March Violets by Philip Kerr Page B

Munich. From what I’ve heard, he’s the worst kind of March Violet - you know, climbing on board the Party wagon and riding it to make a quick profit. He’s got a very smart set of offices in that steel monstrosity on Potsdamer Platz. What’s it called — ?’
    â€˜Columbus Haus,’ I said.
    â€˜That’s it. Columbus Haus. They say that Hitler doesn’t much care for modern architecture, Bernie. Do you know what that means?’ Weizmann gave a little chuckle. ‘It means that he and I have something in common.’
    â€˜Is there anyone else?’
    â€˜Maybe. I don’t know. It’s possible.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Our illustrious Prime Minister.’
    â€˜Goering? Buying hot bells? Are you serious?’
    â€˜Oh yes,’ he said firmly. ‘That man has a passion for owning expensive things. And he’s not always as fussy as he could be regarding how he gets hold of them. Jewels are one thing I know he has a weakness for. When I was at Friedlaender’s he used to come into the shop quite often. He was poor in those days — at least, too poor to buy much. But you could see he would have bought a great deal if he had been able to.’
    â€˜Jesus Christ, Weizmann,’ I said. ‘Can you imagine it? Me dropping in at Karinhall and saying, “Excuse me, Herr Prime Minister, but you wouldn’t happen to know anything about a valuable diamond necklace that some coat has clawed from a Ferdinandstrasse residence in the past few days? I trust you would have no objections to me taking a look down your wife Emmy’s dress and seeing if she’s got them hidden somewhere between the exhibits?”’
    â€˜You’d have the devil’s own job to find anything down there,’ wheezed Weizmann excitedly. ‘That fat sow is almost as big as he is. I’ll bet she could breastfeed the entire Hitler Youth and still have milk enough left for Hermann’s breakfast.’ He began a fit of coughing which would have carried off another man. I waited until it had found a lower gear, and then produced a fifty. He waved it away.
    â€˜What did I tell you?’
    â€˜Let me buy something, then.’
    â€˜What’s the matter? Are you running out of crap all of a sudden?’
    â€˜No, but — ’
    â€˜Wait, though,’ he said. ‘There is something you might like to buy. A finger lifted it at a big parade on Unter den Linden.’ He got up and went into the small kitchen behind the office. When he came back he was carrying a packet of Persil.
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I send my stuff to the laundry.’
    â€˜No, no, no,’ he said, pushing his hand into the powder. ‘I hid it in here just in case I had any unwelcome visitors. Ah, here we are.’ He withdrew a small, flat, silvery object from the packet, and polished it on his lapel before laying it flat on my palm. It was an oval-shaped disc about the size of a matchbox. On one side was the ubiquitous German eagle clutching the laurel crown that encircled the swastika; and on the other were the words Secret State Police, and a serial number. At the top was a small hole by which the bearer of the badge could attach it to the inside of his jacket. It was a Gestapo warrant-disc.
    â€˜That ought to open a few doors for you, Bernie.’
    â€˜You’re not joking,’ I said. ‘Christ, if they caught you with this — ’
    â€˜Yes, I know. It would save you a great deal of slip money, don’t you think? So if you want it, I’ll ask fifty for it.’
    â€˜Fair enough,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure about carrying it myself. What he said was true: it would save on bribes; but if I was caught using it I’d be on the first train to Sachsenhausen. I paid him the fifty. ‘A bull without his beer-token. God, I’d like to have seen the bastard’s face. That’s like a horn-player