“Don’t you believe it, Gunther. In spite of any evidence to the contrary I’m good at my job. They’ll listen to me.”
“Mister, you’re good. Very persuasive. I bet you could sell a butcher a steak. But I’ll take that risk. That just happens to be what I’m good at.”
SEVEN
–
I tucked the gun under my waistband, ran upstairs, filled my pockets with the money, and stepped, cautiously, outside the white house. No one was around and, according to my ears, the organist was still playing Bach as if nothing had happened. Maybe that’s why people like his stuff. I didn’t return to the car. It wasn’t mine. Instead I walked down the slope through the trees and then up the street onto Max-Joseph Bridge to cross the Isar, pausing in the center to stare down at the turbulent, coffee-colored waters in an effort to clear my head of some of what had just taken place. There’s nothing like the sound and sight of a river in spate to help flush the human spirit of what ails it, and if that doesn’t work you can always drown yourself. When I was sure no one was around on the bridge I dropped the Walther into the river and then walked west, as far as the English Garden. I wasn’t sure why it was called that. To me there seemed nothing particularly English about it—unless it was the number of snotty-looking people riding tall horses or walking big dogs; then again, it might have been the presence of a huge Chinese pagoda. I’m told no English garden is complete without one. There was a beer garden next to the pagoda, where I had a quick one to steady my nerves; it was getting close to the time when I was supposed to report at the Schwabing Hospital for work, but with ten thousand marks in my coat pocket and a couple of bodies in my wake I figured I had more urgent things to do if I wanted to stay out of jail. So I went to a small taxi rank and asked the driver to take me to Kardinal-Faulhaberstrasse in the center of the city. Once there, I walked up and down a while, inspecting names on the shiny brass plaques on the doorways until, next to a bank, I found the one I was looking for—the one Schramma had thoughtfully informed me about: Dr. Max Merten, Attorney at Law. Trusting a lawyer didn’t seem like much of a plan and it went against all my instincts—some of the worst war criminals I’d ever met had been lawyers and judges—but I could see little alternative. Besides, this was a lawyer with a special interest in my case.
There was a cage elevator but it wasn’t working so I climbed up a wide marble staircase to the third floor, where I stopped for a minute to catch my breath before going in; I needed to look and, more important, sound calm—even if I wasn’t—before telling a lawyer I hadn’t seen since before the war that we were both of us connected with a double murder. A woman I presumed was Merten’s secretary was getting ready to go home, and catching sight of me, she winced a little as if she knew I was going to delay her. Her bright yellow hair had probably been styled by a whole hive of bees and seemed to act as a crucial counterweight to her chest, which seemed both remarkable and appetizing at the same time. You can call me cynical but I had an idea that maybe her typing and shorthand skills weren’t the main reasons why she’d been hired.
“Can I help you?”
“I’d like to see Dr. Merten.”
“I’m afraid he’s about to go home for the night.”
“I’m sure he’ll want to see me. I’m an old friend.”
I wasn’t wearing my best clothes so I could see her wondering about that.
“If I could have your name?”
I was reluctant to use my real name and I didn’t think there was any point in giving my new one; it wouldn’t have meant anything to Merten; nor did I want to mention Schramma’s name, for the simple reason that he was now a murderer. Even the most loyal of secretaries can find that kind of thing a little too much.
“Just say I’m from the Alex, in Berlin. He’ll know what that is.”
“The Alex?”
“Since you ask, it was the Police Praesidium. Like the one you have here in Munich. But bigger and better. Or at least it was until Karl Marx came to town. I used to be a policeman, which is how we know each other.”
Slightly reassured now that she knew I had once been a policeman, Merten’s secretary went to find her boss. She stepped into a back office, leaving me with the expensive view out the corner window. Merten’s offices were opposite the Greek Orthodox church on Salvatorstrasse. Built of red bricks in the Gothic style, the church looked oddly out of step with everything else in that otherwise uniformly Baroque street. I was still looking at it when the secretary came back and informed me that her boss would see me now. She showed me into his office and then closed the door behind us, as Max Merten came around his desk to greet me.
“My God, I never expected to see you again. Bernie Gunther. How long has it been? Fifteen years?”
“At least.”
“But not a cop, I think. Not anymore. No, you don’t look like a cop. Not with that beard.”
“It’s been a while since I carried a badge.”
“Have a seat, Bernie. Have a cigarette. Have a drink. Would you like a drink?” He checked his watch. “Yes, I think it’s time.” He went over to a big Biedermeier sideboard and lifted up a decanter the size of a streetlamp. “Schnapps? It’s that or nothing, I’m afraid. It’s the only
