Every Man Dies Alone (30 page)

The inspector, pen in hand, smiled at him. “Are you having second thoughts about our little deal, Herr Kluge? Your firm promise? All right then, I’ve wasted my time.” He slammed down the pen. “Then get lost, Kluge—I see you’re no man of your word. Go along, I see you won’t sign! I’ll get by…”

And in this way, the inspector ensured that Enno Kluge really did sign the statement. Yes, Kluge didn’t even ask to have it read back to him. He signed it in complete ignorance of its contents.

“Now may I go, Inspector?”

“Of course. Thank you for your help, Herr Kluge, you did very well. Good bye. Or perhaps better not given the circumstances. Ach, one more moment, if you please, Herr Kluge…”

“Can I not go yet?”

Kluge’s face was starting to tremble again.

“But of course you can! Are you back to not trusting me again? You are a suspicious character! I just thought, wouldn’t you like to take your papers and your money away with you? There, you see! Let’s make sure there’s nothing missing, Herr Kluge…”

And they started to compare: employment book, army conduct book, birth certificate, marriage license…

“Why do you carry all those papers everywhere with you, if I might ask, Herr Kluge? Imagine if you mislaid them somewhere!”

… police registration, four pay stubs…

“You don’t make very much, do you, Herr Kluge! Oh, I remember, you’ve only been working three or four days a week, you little shirker, you!”

… three letters…

“No, don’t worry, I’m not interested in them!”

… thirty-seven Reichsmarks in notes, and sixty-five Reichspfennigs in coins…

“Ah, there’s the new ten-mark note you got from the gentleman. I’d better keep that back for the files. But, hang on, I don’t want you to lose out, so here’s ten marks out of my own pocket to replace them…”

The inspector kept this up until Deputy Inspector Schröder came in again. “I’ve carried out your instructions, Inspector. And Inspector Linke says he’d like a word with you on the Hobgoblin case.”

“Fine. Fine. Thanks again. Well, we’re all done here. Goodbye then, Herr Kluge. Schröder, please show Herr Kluge out. Herr Schröder will accompany you out. Good bye now, Herr Kluge. I won’t forget about the factory. Don’t worry about anything! Heil Hitler!”

“Well then, Herr Kluge, no hard feelings,” Schröder said on Frankfurter Allee, and they shook hands. “You know, a job’s a job, and sometimes things can get a bit rough. But remember I asked them to remove the handcuffs from you right away. And no ill-effects from where the sergeant hit you, eh?”

“No, none at all. I understand… I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble, Inspector.”

“That’s all right. Heil Hitler, Herr Kluge!”

“Heil Hitler, Inspector!”

And weedy little Enno Kluge trotted off. He jogged at a fast clip through the crowds on Frankfurter Allee, and Deputy Inspector Schröder watched him go. He checked to see that both of the men he had set on his tail were there, and then he nodded and walked back into the station.

Chapter 24

INSPECTOR ESCHERICH GETS TO WORK ON THE HOBGOBLIN CASE

“There, read that!” said Inspector Escherich to Deputy Inspector Schröder, and passed him the statement.

“Hmm,” replied Schröder, handing it back. “So he’s confessed and is going to face the People’s Court and the executioner. I’m surprised.” He added thoughtfully, “And to think that someone like that is at liberty!”

“That’s right!” said the inspector, as he laid the statement in a file and dropped the file into his leather briefcase. “That’s right, someone like that is now at liberty—but, I trust, properly tailed by our people!”

“Certainly!” Schröder hastened to assure him. “I checked. They were both solidly on his tail.”

“So there he is, running around,” mused Inspector Escherich, stroking his mustache, “and our people are running after him! Then one day—maybe today, or in a week, or six months—and our enigmatic little Herr Kluge will run to his card writer, the man who gave him the instruction. Drop it at such and such a place. It’s as certain as the amen in church. And then I snap the trap shut, and only then will the two of them be properly ripe for prison and so on and so forth.”

“Inspector,” said Deputy Inspector Schröder, “I still can’t quite believe that Kluge dropped the card. I watched him when I put the
thing in his hand, and it was certainly the first time he’d ever seen it. It was all made up by that hysterical bitch, the doctor’s receptionist.”

“But he says in his statement that he dropped it,” objected the inspector, albeit rather mildly. “Incidentally, if I were you, I would avoid terms like hysterical bitch. No personal prejudices, just objective facts. If you wanted to, though, you could question the doctor on the trustworthiness of his receptionist. Ach, no, I wouldn’t bother with that either. That would just turn out to be another personal opinion, and we can leave it to the examining magistrate to assess the various witnesses. We work completely objectively here, isn’t that right, Schröder, without any prejudice?”

“Of course, Inspector.”

“A witness statement is a statement, and we stick to it. How and why it came about, that doesn’t interest us. We’re not psychologists, we’re detectives. The only thing we’re interested in is crime. And if someone confesses to a crime, that’s enough for us. At least that’d be my way of looking at it, but I don’t know, perhaps you have another, Schröder?”

“Of course not, Inspector!” exclaimed Deputy Inspector Schröder. He sounded quite shocked at the idea that his view might differ from his superior’s. “My thoughts exactly! Always opposed to crime in all its forms!”

“I knew it,” said Inspector Escherich drily, and stroked his mustache. “We old school detectives are always of one mind. You know, Schröder, there are a lot of newcomers working in our profession nowadays, so it’s important that we stick together. There’s some benefit in that. All right, Schröder,” now he sounded strictly professional, “I’d like your report today on the Kluge arrest and the protocol of the witness statements of the receptionist and the doctor. Ah, yes, you had a sergeant with you as well, I believe, Schröder…”

“Sergeant Dubberke, based at the station here…”

“Don’t know the man. But I’d like a report from him too, on Kluge’s attempted escape. Short and to the point, no verbiage, no subjective personal opinions, got that, Schröder?”

“Whatever you say, Inspector!”

“All right then, Schröder! When you’ve handed in these reports, you won’t have anything more to do with this case, unless there’s some further statement needed, to a judge, or to us at the Gestapo…” He looked thoughtfully at his junior. “How long have you been deputy now, Schröder?”

“Three and a half years already, Inspector.”

The eye of the “policeman” as it rested on the inspector had something rather wistful about it.

But the inspector merely said, “Well, it’s about time, then,” and he left the station.

Back at Prinz Albrecht Strasse, he had himself announced immediately to his direct superior, SS Obergruppenführer Prall. He had to wait almost an hour; not that Herr Prall was very busy, or rather, because he was particularly busy in a particular way. Escherich heard the tinkle of glasses, and the popping of corks, he heard laughter and shouting: one of the regular meetings of the higher echelons, then. Conviviality, booze, cheerful relaxation after the heavy effort of torturing and putting to death their fellow men.

The inspector waited without impatience, even though he still had a lot he hoped to do today. He knew what superiors were like, in general, and he knew this one superior in particular. Pestering him was no use. If Berlin was ablaze, and he wanted a drink, well, then he had his drink first. That was just the way he was!

After an hour or so, Escherich was finally admitted. The room looked the worse for wear, with clear evidence of a booze-up, and Prall, purple with Armagnac, looked rather the worse for wear himself. But he said cheerily: “Hey, Escherich! Pour yourself a glass! The fruits of our victory over France: real Armagnac, ten times better than cognac! Ten? Hundred times! Why aren’t you drinking?”

“I’ve still got quite a bit to do today, Obergruppenführer, and I want to keep a clear head. Anyway, I’m not used to drinking anymore.”

“Bah, not used to it! Clear head, pish! What do you want a clear head for? Let someone else do your work for you, and sleep late. Cheers, Escherich—the Führer!”

There was no getting out of this. Escherich raised his glass, and a second time, and a third, and he thought how the combination of alcohol and the company of his comrades had altered this man. Normally, Prall was pretty bearable, not half as bad as a hundred other fellows running around the building in their black uniforms. If anything, he was a bit skeptical, just “here to learn,” as he sometimes said, and by no means convinced of everything.

But under the influence of alcohol and his comrades, he became like them: unpredictable, brutal, impulsive, and always ready to rule out any other view, even if it was nothing but a different view on drinking and schnapps. If Escherich had refused to touch glasses with him, he would have been as lost as if he had allowed the worst offender
to run free. If anything, it would have been slightly worse, because there was an element of personal insult if the junior did not raise a full glass with his superior as often as he was required to do.

Escherich, then, clinked glasses with Prall—clinked glasses several times—and drank.

“Well now, Escherich, what’s up?” Prall said at last, gripping his desk to steady himself. “What’s that you’ve got with you?”

“A statement,” said Escherich. “One that I’ve drawn up on that Hobgoblin case I’m working on. There are a couple more reports and statements to come, but this is the main part of it. If you please, Obergruppenführer.”

“Hobgoblin? Hobgoblin?” said Prall, thinking as hard as he could. “Oh, you mean the fellow with the postcards? Ah, did you manage to come up with some plan, as I ordered?”

“At your orders, Obergruppenführer. Would you care to read the statement?”

“Read? Nah, not now. Maybe later. Tell you what, why don’t you just read it to me, Escherich?”

He interrupted the reading after only three sentences. “Let’s have another one first. Cheers, Escherich! Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler, Obergruppenführer!”

After he had emptied his glass, Escherich went back to his statement.

But now the drunken Prall had thought of an amusing game. Each time Escherich had read three or four sentences, he interrupted him with a call of “Cheers!” and Escherich, after he had clinked glasses again, would have to begin again at the beginning. Prall wouldn’t let him get past the first page, he kept calling out another “Cheers!” He could see—despite his drunkenness—the man struggling, how reluctant he was to drink, how ten times at least he thought of throwing down his statement and walking out, and how he didn’t dare, because the other was his superior and he had to kowtow, suppress all signs of his rage…

“Cheers, Escherich!”

“Thank you, Obergruppenführer, sir! Cheers!”

“Now read on, Escherich! No, start at the top. That part I didn’t quite get. Always been slow on the uptake…”

And Escherich read. Yes, now he was being tormented just as a couple of hours ago he himself had tormented the skinny Kluge. Just like Kluge he was tormented by the desire to get out the door. But he was forced to read, to read and to drink, as long as the other man
wanted. Already he could feel his head fogging up—the good work he had done, for nothing! Too bloody well behaved!

“Cheers, Escherich!”

“Cheers, Obergruppenführer!”

“Okay, start again!”

Until Prall got bored with his game, and said, “Ach, stop with all this stupid reading! You can see I’m drunk, can’t you? How am I going to understand that stuff? Showing off to me with your smarty-pants report! Other reports will follow—not so important as that by the great detective Escherich! How dare you! Cut to the chase: Have you caught the postcard writer, or not?”

“At your orders, Obergruppenführer, no. But…”

“Then what are you doing here? Stealing my valuable time, and swilling my lovely Armagnac?” This, already, in a yell. “Have you completely lost your mind? But from now on I’m going to speak to you in a different tone! I’ve been far too kind to you, I’ve stood for your cheek. Do you understand me?”

“At your orders, Obergruppenführer!” And quickly, before the yelling could begin again, Escherich blurted out, “But I’ve at least caught someone who dropped the postcards. Or I think he has.”

This news calmed Prall a little. He glowered at the Inspector and said, “Bring him in! I want him to tell me who supplied him with the cards. I’m going to twist it out of him—I feel in the mood now.”

For a moment, Escherich reeled. He could say that the man wasn’t in the building and that he would go and pick him up—and then he would do just exactly that, from the street, or from his flat, with the help of those trailing him. Or he could carefully stay away, wait for the Obergruppenführer to sleep off his drunk. By then he would probably have forgotten everything.

But then, Escherich being Escherich, which is to say a detective set in his ways, and not a coward but rather a man of courage, he said: “I let the man go, Obergruppenführer!”