A Man Without Breath: A Bernie Gunther Novel by Philip Kerr

Author:Philip Kerr [Kerr, Philip]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0143125133
Amazon: B00AI5APIY
Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons
Published: 2013-04-16T05:00:00+00:00

• • •

AFTER WHAT HAD HAPPENED in Glinka Park I didn’t feel much like going to see Dr. Batov. I’m peculiar like that. When I kill a man in cold blood it unsettles me a little and the good news I had to tell the doctor—that the ministry had approved his resettlement to Berlin—might have sounded rather less like good news than it ought to have done. Besides, I was half expecting Lieutenant Voss of the field police to come around to Krasny Bor and take me on in the role of a consulting detective just like before; that’s certainly what I wanted to happen; the fact of the matter is, I was hoping to steer his simple mind away from any wild theories he might have had about murder. I wasn’t back in my tiny little wooden bungalow for very long when, true to form, he came calling.

There was something mutt-like about Voss. That might just have been the brightly polished metallic gorget he wore on a chain around his thick neck to show that he was on duty—this was the reason why most Fritzes referred to the field police as kennel hounds or attack dogs—but Voss had such a lugubriously handsome face it would have been easy to have confused him with the real thing. His earlobes were as long as his leather coat and his big brown eyes contained so much yellow that they resembled the distinctive field police badge he wore on his left arm. I’ve seen purebred bloodhounds that looked more human than Ludwig Voss. But he was no amateur soldier: the Eastern Front ribbon and infantry assault badge told a more heroic story than simple law enforcement. He’d seen a lot more action than manning the barrier on a turnpike.

“A fire, a kettle, a comfy chair, it’s a nice place you have here, Captain Gunther,” he said, glancing around my cozy room. He was so tall he’d had to stoop to come through the door.

“It’s a bit Uncle Tom’s cabin,” I said. “But it’s home. What can I do for you, Lieutenant? I’d open a bottle of champagne in your honor but I think we drank the last fifty bottles last night.”

“We’ve found another dead signaler,” he said, brushing aside the wisecrack.

“Oh, I see. This is becoming an epidemic,” I said. “Was his throat cut, too?”

“I don’t know yet. I just picked up the report on the radio. A couple of my men found the body in Glinka Park. I was hoping you might come and take a look at the scene with me. Just in case there’s some sort of pattern to all this.”

“Pattern? That’s a word we cops only use back in civilization. You need sidewalks to see a pattern, Ludwig. There’s no pattern to anything out here. Haven’t you figured that out yet? In Smolensk everything is fucked up.”

How fucked up, I was only just beginning to understand, thanks to Martin Quidde and Friedrich Ribe.

“It’s Corporal Quidde.”

“Quidde? I was speaking to the poor man just the other day.

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