March Violets Read Free Page A

fool. Berlin has a dozen like you - private investigators.’ He named my profession with more than a little distaste.
    â€˜So why pick me?’
    â€˜You have worked for my client before, indirectly. A couple of years ago you conducted an insurance investigation for the Germania Life Assurance Company, of which my client is a major shareholder. While the Kripo were still whistling in the dark you were successful in recovering some stolen bonds.’
    â€˜I remember it.’ And I had good reason to. It had been one of my first cases after leaving the Adlon and setting up as a private investigator. I said: ‘I was lucky.’
    â€˜Never underestimate luck,’ said Schemm pompously. Sure, I thought: just look at the Führer.
    By now we were on the edge of the Grunewald Forest in Dahlem, home to some of the richest and most influential people in the country, like the Ribbentrops. We pulled up at a huge wrought-iron gate which hung between massive walls, and Freshface had to hop out to wrestle it open. Ulrich drove on through.
    â€˜Drive on,’ ordered Schemm. ‘Don’t wait. We’re late enough as it is.’ We drove along an avenue of trees for about five minutes before arriving at a wide gravel courtyard around which were set on three sides a long centre building and the two wings that comprised the house. Ulrich stopped beside a small fountain and jumped out to open the doors. We got out.
    Circling the courtyard was an ambulatory, with a roof supported by thick beams and wooden columns, and this was patrolled by a man with a pair of evil-looking Dobermanns. There wasn’t much light apart from the coachlamp by the front door, but as far as I could see the house was white with pebbledash walls and a deep mansard roof — as big as a decent-sized hotel of the sort that I couldn’t afford. Somewhere in the trees behind the house a peacock was screaming for help.
    Closer to the door I got my first good look at the doctor. I suppose he was quite a handsome man. Since he was at least fifty, I suppose you would say that he was distinguished-looking. Taller than he had seemed when sitting in the back of the car, and dressed fastidiously, but with a total disregard for fashion. He wore a stiff collar you could have sliced a loaf with, a pin-striped suit of a light-grey shade, a creamy-coloured waistcoat and spats; his only hand was gloved in grey kid, and on his neatly cropped square grey head he wore a large grey hat with a brim that surrounded the high, well-pleated crown like a castle moat. He looked like an old suit of armour.
    He ushered me towards the big mahogany door, which swung open to reveal an ashen-faced butler who stood aside as we crossed the threshold and stepped into the wide entrance hall. It was the kind of hall that made you feel lucky just to have got through the door. Twin flights of stairs with gleaming white banisters led up to the upper floors, and on the ceiling hung a chandelier that was bigger than a church-bell and gaudier than a stripper’s earrings. I made a mental note to raise my fees.
    The butler, who was an Arab, bowed gravely and asked me for my hat.
    â€˜I’ll hang on to it, if you don’t mind,’ I said, feeding its brim through my fingers. ‘It’ll help to keep my hands off the silver.’
    â€˜As you wish, sir.’
    Schemm handed the butler his own hat as if to the manor born. Maybe he was, but with lawyers I always assume that they came by their wealth and position through avarice and by means nefarious: I never yet met one that I could trust. His glove he neatly removed with an almost double-jointed contortion of his fingers, and dropped it into his hat. Then he straightened his necktie and asked the butler to announce us.
    We waited in the library. It wasn’t big by the standards of a Bismarck or a Hindenburg, and you couldn’t have packed more than six cars between the Reichstag-sized desk and the door.