March Violets Page 16

  ‘Sir, Rienacker will tell you that when he and I met in your apartment this afternoon, he asked me to tell him the name of the man I was working for, the man who owns the Rubens nude. I wouldn’t tell him. He threatened to beat it out of me. I still wouldn’t tell him.’

  Rienacker leaned forwards. ‘That’s correct, Herr Prime Minister,’ he offered.

  I continued with my pitch. ‘Every one of my clients gets the same deal. Discretion and confidentiality. I wouldn’t stay in business for very long if it was any other way.’

  Goering nodded. ‘That’s frank enough,’ he said. ‘Then let me be equally frank. Many positions in the bureaucracy of the Reich fall to my patronage. Consequently, I’m often approached by a former colleague, a business contact, to grant a small favour. Well, I don’t blame people for trying to get on. If I can, I help them. But of course I will ask a favour in return. That is the way the world works. At the same time, I have built up a large store of intelligence. It is a reservoir of knowledge that I draw on to get things done. Knowing what I know, it is easier to persuade people to share my point of view. I have to take the larger view, for the good of the Fatherland. Even now there are many men of influence and power who do not agree with what the Führer and myself have identified as the priorities for the proper growth of Germany, so that this wonderful country of ours may assume its rightful place in the world.’ He paused. Perhaps he was expecting me to jump up and give the Hitler Salute and burst into a couple of verses of Horst Wessel; but I stayed put, nodding patiently, waiting for him to come to the point.

  ‘Von Greis was the instrument of my will,’ he said silkily, ‘as well as of my foible. He was both my purchasing agent, and my fund raiser.’

  ‘You mean he was an up-market squeeze-artist.’

  Goering winced and smiled at the same time. ‘Herr Gunther, it does you much credit to be so honest, and so objective, but please try not to make it compulsive. I am a blunt man myself, but I don’t make a virtue out of it. Understand this: everything is justified in the service of the State. Sometimes one must be hard. It was, I think, Goethe who said that one must either conquer and rule, or serve and lose, suffer or triumph, be the anvil or the hammer. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Look, it might help if I knew who Von Greis had dealings with.’

  Goering shook his head. ‘I really can’t tell you that. It’s my turn to get on the soapbox and talk about Discretion and Confidentiality. To that extent, you’ll have to work in the dark.’

  ‘Very well, sir, I’ll do my best. Do you have a photograph of the gentleman?’

  He reached into a drawer and produced a small snapshot which he handed to me. ‘This was taken five years ago,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t changed a great deal.’

  I looked at the man in the picture. Like many German men, he wore his fair hair cropped relentlessly close to the skull, except for an absurd kiss-curl decorating his broad forehead. The face, crumpled in many places like an old cigarette-packet, wore a waxed moustache, and the general effect was of the cliche German Junker to be found in the pages of a back number of Jugend.

  ‘Also, he has a tattoo,’ added Goering. ‘On his right arm. An imperial eagle.’

  ‘Very patriotic,’ I said. I put the photograph in my pocket, and asked for a cigarette. One of Goering’s aides offered me one from the great silver box, and lit it with his own lighter. ‘I believe that the police are working on the idea that his disappearance might have something to do with his being a homosexual.’ I said nothing about the information that Neumann had given me concerning the German Strength ring having murdered a nameless aristocrat. Until I could check his story, there was no point in throwing away what might turn out to be a good card.

  ‘That is indeed a possibility.’ Goering’s admission sounded uncomfortable. ‘It’s true, his homosexuality led him to some dangerous places and, on one occasion, it even brought him to the attention of the police. However, I was able to see that the charge was dropped. Gerhard was not deterred by what should have been a salutary experience. There was even a relationship with a prominent bureaucrat to contend with. Foolishly, I allowed it to continue in the hope that it would force Gerhard to become more discreet.’

  I took this information with several pinches of salt. I thought it much more likely that Goering had allowed the relationship to continue in order that he might compromise Funk — a lesser political rival — with the aim of putting him into his back pocket. That is, if he wasn’t there already.

  ‘Did Von Greis have any other boyfriends?’

  Goering shrugged and looked at Rienacker, who stirred, and said: ‘There was nobody in particular, as far as we know. But it’s difficult to say for sure. Most of the warm boys have been driven underground by the Emergency Powers. And most of the old queer clubs like the Eldorado have been closed. All the same, Herr Von Greis still managed to pursue a number of casual liaisons.’

  ‘There is one possibility,’ I said. ‘That on a nocturnal visit to some out of the way corner of the city for sex, the gentleman was picked up by the local Kripo, beaten up and tossed into a KZ. You might not hear about it for several weeks.’ The irony of the situation was not lost on me: that I should be discussing the disappearance of the servant of the man who was himself the architect of so many other disappearances. I wondered if he could see it too. ‘Frankly, sir, one to two weeks is not a long time to be missing in Berlin these days.’

  ‘Inquiries in that direction are already being made,’ said Goering. ‘But you are right to mention it. Apart from that, it’s up to you now. From what inquiries Rienacker has made about you, missing persons would seem to be your speciality. My aide here will provide you with money, and anything else you may require. Is there anything else?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘I’d like to put a tap on a telephone.’

  I knew that the Forschungsamt, the Directorate of Scientific Research, which took care of wire-taps, was subordinate to Goering. Housed in the old Air Ministry building, it was said that even Himmler had to obtain Goering’s permission to put a wire-tap on someone, and I strongly suspected that it was through this particular facility that Goering continued to add to the ‘reservoir of intelligence’ that Diels had left to his erstwhile master.

  Goering smiled. ‘You are well-informed. As you wish.’ He turned and spoke to his aide. ‘See to it. It is to be given priority. And make sure that Herr Gunther is given a daily transcript.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the man. I wrote out a couple of numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Then Goering stood up.

  ‘This is your most important case,’ he said, putting his hand lightly on my shoulder. He walked me to the door. Rienacker followed at a short distance. ‘And if you are successful, you will not find me wanting in generosity.’

  And if I wasn’t successful? For the moment, I preferred to forget that possibility.

  12

  It was nearly light by the time I got back to my apartment. The ‘painting-out’ squad was hard at work on the streets, obliterating the nocturnal daubings of the KPD — ‘Red Front will Win’ and ‘Long Live Thaelman and Torgler’ — before the city awoke to the new day.

  I had been asleep for no more than a couple of hours when the sound of sirens and whistles wrenched me violently from my quiet slumbers. It was an air-raid practice.

  I buried my head under the pillow and tried to ignore the area warden hammering on my door; but I knew that I would only have to account for my absence later on, and that failure to provide a verifiable explanation would result in a fine.

  Thirty minutes later, when the whistles had blown and the sirens cranked to sound the all-clear, there seemed little point in going back to bed. So I bought an extra litre off the Bolle milkman and cooked myself an enormous omelette.

  Inge arrived at my office at just after nine. Without much ceremony she sat down on the other side of my desk and watched me finish making some case notes.

  ‘Did you see your friend?�
�� I asked her after a moment.

  ‘We went to the theatre.’

  ‘Yes? What did you see?’ I found that I wanted to know everything, including details that had no bearing on the man’s possible knowledge of Paul Pfarr.

  ‘The Base Wallah. It was rather weak, but Otto seemed to enjoy it. He insisted on paying for the tickets, so I didn’t need the petty cash.’

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  ‘We went to Baarz’s beer restaurant. I hated it. A real Nazi place. Everyone stood and saluted the radio when it played the Horst Wessel Song and Deutschland Über Alles. I had to do it too, and I hate to salute. It makes me feel like I’m hailing a taxi. Otto drank rather a lot and became very talkative. I drank quite a lot myself actually - I feel a bit rough this morning.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘Anyway, Otto was vaguely acquainted with Pfarr. He says that Pfarr was about as popular as a ferret in a gumboot at the DAF, and it’s not difficult to see why. Pfarr was investigating corruption and fraud in the Labour Union. As a result of his investigations, two treasurers of the Transport Workers Union were dismissed and sent to KZs, one after the other; the chairman of the Koch Strasse shop-committee of Ullstein’s, the big printing works, was found guilty of stealing funds and executed; Rolf Togotzes, the cashier of the Metal Workers Union, was sent to Dachau; and a lot more. If ever a man had enemies, it was Paul Pfarr. Apparently there were lots of smiling faces around the department when it became known that Pfarr was dead.’

  ‘Any idea what he was investigating at the time of his death?’

  ‘No. Apparently he played things very close to his chest. He liked to work through informers, amassing evidence until he was ready to make formal charges.’

  ‘Did he have any colleagues there?’

  ‘Just a stenographer, a girl by the name of Marlene Sahm. Otto, my friend, if you can call him that, took quite a shine to her, and asked her out a couple of times. Nothing much came of it. That’s the story of his life, I’m afraid. But he remembered her address though.’ Inge opened her handbag and consulted a small notebook. ‘Nollendorfstrasse, Number 23. She’ll probably know what he had been getting up to.’

  ‘He sounds like a bit of a ladies’ man, your friend Otto.’

  Inge laughed. ‘That’s what he said about Pfarr. He was pretty sure that Pfarr was cheating on his wife, and that he had a mistress. He saw him with a woman on several occasions at the same nightclub. He said that Pfarr seemed embarrassed at being discovered. Otto said she was quite a beauty, if a bit flashy. He thought her name was Vera, or Eva, or something like that.’

  ‘Did he tell the police that?’

  ‘No. He says that they never asked. On the whole he’d rather not get involved with the Gestapo unless he has to.’

  ‘You mean that he hasn’t even been questioned?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  I shook my head. ‘I wonder what they’re playing at.’ I thought for a minute, and then added, ‘Thanks for doing that, by the way. I hope it wasn’t too much of a nuisance.’

  She shook her head. ‘How about you? You look tired.’

  ‘I was working late. And I didn’t sleep all that well. Then this morning there was a damned air-raid practice.’ I tried to massage some life into the top of my head. I didn’t tell her about Goering. There was no need for her to know more than she had to. It was safer for her that way.

  That morning she was wearing a dress of dark-green cotton with a fluted collar and cavalier cuffs of stiffened white lace. For a brief moment I fed myself on the fantasy that had me lifting her dress up and familiarizing myself with the curve of her buttocks and the depth of her sex.

  ‘This girl, Pfarr’s mistress. Are we going to try and find her?’

  I shook my head. ‘The bulls would be bound to hear about it. And then it could get awkward. They’re quite keen on finding her themselves, and I wouldn’t want to start picking that nostril with one finger already in there.’ I picked up the phone and asked to be connected to Six’s home telephone number. It was Farraj, the butler, who answered.

  ‘Is Herr Six, or Herr Haupthandler, at home? It’s Bernhard Gunther speaking.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but they’re both away at a meeting this morning. Then I believe they’ll be attending the opening of the Olympic Games. May I give either of them a message, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ I said. ‘Tell them both that I’m getting close.’

  ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘Yes, they’ll know what I mean. And make sure that you tell both of them, Farraj, won’t you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I put the phone down. ‘Right,’ I said.’ It’s time we got going.’

  It was a ten-pfennig ride on the U-Bahn to the Zoo Station, repainted to look especially smart for the Olympic fortnight. Even the walls of the houses backing on to the station had been given a new coat of white. But high above the city, and where the Hindenburg airship droned noisily back and forwards towing an Olympic flag, the sky had gathered a surly gang of dark-grey clouds. As we left the station, Inge looked upwards and said: ‘It would serve them right if it rained. Better still, if it rained for the entire fortnight.’

  ‘That’s the one thing they can’t control,’ I said. We approached the top of Kurfürstenstrasse. ‘Now then, while Herr Haupthandler is away with his employer, I propose to have a squint at his rooms. Wait for me at Aschinger’s restaurant.’ Inge began to protest, but I continued speaking: ‘Burglary is a serious crime, and I don’t want you around if the going gets tough. Understand?’

  She frowned, and then nodded. ‘Brute,’ she muttered, as I walked away.

  Number 120 was a five-storey block of expensive-looking flats, of the sort that had a heavy black door that was polished so keenly they could have used it as a mirror in a negro jazz-band’s dressing room. I summoned the diminutive caretaker with the enormous stirrup-shaped brass door-knocker. He looked about as alert as a doped tree sloth. I flashed the Gestapo warrant disc in front of his rheumy little eyes. At the same time I snapped ‘Gestapo’ at him and, pushing him roughly aside, I stepped quickly into the hall. The caretaker oozed fear through every one of his pasty pores.

  ‘Which is Herr Haupthandler’s apartment?’

  Realizing that he was not about to be arrested and sent to a KZ, the caretaker relaxed slightly. ‘The second floor, apartment five. But he’s not at home right now.’

  I snapped my fingers at him. ‘Your pass-key, give it to me.’ With eager, unhesitating hands, he produced a small bunch of keys and removed one from the ring. I snatched it from his trembling fingers.

  ‘If Herr Haupthandler returns, ring once on the telephone, and then replace the receiver. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, with an audible gulp.

  Haupthändler’s were an impressively large suite of rooms on two levels, with arched doorways and a shiny wooden floor covered with thick Oriental rugs. Everything was neat and well-polished, so much so that the apartment seemed hardly lived in at all. In the bedroom were two large twin beds, a dressing-table, and a pouffe. The colour scheme was peach, jade-green and mushroom, with the first colour predominating. I didn’t like it. On each of the two beds was an open suitcase, and on the floor were empty carrier-bags from several large department stores including C & A, Grunfeld’s, Gerson’s and Tietz. I searched through the suitcases. The first one I looked in was a woman’s, and I was struck by the fact that everything in it was, or at least looked, brand-new. Some of the garments still had the price tags attached, and even the soles of the shoes were unworn. By contrast the other suitcase, which I presumed must belong to Haupthandler himself, contained nothing that was new, except for a few toiletries. There was no diamond necklace. But lying on the dressing-table was a wallet-sized folder containing two Deutsche Lufthansa air-tickets, for the Monday evening flight to Croydon, London. The tickets were returns, and booked in the name of Herr and Frau Teichmüller.

  Before leaving Haupthandler’s apartment I called
the Adlon Hotel. When Hermine answered I thanked her for helping me with the Princess Mushmi story. I couldn’t tell if Goering’s people in the Forschungsamt had tapped the telephone yet; there were no audible clicks, nor any extra resonance in Hermine’s voice. But I knew that if they really had put a tap on Haupthandler’s telephone, then I ought to see a transcript of my conversation with Hermine later on that day. It was as good a way as any of testing the true extent of the Prime Minister’s cooperation.

  I left Haupthandler’s rooms and returned to the ground floor. The caretaker emerged from his office and took possession of his pass-key again.

  ‘You will say nothing of my being here to anyone. Otherwise it will go badly for you. Is that understood?’ He nodded silently. I saluted smartly, something Gestapo men never do, preferring as they do, to remain as inconspicuous as possible, but I was laying it on for the sake of effect.

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ I said.

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ repeated the caretaker, and, returning the salute, he managed to drop the keys.

  ‘We’ve got until Monday night to pull this one back,’ I said, sitting down at Inge’s table. I explained about the air-tickets and the two suitcases. ‘The funny thing was that the woman’s case was full of new things.’

  ‘Your Herr Haupthändler sounds like he knows how to look after a girl.’

  ‘Everything was new. The garter-belt, the handbag, the shoes. There wasn’t one item in that case that looked as though it had been used before. Now what does that tell you?’

  Inge shrugged. She was still slightly piqued at having been left behind. ‘Maybe he’s got a new job, going door-to-door, selling women’s clothes.’