If the Dead Rise Not by Philip Kerr Read Free Book Online

bitch,” he said, and flung away his cigar again. This time it flew through the door of the en-suite bathroom, hit the porcelain-tiled wall, and landed safely in the U-boat-sized bath. Behlert lifted his eyebrows clean off his forehead and went to retrieve it once again.
    “You’re right,” I said. “I was a cop. I worked Homicide for almost ten years until my allegiance to the old republic and the basic principles of justice made me surplus to the new requirements. But along the way I developed a pretty good nose for criminal investigation. So. It’s clear to me you think she took it and, what’s more, that you’ve got a pretty good idea why. If we were in a police station I might ask you about that. But since you’re a guest in this hotel, it’s up to you whether you tell us or not. Sir.”
    “We argued about money,” he said quietly. “About the number of hours she’d worked.”
    “Is that all?”
    “Of course. What are you implying, mister?”
    “I’m not implying anything. But I knew Fräulein Szrajbman quite well. She was very conscientious. That’s why the Adlon recommended her to you in the first place.”
    “She’s a thief,” Reles said, flatly. “What the hell are you going to do about it?”
    “I’ll put the matter into the hands of the police right away, sir, if that’s what you want.”
    “You’re damn right I do. Just tell your old pals to swing by, and I’ll swear out a warrant or whatever you flatfoots do in this sausage factory you call a country. Soon as they like. Now, get the hell out of here before I lose my temper.”
    At that I almost told him he’d have to keep his temper before he could ever lose it, and that while his parents might have taught him to speak good German, they certainly hadn’t taught him any good German manners to go with it. Instead I kept my mouth shut, which, as Hedda Adlon was fond of telling me, is a large part of running a good hotel.
    The fact that it was now also a large part of being a good German was neither here nor there.

6
     
     
    A COUPLE OF SCHUPOS wearing puttees and rubber macs against the driving rain were standing on duty by the main entrance of the Police Praesidium on Berlin’s Alexanderplatz. The word “praesidium” comes from the Latin meaning “protection,” but given that the Alex was now under the control of a bunch of thugs and murderers, it was hard to see who was protecting whom from whom. The two uniformed cops had a similar problem. Recognizing my face, they didn’t know whether to salute or batter me to the ground.
    As usual, the main entrance hall smelled of cigarettes, cheap coffee, unwashed bodies, and sausage. I was arriving just as the local wurst seller had turned up to sell boiled sausage to those cops who were lunching at their desks. The Max—they were always known as Max—wore a white coat, a top hat, and, as was traditional, a little mustache he’d drawn onto his face with an eyebrow pencil. His mustaches were longer than I remembered and probably would continue to be that way while Hitler continued with a postage stamp on his own upper lip. But I often wondered if anyone had ever dared ask Hitler if he could smell gas, because that was what he looked like: a gas sniffer. Sometimes you saw these men fitting long pipes into holes in the road and then sniffing the open ends for escaping gas. It always gave them the same telltale smudge on the upper lip.
    “Haven’t seen you in a while, Herr Commissar,” said the Max. The large square metal boiler hanging from a strap around his neck looked like a steam-powered accordion.
    “I’ve been away for a while. It must have been something I ate.”
    “Very amusing, sir, I’m sure.”
    “You tell him, Bernie,” said a voice. “We’ve got more than enough sausage at the Alex, but not nearly enough laughs.”
    I looked around and saw Otto Trettin coming through the entrance hall.
    “What the hell are you doing back here?” he asked. “Don’t say