Babylon Berlin, page 12
Rath was lost in his own thoughts, but Weinert’s theory seemed plausible. All that remained to be seen was who would play the hero. ‘Don’t tell me that’s a story you wouldn’t write,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me that if you had exclusive information about a murder inquiry that was on everybody’s lips, you wouldn’t write anything just because your story might be of use to the commissioner?’
Weinert smiled, looking like a shark with a cup of coffee. ‘I’m always happy to receive exclusive information,’ he said.
‘Good to know.’ Rath placed his empty cup on the table and stood up. ‘Oh, and by the way, I lent you a tenner recently…’
‘…which you’ll get back tomorrow. I promise. I just haven’t had enough time to go to the bank in the last few days.’
Weinert looked embarrassed. Rath made use of the opportunity. ‘Maybe there’s something else you can do for me today…’ he said casually.
‘Anytime.’ Weinert sounded relieved.
‘…I could use your car for a few hours.’
‘One-nil!’ he laughed. ‘You can have it until four, and then I need it myself.’ He waved the key. ‘But be punctual. I’m meeting someone and without a car you’ll leave me exposed.’
The journalist’s sand-coloured sports car was parked in front of the door. Second-hand, but elegant. An American model, a Buick two-seater. A car you could use to impress women, but Rath just needed some wheels. If Weinert thought he was taking a girl out to the country, then so much the better.
The Delphi Palace was situated beside the Theater des Westens, looking like a jungle temple that had washed up in Charlottenburg with palm trees growing in the front garden. On the façade, where the programme attractions would normally be advertised, a large banner announced that the Delphi was temporarily closed. Rath had parked his car in Kantstrasse, directly in front of the gate, and was slowly climbing the steps to the front garden.
He was a little disappointed. He had been expecting to find the current programme displayed somewhere, so that he could see when Lana Nikoros was next performing, but the Delphi seemed completely deserted. The plants that flanked the path to the main door made a lamentable impression. A few exotic-looking wicker chairs, carelessly piled on top of one another and worn by the weather, stood in a corner of the garden. There were two flights of steps leading to the entrance. A sharp voice pierced the air.
‘If you’re one of Schneid’s people, then I suggest you vacate the property this instant! Unless you want me to call the police?’
A man was rushing towards him from Fasanenstrasse.
‘I am the police,’ Rath said.
The man slowed his pace. He was so elegantly dressed it was as if he was preparing to go dancing. ‘Really?’ he asked as he drew nearer. ‘Department of Building Regulations, Charlottenburg?’
‘No.’ Rath showed him his ID. ‘CID, Berlin.’
‘If Herr Schneid called you, then you can leave right now. He’s not in charge here. We have every right to turn off the water and electricity.’
‘I don’t know any Herr Schneid. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me your name.’
‘Sorry.’ He proffered a hand. ‘Felten. I’m Herr Sehring’s secretary.’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t seem to know many people. Herr Sehring is an architect. The owner and builder of the Delphi Palace. May I ask what brings you here?’
Rath removed the programme from his pocket. ‘A singer. Lana Nikoros.’
Felten took the programme and cast his eye over the photo.
‘Oh yes, she has performed here. One of Schneid’s artists.’ He returned the programme to Rath. ‘But there’ll be new tenants here soon. Which means there’ll be a new programme too.’
‘I don’t really care about the programme, but I do need to speak to this woman. I’m investigating a crime.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you further.’
‘Then where would I be able to find Herr Schneid?’
The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not in his office at the Delphi at any rate. Bankruptcy proceedings have been launched against him.’ He jangled a set of keys. ‘I’ve got the keys here.’
‘Perhaps you could take me to his office?’
Rath felt slightly uneasy as he followed Felten through the huge room, which did actually feel like a palace, opulent and bombastically decorated. A thin layer of dust had settled on the finery, scarcely perceptible but conveying a sense of decay.
Felten appeared to have read his mind. ‘We’ll get some life back in the old place soon,’ he said, and gestured towards the scaffolding on the side wall. ‘Work has already begun.’
They went past an inconspicuous-looking door that was standing slightly ajar. Felten closed it with a casual movement of the hand.
‘Where does that lead?’ Rath asked.
‘The stairs into the cellar. Schneid has his office upstairs,’ Felten said, before correcting himself. ‘Had.’
He led him to the right and up a flight of stairs. They stopped in front of a dark, heavy door. Felten searched for the right key.
‘You can come and go as you please?’ Rath asked, surprised.
‘No problem,’ Felten grinned as the door opened. ‘The liquidator is an old university friend of Herr Sehring.’
Inside the office it was dark.
‘No electricity,’ Felten said apologetically. He reached unerringly into a wall cupboard, took out a candle and lit it. Yellow light flickered over a dark, heavy desk and leather chair. Rath quickly located the artist directory. The details of any number of musicians were noted, along with male and female singers and dance artists. The directory also included addresses, artist names, special skills, and the size of the agreed fee. No Lana Nikoros. In one of the desk drawers Rath found Josef Schneid’s business cards. He pocketed one. Felten made sure that everything was returned to its rightful place before locking up. Then he accompanied Rath outside.
‘You should come by when we reopen,’ he said then quickly added, ‘when you’re off duty, of course.’
Rath was happy to be rid of the man, off duty or not. He climbed back into the car and looked at the business card. Alongside the address in Kantstrasse was Josef Schneid’s private address.
After the long, cold winter, May seemed to have brought more agreeable temperatures. Rath drove through Budapester Strasse with the top down. The first trees in Tiergarten were starting to come into leaf. A car like this was a wonderful thing, even if it wasn’t cheap. He would have to ask Bruno how he could afford his Model A. As far as Rath knew, he was somehow able to claim any work-related trips in his private vehicle as tax exempt. There were certain colleagues who begrudged Bruno the luxury of owning a car. It was rumoured by some that Emmi Wolter had brought money into the marriage. CID officers were not particularly well remunerated. Even the DCIs, to say nothing of a simple detective inspector.
Well, Rath might not have a rich wife, but he did have a neighbour with a car.
Tiergartenstrasse was a good address. To the left the green of the park; to the right houses with extravagant façades. The old West’s heyday was over. Today those who could afford it were building their villas a long way out, in Grunewald, but Rath paid more attention to the house numbers than the mouldings. He parked the Buick under a tree just before Kemperplatz.
There were so many mouldings on the façade of Schneid’s house that it looked as though the plaster cast angels would have to fight it out to retain their place. The owner was at home. A valet led him into a drawing room that was every bit as impressive as the façade; few signs of bankruptcy here. Rath didn’t have to wait long before Josef Schneid appeared leaning on a cane, a commanding figure in a robe, sporting an old-fashioned beard.
‘Lana Nikoros? Of course I know her. I stole her from Fritz. A shame that we had to close temporarily, I fear she may have gone back to him. This feud with Sehring is taking up so much of my time, don’t ask me where my artists are. He kicked them all out, the staff too. These bankruptcy proceedings he’s started, they’re just a way of getting rid of me. I’m standing in the way of his new tenants.’
‘Fritz?’
‘Buschmann. He runs several variety theatres in the city, as well as a few dance cafés. You just have to study the Berlin night scene carefully, then you’ll find Lana for sure.’ Schneid played with the silver knob on his cane.
‘Perhaps you have an address for me?’
‘An address? No. I got her together with the band, and that’s how I paid her too, through the band.’
‘Which band?’
‘Russians. They could play jazz, I tell you. Just like the Negroes in the Cotton Club! Ilja Tretschkov is the band leader’s name. If you can find him, you’ll find Lana.’
‘She’s a Russian too?’
‘Yes, what were you expecting?’
Rath glanced at the time as he emerged back onto the street. He still had time. Given that he was already out in the car he might as well make the most of it.
An hour later he finally parked the Buick in the atrium at the station, having driven for any number of kilometres in what ultimately amounted to little more than a jaunt around Berlin. First he had returned to Möckern Bridge and driven slowly along Tempelhofer Ufer, without really knowing what he was looking for, probably for a glimpse of Kardakov. He didn’t recognise a single face amongst the Sunday afternoon strollers, now examining the scene of the accident, not even one from the Castle. Soon it would cease to be a crime scene altogether, but simply a ruined section of canal fencing, whose repair the city council would put off for as long as possible.
Next he drove into the eastern part of the city, over the Schilling Bridge into the Stralau quarter and the centre of Friedrichshain. He hadn’t dared to get out at Küstriner Platz, which wasn’t the sort of place you could park a sand-coloured American sports car and expect to find it intact upon your return. The area around Schlesischer Bahnhof was amongst the most notorious in Berlin. Uniform only dared to venture onto the streets in small groups, and CID kept as low a profile as possible. The area was firmly in the hands of criminals and, as there wasn’t a lot that police could do, they left it to the Ringvereine to maintain order.
Plaza had once been a station. However, no trains had stopped there for over forty years. Since then the buildings of the former Ostbahnhof had been used as warehouses. Jules Marx had converted the giant station concourse into a variety theatre that housed almost three thousand spectators. It had only opened at the start of the year. Rath first explored the long side of the great building, where the street was still called Am Ostbahnhof. Only the front part of the station had been converted into a theatre. At the back there were still a number of warehouses, many of which had gone to rack and ruin. Next he drove slowly along the newly renovated station façade. The big neon letters which formed the name Plaza were still switched on. At the main entrance, multi-coloured placards promised an evening themed around the Wild West. Not without a certain irony, Rath thought. In Berlin, the east was wilder than the west.
No sign of Johann Marlow. You don’t find him, he finds you. Rath couldn’t help thinking of Gloria’s words. He didn’t even know what Dr M. looked like, which was the reason he had driven to the Castle and was now trudging up the stairs. I Division was located on the top floor and was home to the Erkennungsdienst, the identification service.
There was no mention of a Johann Marlow anywhere in the files. The man didn’t have a single conviction or file note. He hadn’t even so much as driven through a red light at Potsdamer Platz. The same was true for Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov. Until now he had successfully concealed his coke dealing from the Berlin police. A trip to see his colleagues in Narcotics was thus rendered superfluous. Rath returned to the ground floor.
The offices in the western wing were all locked up. Sunday. Closed for public business. As far as Rath knew, the passports office was usually open on Sundays, or at least part-staffed. He trawled through the various doors before striking lucky. Just as he turned the corner and opened the connecting door to the north wing, he saw a grey-haired official who was already in his coat. The old man was just about to lock the door to his office.
‘Home time!’ he said, as Rath addressed him. ‘One o’clock.’
‘Come on! CID are working today too. Criminals don’t keep office hours.’
‘I still need to go to the form storage room.’
‘And you can. I just need a little help with an address.’
The grey-haired man sighed. The key turned back in the opposite direction.
‘Well, I just hope that CID will do me a favour when I need one.’ The man led him into a neat and tidy office and rummaged around in his jacket pocket for his glasses case. Behind a low wooden barricade, which normally kept the public at arm’s length, stood meticulously arranged rows of desks, shelves and filing cabinets. ‘Which Division do you work for?’ he asked.
‘E Division.’
The old man put on his reading glasses and surveyed him briefly.
‘What letter?’
Rath almost said ‘E’ again before he realised what the man meant.
‘K,’ he said simply.
The man noisily opened a roll-front cabinet.
‘And the whole word?’
‘Kardakov.’
The man had already pulled out a drawer and started to search.
‘Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov,’ Rath added, hoping to do the official a favour.
The latter abandoned his search immediately. ‘That doesn’t sound like a German name to me,’ he said.
‘It isn’t. Kardakov is Russian.’
The official rolled his eyes, slammed the drawer shut, closed the roll-front cabinet and jangled a bunch of keys. ‘Couldn’t you have said right away?’ he asked. ‘Come with me.’
He led Rath through three further offices that all looked the same as the first.
‘Room 152. Alien passports office,’ said the man when they had reached the fourth office. The rest Rath knew already. Roll-front cabinet, drawer, search. It didn’t take too long. The official pulled an index card from the drawer.
‘There he is… Kardakov, Alexej Ivanovitsch. Born 25th July 1896 in St Petersburg, Russia, registered in Berlin since 15th December 1920…’
‘I need the address!’
‘All in good time, young man.’ Another reproachful glance from over his spectacles. ‘Registered in Berlin since 15th December 1920…’ the man repeated with a composure that nearly drove Rath spare. He was exactly the kind of Prussian official the police could do without. ‘…resident in Nürnberger Stra…’
‘That’s his old address.’
‘My dear inspector! Might I ask why you are bothering me, when you seem to know all the answers?’
‘Sorry, but the man moved out of that address a month ago.’
The official glanced over the card. ‘There’s no mention of it here. Kardakov has been living at this address for three years.’ He took another look. ‘In a week’s time he has to extend his yellow identity card, foreigners need to do that every six months. That’s most likely when he intends to give notice of his move. Perhaps you could come back then. On the 16th May I’ll be able to tell you more.’
‘Many thanks. You’ve been a great help,’ Rath said, as pleasantly as he could manage. Inside he was seething. He’d have liked nothing better than to throttle the old man. ‘Wait,’ he said. The official was already standing by the door. ‘Please wait! There’s one more thing you can do for me. A woman’s address. Lana Nikoros.’
The official grumbled, but did as he was told.
‘Doesn’t sound much like a German name either.’
His visit to the Castle was not very productive. Neither at the records office nor at the passports office did he get any information that might advance his inquiries. There wasn’t even a Lana Nikoros registered in Berlin, but at least he knew that Kardakov would soon be obliged to renew his ID. If he didn’t appear for that, it would be clear that he really had gone to ground. If he was only interested in not paying his final month’s rent, he would not run the risk of wandering around Germany as a foreigner without valid papers.
Big white letters interrupted Rath’s thoughts. HOMICIDE. He stared at the glass double door. Somehow he had ended up on the first floor. Force of habit? He had stood in front of the very same door a week ago, which was when he saw her for the first time. Today the passageway was devoid of people. He made a quick about turn and headed towards Vice. All he needed now was to run into Wilhelm Böhm, but their corridor was quiet too. There was no noise coming from the offices, no sound of voices, no rattling away on the typewriters. A floor higher, where the politicals were based, was still a hive of activity. The May actions had filled the police holding cells. In contrast there wasn’t a single person working in E Division. Just the right place to do some thinking.
The door wasn’t locked. He had expected to find a deserted office, so was all the more surprised to discover one of his colleagues.
‘Stephan!’
The rookie Jänicke was sitting at Uncle’s desk, buried in a mound of papers.
‘Hello, Gereon!’ Jänicke was just as surprised as Rath. ‘This crew not giving you any peace either? I wanted to have another look at the files on König. I can’t get the man out of my head. An upstanding photographer, and then this filth.’
‘The König file from 1A? It’s in my desk. I’m the one who dug it out, not Bruno.’
‘Right!’ Jänicke stuffed the papers on the desk back into Wolter’s drawer and closed it. ‘I’d have been looking for a long time.’
Rath’s desk drawer was still relatively empty. He found the file with König’s political inclinations and threw it over to Jänicke. ‘Here.’
