Spook's Gold Read online

  Plunging from the brightness of the street into the near-black shade of the alleyway, still cool and damp from the night, Marner paused a moment to allow his vision to adjust to the gloom. Saw: a male body in civilian clothing that was heavily soaked with blood, already buzzing with flies. Ten metres further along the alley was another bloody body in a grey Kriegsmarine uniform, being examined by a woman in civilian clothes. Keeping his eyes fixed on her, Marner snapped at the guard who had slunk up beside him, “What are you doing letting civilians into my crime scene, you moron! Even I can see that these two are beyond the skills of a nurse. What the hell is she doing?”

  Without turning or pausing in her examination of the body, the woman replied in perfect German, just the slightest hint of an accent, “I am a police inspector, also a qualified forensic surgeon. I was sent here to attend to a crime scene with dead bodies. Therefore what I am doing is examining them in-situ before they are taken away.” She stood up, pivoted and stepped nimbly around the jack-knifed legs of the dead officer and the pool of blood that was congealing beneath. As she strode towards him, Marner stumbled for an apology, “Ah yes. I was not expecting someone to have been sent so soon. I am SS-Lieutenant Dieter Marner from Kripo. I. . . ” He faltered; it had now become apparent that she intended to simply walk past him and his confusion mixed with embarrassment as he was left wondering what to do with his redundant outstretched hand.

  “Well, I am now finished and I will leave you to your crime scene,” was the frosty response. She glided past without even deigning to look at him and continued on towards the exit of the alleyway, leaving him too stunned by her perfect German to respond. He was aware that he was not the only one watching the sway of her hips and silhouette as she flared into, and then was erased by, the blinding sun.

  ----

  To Marner, there was nothing of particular interest or note. The alleyway was a thoroughfare between two minor streets in the 16th arrondissement. Both dead men were lying flat on their backs and, assuming that they had fallen backwards, would have been facing one another, maybe ten metres apart.

  The civilian was somewhere between forty and fifty years old, dressed in a working man’s jacket and trousers, cheap but not shabby nor torn or tattered. Even above the tannic smell of the blood, the odour of alcohol was unmistakable.

  In his hand was a badly corroded Webley revolver that probably dated from the Great War. It was a huge beast that weighed in excess of a kilo fully loaded; with its long muzzle and large calibre .455 round the Webley had a recoil kickback like an enraged mule. Marner went down onto all fours, taking great care not to kneel in the blood, and sniffed. Despite the poor condition of the weapon, the whiff of cordite told him that it had functioned sufficiently to be fired very recently. The soldier confirmed that no identity had been found on this body.

  The dead German naval officer had two massive, raw gunshot wounds that would certainly tally with the cannon in the hand of the civilian. Unlike the serene, sleeping face of the other body, the features of this officer were frozen in a grimace of horror that perfectly reflected the violence of his death. In the right hand was a standard Walther service pistol; again Marner checked this one and confirmed that it had been fired. The wallet and papers told him that this was Captain Markus Schull, based at Kriegsmarine high command in Berlin. How on earth had a senior navy officer from Berlin ended up being gunned down in a filthy Paris alleyway?

  Looking around, nothing else appeared untoward; on the surface this was the aftermath of a gun battle between the two bodies lying here. He stepped back to the entrance of the alleyway and spoke to the milice in French, “Any witnesses?”

  “No monsieur. I don’t have any back-up to help me, so I have just been keeping the area closed until you arrived. I have not had time to ask around.”

  “Okay. And the policewoman who was here earlier, what was her name?”

  “Inspector Lemele, monsieur.”

  “Yes, Inspector Lemele. I will need a copy of her report. Where can I contact her?”

  “At the Prefecture on the Île of course.” The main police prefecture on the Île de la Cité; so the militia had at least judged the incident important enough to summon someone senior, rather than one of the dumb goons from the local police commissariat.

  Marner nodded his thanks again and suggested that now that the scene was secure it would be a good time to start canvassing for witnesses, and then he turned and walked away.

  Chapter Two

  As he climbed the gentle incline up Avenue Poincaré Marner pondered the call that had summoned him from bed so early. The message from the despatch clerk had simply stated that a German officer had been found murdered and that he was to go directly there. For Marner it was no particular surprise that he had been called, since he was an investigating officer of Department V, the Kripo, or Kriminalpolizei. Added to which his hotel that had been his permanent lodgings for the past three years was close to the scene. But most importantly, he was once again on SS-Sturmbahnfuhrer Odewald’s blacklist. Meaning that only he would have been called out on a Sunday, even if it was merely to investigate the loss of the cheap leather collar belonging to Odewald’s wife’s lapdog.

  As he walked north along the avenue, Marner took the opportunity to admire the ornate apartment blocks in this prosperous suburb. Although fond of his native Berlin and its architecture, Paris was truly a jewel, far superior to his home city. Close to the junction with Foch, Avenue Poincaré seemed to smarten up just that little bit more, as if in preparation for the meeting. Trees now lined the pavements, the buildings rose to seven levels if one counted the attic windows set into the grey-tiled mansard roofs, the buildings erupted into their full cacophony of architectural flourishes; ornate arches in the stonework; nymphs cavorting around the windows and along the rooflines.

  Emerging onto Avenue Foch, the south-facing façade opposite him was warming its ochre stonework in the early sunshine. Even with the swathes of bright red Swastika flags festooned from almost every building, the splendour of the grand boulevard could not be hidden. The wide central avenue for traffic, bordered by gardens that had not yet succumbed to use for growing vegetables, was shaded by the trees that were now in full leaf in expectation of another hot and dusty city summer.

  To his right, the upper end of Avenue Foch was crowned by the Arc de Triomphe. Instead he turned left and began to work his way across the damp lawns, empty now, too early for the legion of prostitutes that infested the neighbouring streets to be out sunning themselves and gossiping. As he crossed the central thoroughfare he had to dodge numerous piles of horse manure deposited by the Waffen SS cavalry who paraded daily up and down the avenue, visible evidence of the presence and might of the German Reich, despite the daily news of losses of territory on all fronts.

  The various sections of the RHSA – the Reich Main Security Office –occupied fully twelve buildings here on Foch. The Gestapo was only one sub-group of the RHSA, being Department IV and charged specifically with activities relating to counter-terrorism, communism and, of course, the Jewish ‘issue’. However, the adhesion of all RHSA departments to the SS, together with the far-reaching powers and fear generated by the Gestapo meant that this latter name was erroneously applied to all and any of the various other sub-divisions of the SS. Whilst the Gestapo had installed themselves in four buildings on Avenue Foch, from 78 to 84, the latter having become the most feared address in Paris, the Kripo shared number 74 with one other department.

  Marner often wondered what Maréchal Ferdinand Foch, the Supreme Commander of the Allied Armies during the Great War, the warrior who had accepted the formal surrender of Germany in the train carriage in Compiègne in 1918, would think of Paris now and of the goings-on in this grand avenue that had been named in his honour. The man who was credited with the phrase "I will fight in front of Paris, I will fight in Paris, I will fight behind Paris," was long dead and would probably be grateful for not having lived to see this day.

  Once thr
ough the main door of number 74 Marner became immediately aware of the noise of voices – both the number and the volume – highly unusual for a Sunday morning. He carried on along the ground floor corridor under the main stairway towards the despatch room to talk to the officer who had called him from his hotel earlier. In the noisy operations room, which fielded calls and enquiries, Marner learned the shocking news: Rome had fallen. When he finally found someone who would concentrate long enough to talk directly to him, he learned that it had not so much fallen but had been declared an open city by the retreating German army.

  “Abandoned without a fight! Disgusting, the Fuhrer will have someone’s blood for such cowardice!” opined a young radio operator.

  “Don’t be so hasty,” counselled Joachim Vorner, the man for whom Marner had been searching, “You cannot successfully defend a big city like that against an enemy who has surrounded you and who has both artillery and air superiority.”

  “The Russians held us at Stalingrad and Moscow!” retorted the boy.

  “Yes. Yes, you’re right in that, but....” But Vorner was not sure where to take his argument. “To attempt a defence of Rome would mean the destruction of that great city and the loss of life of huge numbers of civilians, who were our allies don’t forget.”

  “And who capitulated!” squeaked the lad.

  Marner gestured to Vorner, who seemed grateful for an excuse to escape from his militant colleague. Vorner verified that it had indeed been the militia who had called in the discovery of the bodies and that no other similar calls had been received. Satisfied, Marner moved upstairs to his office and spent an hour checking files for recent reports of any similar attacks on German personnel, but found nothing that was obviously linked to his case. After tracking down some coffee and stale croissants in the mess room, which also entailed having to listen to varying and exceedingly fanciful theories about what the German strategy should be now in Italy, he called Kriegsmarine headquarters. They could not or would not tell him anything about Schull.

  Satisfied that nothing further could be gleaned from the files available, he felt the need to escape from the building. He exited via the rear of the building into the Square de l’Avenue Foch, a somewhat erroneous name for what was actually a triangular-shaped space formed between the buildings of Foch and the neighbouring avenues to the north and east. Here, arrayed around the small garden in the centre of the ‘Square’ was a pool of staff cars that were shared between the various services, Marner having obtained the necessary authorisation from Vorner to secure the use of one and its driver. It being Sunday, and those few officers who were working being reluctant to leave the radios and chatter, Vorner had been happy to give him one of the open-topped Opels that Marner would not normally have gotten a sniff at.

  Due to fuel shortages the use of cars was becoming more and more restricted, with the use of staff chauffeurs now compulsory. Opinion differed within the department on the reasons why the use of drivers had been imposed; some held that it was due to personnel borrowing cars to use for personal jaunts and thus wasting fuel, others that it had been prompted by recent accidents involving alcohol. Whatever, Marner was entirely unfamiliar with driving motor vehicles and had no objection to being a passenger, leaving him free during the journey to the Île to work out exactly what it was he hoped to discover from the intriguing Inspector Lemele.

  Chapter Three

  The main building of the Prefecture of Police had been in use for over a hundred years, a grimy granite slab that towered over the south west edge of the Île in the centre of the River Seine, at the opposite end to the Notre Dame cathedral. Marner entered through the huge portal on the Quai des Orfèvres and asked for directions to Inspector Lemele’s office. The presence of German officers in this building, especially SS, was common and he attracted no attention. The open collaboration of the Vichy-controlled police and milice with the German forces was well known, these sections of the French civilian forces being responsible for organising and executing les rafles – the round-ups of Jews and others on the Gestapo’s deportation lists.

  He was directed to the basement level; once there he had the distinct feeling that the ‘offices’, which were actually tiny windowless cubicles, might once have served as storage rooms or even cells. This impression was further reinforced by the outward-opening doors, although this could equally have been to economise on the tiny interior volume of the cubicles. When he reached the open door to Lemele’s office her back was to him and she was putting on her coat. Although he had approached silently, she detected his arrival by the fact that his bulk in the doorway suddenly obscured the light from the corridor, which offered far more illumination than the meagre bare bulb in the ceiling of the room.

  She turned and several emotions flickered briefly across her face when she saw him. “What do you want?” she asked suspiciously.

  Again he noted her impeccable German. He removed his cap and concentrated on offering his best smile, hoping that it would relax her and defrost the glacial chill that was emanating from her. She did not react to this attempt at charm, just looked blankly at him, so he tried in French, “I am Lieutenant Dieter Marner, from Kripo. We met briefly this morning at the murder scene. I would like to discuss the case with you.”

  “It is not my case. It will be reassigned to one of my more capable colleagues tomorrow. So why don’t you just come back in the morning and talk to him.” She snatched up her bag from the chair and moved to leave the office, making it clear that for her the conversation was concluded. Marner remained propped in the doorway, effectively blocking her exit whilst continuing his lazy perusal of the tiny room, taking far more time than its cramped volume and few objects justified.

  “‘Capable’? You are an Inspector of Police, are you not? I would also add that you seemed perfectly capable at the crime scene this morning.”

  Ignoring his compliment she carried on in the same flat, emotionless tone, “I am an inspector in name only, and the word ‘inspector’ has many meanings. Let me re-phrase: the case will be reassigned to one of my male colleagues. I was on call over the weekend, therefore I was the one sent out.” When she made a new advance towards him intending that he step aside and allow her to leave, he continued to look at her and she returned and matched his stare with such hostility that he involuntarily stepped back. He noted her distinctive height; she was almost as tall as him in her medium-heeled shoes and, despite being uncomfortable in his presence, she radiated a confidence and inner assurance. Guessing that she must be about thirty years old, he found her pretty but with a hint of sadness in the lines around her sensuous bow of a mouth; it would be her best feature if she ever smiled. His eyes automatically flicked down to her hand – was that a man thing? – and saw a gold band; perhaps a story there that might explain the sadness.

  Forcing his mind to re-focus, he swept his hand theatrically towards the corridor offering her the chance to leave, but casting his hook nonetheless, “However, until tomorrow, you are the inspector covering this murder, yes?”

  Her eyes roamed from his face, sensing the trap in his words, to the exit and her escape. When she finally ceded with a reluctant nod, he smiled again, “So. I want to examine the bodies now, today. At this moment you are still the current assigned officer. In particular, I would appreciate your professional forensic opinion.”

  Lemele flashed her eyes at him, looking for the sign of mocking that she was sure must be there, but saw none. Resignedly she removed her coat and dropped it back onto the chair. “Very well Herr Lieutenant, let’s go and take a look.”

  She led him up to the ground floor level and they weaved through a maze of corridors in silence. Passing through a central courtyard they emerged momentarily into bright sunlight and then plunged again into the gloom of another annex. Immediately the stench hit him, like a slap in the face. “Sorry for the smell,” she said, although her tone offered no hint of apology. “We don’t have refrigeration for the bodies here, so we have to work quickly
on them and then get them out to proper morgues as soon as we’ve finished.”

  “No problem,” he assured her, although it was obvious that he was breathing carefully through his mouth.

  They entered the morgue proper, a stark white-tiled room that was ten metres square. In the centre were three tables, two bearing bodies covered in sheets. Around the walls of the room were glass-panelled cabinets and shelves bearing brutal steel instruments, the uses for which Marner did not care to consider. In the floor in the centre of the room was a meshed grating. The floor surface sloped very slightly from all sides towards this to facilitate drainage. Many of the floor tiles were cracked and the gaps between them held a residue of black slime.

  The smell had ramped up a notch and he searched for the origin but could not locate it. There were no storage drawers for bodies and the two on the tables were sufficiently ‘fresh’ that they could not be the source of the appalling odour. Lemele interpreted his strained expression, “We had a badly decomposed body in here last week that was pulled from the river. It takes a while for the smell to dissipate since there is no ventilation for the room. I think that the room had another role originally; it was just selected for this purpose due to the drain in the floor, but no one thought through the other practicalities,” she shrugged.

  “Well, never mind. Let’s take a look at the Frenchman first, our alleged assassin,” instructed Marner, eager to get on and get out. Lemele suddenly went rigid and opened her mouth to speak, wanting to take issue with his assumption that a French civilian was automatically the perpetrator of a crime against the German officer. Instead she shook her head, moved to the table furthest from the door and without ceremony whipped the sheet covering the body down to the knees.