El Alamein by Jack Murray (most popular novels of all time txt) 📕

They drove past enormous fields filled with cattle. The green pastures dazzled in the morning sunshine. It filled Brehme with sadness to think of such beauty being turned into a muddy graveyard for the youth of his country. The Kramer farmhouse finally appeared in view. It was an enormous building and dated from a time before Luther. The Kramer family had owned this land just as long.

They drove down a driveway that was a quarter of a kilometre long. Even in Weimar, even during this period of Hitler, some were making money. But to do so there was probably a price to pay. In America they called it ‘protection’. It was the Mafia who ran such rackets. It didn’t feel much different over here.

They pulled up outside the house and saw a servant open the door. He was in his seventies and could probably count his service to the Kramer family in decades rather than years. The presence of a police car did not seem to surprise the old servant unduly. This was unusual. Brehme was used to seeing fear and suspicion on the faces of people he met in everyday life. Even those who had little to fear. Or perhaps they did. Everyone has secrets. The man bowed to Brehme.

‘How may I help you?’

‘Is Herr Kramer in?’ asked Brehme.

The answer was yes and the servant led the two policemen inside. He asked them to wait in a large hallway while he went to fetch the landowner. The hallway, once again, made Brehme feel that he’d chosen the wrong career. Objets d’art decorated side tables and a large painting hung at the top of the stairs. It looked like a Lovis Corinth self-portrait. Expertly done, thought Brehme, but hideous. He was staring up at it when Herr Kramer arrived.

Kramer was in his forties. He was clearly a working farmer as his clothes looked old and there were traces of mud on the cuffs of his trousers. His face was tanned, and the blue eyes suggested both intelligence and impatience.

‘I see you’re looking at the Corinth. My father knew him. How can I help you?’

The greeting was courteous but cold. It was clear that neither he nor Graf were welcome. Brehme nodded and got straight to the point.

‘The police in Heidelberg have asked me to look into a black-market case. It involves the smuggling and sale of beef. Have any of your cattle been stolen lately?’

It was there just for a split second. A frown. The hesitation. Then the lie.

‘No, Brehme. Is someone suggesting that my livestock is involved?’

‘No, Herr Kramer. I am making the rounds of local farmers to find out if they are aware of or had heard anything about this illicit trade.’

‘I fear you have made a wasted trip, Brehme. I know nothing.’

Once more Brehme’s senses were screaming at him that this was not the case. But another thought was now stirring in his mind. An idea as unwelcome as it was so obvious. There was little more to be gained by taking up Kramer’s time and both knew it.

‘Of course, if you should hear anything about this, you will let me know.’

‘Of course,’ said Kramer leading Brehme and Graf to the door. Graf moved on towards but Brehme stayed for a moment. He and Kramer studied one another for a moment then Brehme spoke.

‘I’m sorry for troubling you. I think I understand the situation better. These are terrible times.’

‘Indeed,’ said Kramer. There was a hint of a frown on his face. Brehme nodded to him then turned towards the car. He arrived at the door of the car and glanced back towards the farm owner. He was standing at the doorway, uncertainty etched over his features. Graf climbed into the car while Brehme waited, then he walked back to the farm owner.

‘I’m not with them,’ said Brehme, simply. Kramer’s eyes widened slightly but he remained tight-lipped. Brehme returned to the car and ducked inside.

He started the car. Graf turned to Brehme to ask him about what they had achieved by a two-minute meeting. He was shocked by what he saw. Brehme’s eyes were blazing. His lips were set in a semi-snarl of anger. Graf said nothing. Even he could see the riot of emotions raging under the surface. They drove off and it was only when they were halfway up the driveway of the farm that Brehme gave vent to his feelings.

He hit the steering wheel of the car with the heel of his palm. A volley of oaths poured forth. Graf looked on in shock. When the storm passed, Graf found his courage and enquired, ‘Sir, what is wrong?’

Brehme looked at his not so young protégé, or was he merely Keller’s apprentice? What could he say to him? The fact was that he was getting old and stupid. Where once there was an insightful wariness, an ability to see around the corner, there was now only naivety. A year of virtual inactivity had left him mentally obese. He was not fit for this role now.

‘No, Graf, I should have prepared better for that interview. There is nothing to worry about. Kramer is not a black marketeer.’

He actually believed this, too. Kramer was rich. Why would he or any other farmer in his situation sully his hands with such a trade? The simple answer was that they would only do so if they were being forced to trade this way. There was only one criminal group with this level of power. He thought of Keller again. When the criminals were in charge of policing and justice it was probably time to quit.

For the rest of the journey back into town, Brehme engaged Graf in general conversation about his family and what his ambitions were. He wanted to signal to his subordinate that the time would soon come when he would take over. The tone was light, but the meaning was clear, even to