Babylon Berlin, page 11
No sooner did he have the man in his sights than the latter started to run. Agitated gaze, sunken cheeks. He jostled past an elegant woman, knocked the champagne glass out of her hand, and pushed her against her male companion. Both crashed to the ground. The woman cried out.
Rath put the photo away and chased after the man in the direction of the stairs, leaping over the downed couple. The barman gazed after him in astonishment, cocktail in hand.
The man was running towards the toilets! Rath knew the layout, he had thrown out a couple of pimps and their hookers only two weeks ago. Perhaps the thin man was one of them and had recognised him? Whoever he was, he was trapped, since he couldn’t escape from the Gents. A couple of women began squealing and cursing, in amongst the odd suggestive remark. Obviously the thin man knew the lie of the land too, as there was a window in the Ladies that opened onto the courtyard. Rath left via the office, it was even quicker that way – you didn’t have to squeeze through a narrow window. Just through the small anteroom and he’d reach the rear exit. Carefully he opened the door. Nobody there. He stepped back into the corridor, left the door ajar and waited. The man would have to go past if he wanted to reach the street. Rath saw him through the crack, and pushed the heavy iron door open just as the he was running past.
A loud crash. Then a series of curses.
Rath stepped into the courtyard and pulled the man to his feet. Blood was running from his nose. Rath showed him his badge and got a startled expression like a deer in headlights. Big eyes flickered frantically. Cocaine.
‘I knew straightaway you were a cop! What do you want?’ His gums were still bleeding. The way he rolled his Rs suggested that he was Russian. Rath grabbed him by the collar and started yelling. As a police officer you couldn’t show weakness, and in this city even being friendly was viewed as such. That much he had learned already.
‘As far as I’m concerned you can snort cocaine until your nose falls off. I really couldn’t give a shit. As long as you tell me what I want to know, you won’t get any trouble from me.’
‘What is it that you want to know?’
He shoved the photo of Kardakov under the Russian’s nose. The other hand remained on his collar. ‘Do you know this man?’ The Russian hesitated. Rath got mad. ‘Listen to me, my young brother! Until now I’ve tried to be friendly, but you’d better watch it, believe me. Stop trying to kid me. You know this man!’
‘So what? Just because I know someone who lisps when he buys cigarettes doesn’t mean I’m a snowman.’
Rath’s ears pricked up. His predecessor had been dealing cocaine! Perhaps he should pop in to see Narcotics.
‘Don’t try and tell me you only snort the stuff!’ he shouted at the Russian. ‘But right now I don’t really care. I’m looking for him!’ He held the photo right in front of the thin man’s face. ‘So tell me what you know, and I’ll leave you in peace.’
‘You cops have no idea how hard it is to earn money in this city!’ A discharge of blood and spittle landed on the pavement. ‘Alexej wouldn’t do it unless he had to. It’s other people who earn the big money anyway, but you leave them be. The ones from high society who take the stuff too. Still, whenever it’s a Russian there’s trouble. You even expel them from the country. Doesn’t matter if the Bolsheviks back home are after them.’
‘If you want us to extend your identity card, then I suggest you show a little more cooperation.’ Rath fished the yellow document from the Russian’s jacket and pocketed it. ‘You’ll get it back when I’m satisfied with your answers. Who is Kardakov?’
‘You haven’t found him then.’ The Russian smiled and his eyes grew smaller. ‘You won’t catch Alexej so easily. How did you come by the photo? Did his singer friend lose her nerve?’
Lana Nikoros. Delphi Palace.
‘If anyone’s about to lose their nerve, it’s me,’ Rath said, pulling the Russian up by the collar and slamming him against the wall. The guy was light as a feather. ‘And believe me, you wouldn’t like that. You definitely wouldn’t like that.’
Rath heard his own voice, but it was as if another person was speaking. He couldn’t help thinking back to Bruno’s performance on the scaffolding. He was scaring himself a little. Had he already learned his colleague’s lesson? At any rate, playing tough guy seemed to be working.
‘OK, OK, don’t get so worked up!’ The Russian raised his hands in a conciliatory manner. ‘Just don’t tell anyone you’ve been speaking to me. You already know he’s been earning a bit on the side.’
‘Where do I find him?’
‘No idea. Here and there. I haven’t seen him for over a week. There were rumours your lot had nabbed him.’
‘I don’t believe a word you’re saying.’
‘Then why don’t you ask the queens in Eldorado. They’re feeling pretty nervous, because their source of cocaine’s dried up.’
The place was for people who got a thrill from not knowing whether it was a man or a woman they were wheeling across the dance floor. At least half the women in Eldorado weren’t women at all. They had looked in while they were on duty in Lutherstrasse, though without particularly disrupting business. Rath suspected that Bruno had informants here too.
‘Does Kardakov sell anything apart from coke?’ Perhaps they were investigating a murder on the gay scene, and the dead man from the canal had been Kardakov’s lover. Although Boris hadn’t seemed particularly amorous during his night-time visit to Nürnberger Strasse.
‘I’m sure there are a few people who’d like a bit of Alexej, but he sends them all packing. They like him all the same. That’s why they’re missing him so much. The other guys dealing snow in Lutherstrasse aren’t half as sweet.’
Rath glanced at the time. It was just after twelve. The party in Eldorado would just be starting. He left the Russian where he was and headed towards the taxi stand on Hardenbergstrasse.
‘Hey, what’s with my ID?’ the Russian called after him.
‘You’ll get it back once I’ve found Kardakov.’
‘And what if one of you cops asks for it in the meantime? Am I supposed to send them to you?’
‘Just make sure you keep a low profile!’
‘Hello, darling!’
The peroxide blonde behind the counter called herself Gloria but her real name was Gustav. She puckered her scarlet-red lips.
‘You’re looking chic,’ she said. ‘Flying solo tonight, where’s Bruno got to? And that young blond colleague of yours?’
The dance floor in Eldorado was filling and the band was playing music you could tap your feet to. The smoke of countless cigarettes hung in the cosy room, which was dominated by the colour gold. Rath leaned against the bar and placed an Overstolz in the corner of his mouth.
‘We’re not married you know,’ he muttered.
‘You might be one day.’
Rath couldn’t kick up too much of a fuss on Bruno’s patch. He was the newbie, he had to watch out. The fact that he was investigating under his own steam went against every rule in the book. All the more so, given that he was withholding information.
‘Gloria, darling?’ He tried putting on a little more charm, and leaned against the counter with a smile.
‘Yes?’ She placed a glass in front of a man who uttered a very tipsy ‘thank you, my dear,’ and looked at her adoringly. A tourist who obviously had no idea he was talking to a man.
Gloria returned to Rath. The chains on her neck brushed the back of his hand as she leaned towards him. ‘Nice of you to drop by again. There aren’t too many good-looking cops out there.’
He held out a carton of cigarettes. ‘Fancy a cigarette break?’
She grabbed one with her talons. ‘If you have a drink with me.’
Shortly afterwards there were two glasses and a bottle of whisky on a table that was just far enough away from the band to talk. Gloria poured them each a generous measure.
‘Out with it,’ she said. ‘Why is a cop offering me a cigarette and then standing me a drink? It can’t just be because of my pretty blue eyes.’
She batted her false eyelashes.
‘Got it in one, my dear!’ He raised his glass to her and they drank. ‘Although you do have very pretty eyes.’ He showed her the photo. ‘He must put in an appearance from time to time.’
She looked at Kardakov’s soft features and drew on her cigarette, blew the smoke through her nose and nodded. ‘He’s Russian, isn’t he? Cute guy. I hope you haven’t locked him up? That would be a real pity.’
‘Don’t worry. At the moment I’m only looking for him because I’m trying to find out about one of his friends.’
‘Has he done something wrong?’
‘Not if you don’t count dealing cocaine.’
‘So, that’s it.’ Her voice grew colder. She looked first at him and then at the photo and he could see that she sensed a trap.
‘No, don’t misunderstand me. That doesn’t interest me at all. Except insofar as it helps me find him.’
‘I can’t imagine that he deals snow here. The boss doesn’t tolerate things like that.’
‘It’s possible he finds buyers here, isn’t it?’
She shrugged her shoulders and refilled their glasses, leaning close in the process.
‘I’m only saying what I’m about to say because every cop in Berlin knows it anyway. See it as a kind of remedial class for provincial cops.’
‘Fine, so long as you don’t tell Bruno I need the help.’
She laughed. ‘Pay attention. If there’s anyone dealing cocaine in this city, then you can assume that Dr Mabuse has a hand in it…’
‘The guy from the cinema?’
‘Just don’t call him that. His real name is Johann Marlow. And don’t ask me where he got his doctorate from. He probably bought it, just like he buys you cops. It doesn’t matter what he’s involved in, he always manages to keep his nose clean. He only knows Plötzensee from the outside. From waiting in front of the big gate to pick up his men.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Your friend here…’ she gestured towards the photo, ‘it’s not only you cops who are trying to find him. Dr M. is longing to see him too and has men out looking. There have been a few from Berolina here already. A couple of days ago. With a very similar photo.’
‘Berolina?’ Rath whistled quietly through his teeth. Berolina was one of the oldest Ringvereine in Berlin, a group for whom the code of honour still meant something. Murder was taboo. When they heard of gangs of thugs and pimps like Norden or Immertreu, the two Ringvereine the commissioner had forbidden following the bloodbath in Breslauer Strasse, the members of Berolina turned up their noses.
‘So Marlow is in charge of a Ringverein,’ Rath said.
‘Don’t say his name so loud!’ She looked around. ‘No, Dr M. doesn’t belong to a Ringverein. He’s far too clever for that. Berolina are still fronted by Red Hugo, but Red Hugo does exactly what Dr M. tells him. That way Berolina make more profit and Dr M. doesn’t get his hands dirty.’ Gloria took a final drag and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘So,’ she said as she stood up, ‘duty calls.’
‘Wait…’
She leaned over him once more. The chains on her neck jangled. He slipped her a five mark note. ‘How do I find Dr M.?’
‘You don’t find him. He finds you.’ She pinned the money to her garter. ‘But if I could give you one tip? Go and see a variety show. The Plaza on Küstriner Platz only opened a few weeks ago. I hear they have a great line-up…’ She planted a kiss on his cheek. As she fought her way through the crowd back to the counter, her hips swaying from side to side, most of the men in the room gazed in her direction, as did a few of the women who were dressed as men. Rath’s eyes followed her until she reached the counter. She really did have a good figure. Especially when one considered that her name was Gustav.
11
‘I just don’t understand what’s wrong with her! In all the years I’ve been living here, nothing like this has ever happened before. And now? The second time inside a week!’
Weinert fiddled awkwardly with the coffee pot and porcelain filter. It took a moment for him to set the filter on top. Neither of them had much experience with this sort of thing. Normally, it was the landlady who was responsible. Normally, the smell of fresh coffee was already drifting through the flat when they awoke. But today it had only been Weinert sitting in the kitchen when Rath had poked his tired, hungover head through the door. Now he was sitting at the kitchen table winding the coffee grinder, while Weinert placed the kettle on the stove top.
‘She must be sick.’ Rath defended the landlady. He hadn’t seen the journalist for days. During the May disturbances he had been away almost the whole time, but today of all days he just had to be sitting at the breakfast table.
‘Sick? She’s been drinking, I bet you anything. It smells like a brewery in here. Yours truly has to live like a monk, while good old Frau Behnke’s enjoying a boozy evening!’
The smell of sweet, strong liquor was still hanging in the air.
‘It’s only human. You shouldn’t get so worked up about it,’ Rath said. He tipped the coffee grounds into the filter bag. ‘Just imagine if she was infallible. It doesn’t bear thinking about!’
In truth he was happy she hadn’t got out of bed. When he had got back to Nürnberger Strasse at around three that morning, she had been waiting for him. No sooner had he opened the front door than she had been standing in the hallway, propped up on the doorpost and gazing at him reproachfully. This time there was no shawl over her nightdress. In comparison, he felt almost sober. She fell into his arms and when he helped her into bed she tried to engage him in some sort of wrestling match. He freed himself and shortly afterwards she fell asleep. By the time he made it to his own bed, his alarm clock was showing half past four and he could sense how much the little hand was longing to click into place and trigger the alarm. He had let himself sleep until eight. Too little to be fully fit, but enough to get through the day.
The kettle emitted a shrill whistle that grew steadily louder.
‘Of course, you’re sympathetic,’ Weinert grinned as he removed the kettle from the stove. ‘Seems like you might have overdone it a little yourself.’
A pleasant aroma wafted through the kitchen as boiling water reached the coffee grounds in the filter. Rath inhaled appreciatively.
‘An ancient rule ‘tis and still true, who worry has, takes liquor too,’ he pronounced.
‘Old Behnke must have some serious worries in that case,’ Weinert said, pouring the coffee.
Rath took the hot mug carefully in two hands and blew on it.
Weinert sat with him at the table and unfolded the Sunday papers. The disturbances were still dominating the front pages. ‘The social democrats have really left you in the shit, haven’t they?’ he asked casually, without looking up.
‘What?’
‘The action against the May demonstrators, of course. Don’t you think it was all a little heavy-handed? Over twenty dead. Any number wounded. A few whose lives are still in danger.’ He began to read: ‘We can’t help thinking that the measures taken by social democrat Zörgiebel, above all the demonstration ban, were primarily motivated by party politics.’
‘Did you write that?’
‘For three days it was like civil war in certain workers’ districts, and all because your commissioner wanted to show the communists who calls the shots in Red Berlin. A minor dispute between Red friends and Red enemies of the state and he’s misused the entire police apparatus to settle it. The deaths are just collateral!’
Rath feared that the journalist’s interpretation wasn’t so very wide of the mark. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about politics, but it is the role of the police to restore order on the streets.’
‘Don’t give me that! I’ve been on the ground these last few days, and the police certainly haven’t restored any order. Quite the opposite! The Reds would’ve gone home after an hour if you’d let them march in peace.’
‘There were barricades, people looting, gun battles!’
‘There are always people who exploit lawless situations. Smashing display windows, looting shops and generally letting it all hang out. I didn’t see a single communist sniper. Only policemen opening fire…’
‘…waiting to be attacked at any moment by the Red Front,’ Rath finished the journalist’s sentence. ‘The RFB are armed.’
Now it was Weinert who shrugged. ‘Of course, the communists with all their loudmouth posturing are at least partly responsible for the general hysteria as well. Even now they’re still kicking up a fuss, milking every death for their own propaganda purposes, despite there being barely any communists amongst the deceased. On Wednesday three May victims will be buried in Friedrichsfelde, and Ernst Thälmann himself intends to speak at their graves. They’re making martyrs of innocent victims, behaving as if revolution were imminent.
‘The thing is, these idiots are actually playing right into the hands of good old Zörgiebel. If the communists were trying to stage a revolution, then sending the police in hard was the right thing to do. But the last person to die wasn’t a communist. He was an unsuspecting journalist working for The Daily Express, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Against that, the journalists who were driven out of trouble spots by police batons have actually been rather lucky. Likewise my colleague from Vossische Zeitung who escaped after being shot in the leg.’
Rath thought of the two dead women.
‘You can see your commissioner’s guilty conscience here.’ Weinert showed him the story on page four. They had reprinted the photograph of the dead Boris.
‘After all the police violence against journalists and the commissioner’s smoke and mirror tactics during the May disturbances, the way the police have behaved towards the press on this case has been incredibly accommodating. No wonder, this corpse has come at just the right time for them.’ Weinert struck the portrait with the flat of his hand. ‘A death that has nothing to do with the disturbances. And the circumstances are so mysterious and gruesome. Hands and feet mashed to a pulp. That should keep the people of Berlin entertained for a few days. When the heroes from Homicide reveal the perpetrator, the police will be gleaming like a Persil sky. Brilliant and white! Feted by the press, feted by all of Berlin. Nobody will give a second thought to bloody May.’
