while I replaced the boards. Then I took them up again.
Kahlo climbed out, covered in dust.
‘Well, it’s possible, all right,’ I said. ‘But hardly probable.’
‘Why do you say that, sir?’
‘The amount of dust on you. If someone had been hidden there on Friday morning I’d have expected a little less dust than there is in there now. Or at least, was, until you got in there.’
I handed Kahlo the clothes brush I’d picked up from the top of the dresser.
‘Lucky it’s not a good suit,’ I said.
Kahlo growled an obscenity and began to brush off his jacket and trousers.
‘Depends on how much dust there was down there before, doesn’t it?’ he muttered.
‘Maybe.’
‘And with all of the cauliflower still pissed in their rooms, any one of them might have hidden himself in there and no one would have been any the wiser.’
‘I’ve looked at the rug, too, and I can see no means whereby someone drew the rug back over the boards while he was hidden down there. No fishing line; no nails on the skirting.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Kahlo, ‘the murderer has been back in here and removed them.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway, if the murderer did manage to conceal himself down there, that puts Kluckholn in the clear. Immediately after the murder, he was here in the room, remember? With you and me.’
‘Pity. But I still like him for it. And like you said yourself, it’s hardly probable, is it? That the killer would have hidden in here.’ Kahlo shook his head. ‘No, you’re right. Kluckholn must have done it some other way. It might just be that he turned himself into a bat.’
I grinned and shook my head. ‘He couldn’t have done it that way, either. The window was closed, remember?’
‘So the General says. We all assume that because he’s the General his evidence is one hundred per cent. What if he made a mistake about that? What if the window was open after all?’
‘Heydrich doesn’t make mistakes about things like that.’
‘Why not? He’s only human.’
‘Whatever gave you that impression?’
Kahlo shrugged.
‘It’ll be lunchtime soon,’ he said. ‘You could ask him then.’
‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
‘Yeah sure. I meant what I said about that promotion, you know.’
He handed me the clothes brush and then turned around.
‘Do you mind, sir?’
I brushed the worst of it off his jacket and thought of Arianne brushing off my own jacket the previous day. I liked that she had been so particular about my appearance, straightening my tie, adjusting my shirt-collar, and always picking my trousers off the floor and tucking them under the mattress so that they might keep the crease. It was a caring touch I was missing already. By now she was probably across the Bohemian border and back in Germany and a lot safer than she was in Prague. I knew what Thummel had been talking about; there was something about Prague that I didn’t care for at all.
‘I’m looking forward to lunch,’ said Kahlo. He was sniffing the air like a big hungry dog. ‘Whatever it is smells good.’
‘Everything smells good to you.’
‘Everything except this case.’
‘True. Look, you go ahead, to lunch. I’m going to stay here for a while.’
‘And do what?’
‘Oh, nothing much. Stare at the floor. Listen to that crow outside the window. Shoot myself. Or perhaps pray for some inspiration.’
‘You’re not going to miss lunch, are you?’
Kahlo’s tone made this sound as serious as if I really was planning to shoot myself. Which wouldn’t have been so very far from the truth.
‘Now I come to think of it, that’s a good idea,’ I said. ‘Eating has a habit of interfering with my thinking. In that respect it’s almost as bad as beer. If I fast for a while maybe I’ll be given a vision as to how this murder was done. Yes, why not? Maybe if I starve myself like Moses for forty days and nights then perhaps the Almighty will just come and tell me who did it. Of course he might have to set the house on fire to get my full attention, but it’ll be worth it. Besides, I’m pretty sure I have a head start on Moses in one respect.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
I opened my cigarette case. ‘A smoke. A very small burning bush from whence a great deal of wisdom can be imparted. I reckon any one of those saints could have saved themselves a lot of time and discomfort with a simple cigarette.’
After Kahlo had left me alone with my angst I sat on the edge of Kuttner’s mattress and lit one, and when I’d had enough of looking at my cigarette’s little mystic trail of holy inspiration I decided to take a look around the house. With more or less everyone now gathered in the Dining Room I was able to go where I pleased without having to furnish an explanation of what I was doing. Besides, I wasn’t sure there was an explanation for what I was searching for. All I knew was that I needed to have an idea — any idea — and to have one fast.
Hearing a loud cheer downstairs in the Dining Room gave me my first idea. It wasn’t much of an idea but it had at least the merit of being practical. An experiment. An empirical test of an assumption I and everyone else had made right from the very beginning of the case.
I went along to my own bedroom and fetched the Walther PPK from my bag. Back in Kuttner’s room, I closed the door as best I could, racked one bullet into the chamber, fired the weapon twice in quick succession and then sat down to wait for whatever was going to happen. But if I had expected the shots to summon the arrival of a concerned group of officers in Kuttner’s room, I was wrong. A minute passed, then two; and after five minutes I was quite certain that no one was coming because no one had heard the shots. Of course this told me only that Kuttner might easily have been shot without anyone hearing or bothering to investigate the shots, but that still felt like something. It was one assumption I’d made that could easily be proved to have been false. And where there was one, there might easily be another.
I went back to my room and replaced the gun in my bag before heading out and along the landing with its blackamoor figures, the hunting-style leather chairs, the decorative Meissen and the less decorative framed photographs of Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels, Goering, Bormann and von Ribbentrop. It was a home from home if you lived at the Berghof.
I was familiar with the more attractive parts of the Lower Castle, including the Library, the Dining Room, the Billiard Room, the Winter Garden, the Conference Room and the Morning Room; but there were other parts of which I knew nothing or which felt forbidden. Heydrich’s study certainly felt like it was out of bounds, even to someone who was supposed to be Heydrich’s detective. Outside the door I paused for a moment, knocked, and then, hearing no one and expecting to find the door locked, I turned the thick brass handle. The door opened. I went inside. I closed the heavy door behind me.
The room — one of the largest in the house — was quiet and cool; it felt more like a sepulchre than a study. I walked around for a good minute before I was retracing my footsteps, which, like a ghost’s, were completely silent in that room, as if I hardly existed at all. Heydrich could have arranged that, of course, and only too easily. As easily as emptying out the crystal ashtray on the desk which looked very clean and brightly polished. One of Kritzinger’s duties, perhaps?
I don’t know that I expected to find anything. I was just being nosy, but like any detective I felt I had the licence to indulge this tendency, which only feels like a vice when it is accompanied by something more venial like envy or greed. There was nothing in there I really coveted, although I had always wanted a nice desk with a comfortable office chair, but maybe this furniture was a little too grandiose for my purpose. All the same I sat down, spread my hands along the Reichsprotector’s desk, leaned back in his chair, glanced around the room for a moment, handled some of the books on his shelves — mostly popular fiction — looked over his many photographs, inspected the blotter for some recent correspondence — there wasn’t any — and then decided I was very glad I wasn’t Reinhard Heydrich. Not for all the world would I have changed places with that man.
