Bruno sighed irritatedly. 'You know, one time I'm going to tell you something you don't already know about.'
'Illmann was talking to me about it. I bumped into him the other night.'
'Yeah? Where was that?'
'In the morgue. I met your client there. Good-looking fellow. Maybe he's Von Greis.'
'No, I thought of that. Von Greis had a tattoo on his right forearm: an imperial eagle. Look, Bernie, I've got to go. Like I said a hundred times, don't hold out on me. If you hear anything, let me know. The way the boss is riding me, I could use a break.'
'Like I said, Bruno, I owe you one.'
'Two. You owe me two, Bernie.'
I hung up and made another call, this time to the governor of Tegel Prison. I made an appointment to see him and then ordered another beer. While I was drinking it I did some doodling on a piece of paper, the algebraic kind that you hope will help you think more clearly. When I finished doing that, I was more confused than ever. Algebra was never my strong subject. I knew I was getting somewhere, but I thought I would worry about where that was only when I arrived.
Chapter 10
Derfflingerstrasse was convenient for the brand-new Air Ministry situated at the south end of Wilhelmstrasse and the corner of Leipzigerstrasse, not to mention the Presidential Palace on nearby Leipzigerplatz: convenient for Von Greis to wait upon his master in his capacities as Chief of the Luftwaffe and as Prime Minister of Prussia.
Von Greis's apartment was on the third floor of a smart apartment-block. There was no sign of a concierge, so I went straight on up. I hit the door-knocker and waited. After a minute or so had elapsed I bent down to look through the letter-box. To my surprise I found the door swinging open as I pushed back the flap on its tight spring.
I didn't need my deerstalker-hat to realize that the place had been turned over, from top to bottom. The long hallway's parquet floor was covered with books, papers, envelopes and empty wallet files, as well as a considerable amount of broken glass which was referable to the empty doors of a large secretaire bookcase.
I walked past a couple of doors and stopped dead as I heard a chair scrape in the grate of one of the rooms ahead of me. Instinctively I reached for my gun.
The pity was, it was still in my car. I was going for a heavy cavalry sabre mounted on the wall when behind me I heard a piece of glass crack underneath someone's foot, and a stinging blow to the back of my neck sent me plunging through a hole in the earth.
For what seemed like hours, although it must only have been a few minutes, I lay at the bottom of a deep well. Fumbling my way back to consciousness I became aware of something in my pockets, and then a voice from a long way off. Then I felt someone lift me under the shoulders, drag me for a couple of miles and shove my face under a waterfall.
I shook my head and squinted up to look at the man who had hit me. He was almost a giant, with a lot of mouth and cheeks, like he'd stuffed each of them with a couple of slices of bread. There was a shirt round his neck, but it was the kind that belonged properly in a barber's chair, and the kind of neck that ought to have been harnessed to a plough. The arms of his jacket had been stuffed with several kilos of potatoes, and they ended prematurely, revealing wrists and fists that were the size and colour of two boiled lobsters. Breathing deeply, I shook my head painfully. I sat up slowly, holding my neck with both hands.
'Christ, what did you hit me with? A length of railway track?'
'Sorry about that,' said my attacker, 'but when I saw you going for that sabre I decided to slow you down a bit.'
'I guess I'm lucky you didn't decide to knock me out, otherwise ' I nodded at my papers which the giant was holding in his great paws. 'Looks like you know who I am. Mind telling me who you are? It seems like I ought to know you.'
'Rienacker, Wolf Rienacker. Gestapo. You used to be a bull, didn't you? Up at the Alex.'
'That's right.'
'And now you're a sniffer. So what brought you up here?'
'Looking for Herr Von Greis.' I glanced about the room. There was a lot of mess, but it didn't seem that there was much missing. A silver epergne stood immaculate on a sideboard, the empty drawers of which were lying on the floor; and there were several dozen oil paintings leaning in neat ranks against the walls. Clearly whoever had ransacked the place hadn't been after the usual variety of loot, but something in particular.
'I see.' He nodded slowly. 'You know who owns this apartment?'
I shrugged. 'I had supposed it was Herr Von Greis.'
Rienacker shook his bucket-sized head. 'Only some of the time. No, the apartment is owned by Hermann Goering. Few people know about it, very few.' He lit a cigarette and threw me the packet. I lit one and smoked it gratefully. I noticed that my hand was shaking.
'So the first mystery,' continued Rienacker, 'is how you did. The second is why you wanted to speak to Von Greis at all. Could be that you were after the same thing that the first mob were after? The third mystery is where Von Greis is now. Maybe he's hiding, maybe someone's got him, maybe he's dead. I don't know.
This place was done over a week ago. I came back here this afternoon to have another poke around in case there was something I missed the first time, and to do some thinking, and what do you know, you come through the door.' He took a long drag on his cigarette. In his enormous ham of a fist it looked like a baby's tooth. 'It's my first real break on this case. So how's about you start talking?'
I sat up and straightened my tie and tried to fix my sodden collar. 'Let me just figure this out,' I said. 'I've got this friend up at the Alex who told me that the police don't know about this place, and yet here you are staking it out.
Which leads me to suppose that you, or whoever it is you're working for, likes it that way. You'd prefer to find Von Greis, or at least get your hands on what makes him so popular, before they do. Now, it wasn't the silver, and it wasn't the paintings, because they're still here.'
'Go on.'
'This is Goering's apartment, so I guess that makes you Goering's bloodhound.
There's no reason Goering should have any regard for Himmler. After all, Himmler won control of the police and the Gestapo from him. So it would make sense for Goering to want to avoid involving Himmler's men more than was necessary.'
'Aren't you forgetting something? I work for the Gestapo.'
'Rienacker, I may be easy to slug, but I'm not stupid. We both know that Goering has lots of friends in the Gestapo. Which is hardly surprising, since he set it up.'
'You know, you should have been a detective.'
'My client thinks much the same way as yours about involving the bulls in his business. Which means that I can level with you, Rienacker. My man is missing a picture, an oil painting, which he acquired outside any of the recognized channels, so you see, it would be best if the police didn't know anything about it.' The big bull said nothing, so I kept on going.
'Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, it was stolen from his home. Which is where I fit in. I've been hanging around some of the dealers, and the word I hear is that Hermann Goering is a keen art buyer that somewhere in the depths of Karinhall he has a collection of old masters, not all of them acquired legitimately. I heard that he had an agent, Herr Von Greis, in all matters relating to the purchase of art. So I decided to come here and see if I could speak to him. Who knows, the picture I'm looking for might very well be one of the ones stacked up against that wall.'
'Maybe it is,' said Rienacker. 'Always supposing I believe you. Who's the painting by, and what's the subject?'
'Rubens,' I said, enjoying my own inventiveness. 'A couple of nude women standing by a river. It's called The Bathers, or something like that. I've a photograph back at the office.'
'And who is your client?'
'I'm afraid I can't tell you that.'
Rienacker wielded a fist slowly. 'I could try persuading you perhaps.'
