Free The Butchers of Berlin by Chris Petit Page A

consumptive with bitten cheeks, who, despite walking a deferential pace behind, had the air of a sadist. Gersten grunted at Stoffel and asked if he was in charge.
    They immediately began squabbling, taking up from where they had left off. Stoffel said he was dealing with a murder and had no need of Gestapo assistance.
    Gersten said he was there because the apartment was Gestapo property, having been requisitioned.
    Schlegel took in the room. It was large and spacious and its owners would have been rich. The walls had been stripped of their pictures, leaving faded spaces where they had hung. Empty
bookshelves in glass cabinets indicated a once considerable library.
    ‘What’s your theory?’ Gersten asked Stoffel.
    Stoffel shrugged. A couple of lowlifers had come to loot, prior to the property’s contents being sold off. With the place empty it was a safe break-in.
    ‘Presumably the murderer stuffed what he could in his pockets before he left.’
    ‘But what happened?’ asked Gersten, looking as though he thought Stoffel could try harder.
    ‘An argument. No honour among thieves. One ends up killing the other. The only real issue is the money.’
    He asked if Gersten recognised the man, as he was dead on what was now Gestapo property. Gersten tapped the corpse with his toecap and observed the shoes didn’t match.
    Stoffel announced to the room that one advantage of everyone going hungry was dead men tended not to crap their pants.
    Gersten ignored him. ‘Black market, I would say, which puts the ball in your court. You’ll find the money is counterfeit.’ He turned to Schlegel and said lightly, ‘No one
can afford these days to donate good cash to a dead man’s cake hole.’
    Schlegel was aware of Morgen in the background, saying nothing.
    Stoffel addressed Schlegel. ‘Since you’re here, son, go through the man’s pockets.’
    ‘Didn’t someone do that?’
    ‘Waiting for you, dear,’ said Stoffel. ‘Be our guest. Bad knee, can’t bend down.’
    He proffered an old biscuit tin he used to store the dead’s personal effects.
    Schlegel recognised the fine line between acceptance as one of them and being the butt of their cruelty. He didn’t want to appear squeamish, while knowing he could also be seen as weak for
giving in.
    There was nothing in the coat. Nothing in the rim of the hat. Nothing in the jacket pockets. The jacket was double-breasted and still done up. He wondered what to do about the back trouser
pockets because it would mean disturbing the body. He unbuttoned the jacket. The crotch was stained, about the size of a large coin, presumably from a small last involuntary release.
    Schlegel grew aware of Morgen standing closer, and he said to Morgen rather than Stoffel that on second inspection the stain looked more like blood.
    ‘Then you’d better take a look,’ said Stoffel.
    ‘That’s the doctor’s job.’
    Schlegel stood up, surprised by his decisiveness. He handed the biscuit tin to Stoffel. Stoffel grunted and signalled to the doctor who had been hovering in the doorway to carry on.
    Like the rest of them, the doctor smoked. Schlegel watched ash fall and land next to the dead man’s nostril where it lay undisturbed. The doctor made a clumsy job of opening the fly.
    Blaming his arthritis, he turned to Schlegel and said, ‘Do it for me, son. My fingers are too stiff.’
    Suppressed sniggers greeted the remark. The doctor’s cheeks were a drunk’s network of broken veins.
    Schlegel knelt down and undid the buttons and parted the waistband. The shirt was in the way, then the underpants. The dark stain was no larger. He separated the fly. The doctor opened his mouth
in surprise. The cigarette fell out and landed on the man’s crotch.
    ‘For God’s sake. Get out of here,’ said Stoffel.
    The doctor staggered to his feet. He didn’t look well.
    ‘And take your bloody cigarette!’ said Stoffel.
    The doctor mumbled to Schlegel, ‘Would you? My fingers.’
    Gersten’s sidekick