Field Gray (25 page)

The name in Gebhardt’s notebook was Konrad Metelmann—the young lieutenant I had naïvely resolved to look out for. It appeared that he’d been doing a better job of looking out for himself.

I did a bit of thinking after that and remembered how the Blues were always ordering our hut to appear in the canteen for an identity check. They would ask each man his name, rank, and serial number in the hope—we had supposed—of catching one of us out, for it was certainly the case that there were several SS officers who, believing themselves to be wanted for war crimes, were pretending to be someone else, someone who had been killed in the war. We were always questioned alone, with Gebhardt translating, and any one of us could have used such an opportunity to give the MVD information. The only reason none of us had connected this with Oberheuser was that there had been no identity check on the day of his arrest, which meant that Metelmann and Gebhardt must also have been using some kind of dead-letter drop.

The Russians had a saying: The best way to keep your friends in the Soviet Union is never to betray them. I’d never much liked Georg Oberheuser, but he didn’t deserve to be betrayed by one of his own comrades. According to Mrugowski, Oberheuser was tried by a People’s Court and sentenced to twenty years of labor and correction. Or at least that was what the camp commander had told Mrugowski. But I saw no reason to believe what Major Savostin had told me: that the great Stalin had abolished the death penalty. I’d seen far too many of my fellow countrymen shot at the side of the road on the long march out of Königsberg to accept the idea that summary execution was no longer routine in the Soviet Union. Maybe Oberheuser was dead and maybe he wasn’t. Either way, it was up to me to make things up to him. That’s the debt we owe the dead. To give them justice if we can. And a kind of justice if we can’t.

The rest of the
pleni
s were coming back from work, and I went straight over to the canteen to beat the rush. Seeing Metelmann, I fell in behind him and waited for some indication that he was anxious. But Sajer spoke first:

“Are you really going to finger someone for the Ivans, Gunther?”

“That all depends,” I said, shuffling forward in the line.

“On what?”

“On me finding out who did it. Right now I haven’t got a clue. And by the way, I’ve been told that I’m one of the twenty-five the Ivans are going to pick if they don’t get a name. Just so you know that I’m taking this seriously.”

“Do you think they mean it?” asked Metelmann.

“Course they mean it,” said Sajer. “When do the Ivans ever issue an idle threat? You can always depend on them in that way at least. The bastards.”

“What are you going to do, Bernie?” asked Metelmann.

“How should I know?” I glared at Mrugowski. “This is all his fault. But for him, I’d have the same chance as everyone else.”

“Maybe you’ll find out something,” said Metelmann. “You were a good detective. That’s what people say.”

“What do they know? Believe me, I’d have to be Sherlock Holmes to solve this case. My only chance is to bribe that MVD major and get myself off the list. Here, Metelmann, have you got any money you can lend me?”

“I can let you have five rubles,” he said.

“It’ll take a lot more than five rubles to bribe that major,” said Sajer.

“I’ve got to start somewhere,” I said as Metelmann gave me a five from his pocket. “Thanks, Konrad. How about you, Sajer?”

“Suppose I need to bribe someone myself?” He grinned unpleasantly at Metelmann. “If it’s you they pick, you might regret giving him that five, you silly bastard.”

“Fuck you, Sajer,” said Metelmann.

“Where does someone like you get five rubles, anyway?” asked Sajer.

Metelmann sneered and reached for his chunk of
chleb
. With his left hand.

I also noted the livid-looking scar on his forearm. He might have got the injury on-site. But all things considered, I thought it more likely that he’d got it while murdering Gebhardt.

I
spent the next three days alone in Gebhardt’s hut catching up on my sleep. I knew what I was going to do, but I saw little point in doing it before the MVD’s allotted time had elapsed. I was determined to enjoy every minute of my holiday at K.A. while it was there to be had. After months of hard labor on starvation rations, I was exhausted and a little feverish. Once a day the SGO came over and asked how my inquiry was progressing, and I told him that despite any evidence to the contrary I had made good progress. I could see he didn’t believe me. But I didn’t care. It wasn’t like I was going to lose my army pension because of his opinion. Besides, the SGO and I were two different heads on the same imperial eagle—me looking left and him looking to the right. Even in a Soviet POW camp he could seldom leave a room without clicking his heels. Oh yes, our Colonel Mrugowski was a regular Fred Astaire.

On the third day, I rolled the stone away from the front door and went to the site to find Metelmann. I handed him back his five rubles. “Here,” I said, “you might as well keep this. I shan’t be needing it where I’m going.”

Quickly pocketing the note in case one of the guards should see it, Metelmann tried not to look relieved at my obvious disappointment. “No luck, huh?”

“My luck ran out on me a long time ago,” I said. “It was going so fast, it must have been wearing running shoes.”

“You know, maybe that MVD major was bluffing,” he said.

“I doubt it. The thing I’ve noticed about people with power is that they always use it even when they say they don’t want to.” I started to walk away.

“Good luck,” said Metelmann.

Major Savostin was playing chess when I found him in the guardhouse. With himself. Colonel Mrugowski was there, too. They were waiting for my report.

“There’s no one here that plays,” said the major. “Perhaps we should have a game, you and I, Captain.”

“I’m sure you’re much better than me, sir. After all, it’s virtually your national game.”

“Why is that, do you suppose? One would think as logical a game as chess would suit the German character rather well.”

“Because it’s black and white?” I suggested. “Everything is black and white in the Soviet Union. And perhaps because the game involves making sacrifices of smaller, less important pieces. Besides, sir, with you I should worry how to win without losing.” I snatched off my cap. “As a matter of fact, sir, I’ve been worried about that for the last three days. I mean, how to solve this case without pissing you off. And I’m still not satisfied I know the answer to that question.”

“But you do know who killed Gebhardt, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I fail to understand your difficulty.”

I wondered if I had misjudged him—if he wasn’t quite as intelligent as I’d thought. Then again, there is a whole earthwork of understanding between someone who is hungry and someone who is not. I could see no way of identifying Metelmann as the culprit without putting my own head in the lion’s mouth.

“I mean, you’re not suggesting it was a Russian, I trust,” he said, fiddling with his queen.

“Oh no, sir. A Russian would never have murdered a German and not owned up to it. Besides, why kill a
pleni
in secret when you could just as easily kill him in the open? Even if he was an anti-fascist agent. No, you were right, sir. It was a German who killed Gebhardt.”

I cast my eye over the board in the hope that I might see some evidence of intelligence there, but all I could tell was that the right pieces were on the right squares and that the major needed a manicure like I needed a hot bath. They probably didn’t care about manicures in the Soviet workers’ paradise. They certainly didn’t care about hot baths. It was a little hard to be sure, but I had the idea that the major smelled almost as bad as I did.

“The murder was not premeditated,” I said. “It happened on the spur of the moment. Frenzied stabbings are often like that where there’s no sexual aspect involved. Of course, it’s hard to say much with certainty at a crime scene that I’ve had to work without a thermometer to take the body’s temperature. And there were certainly fingerprints that could have been recovered from the murder weapon and the brass door handle. What can be said with confidence, however, is that the murderer was left-handed. Because of the pattern of wounds on the dead man’s body. Now, at the canteen, I observed all of the men in this camp and drew up a list of all the left-handed
pleni
s. This was my initial pool of suspects. Since when I have identified the murderer, I will not say his name. As a German officer, it would be wrong for me to do so. But there is no need, since his name appears in Gebhardt’s notebook.”

I handed the red notebook to the major.

“Metelmann,” he said quietly.

“As you will see, this page contains details of payments that were made to this particular officer in return for information. In other words, the culprit was acting as the murdered man’s paid informer. I believe the two men argued about money, sir. Among other things. Possibly Gebhardt refused to pay the murderer five rubles—his usual rate—for information received. After the murder, the culprit took the money anyway.”

I handed Savostin a hundred of the five-ruble notes I had found behind the poster of Stalin. Savostin handed the notebook to the SGO.

“I found these bills hidden in Gebhardt’s hut. As you can see, all of the bills are marked in the top right-hand corner with a small pencil mark, which I believe is a Russian Orthodox cross.”

Savostin examined one of the notes and nodded. “All of them?” he said.

“Yes, sir.” I knew this because I had marked every one of the bills myself. “It’s my guess that if you were to search the officer named in that notebook, you would find him in possession of one or more five-ruble notes with the same penciled cross in the top right-hand corner, sir. The same officer is left-handed, and his arm currently bears a livid scar that was most probably sustained during the attack on Gebhardt.”

Still clutching my cap, I rubbed my shaven head with my knuckle. It sounded like something happening to a piece of wood in the camp workshop. “If I might speak frankly, sir?”

“Speak, Captain.”

“I don’t know what you’re going to do with this man, sir. Given who and what he is, I can appreciate that it might leave you with a problem. After all, he’s your man’s man. But he’s no good to you now, sir, is he? Not now that we know who and what he is. I suppose you could always use him to replace Gebhardt, as the anti-fa officer, although his Russian isn’t up to much. And you’d have to take him away anyway, for political reeducation. Either way, he’s finished in this camp. I just wanted to let you know that, sir.”

“Aren’t you jumping the gun a little, Gunther? You haven’t proved anything yet. Even if I do find this marked money on Metelmann, there’s nothing to prove he didn’t receive the money before Gebhardt was murdered. And have you considered the possibility that if this man is an informer, then it might suit me better to leave him here and have you and the colonel transferred to another camp?”

“I have considered that, yes, sir. It’s true there’s nothing to stop you doing that. But you can’t be sure that we haven’t told all our comrades what I’ve told you. That’s one reason why it wouldn’t suit you to send us to another camp. Another reason is that the colonel is doing an excellent job as SGO. The men listen to him. With all due respect, sir, you need him.”

Major Savostin looked at the colonel. “Perhaps I do, at that,” he said.

I shrugged. “As for proving anything to your satisfaction, Major, that’s your affair. I’ve handed you the gun. You can’t expect me to pull the trigger as well. However, if you do decide to search Metelmann, you might ask him the name of his wife, sir.”

“Meaning?”

“Konrad Metelmann’s wife is called Vera, sir.” I handed Savostin the ring I had found, which I had assumed was Gebhardt’s wedding ring. “There’s an inscription inside.”

Savostin’s eyes narrowed as he read what was engraved on the inside of the gold band. “‘To Konrad, with all my love, from Vera. February 1943.’” He looked at me.

“That was on Gebhardt’s ring finger, sir. The finger was broken, I think, because Metelmann tried to get the ring off Gebhardt’s finger after he killed him and failed. Possibly he even broke the finger, I don’t know. But I had to use soap to get it off myself.”

“Perhaps Gebhardt bought this from Metelmann.”

“Gebhardt bought it, all right. But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t from Metelmann. Metelmann hid that ring up his arse for weeks. Then he got a bad dose of diarrhea and had to wear it on a piece of string around his neck. But one of the guards found it and made him hand it over. As a matter of fact, I saw it happen.”

“Who?”

“Sergeant Degermenkoy. My guess is that Gebhardt bought it back from him and promised to return it to Metelmann but never did. Possibly he may have used the ring as leverage to obtain information from Metelmann. Either way, I’m certain this ring is what the fight was about. And I’m sure the sergeant will confirm what I’ve said, sir. That he sold the ring to Gebhardt.”

“Degermenkoy is a lying pig,” said Major Savostin. “But I don’t doubt that you are correct about what must have happened. You’ve done very well, Captain. I shall question both men in due course. For now, I thank you, Captain. You, too, Colonel, for recommending this man. You may go back to work now. Dismissed.”

Mrugowski and I went out of the guardhouse. “Are you sure about all of this?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose Savostin searches Metelmann and he doesn’t have that five-ruble note.”

“He had it half an hour ago,” I said. “I know that because it was me who gave it to him. And it’s marked with a lot more than just a Russian Orthodox cross. There’s a thumbprint in blood on it, too. Rather a good one, as it happens, although I daresay the Ivans won’t be looking to make a match.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mrugowski. “Whose thumbprint?”

“Gebhardt’s. I put the print on the bill using his dead hand. And I borrowed five rubles from Metelmann the day before yesterday, just so that I could repay him with a marked bill. I marked the bills with the cross myself. The thumbprint was merely for added effect.”