The Lady from Zagreb (10 page)

The bathhouse was a big redbrick building with ceramic dolphins on the wall. Inside there was a handsome glass roof over a pool about thirty or forty meters long, and above the clock at the north end was a handsome-looking mural of some lakeside idyll: a couple of herons were watching a bearded man in a red toga trying to get the attention of a naked girl who was seated on a little grassy knoll. She looked like she was of two minds about whatever it was he was suggesting, but from where I was sitting it already looked too late for her to change her mind about anything very much except perhaps which bus she caught home.

I took a quick walk around the poolside but Kirsten wasn’t there and I certainly didn’t have the inclination to swim myself. Getting wet inside seemed like a better bet. I remembered that Dr. Heckholz had boasted of having an excellent schnapps. His office wasn’t so far away, on Bedeuten Strasse, and it was still early enough to find a hardworking lawyer in his office. Besides, I had news for him about Stiftung Nordhav, which was that I’d pushed an investigation about as far as it could go without getting myself into trouble.

I walked along Wallstrasse and instinctively looked to see if Heckholz’s office lights were on. Not that they needed to be: it was still light; and not that they would have been; if it had been dark there would have been a blackout, but old habits die hard. So I rang the bell and waited, and when nothing happened I rang all of them, which seldom works, only this time it did.

There was an elevator but as before I took the white marble stairs to the third floor and walked along the well-polished landing to the frosted-glass door, which, as before, was slightly ajar, only this time Dr. Heckholz wasn’t expecting me. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Not anymore. He was lying on the floor as if eavesdropping on the people in the office immediately below. But he wouldn’t have heard anyone or anything because he was quite dead. He couldn’t have looked more dead if he’d been lying on the side of a trench at Verdun with a bullet through his head.

T
he pool of blood on the white floorboards was right under the broken egg that was the dead lawyer’s skull, and as big as a bicycle wheel. You could see his brains under the blood and the bone, and it was clear to me that someone had hit him very hard, several times, with the bronze bust of Hitler that had previously been on the lawyer’s desk and which now lay discarded on the floor. There was blood on Hitler’s solemn face and tiny strands of Dr. Heckholz’s hair on top of the leader’s head. I almost laughed as if I could already hear myself telling the cops at the Berlin-Charlottenburg presidium that the victim had been murdered by Hitler. Instead I helped myself to some of the schnapps from a bottle on a silver tray by the window. My fingerprints were all over the door handles and the desktop anyway so it didn’t seem to matter that they’d be on a glass, too. Besides, if you can’t help yourself to a drink when you’re looking at a man with his head bashed in then I can’t see why the stuff was ever invented. And Heckholz had been right; it was an excellent schnapps, at least as good as the one I’d had at the Villa Minoux. I poured another. So much schnapps, only this time, so little to smile about.

I took another, closer look at the body. There was such a lot of blood. You always forget just how much there is inside a fully grown man, especially his head. You never forget the first time you ever see a man shot in the head, especially when you do it yourself. Sometimes it seems that there’s a natural spring of red that comes out of a person; and there is, of course, only that natural spring is called his life. And once that’s tapped it’s very hard to stop. Heckholz’s right hand, lying by his face, was surrounded with the stuff and it looked as if he’d dipped his finger in his own blood and used that to try to write something—perhaps the identity of his killer—but whatever it was I couldn’t make it out. I bent down to touch the pool of blood and rubbed it experimentally between my fingers; it was still quite viscous, as if poor Heckholz hadn’t been dead for very long.

I fetched his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and wiped my hands. A key chain led out of his trouser pocket on the floor like the body of a golden snake but there was no key on the end; that was in the safe, which was wide open like Ali Baba’s sesame, and immediately I saw that the motive for the murder hadn’t been robbery. Whatever was missing from the safe, it wasn’t money because there were several bundles of banknotes on the top shelf, just like the ones he’d sent to me at the Alex. I helped myself to the two hundred marks I’d been promised and left the rest for the murder boys at the local presidium. It was just around the corner on Bismarckstrasse. They’d probably built it there in case they had any trouble with the crowd at the German Opera. They were a rough lot, opera and ballet fans, as Nijinsky could probably have testified.

After a while I sat down in the meeting room where, just a few days before, I’d eaten those delicious pancakes. I had a lot to think about. I was going to have to tell the police, of course. The question was whether or not I was going to involve Frau Minoux in any of this. If I did, then it might come out that I’d been involved in paying off Arthur Müller, the private detective who’d been employed by the Berlin Gas Company to spy on her and see if she was hanging on to any of her husband’s property they could make a claim against. If that happened, Müller would go to prison, and so would I; Frau Minoux, too, if either one of us chose to give evidence against her. I didn’t see any reason to do any of that. Besides, I figured she had enough to deal with: a husband in the cement at Brandenburg. Saying very little looked like it was by far the best option; that was always the best option, with the Nazis in charge of things.

I went around the corner to the presidium on Kaiser-Strasse—a smaller version of the Alex—and then returned about half an hour later with a couple of plainclothes detectives, only one of whom I knew. Criminal commissar Friedrich Heimenz was an older man with a pipe and a manner as deliberate as a chess move, which he used to conceal the fact that he knew almost nothing about detective work, least of all how to investigate a murder. Before taking the promotion at Charlottenburg he’d been an inspector at the Grunewald Station, and the last time I’d seen him had been when we were both investigating the death of the air ace Ernst Udet. I figured the promotion was a reward for agreeing to the fiction that Udet’s death had been suicide and not murder. A small man with small hands, he looked like he’d just finished drying the dishes. And right away he let it be known that he was looking for a free ride from me, hoping that I’d whitewash his curbstone so that he wouldn’t trip over his own feet in the blackout that was his mind.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to take this case yourself, Herr Commissar,” he said.

“Me? Whatever gave you that idea? This is your jurisdiction, not mine. I’m not even on duty.”

“All the same, you’re the more experienced man.”

“I may have found this body but I’m still not welcome with the murder boys at Werderscher Markt. Besides, it wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t say I knew the man, exactly. But he sent me this letter inviting me to his office. And we spoke on the telephone. That was yesterday, and now here I am. A potential witness.”

I handed over the undated letter Heckholz had sent me at the Alex and five of the Albrechts I’d taken from his safe. But I kept back the envelope with the postmark.

“Who knows?” I added provocatively. “Maybe even a suspect.”

Heimenz read the letter and then nodded. “Did he say what he wanted to talk to you about?”

“He said he had a proposition for me and that there would be another hundred in it for me if I showed up.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Heimenz nodded and brandished the money I’d given him. “I shall have to keep this for a while,” he said. “As evidence.”

“Be my guest.”

“You’ll get a receipt, of course.”

It was beginning to get dark. The other detective, an equally old sergeant—all the younger cops were in uniform—switched on a light, absently in the vain hope that it might illuminate their pedestrian thoughts.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said. “You’ll have the RLB on your back.”

The RLB was the Air Raid Protection Squadron.

“Of course,” he said, and switched the light off again.

Heimenz looked down at the body with obvious distaste before finding his own handkerchief and pressing it to his mouth, as if he were going to vomit. Then he turned away and opened a window. “Horrible,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t think there would be so much blood.”

“No,” I said. “From the sheer quantity of the stuff I expect it’s gone through the floorboards. Tomorrow morning the ceiling in the office below is going to look like the ace of diamonds. Or the ace of hearts.”

“It’s a dentist’s waiting room,” said the sergeant.

“That will give them something to think about while they’re waiting to have their teeth pulled,” I said.

Heimenz didn’t mention the possibility that Heckholz had been trying to write something with his own blood and neither did I. He asked me some more questions and after a while I looked at my watch and told him I had to be going.

“I’ll be at the Alex if you need me,” I said. “On the graveyard shift.”

The
Schupos
had cordoned off the entrance to the building on Bedeuten Strasse and some of the neighbors had come out of their burrows to see what the fuss was all about. It’s only a dead body, I wanted to tell them; there are tens of thousands of those around if you know where to look for them.

I walked back down to the opera house. Inside I could hear the sound of applause. People started to come out of the auditorium. They looked pleased that the opera was over but none more so than Lieutenant Leuthard. He was holding the small of his back and yawning.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked.

“Not in the least,” he said. “To be quite frank with you, I can’t remember ever being so bored.”

“He slept all the way through act three,” said Meyer.

“Christ, I need a drink,” said Leuthard.

“Me too,” I said. “Come on. As it happens, I know the best bar in the Tiergarten.”

I drove them to a little spot on the Neuer See where there was an open-air café and lots of boats.

“I was here earlier,” said Lieutenant Leuthard. “They had nothing to drink. Not even with a coupon.”

“I’ve already thought of that,” I said, and from the glove box I took out the bottle of pear schnapps and three glasses.

We sat down at a table and I filled three glasses. Meyer lifted one and looked at the SS etching on the glass and grinned.

“You stole this? From the Villa Minoux?”

“Of course I stole it. Which reminds me of another valuable little aperçu for your notebook, Captain Meyer. A good detective should always be honest, but not too honest. Not too honest for his own good. And not too inquisitive, either. There are some things it’s best not to know. This I know for sure. And you can put that in your next book.”

T
hat was good advice and in most circumstances I would have heeded it. What did it matter to me who killed Dr. Heckholz? I’d only met him once and I felt quite sure I’d never see Frau Minoux again. She was safe in Vienna, and as soon as she heard that her lawyer was dead, I figured she’d probably stay there for a while, at least until she judged it safe to come and shift her belongings from the warehouse in Lichtenberg. That’s what I would have done if I’d been her. The trouble was that I had liked Dr. Heckholz. How can you not like a man who cooks you pancakes? I liked her, too, but in a different way, of course. What was more, I’d taken their money, and maybe I felt that while I still had a car at my disposal it could hardly matter if I took a drive out to Brandenburg Prison, so long as I was armed with some breakfast. And very earIy the next morning I drove to number 58 Königstrasse, in Wannsee, where Herr Minoux’s driver, Herr Gantner, had told me that he was living with Katrin, who was a maid at the villa. By now I’d formed the strong impression that for all his apparent avarice, Minoux must have been a decent sort of employer to have encouraged such loyalty, which just goes to show that no man is all bad.

There was all that and then there was this: sometimes you have to know something because that’s just how you are made, and what really matters is what you do about it afterward. Or don’t do about it. It depends on what it is you end up knowing. And if that sounds like having the bread roll and the five pfennigs that paid for it then I’ll just say this. We Germans are used to that. Since 1933 our lives have been about having two incompatible things: peace and German pride.

Wannsee is on the way to Brandenburg and in a decent car, alone on the AVUS speedway, I put my foot down as if the sensation of speed might erase the disquiet I was feeling about visiting the biggest and most secure prison in Europe. For a long time I had often felt that one day it would be offering me room and board, too.

The coal merchant’s house on Königstrasse was a modest little villa between an apothecary and a gas station, with shutters and a little wooden balcony. There was a Horch parked out front and a dog lying on a small patch of lawn in the front garden. The dog regarded me suspiciously out of the corner of one eye and growled quietly as I approached the front door. I didn’t blame the animal. If I’d seen a man wearing a field-gray SD uniform anywhere near my front door I’d probably have bitten him, especially at that hour. I knocked and waited and eventually the door opened to reveal a woman of about thirty-five wearing a dressing gown and a whole heap of blond hair on top of her head. A bit blowsy, but nice. She yawned in my face and scratched a little; I could still smell the sex on her, which smelled just fine to me. I like the smell of sex in the morning.

“I’m sorry to disturb you so early,” I said. “But I need to speak with Herr Gantner. Is he here?”

“You’d be Gunther,” she said.

I nodded.

“Then you had better come in.”

I walked into a parlor as neat as a Swiss banker’s drawer and waited while she went to fetch Gantner. The dog had followed me in and went into the kitchen to look for something to drink; at least that’s what it sounded like. Either that or they had a very loud goldfish. I lit a cigarette and walked around the room, which took about two seconds. There was a sideboard that looked like a cathedral altarpiece and beside it a nicely carved tavern chair that was a lot more interesting to admire than to sit on. The wall was home to a large aquarelle of a corner bouncer leaning on his local beer house. It was hard to tell if he was waiting to go in the beer house or if he had already come out, which, given the shortage of beer in Berlin, is a problem most of us have these days. After a while I heard footsteps on the stairs and then Gantner was standing in front of me wearing just his trousers and climbing into his braces. It must have been earlier than I had imagined.

“What’s up?” He rubbed a face that was as rough as the scales on a coelacanth and just as ugly and then explored his mouth with a big yellow tongue.

“Dr. Heckholz is dead,” I said. “Murdered. I went to see him around eight o’clock last night and found him lying on the floor of his office with his head stove in. It wasn’t about money. His safe was open and there was plenty of cash in there. So I figure it was to do with business. Maybe the same business that made him and Frau Minoux ask me to see what I could find out about the sale of the villa to Stiftung Nordhav. In which case you might be in danger yourself.” I paused, awaiting some sort of reaction. “Sure. Don’t mention it.”

He sighed. “You want some coffee, Herr Gunther?”

“No, thanks. I thought I’d take a drive out to Brandenburg and speak with Herr Minoux. Get it all from the authorized mouth, so to speak. And maybe save you a journey in the Horch with the bread and jam.”

He nodded at the cigarette in my hand. “You got another nail like that one?”

I gave him one from my case and lit it. He smoked it with more interest than seemed appropriate in the circumstances. Then again maybe he was just looking for the right words.

“He was a good man, Dr. Heckholz,” said Gantner.

A little underwhelmed by this reaction, I shrugged. “I liked him.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“I have a couple of ideas. Stiftung Nordhav is, as I’m sure you know, a company which has five senior figures from the SS on the board of directors. So I don’t think we’re going to run short of suspects here. I warned him and Frau Minoux that this was probably something best left alone. I’m just sorry to have been proved right. I get that a lot these days. Anyway, it might just be that Herr Minoux can shed some more light on what happened to Dr. Heckholz. In any event, someone needs to tell him the news and it might as well be me because there’s my own position to consider here.”

“What position is that?”

“It might sound a bit late given that the cat is already down the drain here but I’d like to know just a little more how it got there. In short, I want to understand a bit more about what you got me into so that I’ll know the best way to get out of it.”

“Fair enough.”

“That goes for you, too, by the way, Herr Gantner. Anything you can tell me. When you see the danger you can flee the danger, right?”

“There’s not much I can tell you. Me, I’m just the driver. When I saw you again outside the station the other day I thought you were the right man to help them. You being in the SD n’all, and knowing the boss and everything. He always liked you, Herr Gunther. Look, the details I don’t know, beyond the name of the company you mentioned. The Nordhav Foundation. Plus the fact that Minoux is spending time with his German Michael for something that there are plenty of others doing, only worse, if you ask me.”

“What, you expect honesty from these people? That’s how the world works these days, you dumb Fritz. The Nazi world we’ve made for ourselves. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve got hypocrisy running out of every orifice in this golem we call a country. Wake up.” I shook my head. “Better still, get me the bread and jam and then go back to bed. That’s a nice-looking girl you’ve got there, son. Go back and enjoy her. Hell, I wish I could.”

Five minutes later I was heading west alongside the Havel with Minoux’s breakfast on my passenger seat.

There are three buildings of note for tourists visiting Brandenburg: the cathedral, the Catherine Church, and the old state town hall with its famous statue of Charlemagne’s nephew, Roland, who according to the Baedeker is a symbol of civic liberty. But these days the only reason anyone came down from Berlin to Brandenburg was to visit one of the four thousand people who were locked up in the most notorious prison in Nazi Germany. So much for Roland. There’s been a prison in the Görden quarter of Brandenburg since 1820, but it wasn’t until 1931 that a new building was erected and a couple of years after that before it became what it is now: a so-called house of discipline and an execution site, with as many as two people a day going to the guillotine, which, by all accounts, is housed in the old garage, alongside an equally busy gallows. I’m not sure how it’s decided who gets topped and who gets a haircut. It’s the kind of nice detail that they could probably explain better in the People’s Court on Elssholzstrasse, in Schöneberg, and very probably do. It’s said that the court president, Roland Freisler—himself a former Bolshie—screams out the death sentences at the top of his voice, no doubt to escape any suspicions regarding his own loyalty.

A gray stone Noah’s Ark of a building, Brandenburg-Görden is full of creatures every bit as desperate. Surrounded with forests and poorly maintained lakes, there are plenty of mosquitoes around in summer to add to a prisoner’s daily torments. And if that wasn’t enough, there’s the airport just a couple of miles to the north where German bombers and supply planes come and go at all hours of the night. It’s as if the local air was ruled by Beelzebub.

I parked my car and walked to the head of the visitors’ line. The uniform was good for that, at least. A prison guard took me to a gloomy room with a nice view of the prison yard. After about ten minutes, Friedrich Minoux was brought in. A smallish man with a hatchet face and a small mustache, he’d always been slim, but now he looked emaciated, and my first thought on seeing him was that even with someone bringing him breakfast every day, he wasn’t going to make it; the combination of poor diet and hard labor was going to kill him just as surely as any guillotine.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, as if we’d seen each other only the day before. In fact it had been all of six years.

“You look well, Herr Minoux.”

Minoux snorted. “I’m afraid that even a witch with good eyes would think this particular Hansel was much too thin to eat. But it’s kind of you to say so. However, I shouldn’t complain. There are some here—” He paused and seemed momentarily choked with emotion. “They’re executing Siegfried Gohl this morning. A Christadelphian conscientious objector.” He shook his head. “We live with that kind of thing every day.”

Minoux took a deep breath and then a cigarette from the case I’d pushed across the table. He lit one and inhaled it gratefully. I didn’t like to tell him that the cigarette he was smoking had been stolen from his own silver cigarette box at Villa Minoux.

“I brought you breakfast,” I said, handing him a paper bag that had already been searched by the guard. “Since I was coming here to see you I thought I’d save Herr Gantner a trip.”

“Thanks. I’ll save this for later, when I can take the time to enjoy it. You’ve no idea how long I can make breakfast last. Sometimes until supper.”

“But the main reason I came to see you today was to tell you that Dr. Heckholz is dead. Someone went to his office last night and bashed his head in.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“It was me who found him, actually. I was hoping you might shed some more light on exactly what he was up to. I mean, I have a rough idea, but I assumed you could tell me more than I already know, which isn’t much, really. In the circumstances I’d rather not contact your wife. The police don’t know of her involvement and I think it’s best we keep it that way. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Friedrich Minoux shrugged. “Why ask me?”

“Have I missed something here? I’d somehow formed the impression that their efforts were directed to getting you out of this place. In which case anything you can tell me—”

“I don’t know what you expect from me. I certainly never hired Heckholz. How could I? I have no money. Everything I had has been swallowed up in fines and legal bills and compensating Berlin Gas.”

“Really? He told me that you did hire him.”

“Then I’m also sorry to say that he lied.”

“And is your wife a liar, too?”

“I’m afraid that’s for you to decide. Whatever my wife might have hired him for was done entirely without my knowledge. But that shouldn’t be a surprise to you, of all people, given our history together. Lilly and I were never very close, as I’m sure you will remember. She’s her own woman, with her own money and her own selfish agenda. It’s fine for her to stir these things up while she lives in luxury in Garmisch. But she gave absolutely no thought to how her actions might impact upon me while I remain in prison. None whatsoever. Nor did I in any way sanction bringing you into this matter. That was as unwise as it was precipitate. Look here, I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey from Berlin but let me make something quite clear to you, Herr Gunther. I have absolutely no interest in contesting the verdict of the court. Or for that matter in disputing the terms of sale of the Villa Minoux at Wannsee to the Nordhav Foundation. I was properly convicted of defrauding the Berlin Gas Company and the sentence could have been a lot heavier. And I received a very fair price for the Villa Minoux. Now, is all that absolutely clear to you?”

He was trying to sound tough but his hands were shaking and the cigarette he had been smoking was now lying neglected in the little tinfoil ashtray. No one ever leaves a cigarette unfinished when they’re in the cement.

“Crystal clear, Herr Minoux.”

He stood up and knocked on the door to summon the guard.

“And please. Without meaning to sound rude, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come here again. Not ever. You being here, stirring things up that don’t need to be stirred up, might count against my chance of parole. The governor is obliged to keep a record of all my visitors, even the ones I didn’t invite.”

I collected my cigarette case off the table, dropped it into my pocket, and nodded my dumb assent. And then without another word he was gone into the echoing gray void that was Brandenburg-Görden. I couldn’t find it within me to feel angry with him. He was scared, I could see that. In a place like that, I’d have been scared myself.