March Violets by Philip Kerr Read Free Book Online Page B

started.’
    I thought for a minute and decided to let her have it without any of the protective padding, in the hope that the shock would stop her asking some awkward questions that I couldn’t answer.
    â€˜It was arson,’ I said quietly. ‘They were both murdered.’ Her jaw dropped like a cat-flap, and her eyes moistened again, as if she had stepped into a draught.
    â€˜Good God,’ she gasped. ‘How terrible. Whoever could do such a thing?’
    â€˜That’s a good question,’ I said. ‘Do you know if either of them had any enemies?’ She sighed deeply and then shook her head. ‘Did you ever overhear either of them arguing with someone other than each other? On the telephone, perhaps? Somebody at the door? Anything.’ She continued to shake her head.
    â€˜Wait a minute, though,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, there was one occasion, several months ago. I heard Herr Pfarr arguing with another man in his study. It was pretty heated and, I can tell you, some of the language they used was not fit to be heard by decent folk. They were arguing about politics. At least I think it was politics. Herr Six was saying some terrible things about the Fuhrer which — ’
    â€˜Did you say Herr Six?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she said. ‘He was the other man. After a while he came storming out of the study and through the front door with a face like pig’s liver. Nearly knocked me over he did.’
    â€˜Can you remember what else was said?’
    â€˜Only that each accused the other of trying to ruin him.’
    â€˜Where was Frau Pfarr when all this happened?’
    â€˜She was away, on one of her trips, I think.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been most helpful. And now I must be getting back to Alexanderplatz.’ I turned towards the door.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ said Frau Schmidt. She pointed to the tailor’s box. ‘What shall I do with Herr Pfarr’s uniform?’
    â€˜Mail it,’ I said, putting a couple of marks on the table. ‘To Reichsführer Himmler, Prinz Albrecht Strasse, Number 9.’

4
    Simeonstrasse is only a couple of streets away from Neuenburger Strasse, but where the windows of the buildings in the latter are lacking paint, in Simeonstrasse they are lacking glass. Calling it a poor area is a bit like saying that Joey Goebbels has a problem finding his size in shoes.
    Tenement buildings five- and six-storeys high closed in on a narrow crocodile’s back of deep cobblestones like two granite cliffs, linked only by the rope-bridges of washing. Sullen youths, each one of them with a roll-up hanging in ashes from his thin lips like a trail of shit from a bowl-bored goldfish, buttressed the ragged corners of gloomy alleyways, staring blankly at the colony of snot-nosed children who hopped and skipped along the pavements. The children played noisily, oblivious to the presence of these older ones and taking no notice of the crudely daubed swastikas, hammers and sickles and general obscenities that marked the street walls and which were their elders’ dividing dogmas. Below the level of the rubbish-strewn streets and under the shadow of the sun-eclipsing edifices which enclosed them were the cellars that contained the small shops and offices that served the area.
    Not that it needs much in the way of service. There is no money in an area like this, and for most of these concerns business is about as brisk as a set of oak floorboards in a Lutheran church hall.
    It was into one of these small shops, a pawnbroker, that I went, ignoring the large Star of David daubed on the wooden shutters that protected the shop window from breakage. A bell rang as I opened and shut the door. Doubly deprived of daylight, the shop’s only source of illumination was an oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling, and the general effect was that of the inside of an old sailing ship. I browsed around, waiting for