Berlin Noir, page 36
‘Thanks, I will.’
‘That will help you to understand,’ she said. ‘But to enter into the mind of a man like Kurten, you should read this.’ Again she dipped into the bag of books.
‘Les Fleurs du mal,’ I read, ‘by Charles Baudelaire.’ I opened it and looked over the verses. ‘Poetry?’ I raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, don’t look so suspicious, Kommissar. I’m being perfectly serious. It’s a good translation, and you’ll find a lot more in it than you might expect, believe me.’ She smiled at me.
‘I haven’t read poetry since I studied Goethe at school.’
‘And what was your opinion of him?’
‘Do Frankfurt lawyers make good poets?’
‘It’s an interesting critique,’ she said. ‘Well, let’s hope you think better of Baudelaire. And now I’m afraid I must be going.’ She stood up and we shook hands. ‘When you’ve finished with the books you can return them to me at the Goering Institute on Budapesterstrasse. We’re just across the road from the Zoo Aquarium. I’d certainly be interested to hear a detective’s opinion of Baudelaire,’ she said.
‘It will be my pleasure. And you can tell me your opinion of Dr Lanz Kindermann.’
‘Kindermann? You know Lanz Kindermann?’
‘In a way.’
She gave me a judicious sort of look. ‘You know, for a police Kommissar you are certainly full of surprises. You certainly are.’
Sunday, 11 September
I prefer my tomatoes when they’ve still got some green left in them. Then they’re sweet and firm, with smooth, cool skins, the sort you would choose for a salad. But when a tomato has been around for a while, it picks up a few wrinkles as it grows too soft to handle, and even begins to taste a little sour.
It’s the same with women. Only this one was perhaps a shade green for me, and possibly rather too cool for her own good. She stood at my front door and gave me an impertinent sort of north-to-south-and-back-again look, as if she was trying to assess my prowess, or lack of it, as a lover.
‘Yes?’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m collecting for the Reich,’ she explained, playing games with her eyes. She held a bag of material out, as if to corroborate her story. ‘The Party Economy Programme. Oh, the concierge let me in.’
‘I can see that. Exactly what would you like?’
She raised an eyebrow at that and I wondered if her father thought she wasn’t still young enough for him to spank.
‘Well, what have you got?’ There was a quiet mockery in her tone. She was pretty, in a sulky, sultry sort of way. In civilian clothes she might have passed for a girl of twenty, but with her two pigtails, and dressed in the sturdy boots, long navy skirt, trim white blouse and brown leather jacket of the BdM – the League of German Girls – I guessed her to be no more than sixteen.
‘I’ll have a look and see what I can find,’ I said, half amused at her grown-up manner, which seemed to confirm what you sometimes heard of BdM girls, which was that they were sexually promiscuous and just as likely to get themselves pregnant at Hitler Youth Camp as they were to learn needlework, first aid and German folk history. ‘I suppose you had better come in.’
The girl sauntered through the door as if she were trailing a mink wrap and gave the hall a cursory examination. She didn’t seem to be much impressed. ‘Nice place,’ she murmured quietly.
I closed the door and laid my cigarette in the ashtray on the hall table. ‘Wait here,’ I told her.
I went into the bedroom and foraged under the bed for the suitcase where I kept old shirts and threadbare towels, not to mention all my spare house dust and carpet fluff. When I stood up and brushed myself off she was leaning in the doorway and smoking my cigarette. Insolently she blew a perfect smoke-ring towards me.
‘I thought you Faith-and-Beauty girls weren’t supposed to smoke,’ I said, trying to conceal my irritation.
‘Is that a fact?’ she smirked. ‘There are quite a few things we’re not encouraged to do. We’re not supposed to do this, we’re not supposed to do that. Just about everything seems to be wicked these days, doesn’t it? But what I always say is, if you can’t do the wicked things when you’re still young enough to enjoy them, then what’s the point of doing them at all?’ She jerked herself away from the wall and stalked out.
Quite the little bitch, I thought, following her into the sitting-room next door.
She inhaled noisily, like she was sucking at a spoonful of soup, and blew another smoke-ring in my face. If I could have caught it I would have wrapped it round her pretty little neck.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I hardly think one little drummer is going to knock over the heap, do you?’
I laughed. ‘Do I look like the sort of dog’s ear who would smoke cheap cigarettes?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ she admitted. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Plato.’
‘Plato. It suits you. Well, Plato, you can kiss me if you want.’
‘You don’t creep around it, do you?’
‘Haven’t you heard the nicknames they have for the BdM? The German Mattress League? Commodities for German Men?’ She put her arms about my neck and performed a variety of coquettish expressions she’d probably practised in front of her dressing-table mirror.
Her hot young breath tasted stale, but I let myself equal the competence in her kiss, just to be affable, my hands squeezing at her young breasts, kneading the nipples with my fingers. Then I cupped her chubby behind in both my moistening palms, and drew her closer to what was increasingly on my mind. Her naughty eyes went round as she pressed herself against me. I can’t honestly say I wasn’t tempted.
‘Do you know any good bedtime stories, Plato?’ she giggled.
‘No,’ I said, tightening my grip on her. ‘But I know plenty of bad ones. The kind where the beautiful but spoilt princess gets boiled alive and eaten up by the wicked troll.’
A vague glimmer of doubt began to grow in the bright blue iris of each corrupt eye, and her smile was no longer wholly confident as I hauled up her skirt and started to tug her pants down.
‘Oh, I could tell you lots of stories like that,’ I said darkly.
‘The sort of stories that policemen tell their daughters. Horrible gruesome stories that give girls the kind of nightmares which their fathers can be glad of.’
‘Stop it,’ she laughed nervously. ‘You’re frightening me.’ Certain now that things weren’t going quite to plan, she reached desperately for her pants as I yanked them down her legs, exposing the fledgling that nestled in her groin.
‘They’re glad because it means that their pretty little daughters will be much too scared to ever go into a strange man’s house, just in case he should turn into a wicked troll.’
‘Please, mister, don’t,’ she said.
I smacked her bare bottom and pushed her away.
‘So it’s lucky for you, princess, that I’m a detective and not a troll, otherwise you’d be ketchup.’
‘You’re a policeman?’ she gulped, tears welling up in her eyes.
‘That’s right, I’m a policeman. And if I ever find you playing the apprentice snapper again, I’ll see to it that your father takes a stick to you, understand?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, and quickly pulled up her pants.
I picked up the pile of old shirts and towels from where I had dropped them on the floor, and pushed them into her arms.
‘Now get out of here before I do the job myself.’ She ran into the hall and out of the apartment in terror, as if I had been Niebelung himself.
After I’d closed the door on her, the smell and touch of that delicious little body, and the frustrated desire of it, remained with me for as long as it took to pour myself a drink and take a cold bath.
That September it seemed that passion everywhere, already smouldering like a rotten fuse-box, was easily ignited, and I wished that the hot blood of Sudeten Germans in Czechoslovakia could have been as easily dealt with as was my own excitation.
As a bull you learn to expect an increase in crime during hot weather. In January and February even the most desperate criminals stay home in front of the fire.
Reading Professor Berg’s book, The Sadist, later on that same day, I wondered how many lives had been saved simply because it was too cold or too wet for Kürten to venture out of doors, Still, nine murders, seven attempted murders and forty acts of arson was an impressive enough record.
According to Berg, Kürten, the product of a violent home, had come to crime at an early age, committing a string of petty larcenies and enduring several periods of imprisonment until, at the age of thirty-eight, he had married a woman of strong character. He had always had sadistic impulses, being inclined to torture cats and other dumb animals, and now he was obliged to keep these tendencies in a mental straitjacket. But when his wife was not at home Kürten’s evil demon at times grew too powerful to restrain, and he was driven to commit the terrible and sadistic crimes for which he was to become infamous.
This sadism was sexual in its origin, Berg explained. Kürten’s home circumstances had rendered him predisposed to a deviation of the sexual urge, and his early experiences had all helped to condition the direction of that urge.
In the twelve months that separated Kürten’s capture and his execution, Berg had met frequently with Kürten and found him to be a man of notable character and talent. He was possessed of considerable charm and intelligence, an excellent memory and keen powers of observation. Indeed, Berg was moved to remark upon the man’s accessibility. Another outstanding characteristic was Kürten’s vanity, which manifested itself in his smart, well-cared for appearance and in his delight at having outwitted the Düsseldorf police for as long as he had cared to do so.
Berg’s conclusion was not a particularly comfortable one for any civilized member of society: Kürten was not mad within the terms of Paragraph Fifty-one, in that his acts were neither completely compulsive nor wholly irresistible, so much as pure, unadulterated cruelty.
If that wasn’t bad enough, reading Baudelaire left me feeling as comfortable in my soul as a bullock in an abattoir. It didn’t require a superhuman effort of imagination to accept Frau Kalau vom Hofe’s suggestion that this rather Gothic French poet provided an explicit articulation of the mind of a Landru, a Gormann or a Kürten.
Yet there was something more here. Something deeper and more universal than merely a clue as to the psyche of the mass murderer. In Baudelaire’s interest in violence, in his nostalgia for the past and through his revelation of the world of death and corruption, I heard the echo of a Satanic litany that was altogether more contemporary, and saw the pale reflection of a different kind of criminal, one whose spleen had the force of law.
I don’t have much of a memory for words. I can barely remember the words of the national anthem. But some of these verses stayed in my head like the persistent smell of mingled musk and tar.
That evening I drove down to see Bruno’s widow Katia at their home in Berlin-Zehlendorf. This was my second visit since Bruno’s death, and I brought some of his things from the office, as well as a letter from my insurance company acknowledging receipt of the claim I had made on Katia’s behalf.
There was even less to say now than before, but nevertheless I stayed for a full hour, holding Katia’s hand and trying to swallow the lump in my throat with several glasses of schnapps.
‘How’s Heinrich taking it?’ I said uncomfortably, hearing the unmistakable sound of the boy singing in his bedroom.
‘He hasn’t talked about it yet,’ said Katia, her grief giving way a little to embarrassment. ‘I think he sings because he wants to escape from having to face up to it.’
‘Grief affects people very differently,’ I said, scraping around for some sort of excuse. But I didn’t think this was true at all. To my own father’s premature death, when I hadn’t been much older than Heinrich was now, had been appended as its brutal corollary the inescapable logic that I was myself not immortal. Ordinarily I would not have been insensitive to Heinrich’s situation, ‘But why must he sing that song?’
‘He’s got it into his head that the Jews had something to do with his father’s death.’
‘That’s absurd,’ I said.
Katia sighed and shook her head. ‘I’ve told him that, Bernie. But he won’t listen.’
On my way out I lingered at the boy’s doorway, listening to his strong young voice.
‘“Load up the empty guns, And polish up the knives, Let’s kill the Jewish bastards, Who poison all our lives.”’
For a moment I was tempted to open the door and belt the young thug on the jaw. But what was the point? What was the point of doing anything but leave him alone? There are so many ways of escaping from that which one fears, and not the least of these is hatred.
Monday, 12 September
A badge, a warrant card, an office on the third floor and, apart from the number of S S uniforms there were about the place, it almost felt like old times. It was too bad that there were not many happy memories, but happiness was never an emotion in plentiful supply at the Alex, unless your idea of a party involved working on a kidney with a chair-leg. A couple of times men I knew from the old days stopped me in the corridor to say hallo, and how sorry they were to hear about Bruno. But mostly I got the kind of looks that might have greeted an undertaker in a cancer ward.
Deubel, Korsch and Becker were waiting for me in my office. Deubel was explaining the subtle technique of the cigarette punch to his junior officers.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘When he’s putting the nail in his guzzler, you give him the uppercut. An open jaw breaks real easy.’
‘How nice to hear that criminal investigation is keeping up with modern times,’ I said as I came through the door. ‘I suppose you learned that in the Freikorps, Deubel.’
The man smiled. ‘You’ve been reading my school-report, sir.’
‘I’ve been doing a lot of reading,’ I said, sitting down at my desk.
‘Never been much of a reader myself,’ he said.
‘You surprise me.’
‘You’ve been reading that woman’s books, sir?’ said Korsch.
‘The ones that explain the criminal mind?’
‘This one doesn’t take much explanation,’ said Deubel.
‘He’s a fucking spinner.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But we’re not about to catch him with blackjacks and brass knuckles. You can forget all your usual methods – cigarette punches and things like that.’ I stared hard at Deubel. ‘A killer like this is difficult to catch because, for most of the time at least, he looks and behaves like an ordinary citizen. And with none of the hallmarks of criminality, and no obvious motive, we can’t rely on informers to help us get on his track.’
Kriminalassistent Becker, on loan from Department VB3 – Vice – shook his head.
‘If you’ll forgive me, sir,’ he said, ‘that’s not quite true. Dealing with sexual deviants, there are a few informers. Butt-fuckers and dolly-boys, it’s true, but now and again they do come up with the goods.’
‘I’ll bet they do,’ Deubel muttered.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll talk to them. But first there are two aspects to this case that I want us all to consider. One is that these girls disappear and then their bodies are found all over the city. Well, that tells me that our killer is using a car. The other aspect is that as far as I am aware, we’ve never had any reports of anyone witnessing the abduction of a victim. No reports of a girl being dragged kicking and screaming into the back of a car. That seems to me to indicate that maybe they went willingly with the killer. That they weren’t afraid. Now it’s unlikely that they all knew the killer, but quite possibly they might have trusted him because of what he was.’
‘A priest, maybe,’ said Korsch. ‘Or a youth leader.’
‘Or a bull,’ I said. ‘It’s quite possible he could be any one of those things. Or all of them.’
‘You think he might be disguising himself?’ said Korsch.
I shrugged. ‘I think that we have to keep an open mind about all of these things. Korsch, I want you to check through the records and see if you can’t match anyone with a record for sexual assault with either a uniform, a church or a car licence plate.’ He sagged a little. ‘It’s a big job, I know, so I’ve spoken to Lobbes in Kripo Executive, and he’s going to get you some help.’ I looked at my wristiwatch. ‘Kriminaldirektor Müller is expecting you over in VCI in about ten minutes, so you’d better get going.’
‘Nothing on the Hanke girl yet?’ I said to Deubel, when Korsch had gone.
‘My men have looked everywhere,’ he said. ‘The railway embankments, the parks, waste ground. We’ve dragged the Teltow Canal twice. There’s not a lot more we can do.’ He lit a cigarette and grimaced. ‘She’s dead by now. Everyone knows it.’
‘I want you to conduct a door-to-door inquiry throughout the area where she disappeared. Speak to everyone, and I mean everyone, including the girl’s schoolfriends. Somebody must have seen something. Take some photographs to jog a few memories.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir,’ he growled, ‘that’s surely a job for the uniformed boys in Orpo.’
‘Those mallet-heads are good for arresting drunks and garter-handlers,’ I said. ‘But this is a job requiring intelligence. That’s all.’
Pulling another face, Deubel stubbed out his cigarette in a way that let me know he wished the ashtray could have been my face, and dragged himself reluctantly out of my office.
‘Better mind what you say about Orpo to Deubel, sir,’ said Becker. ‘He’s a friend of Dummy Daluege’s. They were in the same Stettin Freikorps regiment.’ The Freikorps were paramilitary organizations of ex-soldiers which had been formed after the war to destroy Bolshevism in Germany and to protect German borders from the encroachments of the Poles. Kurt ‘Dummy’ Daluege was the chief of Orpo.
