Prague Fatale: A Bernie Gunther Novel by Philip Kerr

Author:Philip Kerr [Kerr, Philip]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Thrillers
ISBN: 9781101580325
Amazon: B0072NWKEC
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 2012-04-17T05:00:00+00:00

I HAD ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES before my next appointment in the morning room, so I went upstairs to search Kuttner’s room. I wanted to do this without anyone else looking over my shoulder just in case I found something interesting that I had to show Ploetz or Heydrich or whoever else took it upon themselves to scrutinize my work.

But Kuttner’s bed had already been stripped. The sheets and blankets lay in a heap on the floor. The window had been opened wider than before and the room was full of the scent of freshly cut grass. The gardener at Jungfern-Breschan was forever tending the lawns. Outside the window the motorized lawn mowers were already at work.

Seated on the end of Kuttner’s bed was a girl of about twenty-five. She had blond hair and a handkerchief in her hand and was wearing a sleeveless gray pinafore and a regulation SS black dress—the one with the big floppy collar trimmed with white piping. She was an SS-Helferinnen: a helper and, in this case, a maid.

I watched her silently from the doorway for several minutes. And, not noticing me, she didn’t move except, now and then, to press the handkerchief to her nose, as if she had a head cold. Finally my curiosity could no longer be contained and, clearing my throat, I advanced into the dead man’s room.

Abruptly the helper stood up and looked the other way—at least she did until I caught hold of her arm.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I didn’t mean any harm coming in here. Mr. Kritzinger sent me to strip the bed, and I was just overcome for a moment at the thought of that poor man being murdered.”

She was older than I had first supposed and not particularly good-looking—too thin and highly strung for my taste. Her skin was clear as tissue paper and you could see the little blue veins at the side of her forehead like the maker’s mark on good porcelain. The mouth was wider and sadder than it ought to have been, perhaps, but it was her big eyes I was really interested in, because they were red and full of tears.

“I’m Commissar Gunther.”

“Yes, sir. I know who you are. I saw you when you arrived here yesterday.”

She gave a little curtsy.

“I’m investigating Captain Kuttner’s murder.”

She nodded. She knew that, too.

“Did you know him?”

“Not really, sir. We talked a few times. He was kind to me.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing really, sir. Nothing important. It was just incidental talk, you might say. Idle conversation about nothing very much.”

“It’s all right. I’m not going to tell anyone. I’m just trying to get the handle on what kind of a fellow he was. Maybe when I’ve done that I’ll have a better grip on why someone killed him.” I pointed at the bed where she’d been sitting. “Can we sit down and talk? Just for a minute.”

“All right.”

She sat down and I sat beside her.

“Albert was a very sweet, gentle man. Well, he was more of a boy, really.

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