‘I’ve prepared a list of everyone who stayed at the Lower Castle last night and therefore who you will want to interview,’ said Major Ploetz.
He handed me a sheet of neatly typed, headed notepaper.
‘Thank you, Major.’
We were in the Morning Room. With its greenish silk Chinoise wallpaper, the room felt like an extension of the garden and a little more natural than the rest of the house. There were a couple of big sofas facing each other like very fat chess-players across a polished wooden coffee-table. In the window was a grand piano and in the fireplace there was a fire that cheered the room. Either side of the marble fireplace was a mosaic of picture frames featuring Heydrich and his family. Kahlo was inspecting these, one at a time, as if looking to judge a winner. Now wearing my civilian clothes, I was seated on one of the sofas, smoking a cigarette.
‘Here is your mail, Commissar, forwarded from the Alex in Berlin. And here is a copy of Albert Kuttner’s SD personnel file. The General thought it might help you to get a better sense of the man and what he was like and – you never know – perhaps why he was killed. The personnel files of everyone staying here this weekend are being sent over from Hradschin Castle this morning.’
‘That’s very efficient of you, Major.’
It was easy to see why Ploetz was Heydrich’s Chief Adjutant. There was no doubting his efficiency. With his lists and memoranda and facts and figures Achim Ploetz was a real electric Nazi. Before the war I’d been to a town called Achim. It was near Bremen in a nice part of the country that, in its natural state, is mostly moorland. But there was nothing natural about Achim Ploetz, and in that respect at least, Doctor Jury was right: all of Heydrich’s adjutants were a bit like the golem of Prague.
Outside the Morning Room window a Mercedes drew up and Heydrich’s driver got out and opened the passenger door expectantly.
Ploetz saw him out of the corner of his eye.
‘Well, I’d better go and tell the General that our car is here,’ he said. ‘If there is anything you want, just ask Pomme.’
‘Yes. I will.’
Then he was gone and Kahlo and I were standing at the window peering around the heavy drapes like two comedians getting ready to take a curtain call. The convertible’s top was down and the engine was purring smoothly like some green metal dragon. Ploetz climbed aboard first and sat in the rear. Heydrich sat up front with the driver as if that might help him to control the car despite the fact someone else was at the wheel. He was just like that, I guess. As we watched them drive away there was no sign of an armed escort.
‘So, what do you make of it, sir?’
‘Bloody fool,’ I muttered.
‘How’s that, sir?’
‘Heydrich. The way he drives around the city like he’s invulnerable. Like Achilles. As if daring the poor bastards to come and have a go.’
‘The Czechos are just mad enough to do it, too.’
‘You think so?’
Kahlo nodded.
‘How long have you been in Prague?’
‘Long enough to know that the Czechos have got guts. More than we like to give them credit for.’
‘Kurt, isn’t it?’
Kahlo nodded.
‘Where are you from, Kurt?’
‘Mannheim, sir.’
‘How did you become a cop?’
‘I’m not exactly sure. My dad was a car-worker at the Daimler-Benz factory. But I never much fancied being stuck in a factory myself. He wanted me to become a lawyer, only I wasn’t clever enough, so becoming a cop seemed like the next best thing.’
‘So what do
‘It’s a puzzle, sir. A man is found shot dead inside a first-floor bedroom that’s locked from the inside. The windows are bolted and there’s no murder weapon present. Down the corridor there’s a spent nine-millimetre Parabellum round on the floor, so clearly a gun was fired at some time between the hours of midnight and, say, five o’clock this morning. And yet you’d also expect someone to have remarked on that, because a P38 wasn’t picked as the Army’s choice of firearm because it’s so bloody quiet. They can’t all have been so pissed they didn’t hear anything. The staff weren’t pissed. Not with Kritzinger in charge. Why didn’t they hear something? And not just a gunshot, either. I can’t imagine Kuttner standing on the landing upstairs and saying nothing as someone is about to shoot him. Me I’d have shouted “Help” or “Don’t shoot”, or something like that.’
‘I agree.’
‘Kuttner was under the influence of a sleeping pill,’ he said. ‘Maybe he didn’t realize quite how much peril he was in. Maybe it was dark and he didn’t see the gun. Maybe he was shot outside and because he was drugged he didn’t realize the severity of his injury. So he comes back in the house, goes back to his room, locks the door, lies down, and dies. Maybe.’
I shook my head. ‘You’ve got more maybes there than Fritz bloody Lang.’
