The Pale Criminal by Philip Kerr Page A

that,’ she said. ‘And do you know who it is that has been blackmailing me, Herr Gunther?’
    â€˜Yes. A man who used to work at Kindermann’s clinic. A male nurse called Klaus Hering. I don’t suppose that the name will mean much to you, but Kindermann had to dismiss him a couple of months ago. My guess is that while he was working there he stole the letters that your son wrote to Kindermann.’
    She sat down and lit her cigarette. ‘But if his grudge was against Kindermann, why pick on me?’
    â€˜I’m just guessing, you understand, but I’d say that a lot has to do with your wealth. Kindermann’s rich, but I doubt he’s a tenth as rich as you, Frau Lange. What’s more, it’s probably mostly tied up in that clinic. He’s also got quite a few friends in the S S, so Hering may have decided that it was simply safer to squeeze you. On the other hand, he may have already tried Kindermann and failed to get anywhere. As a psychotherapist he could probably easily explain your son’s letters as the fantasies of a former patient. After all, it’s not uncommon for a patient to grow attached to his doctor, even somebody as apparently loathsome as Kindermann.’
    â€˜You’ve met him?’
    â€˜No, but that’s what I hear from some of the staff working at the clinic.’
    â€˜I see. Well, now what happens?’
    â€˜As I remember, you said that would be up to your son.’
    â€˜All right. Supposing that he wants you to go on handling things for us. After all, you’ve made pretty short work of it so far. What would your next course of action be?’
    â€˜Right now my partner, Herr Stahlecker, is keeping our friend Hering under surveillance at his apartment on Nollendorfplatz. As soon as Hering goes out, Herr Stahlecker will try and break in and recover your letters. After that you have three possibilities. One is that you can forget all about it. Another is that you can put the matter in the hands of the police, in which case you run the risk of Hering making allegations against your son. And then you can arrange for Hering to get a good old-fashioned hiding. Nothing too severe, you understand. Just a good scare to warn him off and teach him a lesson. Personally I always favour the third choice. Who knows? It might even result in your recovering some of your money.’
    â€˜Oh, I’d like to get my hands on that miserable man.’
    â€˜Best leave that sort of thing to me, eh? I’ll call you tomorrow and you can tell me what you and your son have decided to do. With any luck we may even have recovered the letters by then.’
    I didn’t exactly need my arm twisted to have the brandy she offered me by way of celebration. It was excellent stuff that should have been savoured a little. But I was tired, and when she and the sea-monster joined me on the sofa I felt it was time to be going.
    Â 
    About that time I was living in a big apartment on Fasanenstrasse, a little way south of Kurfurstendamm, and within easy reach of all the theatres and better restaurants I never went to.
    It was a nice quiet street, all white, mock porticoes and Atlantes supporting elaborate façades on their well-muscled shoulders. Cheap it wasn’t. But that apartment and my partner had been my only two luxuries in two years.
    The first had been rather more successful for me than the second. An impressive hallway with more marble than the Pergamon Altar led up to the second floor where I had a suite of rooms with ceilings that were as high as trams. German architects and builders were never known for their penny-pinching.
    My feet aching like young love, I ran myself a hot bath.
    I lay there for a long time, staring up at the stained-glass window which was suspended at right angles to the ceiling, and which served, quite redundantly, to offer some cosmetic division of the bathroom’s higher regions. I had never ceased to puzzle as to