The Pale Criminal by Philip Kerr Page B

what possible reason had prompted its construction.
    Outside the bathroom window a nightingale sat in the yard’s solitary but lofty tree. I felt that I had a lot more confidence in his simple song than the one that Hitler was singing.
    I reflected that it was the kind of simplistic comparison my beloved pipe-smoking partner might have relished.

5

Tuesday, 6 September
    In the darkness the doorbell rang. Drunk with sleep I reached across to the alarm clock and picked it off the bedside table. It said 4.30 in the morning with still nearly an hour to go before I was supposed to wake up. The doorbell rang again, only this time it seemed more insistent. I switched on a light and went out into the hall.
    â€˜Who is it?’ I said, knowing well enough that generally it’s only the Gestapo who take a pleasure in disturbing people’s sleep.
    â€˜Haile Selassie,’ said a voice. ‘Who the fuck do you think it is? Come on, Gunther, open up, we haven’t got all night.’
    Yes, it was the Gestapo all right. There was no mistaking their finishing-school manners.
    I opened the door and allowed a couple of beer barrels wearing hats and coats to barge past me.
    â€˜Get dressed,’ said one. ‘You’ve got an appointment.’
    â€˜Shit, I am going to have to have a word with that secretary of mine,’ I yawned. ‘I forgot all about it.’
    â€˜Funny man,’ said the other.
    â€˜What, is this Heydrich’s idea of a friendly invitation?’
    â€˜Save your mouth to suck on your cigarette, will you? Now climb into your suit or we’ll take you down in your fucking pyjamas.’
    I dressed carefully, choosing my cheapest German Forest suit and an old pair of shoes. I stuffed my pockets with cigarettes. I even took along a copy of the Berlin Illustrated News. When Heydrich invites you for breakfast it’s always best to be prepared for an uncomfortable and possibly indefinite visit.
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    Immediately south of Alexanderplatz, on Dircksenstrasse, the Imperial Police Praesidium and the Central Criminal Courts faced each other in an uneasy confrontation: legal administration versus justice. It was like two heavyweights standing toe to toe at the start of a fight, each trying to stare the other down.
    Of the two, the Alex, also sometimes known as ‘Grey Misery’, was the more brutal looking, having a Gothic-fortress design with a dome-shaped tower at each corner, and two smaller towers atop the front and rear façades. Occupying some 16,000 square metres it was an object lesson in strength if not in architectural merit.
    The slightly smaller building that housed the central Berlin courts also had the more pleasing aspect. Its neo-Baroque sandstone façade possessed something rather more subtle and intelligent than its opponent.
    There was no telling which one of these two giants was likely to emerge the winner; but when both fighters have been paid to take a fall it makes no sense to stick around and watch the end of the contest.
    Dawn was breaking as the car drew into Alex’s central courtyard. It was still too early for me to have asked myself why Heydrich should have had me brought here, instead of Sipo, the Security Service headquarters in the Wilhelmstrasse, where Heydrich had his own office.
    My two male escorts ushered me to an interview room and left me alone. There was a good deal of shouting going on in the room next door and that gave me something to think about. That bastard Heydrich. Never quite did it the way you expected. I took out a cigarette and lit it nervously. With the cigarette burning in a corner of my sour-tasting mouth I stood up and went over to the grimy window. All I could see were other windows like my own, and on the rooftop the aerial of the police radio station. I ground the cigarette into the Mexico Mixture coffee-tin that served as an ashtray and sat down at the table again.
    I was supposed to get nervous. I was meant to feel