March Violets (2 page)

‘You believe that?'

The old man frowned. ‘No,' he said grimly. ‘I haven't mentioned it to Dagmarr, but I reckon he's off to Spain . . .'

‘. . . and war.'

‘And war, yes. Mussolini has helped Franco, so Hitler's not going to miss out on the fun, is he? He won't be happy until he's got us into another bloody war.'

After that we drank some more, and later on I found myself dancing with a nice little stocking-buyer from Grunfeld's Department Store. Her name was Carola and I persuaded her to leave with me and we went over to Dagmarr and Buerckel to wish them luck. It was rather odd, I thought, that Buerckel should choose that moment to make a reference to my war record.

‘Dagmarr tells me that you were on the Turkish front.' Was he, I wondered, a little bit worried about going to Spain? ‘And that you won an Iron Cross.'

I shrugged. ‘Only a second class.' So that was it, I thought; the flyer was hungry for glory.

‘Nevertheless,' he said, ‘an Iron Cross. The Führer's Iron Cross was a second class.'

‘Well, I can't speak for him, but my own recollection is that provided a soldier was honest — comparatively honest - and served at the front, it was really rather easy towards the end of the war to collect a second class. You know, most of the first-class medals were awarded to men in cemeteries. I got my Iron Cross for staying out of trouble.' I was warming to my subject. ‘Who knows,' I said. ‘If things work out, you might collect one yourself. It would look nice on a handsome tunic like that.'

The muscles in Buerckel's lean young face tightened. He bent forwards and caught the smell of my breath.

‘You're drunk,' he said.

‘Si,'
I said. Unsteady on my feet, I turned away.
‘Adios, hombre.'

It was late, gone one o'clock, when finally I drove back to my apartment in Trautenaustrasse, which is in Wilmersdorf, a modest neighbourhood, but still a lot better than Wedding, the district of Berlin in which I grew up. The street itself runs north-east from Guntzelstrasse past Nikolsburger Platz, where there is a scenic sort of fountain in the middle of the square. I lived, not uncomfortably, at the Prager Platz end.

Ashamed of myself for having teased Buerckel in front of Dagmarr, and for the liberties I had taken with Carola the stocking-buyer in the Tiergarten near the goldfish pond, I sat in my car and smoked a cigarette thoughtfully. I had to admit to myself that I had been more affected by Dagmarr's wedding than previously I would have thought possible. I could see there was nothing to be gained by brooding about it. I didn't think that I could forget her, but it was a safe bet that I could find lots of ways to take my mind off her.

It was only when I got out of the car that I noticed the large dark-blue Mercedes convertible parked about twenty metres down the street, and the two men who were leaning on it, waiting for someone. I braced myself as one of the men threw away his cigarette and walked quickly towards me. As he drew nearer I could see that he was too well-groomed to be Gestapo and that the other one was wearing a chauffeur's uniform, although he would have looked a lot more comfortable in a leopard-skin leotard, with his music-hall weightlifter's build. His less than discreet presence lent the well-dressed and younger man an obvious confidence.

‘Herr Gunther? Are you Herr Bernhard Gunther?' He stopped in front of me and I shot him my toughest look, the sort that would make a bear blink: I don't care for people who solicit me outside my house at one in the morning.

‘I'm his brother. He's out of town right now.' The man smiled broadly. He didn't buy that.

‘Herr Gunther, the private investigator? My employer would like a word with you.' He pointed at the big Mercedes. ‘He's waiting in the car. I spoke to the concierge and she told me that you were expected back this evening. That was three hours ago, so you can see we've been waiting quite some time. It really is very urgent.'

I lifted my wrist and flicked my eyes at my watch.

‘Friend, it's 1.40 in the morning, so whatever it is you're selling, I'm not interested. I'm tired and I'm drunk and I want to go to bed. I've got an office on Alexanderplatz, so do me a favour and leave it till tomorrow.'

The young man, a pleasant, fresh-faced fellow with a buttonhole, blocked my path. ‘It can't wait until tomorrow,' he said, and then smiled winningly. ‘Please speak to him, just for a minute, I beg you.'

‘Speak to whom?' I growled, looking over at the car.

‘Here's his card.' He handed it over and I stared stupidly at it like it was a winning raffle-ticket. He leaned over and read it for me, upside-down. “‘Dr Fritz Schemm, German Lawyer, of Schemm & Schellenberg, Unter den Linden, Number 67.” That's a good address.'

‘Sure it is,' I said. ‘But a lawyer out at this time of night and from a smart firm like that? You must think I believe in fairies.' But I followed him to the car anyway. The chauffeur opened the door. Keeping one foot on the running board, I peered inside. A man smelling of cologne leaned forward, his features hidden in the shadows, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and inhospitable, like someone straining on a toilet-bowl.

‘You're Gunther, the detective?'

‘That's right,' I said, ‘and you must be -' I pretended to read his business card, ‘ — Dr Fritz Schemm, German Lawyer.' I uttered the word ‘German' with a deliberately sarcastic emphasis. I've always hated it on business cards and signs because of the implication of racial respectability; and even more so now that — at least as far as lawyers are concerned - it is quite redundant, since Jews are forbidden to practise law anyway. I would no more describe myself as a ‘German Private Investigator' than I would call myself a ‘Lutheran Private Investigator' or an ‘Antisocial Private Investigator' or a ‘Widowed Private Investigator', even though I am, or was at one time, all of these things (these days I'm not often seen in church). It's true that a lot of my clients are Jews. Their business is very profitable (they pay on the nail), and it's always the same - Missing Persons. The results are pretty much the same too: a body dumped in the Landwehr Canal courtesy of the Gestapo or the SA; a lonely suicide in a rowboat on the Wannsee; or a name on a police list of convicts sent to a KZ, a Concentration Camp. So right away I didn't like this lawyer, this German Lawyer.

I said: ‘Listen, Herr Doktor, like I was just telling your boy here, I'm tired and I've drunk enough to forget that I've got a bank manager who worries about my welfare.' Schemm reached into his jacket pocket and I didn't even shift, which shows you how blue I must have been. As it was he only took out his wallet.

‘I have made inquiries about you and I am informed that you offer a reliable service. I need you now for a couple of hours, for which I will pay you 200 Reichsmarks: in effect a week's money.' He laid his wallet on his knee and thumbed two blues onto his trouser-leg. This couldn't have been easy, since he had only one arm. ‘And afterwards Ulrich will drive you home.'

I took the notes. ‘Hell,' I said, ‘I was only going to go to bed and sleep. I can do that anytime.' I ducked my head and stepped into the car. ‘Let's go, Ulrich.'

The door slammed and Ulrich climbed into the driver's seat, with Freshface alongside of him. We headed west.

‘Where are we going?' I said.

‘All in good time, Herr Gunther,' he said. ‘Help yourself to a drink, or a cigarette.' He flipped open a cocktail cabinet which looked as though it had been salvaged from the
Titanic
and produced a cigarette box. ‘These are American.'

I said yes to the smoke but no to the drink: when people are as ready to part with 200 marks as Dr Schemm had been, it pays to keep your wits about you.

‘Would you be so kind as to light me, please?' said Schemm, fitting a cigarette between his lips. ‘Matches are the one thing I cannot manage. I lost my arm with Ludendorff at the capture of the fortress of Liege. Did you see any active service?' The voice was fastidious, suave even: soft and slow, with just a hint of cruelty. The sort of voice, I thought, that could lead you into incriminating yourself quite nicely, thank you. The sort of voice that would have done well for its owner had he worked for the Gestapo. I lit our cigarettes and settled back into the Mercedes's big seat.

‘Yes, I was in Turkey.' Christ, there were so many people taking an interest in my war record all of a sudden, that I wondered if I hadn't better apply for an Old Comrades Badge. I looked out of the window and saw that we were driving towards the Grunewald, an area of forest that lies on the west side of the city, near the River Havel.

‘Commissioned?'

‘Sergeant.' I heard him smile.

‘I was a major,' he said, and that was me put firmly in my place. ‘And you became a policeman after the war?'

‘No, not right away. I was a civil servant for a while, but I couldn't stand the routine. I didn't join the force until 1922.'

‘And when did you leave?'

‘Listen, Herr Doktor, I don't remember you putting me on oath when I got into the car.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I was merely curious to discover whether you left of your own accord, or . . .'

‘Or was pushed? You've got a lot of forehead asking me that, Schemm.'

‘Have I?' he said innocently.

‘But I'll answer your question. I left. I dare say if I'd waited long enough they'd have weeded me out like all the others. I'm not a National Socialist, but I'm not a fucking Kozi either; I dislike Bolshevism just like the Party does, or at least I think it does. But that's not quite good enough for the modern Kripo or Sipo or whatever it's called now. In their book if you're not for it you must be against it.'

‘And so you, a Kriminalinspektor, left Kripo,' he paused, and then added in tones of affected surprise, ‘to become the house detective at the Adlon Hotel.'

‘You're pretty cute,' I sneered, ‘asking me all these questions when you already know the answers.'

‘My client likes to know about the people who work for him,' he said smugly.

‘I haven't taken the case yet. Maybe I'll turn it down just to see your face.'

‘Maybe. But you'd be a fool. Berlin has a dozen like you - private investigators.' He named my profession with more than a little distaste.

‘So why pick me?'

‘You have worked for my client before, indirectly. A couple of years ago you conducted an insurance investigation for the Germania Life Assurance Company, of which my client is a major shareholder. While the Kripo were still whistling in the dark you were successful in recovering some stolen bonds.'

‘I remember it.' And I had good reason to. It had been one of my first cases after leaving the Adlon and setting up as a private investigator. I said: ‘I was lucky.'

‘Never underestimate luck,' said Schemm pompously. Sure, I thought: just look at the Führer.

By now we were on the edge of the Grunewald Forest in Dahlem, home to some of the richest and most influential people in the country, like the Ribbentrops. We pulled up at a huge wrought-iron gate which hung between massive walls, and Freshface had to hop out to wrestle it open. Ulrich drove on through.

‘Drive on,' ordered Schemm. ‘Don't wait. We're late enough as it is.' We drove along an avenue of trees for about five minutes before arriving at a wide gravel courtyard around which were set on three sides a long centre building and the two wings that comprised the house. Ulrich stopped beside a small fountain and jumped out to open the doors. We got out.

Circling the courtyard was an ambulatory, with a roof supported by thick beams and wooden columns, and this was patrolled by a man with a pair of evil-looking Dobermanns. There wasn't much light apart from the coachlamp by the front door, but as far as I could see the house was white with pebbledash walls and a deep mansard roof — as big as a decent-sized hotel of the sort that I couldn't afford. Somewhere in the trees behind the house a peacock was screaming for help.

Closer to the door I got my first good look at the doctor. I suppose he was quite a handsome man. Since he was at least fifty, I suppose you would say that he was distinguished-looking. Taller than he had seemed when sitting in the back of the car, and dressed fastidiously, but with a total disregard for fashion. He wore a stiff collar you could have sliced a loaf with, a pin-striped suit of a light-grey shade, a creamy-coloured waistcoat and spats; his only hand was gloved in grey kid, and on his neatly cropped square grey head he wore a large grey hat with a brim that surrounded the high, well-pleated crown like a castle moat. He looked like an old suit of armour.

He ushered me towards the big mahogany door, which swung open to reveal an ashen-faced butler who stood aside as we crossed the threshold and stepped into the wide entrance hall. It was the kind of hall that made you feel lucky just to have got through the door. Twin flights of stairs with gleaming white banisters led up to the upper floors, and on the ceiling hung a chandelier that was bigger than a church-bell and gaudier than a stripper's earrings. I made a mental note to raise my fees.

The butler, who was an Arab, bowed gravely and asked me for my hat.

‘I'll hang on to it, if you don't mind,' I said, feeding its brim through my fingers. ‘It'll help to keep my hands off the silver.'

‘As you wish, sir.'

Schemm handed the butler his own hat as if to the manor born. Maybe he was, but with lawyers I always assume that they came by their wealth and position through avarice and by means nefarious: I never yet met one that I could trust. His glove he neatly removed with an almost double-jointed contortion of his fingers, and dropped it into his hat. Then he straightened his necktie and asked the butler to announce us.