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Authors: Philip Kerr
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historical significance . . .”
I stifled a yawn.
“That, perhaps, they were unsuitable within the meaning of the Aryan paragraph. You see, Adolph Fischer was a Jew. The ministry had formed the impression that, under these circumstances, the true origins of the collection made it impossible to exhibit. That it was—in their words, not mine—‘racially tainted.’ ”
I nodded, as if all this sounded perfectly reasonable. “And when they did all this, they neglected to tell you, is that right?”
Stock nodded unhappily.
“Someone at the ministry didn’t think you sufficiently important to keep you informed about this,” I said, rubbing it in a little. “Which is why, when you found the object missing from the collection, you assumed it had been stolen, and reported it immediately.”
“That’s it,” he said with some relief.
“Do you happen to know the name of the person to whom Herr Breitmeyer gave the Ming box?”
“No. You would have to ask him that question.”
“I will, of course. Thank you, Doctor, you have been most helpful.”
“Do I take it the matter is now closed?”
“As far as your own involvement is concerned, yes, sir, you can.”
Stock’s relief turned to euphoria, or at least as near to euphoria as someone so dry was ever going to get.
“Now, then,” I said, “about that taxicab back into the city.”
8
I TOLD THE TAXI DRIVER to drop me at the Ministry of the Interior on Unter den Linden. Next to the Greek embassy, it was a dull, dirty gray building just around the corner from the Adlon. It was crying out for some climbing ivy.
I went inside and, at the desk in the cavernous main entrance hall, handed my business card to one of the clerks on duty. He had one of those startled animal faces that makes you think God has a wicked sense of humor.
“I wonder if you can help me,” I said unctuously. “The Adlon Hotel wishes to invite Herr Breitmeyer—that’s Arno Breitmeyer—to a gala reception in a couple of weeks. And we should like to know the correct way to address him and to which department we should send the invitation.”
“I wish I was going to a gala reception at the Adlon,” the clerk admitted, and consulted a thick leather-bound department list on the desk in front of him.
“To be honest, they can be rather stiff affairs. I don’t particularly like champagne. Give me beer and sausage any day.”
The clerk smiled ruefully as if he were not quite convinced, and found the name he was looking for. “Here we are. Arno Breitmeyer. He’s an SS-Standartenführer. That’s a colonel to you and me. He’s also the deputy Reich sports leader.”
“Is he, now? Then I expect that’s why they want to invite him. If he’s merely the deputy, then perhaps we should invite his boss as well. Who would that be, do you think?”
“Hans von Tschammer und Osten.”
“Yes, of course.”
I’d heard the name and seen it in the newspapers. At the time I’d thought it typical of the Nazis that they should have appointed an SA thug from Saxony to be Germany’s sporting leader. A man who had helped beat to death a thirteen-year-old Jewish boy. I guess it was the fact that the boy had been murdered in a Dessau gym that had really bolstered von Tschammer und Osten’s sporting credentials.
“Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Must be nice working at the Adlon.”
“You might think that. But the only thing that stops it from being exactly like hell are the locks on the bedroom doors.”
It was one of the many maxims I’d heard from Hedda Adlon, the owner’s wife. I liked her a lot. We shared a sense of humor, although I think she had more of it than I did. Hedda Adlon had more of everything than I did.
Back in the hotel, I called Otto Trettin and told him some of what I’d discovered at the museum.
“So this fellow Reles,” said Otto. “The hotel guest. It looks as if he might have been in possession of the box quite legitimately.”
“That
I stifled a yawn.
“That, perhaps, they were unsuitable within the meaning of the Aryan paragraph. You see, Adolph Fischer was a Jew. The ministry had formed the impression that, under these circumstances, the true origins of the collection made it impossible to exhibit. That it was—in their words, not mine—‘racially tainted.’ ”
I nodded, as if all this sounded perfectly reasonable. “And when they did all this, they neglected to tell you, is that right?”
Stock nodded unhappily.
“Someone at the ministry didn’t think you sufficiently important to keep you informed about this,” I said, rubbing it in a little. “Which is why, when you found the object missing from the collection, you assumed it had been stolen, and reported it immediately.”
“That’s it,” he said with some relief.
“Do you happen to know the name of the person to whom Herr Breitmeyer gave the Ming box?”
“No. You would have to ask him that question.”
“I will, of course. Thank you, Doctor, you have been most helpful.”
“Do I take it the matter is now closed?”
“As far as your own involvement is concerned, yes, sir, you can.”
Stock’s relief turned to euphoria, or at least as near to euphoria as someone so dry was ever going to get.
“Now, then,” I said, “about that taxicab back into the city.”
8
I TOLD THE TAXI DRIVER to drop me at the Ministry of the Interior on Unter den Linden. Next to the Greek embassy, it was a dull, dirty gray building just around the corner from the Adlon. It was crying out for some climbing ivy.
I went inside and, at the desk in the cavernous main entrance hall, handed my business card to one of the clerks on duty. He had one of those startled animal faces that makes you think God has a wicked sense of humor.
“I wonder if you can help me,” I said unctuously. “The Adlon Hotel wishes to invite Herr Breitmeyer—that’s Arno Breitmeyer—to a gala reception in a couple of weeks. And we should like to know the correct way to address him and to which department we should send the invitation.”
“I wish I was going to a gala reception at the Adlon,” the clerk admitted, and consulted a thick leather-bound department list on the desk in front of him.
“To be honest, they can be rather stiff affairs. I don’t particularly like champagne. Give me beer and sausage any day.”
The clerk smiled ruefully as if he were not quite convinced, and found the name he was looking for. “Here we are. Arno Breitmeyer. He’s an SS-Standartenführer. That’s a colonel to you and me. He’s also the deputy Reich sports leader.”
“Is he, now? Then I expect that’s why they want to invite him. If he’s merely the deputy, then perhaps we should invite his boss as well. Who would that be, do you think?”
“Hans von Tschammer und Osten.”
“Yes, of course.”
I’d heard the name and seen it in the newspapers. At the time I’d thought it typical of the Nazis that they should have appointed an SA thug from Saxony to be Germany’s sporting leader. A man who had helped beat to death a thirteen-year-old Jewish boy. I guess it was the fact that the boy had been murdered in a Dessau gym that had really bolstered von Tschammer und Osten’s sporting credentials.
“Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Must be nice working at the Adlon.”
“You might think that. But the only thing that stops it from being exactly like hell are the locks on the bedroom doors.”
It was one of the many maxims I’d heard from Hedda Adlon, the owner’s wife. I liked her a lot. We shared a sense of humor, although I think she had more of it than I did. Hedda Adlon had more of everything than I did.
Back in the hotel, I called Otto Trettin and told him some of what I’d discovered at the museum.
“So this fellow Reles,” said Otto. “The hotel guest. It looks as if he might have been in possession of the box quite legitimately.”
“That
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