‘I suppose that counts as brave coming from a man with that kind of tinfoil on his chest.’ I pointed at his War Merit Cross. I said, flicking his Party badge with my forefinger, ‘Well, I’m not scared.’
‘I am going to make a point of breaking you, Commissar. I am going to take great pleasure in making sure that by the time this weekend has ended you will be directing traffic on Potsdamer Platz. I’ve never been insulted like this in all my years as a German officer. How dare you?’
Henlein walked toward the Morning Room door.
‘That deserves an answer, General. I’ll tell you how. You see, I know all about your little friend on the top floor of the Imperial Hotel. Betty, isn’t it? Betty Kipsdorf? Apparently you and she get along very well. And why not? She’s a real sweet girl, from what I hear.’
Henlein had stopped in his tracks as if commanded to do so on a parade ground by a particularly tough drill sergeant.
‘I haven’t seen her myself but my source tells me she thinks you’re very vigorous. Somehow I doubt she means that you and she like to go for energetic walks in the countryside. And I do wonder how our host will greet the news that dear Betty is a Jew.’
He turned slowly and then sat down on a chair by the door, like a man awaiting a doctor’s appointment. He took off his glasses and turned several shades of white before settling on the colour of a goat’s cheese that seemed to reflect the greenish wallpaper.
‘Yes. Sit down. Good move, General.’
‘How did you find out?’ he whispered.
For one glorious moment I thought I was about to hear a confession of murder.
‘About the girl.’
‘You idiot, I’m a cop not a brass monkey. If you’re going to keep a joy-lady in a hotel then make sure she’s the kind of girl who can keep her peep shut.’
It was good advice. I hoped I was paying attention to it myself.
The spectacles in his hand were trembling. Four years later, while being held by the Americans at the military barracks in Pilsen, Konrad Henlein would use the glass in those spectacles to cut open his veins and kill himself. But for now they were just a pair of harmless, trembling specs. Then he started to cry, which was tough because I’d put him through all of that without the least suspicion he’d shot Captain Kuttner. You get a feel for these things: Henlein was a lot of things – a pompous ass, a Nazi agitator, a womanizer – but he wasn’t a murderer. It takes a lot of nerve to pull the trigger on a man in cold blood, and if his tears proved anything, it was that he didn’t have what it takes.
‘Relax. We’re not going to tell anyone, are we, Kurt?’
I went over to the piano and offered Kahlo a cigarette. He took one, stood up and lit us both.
‘No sir,’ he said. ‘Your little secret is quite safe with us, General. Provided of course that you cooperate.’
‘Of course. I’ll do anything you want. Anything. But I am telling you the truth, Herr Commissar. I didn’t kill the Captain. It’s as I told you. I was drunk. I went to bed around two. Even that’s a blur, I’m afraid. I’m only aware of what I said to the unfortunate Captain because one of my brother officers drew it to my attention this morning. I feel terrible about what happened. But the first I knew that Captain Kuttner was dead was when Major Ploetz came and told me this morning. I’m not the type of person to kill anyone. Honestly. I’m almost a vegetarian, like the Leader, you know. It’s true I do have a gun. It’s in my room. But I am certain it’s never been fired while it’s been in my possession. I can fetch it now if you like and then perhaps you can check for yourself. I believe that we have scientists in police laboratories who can determine such things.’
Somewhere during the course of Henlein’s miserable, pleading speech I stopped listening. I stared at the keys of the piano for a moment and then I stared out of the window, all the while wondering what the hell I was doing with my life. At least the cigarette tasted good. I’d reacquired a taste for good tobacco, and I told myself that when this was all over and Heydrich had Kuttner’s murderer I was probably going to have to get used to the ration line again, and three Johnnies a day. Because I had the strong feeling that finding Kuttner’s killer was going to impact upon my becoming Heydrich’s bodyguard after all. I couldn’t see how I was going to keep a job like that when I’d finished insulting all of his closest colleagues; at least, that was my earnest hope.
Then Kahlo was talking again and Henlein was answering him and it was another moment or two before I realized that the subject had changed. We were no longer speaking about Captain Kuttner or even Betty Kipsdorf but something entirely different.
‘Your friend Heinz Rutha,’ said Kahlo. ‘The furniture designer. He hanged himself in prison, didn’t he? In 1937, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Henlein.
‘Because he was queer, too.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
