March Violets (17 page)

‘What's that?'

‘I know where a Jewish U-Boat is hiding out.' He smiled smugly.

‘Neumann, you know I'm not interested in that crap.' But as I spoke, I thought of Frau Heine, my client, and her son. ‘Hold on a moment,' I said. ‘What's the Jew's name?' Neumann gave me a name, and grinned, a disgusting sight. His was an order of life not much higher than the calcareous sponge. I pointed my finger squarely at his nose. ‘If I get to hear that U-Boat's been pulled in, I won't have to know who informed on him. I promise you, Neumann, I'll come round and tear your fucking eyelids off.'

‘What's it to you?' he whined. ‘Since when have you been the knight in Goldberg armour?'

‘His mother is a client of mine. Before you forget you ever heard about him, I want the address where he is so I can tell her.'

‘All right, all right. But that's got to be worth something, hasn't it?' I took out my wallet and gave him a twenty. Then I wrote down the address that Neumann gave me.

‘You'd disgust a dung-beetle,' I said. ‘Now, what about this nutcracker?'

He frowned exasperatedly at me. ‘Look, I said I didn't have anything.'

‘You're a liar.'

‘Honest, Herr Gunther, I don't know nothing. If I did, I'd tell you. I need the money, don't I?' He swallowed hard and wiped the sweat from his brow with a public health-hazard of a handkerchief. Avoiding my eyes, he stubbed out his cigarette, which was only half-smoked.

‘You don't act like someone who knows nothing,' I said. ‘I think you're scared of something.'

‘No,' he said flatly.

‘Ever hear of the Queer Squad?' He shook his head. ‘You might say they used to be colleagues of mine. I was thinking that if I found out you'd been holding out on me, I'd have a word with them. Tell them you were a smelly little para 175.' He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and outrage.

‘Do I look like I suck lemons? I'm not queer, you know I'm not.'

‘Yes, but they don't. And who are they going to believe?'

‘You wouldn't do that.' He grabbed my wrist.

‘From what I hear of it, left-handers don't have too good a time of it in the K Zs.' Neumann stared glumly into his coffee.

‘You evil bastard,' he sighed. ‘A couple of hundred you said, and a bit more.'

‘A hundred now, and two more if it's on the level.' He started to twitch.

‘You don't know what you're asking, Herr Gunther. There's a ring involved. They'd kill me for sure if they found out I'd fingered them.' Rings were unions of ex-convicts, dedicated officially to the rehabilitation of criminals; they had respectable club names, and their rules and regulations spoke of sporting activities and social gatherings. Not infrequently, a ring would host a lavish dinner (they were all very rich) at which defence lawyers and police officials would appear as guests of honour. But behind their semi-respectable façades the rings were nothing more than the institutions of organized crime in Germany.

‘Which one is it?' I asked.

‘The “German Strength”.'

‘Well, they won't find out. Anyway, none of them are as powerful as they used to be. There's only one ring that's doing good business these days and that's the Party.'

‘Vice and drugs may have taken a bit of a hammering,' he said, ‘but the rings still run the gambling, the currency rackets, the black market, new passports, loan-sharking and dealing in stolen goods.' He lit another cigarette. ‘Believe me, Herr Gunther, they're still strong. You don't want to get in their way.' He lowered his voice and leaned towards me. ‘I've even heard a strong whisper that they canned some old Junker who was working for the Prime Minister. How do you like that, eh? The bulls don't even know that he's dead yet.'

I racked my brain and came across the name that I had copied from Gert Jeschonnek's address book. ‘This Junker's name; it wouldn't have been Von Greis, would it?'

‘I didn't hear no name. All I know is that he's dead, and that the bulls are still looking for him.' He flicked his ash negligently at the ashtray.

‘Now tell me about the nutcracker.'

‘Well, it seems like I did hear something. About a month ago, a fellow by the name of Kurt Mutschmann finishes two years' cement at Tegel Prison. From what I've heard about him, Mutschmann is a real craftsman. He could open the legs of a nun with rigor mortis. But the polyps don't know about him. You see, he got put inside because he clawed a car. Nothing to do with his regular line of work. Anyway, he's a German Strength man, and when he came out the ring was there to look after him. After a while they set him up with his first job. I don't know what it was. But here's the interesting part, Herr Gunther. The boss of German Strength, Red Dieter, has now got a contract out on Mutschmann, who is nowhere to be found. The word is that Mutschmann double-crossed him.'

‘Mutschmann was a professional, you say.'

‘One of the best.'

‘Would you say murder was part of his portfolio?'

‘Well,' said Neumann, ‘I don't know the man myself. But from what I've heard, he's an artist. It doesn't sound like his number.'

‘What about this Red Dieter?'

‘He's a right bastard. He'd kill a man like someone else would pick their nose.'

‘Where do I find him?'

‘You won't tell him it was me who told you, will you, Herr Gunther? Not even if he were to put a gun to your head.'

‘No,' I lied; loyalty goes only so far.

‘Well, you could try the Rheingold Restaurant on Potsdamer Platz. Or the Germania Roof. And if you take my advice you'll carry a lighter.'

‘I'm touched by your concern for my well-being, Neumann.'

‘You're forgetting the money,' he said, correcting me. ‘You said I'd get another 200 if it checked out.' He paused, and then added: ‘And a hundred now.' I took out my wallet again and thumbed him a couple of fifties. He held the two notes up to the window to scrutinize the watermarks.

‘You must be joking.'

Neumann looked at me blankly. ‘What about?' He pocketed the money quickly.

‘Forget it.' I stood up and dropped some loose change onto the table. ‘One more thing. Can you remember when you heard about the contract on Mutschmann?' Neumann looked as thoughtful as he could manage.

‘Well, now that I come to think of it, it was last week, about the time that I heard about this Junker getting killed.'

 

I walked west down Unter den Linden towards Pariser Platz and the Adlon.

I went through the hotel's handsome doorway and into the sumptuous lobby with its square pillars of dark, yellow-clouded marble. Everywhere there were tasteful
objets d'art;
and in every corner there was the gleam of yet more marble. I went into the bar, which was full of foreign journalists and embassy people, and asked the barman, an old friend of mine, for a beer and the use of his telephone. I called Bruno Stahlecker at the Alex.

‘Hallo, it's me, Bernie.'

‘What do you want, Bernie?'

‘How about Gerhard Von Greis?' I said. There was a long pause. ‘What about him?' Bruno's voice sounded vaguely challenging, as if he was daring me to know more than I was supposed to.

‘He's just a name on a piece of paper to me at the moment.'

‘That all?'

‘Well, I heard he was missing.'

‘Would you mind telling me how?'

‘Come on, Bruno, why are you being so coy about it? Look, my little song-bird told me, all right? Maybe if I knew a bit more I might be able to help.'

‘Bernie, there are two hot cases in this department right now, and you seem to be involved in both of them. That worries me.'

‘If it will make you feel better, I'll have an early night. Give me a break, Bruno.'

‘This makes two in one week.'

‘I owe you.'

‘You're damn right you do.'

‘So what's the story?'

Stahlecker lowered his voice. ‘Ever heard of Walther Funk?'

‘Funk? No, I don't think I have. Wait a minute, isn't he some big noise in the business world?'

‘He used to be Hitler's economic advisor. He's now Vice-President of the Reich Chamber of Culture. It would seem that he and Herr Von Greis were a bit warm on each other. Von Greis was Funk's boyfriend.'

‘I thought the Führer couldn't stand queers?'

‘He can't stand cripples either, so what will he do when he finds out about Joey Goebbels's club foot?' It was an old joke, but I laughed anyway.

‘So the reason for tiptoes is because it could be embarrassing for Funk, and therefore embarrassing for the Government, right?'

‘It's not just that. Von Greis and Goering are old friends. They saw service together in the war. Goering helped Von Greis get his first job with I. G. Farben Chemicals. And lately he'd been acting as Goering's agent. Buying art and that sort of thing. The Reichskriminaldirektor is keen that we find Von Greis as soon as possible. But it's over a week now, and there's been no sign of him. He and Funk had a secret love-nest on Privatstrasse that Funk's wife didn't know about. But he hasn't been there for days.' From my pocket I removed the piece of paper on which I had copied down an address from the book in Jeschonnek's desk drawer: it was a number in Derfflingerstrasse.

‘Privatstrasse, eh? Was there any other address?'

‘Not as far as we know.'

‘Are you on the case, Bruno?'

‘Not any more I'm not. Dietz has taken over.'

‘But he's working on the Pfarr case, isn't he?'

‘I guess so.'

‘Well, doesn't that tell you something?'

‘I don't know, Bernie. I'm too busy trying to put a name to some guy with half a billiard cue up his nose to be a real detective like you.'

‘Is that the one they fished out of the river?'

Bruno sighed irritatedly. ‘You know, one time I'm going to tell you something you don't already know about.'

‘Illmann was talking to me about it. I bumped into him the other night.'

‘Yeah? Where was that?'

‘In the morgue. I met your client there. Good-looking fellow. Maybe he's Von Greis.'

‘No, I thought of that. Von Greis had a tattoo on his right forearm: an imperial eagle. Look, Bernie, I've got to go. Like I said a hundred times, don't hold out on me. If you hear anything, let me know. The way the boss is riding me, I could use a break.'

‘Like I said, Bruno, I owe you one.'

‘Two. You owe me two, Bernie.'

I hung up and made another call, this time to the governor of Tegel Prison. I made an appointment to see him and then ordered another beer. While I was drinking it I did some doodling on a piece of paper, the algebraic kind that you hope will help you think more clearly. When I finished doing that, I was more confused than ever. Algebra was never my strong subject. I knew I was getting somewhere, but I thought I would worry about where that was only when I arrived.

Derfflingerstrasse was convenient for the brand-new Air Ministry situated at the south end of Wilhelmstrasse and the corner of Leipzigerstrasse, not to mention the Presidential Palace on nearby Leipzigerplatz: convenient for Von Greis to wait upon his master in his capacities as Chief of the Luftwaffe and as Prime Minister of Prussia.

Von Greis's apartment was on the third floor of a smart apartment-block. There was no sign of a concierge, so I went straight on up. I hit the door-knocker and waited. After a minute or so had elapsed I bent down to look through the letter-box. To my surprise I found the door swinging open as I pushed back the flap on its tight spring.

I didn't need my deerstalker-hat to realize that the place had been turned over, from top to bottom. The long hallway's parquet floor was covered with books, papers, envelopes and empty wallet files, as well as a considerable amount of broken glass which was referable to the empty doors of a large secretaire bookcase.

I walked past a couple of doors and stopped dead as I heard a chair scrape in the grate of one of the rooms ahead of me. Instinctively I reached for my gun. The pity was, it was still in my car. I was going for a heavy cavalry sabre mounted on the wall when behind me I heard a piece of glass crack underneath someone's foot, and a stinging blow to the back of my neck sent me plunging through a hole in the earth.

For what seemed like hours, although it must only have been a few minutes, I lay at the bottom of a deep well. Fumbling my way back to consciousness I became aware of something in my pockets, and then a voice from a long way off. Then I felt someone lift me under the shoulders, drag me for a couple of miles and shove my face under a waterfall.

I shook my head and squinted up to look at the man who had hit me. He was almost a giant, with a lot of mouth and cheeks, like he'd stuffed each of them with a couple of slices of bread. There was a shirt round his neck, but it was the kind that belonged properly in a barber's chair, and the kind of neck that ought to have been harnessed to a plough. The arms of his jacket had been stuffed with several kilos of potatoes, and they ended prematurely, revealing wrists and fists that were the size and colour of two boiled lobsters. Breathing deeply, I shook my head painfully. I sat up slowly, holding my neck with both hands.

‘Christ, what did you hit me with? A length of railway track?'

‘Sorry about that,' said my attacker, ‘but when I saw you going for that sabre I decided to slow you down a bit.'