But what of Heydrich and Nebe, I wondered. Was their attendance at this S S Court of Honour deemed mandatory merely by virtue of their senior rank? After all, the S S had its factions just like any other organization. Daluege, for instance, the head of Orpo, like his opposite number Arthur Nebe, felt as ill-disposed to Himmler and Heydrich as they felt towards him. And quite clearly of course, Weisthor and his faction were antagonistic towards ‘the Jew Heydrich’. Heydrich, a Jew. It was one of those neat pieces of counter-propaganda that relies on a massive contradiction to sound convincing. I’d heard this rumour before, as had most of the bulls around the Alex, and like them I knew where it originated: Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr, German Military Intelligence, was Heydrich’s most bitter opponent, and certainly the most powerful one.
Or was there some other reason why Heydrich was going to Wewelsburg in a few days? Nothing to do with him was ever quite what it seemed to be, although I didn’t doubt for a minute that he would enjoy the prospect of Himmler’s embarrassment. For him it would be nice thick icing on the cake that had as its main ingredient the arrest of Weisthor and the other anti-Heydrich conspirators within the S S.
To prove it, however, I was going to need something else besides Weisthor’s papers. Something more eloquent and unequivocal, that would convince the ReichsFuhrer himself.
It was then that I thought of Reinhard Lange. The softest excrescence on the maculate body of Weisthor’s plot, it certainly wasn’t going to require a clean and sharp curette to cut him away. I had just the dirty, ragged thumbnail that would do the job. I still had two of his letters to Lanz Kindermann.
Back at the Alex I went straight to the duty sergeant’s desk and found Korsch and Becker waiting for me, with Professor Illmann and Sergeant Gollner.
‘Another call?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gollner.
‘Right. Let’s get going.’
From the outside the Schultheiss Brewery in Kreuzberg, with its uniform red brick, numerous towers and turrets, as well as the fair-sized garden, made it seem more like a school than a brewery. But for the smell, which even at two a.m. was strong enough to pinch the nostrils, you might have expected to find rooms full of desks instead of beer-barrels. We stopped next to the tent-shaped gatehouse.
‘Police,’ Becker yelled at the nightwatchman, who seemed to like a beer himself. His stomach was so big I doubt he could have reached the pockets of his overalls, even if he had wanted to. ‘Where do you keep the old beer-barrels?’
‘What, you mean the empties?’
‘Not exactly. I mean the ones that probably need a bit of mending.’
The man touched his forehead in a sort of salute.
‘Right you are, sir. I know exactly what you mean. This way, if you please.’
We got out of the cars and followed him back up the road we had driven along. After only a short way we ducked through a green door in the wall of the brewery and went down a long and narrow passageway.
‘Don’t you keep that door locked?’ I said.
‘No need,’ said the nightwatchman. ‘Nothing worth stealing here. The beer’s kept behind the gate.’
There was an old cellar with a couple of centuries of filth on the ceiling and the floor. A bare bulb on the wall added a touch of yellow to the gloom.
‘Here you are then,’ said the man. ‘I guess this must be what you’re looking for. This is where they puts the barrels as needs repairing. Only a lot of them never get repaired. Some of these haven’t been moved in ten years.’
‘Shit,’ said Korsch. ‘There must be nearly a hundred of them.’
‘At least,’ laughed our guide.
‘Well, we’d better get started then, hadn’t we?’ I said.
‘What exactly are you looking for?’
‘A bottle-opener,’ said Becker. ‘Now be a good fellow and run along, will you?’ The man sneered, said something under his breath and then waddled off, much to Becker’s amusement.
It was Illmann who found her. He didn’t even take the lid off.
‘Here. This one. It’s been moved. Recently. And the lid’s a different colour from the rest.’ He lifted the lid, took a deep breath and then shone his torch inside. ‘It’s her all right.’
I came over to where he was standing and took a look for myself, and one for Hildegard. I’d seen enough photographs of Emmeline around the apartment to recognize her immediately.
‘Get her out of there as soon as you can, Professor.’
Illmann looked at me strangely and then nodded. Perhaps he heard something in my tone that made him think my interest was more than just professional. He waved in the police photographer.
‘Becker,’ I said.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I need you to come with me.’
On the way to Reinhard Lange’s address we called in at my office to collect his letters. I poured us both a large glass of schnapps and explained something of what had transpired that evening.
‘Lange’s the weak link. I heard them say so. What’s more, he’s a lemon-sucker.’ I drained the glass and poured another, inhaling deeply of it to increase the effect, my lips tingling as I held it on my palate for a while before swallowing. I shuddered a little as I let it slip down my backbone and said: ‘I want you to work a Vice- squad line on him.’
‘Yes? How heavy?’
‘Like a fucking waltzer.’
Becker grinned and finished his own drink. ‘Roll him out flat? I get the idea.’ He opened his jacket and took out a short rubber truncheon which he tapped enthusiastically on the palm of his hand. ‘I’ll stroke him with this.’
‘Well, I hope you know more about using that than you do that Parabellum you carry. I want this fellow alive. Scared shitless, but alive. To answer questions. You get it?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m an expert with this little india rubber. I’ll just break the skin, you’ll see. The bones we can leave until another time you give the word.’
‘I do believe you like this, don’t you? Scaring the piss out of people.’
Becker laughed. ‘Don’t you?’
The house was on Lutzowufer-Strasse, overlooking the Landwehr Canal and within earshot of the zoo, where some of Hitler’s relations could be heard complaining about the standard of accommodation. It was an elegant, three-storey Wilhelmine building, orange-painted and with a big square oriel window on the first floor. Becker started to pull the bell as if he was doing it on piecework. When he got tired of that he started on the door knocker. Eventually a light came on in the hall and we heard the scrape of a bolt.
The door opened on the chain and I saw Lange’s pale face peer nervously round the side.
‘Police,’ said Becker. ‘Open up.’
‘What is happening?’ he swallowed. ‘What do you want?’
Becker took a step backwards. ‘Mind out, sir,’ he said, and then stabbed at the door with the sole of his boot. I heard Lange squeal as Becker kicked it again. At the third attempt the door flew open with a great splintering noise to reveal Lange hurrying up the stairs in his pyjamas.
Becker went after him.
‘Don’t shoot him, for Christ’s sake,’ I yelled at Becker.
‘Oh God, help,’ Lange gurgled as Becker caught him by the bare ankle and started to drag him back. Twisting round he tried to kick himself free of Becker’s grip, but it was to no avail, and as Becker pulled so Lange bounced down the stairs on his fat behind. When he hit the floor Becker gripped at his face and stretched each cheek towards his ears.
‘When I say open the door, you open the fucking door, right?’ Then he put his whole hand over Lange’s face and banged his head hard on the stair. ‘You got that, queer?’ Lange protested loudly, and Becker caught hold of some of his hair and slapped him twice, hard across the face. ‘I said, have you got that, queer?’
‘Yes,’ he screamed.
‘That’s enough,’ I said pulling him by the shoulder. He stood up breathing heavily, and grinned at me.
