'Ask.'
'If a man telephones and asks you or Benita if there is an Indian princess staying at the hotel, would you please say that there is? If he wants to speak to her, say she's not taking any calls.'
'That's all?'
'Yes.'
'Does this princess have a name?'
'You know the names of any Indian girls?'
'Well,' she said, 'I saw a film the other week which had this Indian girl in it.
Her name was Mushmi.'
'Let it be Princess Mushmi then. And thanks, Hermine. I'll be speaking to you soon.'
I went into the Pschorr Haus restaurant and ate a plate of bacon and broad beans, and drank a couple of beers. Either Jeschonnek knew nothing about diamonds, or he had something to hide. I'd told him that the necklace was Indian, when he ought to have recognized it as being by Carrier. Not only that, but he had failed to contradict me when I described the stones incorrectly as baguettes. Baguettes are square or oblong, with a straight edge; but Six's necklace consisted of brilliants, which are round. And then there was the caratage; I'd said that each stone was a carat in weight, when they were obviously several times larger.
It wasn't much to go on; and mistakes are made: it's impossible always to pick up a stick by the right end; but all the same, I had this feeling in my socks that I was going to have to visit Jeschonnek again.
Chapter 8
After leaving Pschorr Haus, I went into the Haus Vaterland, which as well as housing the cinema where I was to meet Bruno Stahlecker, is also home to an almost infinite number of bars and cafTs. The place is popular with the tourists, but it's too old-fashioned to suit my taste: the great ugly halls, the silver paint, the bars with their miniature rainstorms and moving trains; it all belongs to a quaint old European world of mechanical toys and music-hall, leotarded strong-men and trained canaries. The other thing that makes it unusual is that it's the only bar in Germany that charges for admission. Stahlecker was less than happy about it.
'I had to pay twice,' he grumbled. 'Once at the front door, and again to come in here.'
'You should have flashed your Sipo pass,' I said. 'You'd have got in for nothing. That's the whole point of having it, isn't it?' Stahlecker looked blankly at the screen. 'Very funny,' he said. 'What is this shit, anyway?'
'Still the newsreel,' I told him. 'So what did you find out?'
'There's the small matter of last night to be dealt with yet.'
'My word of honour, Bruno, I never saw the kid before.' Stahlecker sighed wearily. 'Apparently this Kolb was a smalltime actor. One or two bit-parts in films, in the chorus-line in a couple of shows. Not exactly Richard Tauber. Now why would a fellow like that want to kill you? Unless maybe you've turned critic and gave him a few bad notices.'
'I've got no more understanding of theatre than a dog has of laying a fire.'
'But you do know why he tried to kill you, right?'
'There's this lady,' I said. 'Her husband hired me to do a job for him. She thought that I'd been hired to look through her keyhole. So last night she has me round to her place, asks me to lay off and accuses me of lying when I tell her that I'm not concerned who she's sleeping with. Then she throws me out. Next thing I know there's this pear-head standing in my doorway with a lighter poked in my gut, accusing me of raping the lady. We dance around the room a while, and in the process the gun goes off. My guess is that the kid was in a swarm about her, and that she knew it.'
'And so she put him up to it, right?'
'That's the way I see it. But try and make it stick and see how far you'd get.'
'I don't suppose you're going to tell me the name of this lady, or her husband, are you?' I shook my head. 'No, I thought not.'
The film was starting: called The Higher Order, it was one of those patriotic little entertainments that the boys in the Ministry of Propaganda had dreamed up on a bad day. Stahlecker groaned.
'Come on,' he said. 'Let's go and get a drink. I don't think I can stand watching this shit.'
We went to the Wild West Bar on the first floor, where a band of cowboys were playing Home on the Range. Painted prairies covered the walls, complete with buffalo and Indians. Leaning up against the bar, we ordered a couple of beers.
'I don't suppose any of this would have something to do with the Pfarr case, would it, Bernie?'
'I've been retained to investigate the fire,' I explained. 'By the insurance company.'
'All right,' he said. 'I'll tell you this just the once, and then you can tell me to go to hell. Drop it. It's a hot one, if you'll pardon the expression.'
'Bruno,' I said, 'go to hell. I'm on a percentage.'
'Just don't say I didn't warn you when they throw you into a K Z.'
'I promise. Now unpack it.'
'Bernie, you've got more promises than a debtor has for the bailiff.' He sighed and shook his head. 'Well, here's what there is.'
'This Paul Pfarr fellow was a high-flyer. Passed his juridicial in 1930, saw preparatory service in the Stuttgart and Berlin Provincial Courts. In 1933, this particular March Violet joins the S A, and by 1934 he is an assessor judge in the Berlin Police Court, trying cases of police corruption, of all things. The same year he is recruited into the S S and in 1935 he also joins the Gestapo, supervising associations, economic unions and of course the D A F, the Reich Labour Service. Later that year he is transferred yet again, this time to the Ministry of the Interior, reporting directly to Himmler, with his own department investigating corruption amongst servants of the Reich.'
'I'm surprised that they notice.'
'Apparently Himmler takes a very dim view of it. Anyway, Paul Pfarr was charged with paying particular attention to the D A F, where corruption is endemic.'
'So he was Himmler's boy, eh?'
'That's right. And his ex-boss takes an even dimmer view of people working for him getting canned than he does of corruption. So a couple of days ago the Reichskriminaldirektor appoints a special squad to investigate. It's an impressive team: Gohrmann, Schild, Jost, Dietz. You get mixed up in this, Bernie, and you won't last longer than a synagogue window.'
'They got any leads?'
'The only thing I heard was that they were looking for a girl. It seems as though Pfarr might have had a mistress. No name, I'm afraid. Not only that, but she's disappeared.'
'You want to know something?' I said. 'Disappearing is all the rage. Everyone's doing it.'
'So I heard. I hope you aren't the fashionable sort, then.'
'Me? I must be one of the only people in this city not to own a uniform. I'd say that makes me very unfashionable.'
Back at Alexanderplatz I visited a locksmith and gave him the mould to make a copy of Jeschonnek's office keys. I'd used him many times before, and he never asked any questions. Then I collected my laundry and went up to the office.
I wasn't half-way through the door before a Sipo pass had flashed in front of my face. In the same instant I caught sight of the Walther inside the man's unbuttoned grey-flannel jacket.
'You must be the sniffer,' he said. 'We've been waiting to speak to you.' He had mustard-coloured hair, coiffed by a competition sheepshearer, and a nose like a champagne cork. His moustache was wider than the brim on a Mexican's hat. The other one was the racial archetype with the sort of exaggerated chin and cheekbones he'd copied off a Prussian election poster. They both had cool, patient eyes, like mussels in brine, and sneers like someone had farted, or told a particularly tasteless joke.
'If I'd known, I'd have gone to see a couple of movies.' The one with the pass and the haircut stared blankly at me.
'This here is Kriminalinspektor Dietz,' he said.
The one called Dietz, who I guessed to be the senior officer, was sitting on the edge of my desk, swinging his leg and looking generally unpleasant.
'You'll excuse me if I don't get out my autograph-book,' I said, and walked over to the corner by the window
