple of days after Weiss’s article appeared in the Berliner Tageblatt, he received a telephone call at the Alex from this man alleging that Surehand Hank, the celebrated circus marksman, had confessed to being Dr. Gnadenschuss and was now threatening to shoot Weiss. Since Surehand Hank was a known Nazi who often gave shooting lessons to SA members and had been linked to a violently right-wing anti-Semitic organization previously involved in several political assassinations, it was a persuasive-enough profile. Quite how the human centipede made the telephone call was anyone’s guess, but Weiss felt obliged to go and check it out himself when his informant insisted that they meet in person. Since the human centipede could hardly come to him, Weiss asked me to drive him to the circus.

  The chief’s own private car had been chosen for safety: a blue Audi Type K that was easily distinguishable from most other Berlin motorcars by virtue of the fact that it was a left-hand drive. I liked driving it although changing gear with my right hand took some getting used to. The car provided a better view of oncoming traffic and seemed a lot safer than the majority of right-hand-drive cars, an impression enhanced by the fact that beside the driver’s seat was a door pocket containing a broom-handle Mauser. That was a good gun, but if I had as many enemies as Bernhard Weiss I think I’d have kept a sawn-off in the car.

  Turning out of the Alex courtyard I steered the Audi north and west toward Wedding, and it wasn’t long before I realized that the chief was paying attention to every one of the decisions I was making behind the wheel. His eyes were all over my gear changes.

  “Does the human centipede have a name?” I asked, missing a gear change.

  “Kurzidim, Albert Kurzidim. He says that he’s suspected Togotzes from the beginning, but that my article persuaded him he had to call. That’s Surehand Hank’s real name. Hans Togotzes.”

  “Haven’t been to the circus since I was a boy,” I said, missing another gear.

  “Are you up to this?” he asked, as we drove up Oranienburger Strasse and then Chausseestrasse.

  “Up to what, sir?”

  “This. What you’re doing now. Driving.”

  “What are you getting at, sir?”

  “What I mean is, are you fit to be behind the wheel of this car?”

  “Is there something wrong with my driving, sir?”

  “Then let me put it another way: Have you had a drink today?”

  “Not since last night,” I lied.

  “I believe you,” he said in a way that made me think he didn’t believe me at all. “Gennat mentioned he thought you were drinking too much since we visited that damned disabled home. And I just wanted to say, I understand you, Bernie. Perhaps in a way that Ernst doesn’t. In fact I’m sure of it. Ernst didn’t see any army service during the war. Not like us. I was the officer in charge of a medical company before becoming a captain in a cavalry unit, and I saw things I never want to see again. As I’m sure you did. And I don’t mind telling you that I’ve had a few drinks myself since we went to the Oskar-Helene. I may even have had a bit of a problem myself a few years ago. There’s no shame in this, Bernie. There’s even a name for it, these days. Shell shock, or neurasthenia. Did you know there are as many as eighty thousand German veterans still being treated in hospitals for this condition? Men who are every bit as seriously injured as some of those we encountered the other day; but mentally.”

  Seeing the sign for Uncle Pelle’s I turned off the main road and headed along a narrow gravel track between two small cemeteries. The track was lined with poplar trees beyond which could be seen the distinctive candy stripes of the circus big top.

  “So take some time off if you need it. As much time as you need. I’d rather have you back in Kripo as a recovering drinker than not at all. Drunk or sober, you’re one of the best men I’ve got.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS ALL A SETUP, of course. I might have drunk my breakfast out of a bottle, but there was nothing wrong with my eyesight. Even at thirty meters I could tell that the man emerging from the side of the track with one hand in the air
had an MP-18 in the other. The MP-18’s thirty-two-round left-side drum-magazine, which resembled the wing mirror on a car, was all too distinctive, not to mention deadly. And as he raised it to fire at us, I swerved to the right, braked hard, pulled Weiss down onto the floor of the Audi, and then reached for the Mauser.

  “Stay there,” I yelled, and, opening the driver’s door, rolled out of the car even as I heard several rounds hit the bodywork, startling the crows but startling me even more. But these were wild shots, since thirty meters was on the far side of what was comfortably in the Bergmann’s range; it was a better weapon for clearing a trench at close quarters.

  I ran around the back of the Audi, climbed into the cemetery on my left, and, using the wall as cover, ran in the direction of the shooter. Even as I ran I slipped the safety off the Mauser and thumbed back the hammer so that it was ready to use. There was another burst of gunfire and I guessed the gunman must have thought I’d run away and that he now had all the time in the world to finish his attack on the deputy police president; I smelled his cigarette, heard his footsteps on the gravel, and then the unmistakable sound of another magazine being loaded into the machine gun. I was now behind our assailant and so I climbed over the wall again, which is one advantage of a rum breakfast and exactly why they used to give us a tot in the trenches before we went over the top.

  The assassin was standing with his back to me about ten meters away, working the bolt action on the machine gun and getting ready to fire again. He was tall, with a workman’s cap, a sleeveless pullover, and boots that laced up to the knee. Over his shoulder was a small kit bag containing the used magazine and possibly another weapon. There was little or no time for a fair warning, especially as I had half an idea that there was another man lurking in the undergrowth of the other cemetery, but I tried all the same.

  “Police. Put your gun down.”

  The man threw away his cigarette and turned, and I saw that he was no more than twenty, with a hard, empty face and bright blue eyes that were still full of murderous intent—that much was clear; he was going to shoot if he could. I think he smiled because he had so much more gun in his hands than me. The hot summer sun flashed intermittently through the leaves above our heads, dappling the ground beneath our feet so that it was like standing on a lake, which only added unreality to the reality that confronted us both now. On a perfect summer’s day, in a place of almost preternatural quiet, one of us was going to die. He started firing the MP-18 even before he’d aimed it my way, as if he was hoping that might stop me from pulling the trigger on the Mauser, but of course it didn’t.