Field Grey by Philip Kerr

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: FRANCE, 1940

  I told myself I must have dreamed the whole thing. I was back in the dugout. Had to be, or else why could I smell winter- green ointment? We used it as a winter warmer for weathered or chapped hands in the colder months, and in the trenches that was nearly all of them. Wintergreen was also an excellent chest rub for when you had a fever or a cough or a sore throat, which because of the lice, overcrowding and damp was nearly all of the time. Sometimes we even fingered a bit of the stuff inside our nostrils, just to keep the smell of death and decay at bay.

  I had a sore throat. And I had a cough. The cold was on my chest and so was something else, only it wasn't wintergreen. It was a nurse and she was on top of me and I was lifting her skirt so that she could mount me properly. Only she wasn't a nurse at all but a hotel maid, a nice homely girl from Berne, and she'd come to keep me company after all. I reached for her breasts and she slapped me hard, twice, and hard enough to make me catch my breath and then cough some more. Twisting away from underneath her I retched onto the floor. She jumped off the bed and, coughing herself, went to the window and threw it open and hung her head outside for a moment before she came back to me, hauled me off the bed and tried to drag me towards the door.

  I was still coughing and retching when two men in white jackets came and carried me away on a stretcher. Outside the hotel, on Boulevard Raspail, I started to feel a little better as I managed to haul some of the fresh morning air into my lungs.

  They took me to the Lariboisiere Hospital on Rue Ambroise- Pare. There they put a drip in my arm and a German Army doctor told me I'd been gassed.

  'Gassed?' I said, wheezily. 'With what?'

  'Carbon tetrachloride,' said the doctor. 'It seems that the fire extinguisher in your room was faulty. But for the maid who detected the smell outside your room door you'd probably be dead. The CTC converts to phosgene when it's exposed to air, which is how it puts the fire out. It suffocates it. You, too, very nearly. You're a lucky man, Captain Gunther. All the same we'd like to keep you here for a while, to keep an eye on your liver and kidney functions.'

  I started coughing again. My head felt like the Eiffel Tower had collapsed on top of it. My throat felt like I'd tried to swallow it. But at least I was alive. I'd seen plenty of men gassed in France and this wasn't anything like that. At least I wasn't bringing anything up. You've got to see a man retching two litres of yellow liquid every hour, drowning in his own mucus, to know how appalling it is to die from a gas attack. It was said that Hitler had been gassed and was temporarily blinded, and if that was so it explained a lot. Whenever I saw him on a newsreel yelling his head off, gesticulating wildly, beating his breast, choking with his hatred of the Jews or the French or the Bolsheviks, he always reminded me of someone who had just been gassed.

  In the early evening I started to feel better. Well enough to receive a visitor. It was Paul Kestner.

  'They said you had an accident with a fire extinguisher. What did you do? Drink it?'

  'It wasn't that type of a fire extinguisher.'

  'I thought there was only the one kind. The kind that puts out a fire.'

  'This one was the type that smothers a fire with chemicals. Takes away all the oxygen. That's kind of what happened to me.'

  'Someone catch you smoking in bed?'

  'I've spent most of the day wondering that myself. And not liking any of the answers.'

  'Such as what, for instance?'

  'I used to work in a hotel. The Adlon in Berlin. And I learned a lot about what they do and what they don't do in hotels. And one of the things they don't do is to put fire extinguishers in the bedrooms. One reason is in case a guest gets drunk and decides to hose down the curtains. The other reason is that a lot of extinguishers are more dangerous than the fires they're meant to deal with. It's a funny thing, but when I arrived at the Lutetia I don't recall there being an extinguisher in my room. But there was one there last night. If I hadn't been drunk myself I might have paid more attention to it.'

  'Are you suggesting someone tampered with it?'

  'It seems so obvious to me that I wonder why you should sound surprised.'

  'Surprised? Yes, of course I'm surprised, Bernie. You're implying that someone tried to murder you in a hotel full of policemen.'

  'Tampering with a fire extinguisher is just the sort of thing a cop would know about. Besides, none of us at the Lutetia has a room key.'

  'That's because we're all on the same side. You can't mean a German tried to kill you.'

  'I do mean.'

  'But why not a Frenchman? We did just fight a war with these people after all. Surely if it was anyone - and I'm not convinced it was anything but an accident - it would be one of them. A porter, perhaps. Or a patriotic waiter.'

  'And among all of the bastards he could have killed, he just chose me at random, is that it?' I shook my head, which seemed to provoke another violent fit of coughing.

  Kestner poured a glass of water and handed it to me.

  I drank it and caught my breath.

  'Thanks. Besides, the kind of staff a grand hotel employs? It goes against everything they believe in to kill a guest. Even a guest they might despise.'

  Kestner went to the window and looked out. We were in a third-floor room in the high mansard roof of the hospital. You could see and sometimes hear the Gare du Nord just across the Rue Maubeuge.

  'But why would any German officer want to kill you? They would have to have a damn good motive.'

  For a moment I considered suggesting one: anyone who had already denounced me to the Gestapo as a Mischling would, I thought, have reason enough to kill me. Instead, I said:

  'I wasn't always held in such good odour by our political masters. You remember what it was like in Kripo, before 1933? Well, of course you do. You're about the one person in Paris I can talk to about this, Paul. Who I can trust.'

  'I'm relieved to hear it, Bernie. But just for the record I spent most of last night at the One-Two-Two. The brothel.'

  'You forget,' I said, 'everyone has to sign in and out of the hotel. I could easily check if you were in the hotel last night.'

  'Yes, you're right. I did forget that. You always were a better detective than I was.' He came away from the window and sat on the edge of my bed.

  'You're alive, that's the main thing. And you needn't worry about Mielke. I'm sure we'll find him. You can tell Heydrich that if he's in one of those French concentration camps we'll find him as sure as there's an Amen in a church service. You can go back to Berlin confident in the knowledge that when we fly down there tomorrow, we'll take proper care of it.'

  'What makes you think I'm not coming with you?'

  'Your doctor said that it would be several days before you were fit enough to resume your duties,' said Kestner. 'Surely you'll want to get home and recuperate?'

  'I'm working for Heydrich, remember? He's a bit like the God of Abraham. It's never a good idea to risk his wrath because retribution is often direct. No, I'll be on that plane tomorrow even if you have to tie me on the undercarriage. Not a bad idea at that. The doc says I need plenty of fresh air.'

  Kestner shrugged. 'All right. If you say so. It's your luck that's as black as pitch, not mine.'

  'Exactly. Besides, what would I do here in Paris except go to Maison Chabanais or One-Two? Or one of those other puff- houses.'

  'The car leaves the Hotel du Louvre for Le Bourget at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.' Kestner shot me an exasperated, weary sort of look and smacked the side of his thigh with his cap. Then he went away.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and submitted to a long fit of coughing. But I wasn't worried. I was in a hospital. In hospital people get better all the time. Some of them anyway.

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN: FRANCE, 1940

  It was early the next morning when an SS staff car arrived to drive me back to the hotel to collect my things and then to the airport. Paris still wasn't awake, but for
any decent Frenchman the city probably looked better with eyes closed. A detachment of soldiers was marching along the Champs-Elysees; German trucks were pouring in and out of the army garage that was located in the Grand Palais; and, in case anyone was still in any doubt about it, on the facade of the Palais Bourbon they were erecting a large V for victory and a sign that read 'GERMANY IS EVERYWHERE VICTORIOUS'. It was a sunny summer's day but Paris looked almost as depressing as Berlin. Still, I was feeling better. At my request the hospital doctor had shot me full of dope to put some raspberry into my beer. Amphetamines, he said. Whatever it was I felt like St Vitus was holding my hand. It didn't stop the pain in my chest and throat from all the retching I'd done, but I was ready to go flying. All I had to do was go back to the hotel, get into my uniform and find a nice tall building for a take-off.

  The hotel manager was pleased to see me standing up. He'd have been glad to see me in a flower vase. It's bad for business when guests die in their rooms. I was alive and that was all that mattered. My old room was closed up because of the strong smell of chemicals in there and my clothes had been taken to a suite on another floor. He seemed relieved when I told him I was going south to Biarritz for a few days. I said I was going up to my new room and that I wanted to thank the maid who'd saved my life, and he said he'd arrange this immediately.

  Then I went upstairs and took my field-grey uniform out of the closet. It carried a strong smell of chemicals or gas and brought on a strong feeling of nausea as I recalled breathing the stuff. I opened the French window, hung my uniform there for a minute and then rinsed my face with cold water. There was a knock at the door and I went to open it with shaking knees.

  The maid was prettier than I remembered. Her nose wrinkled a little when she caught the smell of chemicals on my uniform, although it could just as easily have been the sight of it. But in truth it probably was the smell; in the summer of 1940 it was still only Germans, Czechs and Poles who had good reason to fear the field-grey uniform of an SD captain.

  'Thank you, mademoiselle. For saving my life.'

  'It was nothing.'

  'Nothing to you. But quite a bit to me.'

  'You don't look very well,' she observed.

  'I feel better than I look, I think. But that's probably down to what was in the needle I had for breakfast this morning.'

  'Which is all very well, but what's going to happen at dinner time?'

  'If I live that long I'll let you know. Like I said, my life means quite a bit to me. So I'm going to do you a favour. Relax. It's not that kind of favour. Underneath this uniform I'm really not a bad fellow. How would you like to get some real hotel experience? I don't mean making beds and cleaning toilets. I mean in hotel management. I can fix that for you. In Berlin. At the Adlon. There's nothing wrong with this place, but it strikes me that Paris is going to be fine if you're German and not so fine if you're anything else.'

  'You'd do that? For me?'

  'All I need from you is a little information.'

  She smiled a coy little smile. 'You mean about the man who tried to kill you?'

  'See what I mean? I knew you were too smart to be cleaning toilets.'

  'Smart enough. But also confused. Why would one German officer want to murder another? After all, Germany is everywhere victorious.'

  I smiled. I liked her spirit. 'That's what I mean to find out, mademoiselle-?'

  'Matter. Renata Matter.' She nodded. 'All right, Major.'

  'Captain. Captain Bernhard Gunther.'

  'Maybe they'll promote you. If they don't kill you first.'

  'There's always that possibility. Unfortunately I think I'm a lot harder to promote than I am to kill.' I started to cough again and kept it going for the sake of effect; at least that's what I told myself.

  'I can believe that.' Renata fetched me a glass of water. She moved gracefully, like a ballerina. Looked like one, too, being small and slim. Her hair was dark and quite short and a little boyish, but I liked that. What I previously saw as being homeliness now looked more like a very natural girlish beauty.

  I drank the water. Then I said, 'So what makes you think someone tried to kill me?'

  'Because there shouldn't have been a fire extinguisher in your room.'

  'Do you know where it is now?'

  'The manager, Monsieur Schreider, he took it away.'

  'Pity.'

  "There's one the same on the wall along the corridor. Would you like me to fetch it for you?'

  I nodded and she went out of my room and returned a moment later carrying a brass extinguisher. Made by the Pyrene Manufacturing Company of Delaware, it had an integrated hand-pump that was used to expel a jet of liquid towards a fire and contained about nine litres of carbon tetrachloride. The container wasn't pressurised and was designed to be refilled with a fresh supply of chemical after use through a filling plug.

  'When I found you, the filler cap had been removed,' she said. 'And the extinguisher was lying beside your bed. The chemical had poured onto the carpet beneath your nose. In other words, it looked deliberate.'

  'Have you mentioned this to anyone?'

  'No one's asked me. Everyone believes it was an accident.'

  'For your own safety it would be best if they continue to believe that, Renata.'

  She nodded.

  'Did you see anyone enter or leave my room? Or hanging around in the corridor outside?'

  Renata thought for a moment. 'I don't know. To be honest, with everyone in uniform, all Germans look more or less alike.'

  'But not all of them are as handsome as me, surely?'

  'That's true. Perhaps that's why they tried to kill you. Out of jealousy.'

  I grinned. 'I never thought of that. As a motive, I mean.'

  She sighed. 'Look, there's something I haven't told you. And I want your word that you'll leave my name out of it whenever you do what it is you're going to do. I don't want any trouble.'

  'It'll be fine,' I said. 'I'll look after you.'

  'And who looks after you? Maybe you were a champion when you walked into this hotel, but right now you look like you're in need of a good corner man.'

  'All right. I'll keep you out of it. You have my word.'

  'As a German officer.'

  'What's that worth after Munich?'

  'Good point.'

  'How about my word as someone who detests Hitler and all that he stands for, including this ridiculous uniform?'

  'Better,' she said.

  'And who might wish the German Army had never crossed the Rhine except for one thing.'

  'What's that?'

  'I wouldn't have met you, Renata.'

  She laughed and looked away for a moment. She was wearing a black uniform and a little white pinafore. Hesitantly, she put a hand in the pocket of her pinafore and took out a brass plug about the size of a champagne cork. Handing it to me, she said, 'I found this. The missing plug from the fire extinguisher in your room. It was in the wastepaper basket of the man in Room 55.'

  'Good girl. Can you find out the name of the officer who's in fifty-five?'

  'I already did. His name is Lieutenant Willms. Nikolaus Willms.' She paused. 'Do you know him?'

  'I met him for the first time on the train from Berlin. He's a cop specialising in vice. Hates the French. Face like a snake charmer only without the charm. That's about all I know about him. I can't imagine why he would want to kill me. It doesn't make any sense.'

  'Perhaps he made a mistake. Got the wrong room.'

  'A French farce by Georges Feydeau doesn't normally include murder.'

  'What will you do now?'

  'Nothing, for the moment. I have to leave Paris for a few days. Maybe I'll have thought of something by the time I come back. In the meantime how would you like to earn some more German money?'

  'Doing what?'

  'Keep an eye on him?'

  'And what am I supposed to look for?'

  'You're a smart girl. You'll know. You found this top from the extinguisher, didn't
you? Just bear in mind that he's dangerous and don't take any risks. I wouldn't like anything to happen to you.'

  I took her hand and, a little to my surprise, she let me kiss it.

  'If I didn't think I'd start coughing, I'd kiss you.'

  "Then you'd better let me do it.'

  She kissed me and, in my weakened condition I let her. But after a moment or two I needed the air. Then I said, 'When he gave me that shot this morning, the doc warned me that I might feel like this. A little euphoric. Like I was Napoleon.'

  I pressed myself hard against her belly.

  'You're too big for Napoleon.' She kissed me again and added, 'And way too tall.'

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: FRANCE, 1940

  Le Bourget was about ten kilometres north of Paris. And so was I. It's strange how physically and mentally restorative one or two kisses can be. It felt like a new kind of fairy tale in which a sleeping prince gets himself rescued by a plucky princess. Then again, that could have been the dope.

  At the entrance to the aerodrome was a statue of a nude woman taking flight from her grey stone plinth. It was meant to commemorate Lindbergh's flight across the Atlantic but the only memory that was alive in my head was the feel of Renata's body and what it might look like if ever I saw her out of that maid's uniform.

  There were three of us - me, Kestner and Bomelburg - pinned in the back of the staff car like a collection of taupe- coloured moths. In the front was an SS driver and a handsome young chief inspector from the Office of the Paris Prefect of Police. As we drove towards the airport building a four-engined FW Condor was landing on the runway.