A Quiet Flame

“Not old-fashioned, Bernie,” said Gennat. “But perhaps a little naive. Regardless of what happens in the July election, this country will have to reach some sort of accommodation with the National Socialists. I don’t see how else anarchy and chaos are to be avoided in Germany.”

“We just want what’s best for the Berlin police,” added Izzy. “I think we all do. And it’s in the best interests of the Berlin police that this matter is dealt with more sensitively.” Izzy shook his head. “But you. You are not sensitive, Bernie. You are not diplomatic. You tread heavily.”

“You want me off the case, is that it?” I asked him.

“No one wants you off the case, Bernie,” said Gennat. “You’re one of the best detectives we’ve got. I should know. I trained you myself.”

“But we think it might be useful to have Arthur on board,” said Izzy. “To take care of the finer points of community relations.”

“You mean when it comes to speaking to bastards like Otto Schwarz and his wife,” I said.

“Precisely,” said Izzy. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“Well, I’d certainly be grateful for any help in that department,” I said, and smiled at Nebe. “I suppose I’ll just have to try my best to conceal my prejudices when I’m speaking to you, Arthur.”

Nebe smiled his crafty smile. He seemed impossible to provoke. “Since we’re all of us on the same side . . .”

“Yes, indeed,” I murmured.

“Perhaps you would care to share with us what you have discovered so far.”

I didn’t tell them everything. But I told them a lot. I told them about the autopsy and the protonsil pill and the five hundred marks and how Anita Schwarz had been on the sledge and that I had started to suspect that her probable killer was most likely a fritz who’d caught a dose of jelly and wanted to get even with a snapper and that he had probably picked Anita Schwarz because her disability made her an easy victim, and that as soon as I spoke to Dr. Kassner at the state hospital’s urological clinic, I could have a list of possible suspects. I didn’t mention I already had one. And I certainly didn’t mention what I’d discovered about Joey the Crip.

“You won’t get anything out of a doctor,” said Gennat. “Not even with a court order. He’ll sit on his big fat doctor-patient privilege and tell you to go and screw yourself.”

This sounded good, coming from a man whose own fat bottom would have been the envy of a pocket battleship.

“And he’ll be entitled to do so. As I’m sure you know.”

I stood up and bowed. “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you, sir. But I think you’re forgetting something.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“I think you’re forgetting that Arthur’s not the only cop in the Alex who can play Prince bloody Charming. I can do that, too. At least I can when the cause seems even vaguely worthwhile.”

I RANG the urological clinic to find out what time it closed, and was told five p.m. At four-thirty I filled a Thermos and drove back to Kassner’s house on Dönhoff-Platz. Once there, I switched off the engine, poured myself some coffee, and started on the papers I’d bought in Reichskanzlerplatz. They were a day old but that didn’t seem to matter very much. In Berlin the news was always the same. German chancellors made. German chancellors overthrown. And all the while the number of the unemployed kept on rising. Meanwhile, Hitler raced around the country in his Mercedes-Benz, telling people that he was the solution to everyone’s problems. I didn’t blame those who believed him. Not really. Most Germans just wanted to have something to hope for in the future. A job. A bank that stayed solvent. A government that could govern. Good schools. Streets that were safe to walk on. Good hospitals. A few honest cops.

At about six-thirty, Dr. Kassner showed up in a new black Horch. I got out and followed him up the steps to his front door. Recognizing my face, he started to smile, but the smile quickly faded when he saw my cheap suit and the KRIPO disc in my hand.

“Commissar Gunther,” I said. “From the Alex.”

“So, you’re not Dr. Duisberg from the Dyestuff Syndicate.”

“No, sir. I’m a homicide detective. I’m investigating the murder of Anita Schwarz.”

“I thought you looked rather young to be on the board of a company of that size and importance. Well, you’d better come in, I suppose.”

We went up to his apartment. The place was modern. A lot of bleached burr walnut and cream leather and bronzes of naked ladies standing on tiptoe. He opened a cocktail cabinet the size of a sarcophagus and helped himself to a drink. He didn’t offer me one. We both knew that I didn’t deserve to have a drink. He sat down and put his drink on a scallop-edged wooden coaster that was on a scallop-edged coffee table. He crossed his legs and silently invited me to sit down.

“Nice place,” I lied. “Live here alone?”

“Yes. Now what’s this all about, Commissar?”

“There was a girl found dead in Friedrichshain Park several nights ago. She’d been murdered.”

“Yes, I read about it in Tempo. Terrible. But I don’t see—”

“I found one of your protonsil pills near the body.”