Goldstein, page 13
She could still act though, and she wasn’t about to follow Weber’s instructions. She had climbed aboard the tram and made her way to Frankfurter Allee, travelling another two stops with the Ringbahn train. Reaching Roederstrasse she headed towards the old axle factory and climbed into the abandoned site through a gap in the rusty fence. She had to try, even if she could scarcely believe the girl would have fled here of all places.
She combed the first floor and the second, making a few discoveries along the way: wax residue, empty bottles, a battered old spoon, traces of trodden-out cigarettes. Search complete, she returned to the concrete stairs with the worn steel edges and descended them one by one. She felt a little uneasy alone in a place like this. The afternoon was simply the wrong time. Perhaps she should come back at dawn with Gereon.
Out of nowhere a boy appeared at the base of the steps, a broad-shouldered type with an angular skull and blackened fingernails, who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. At first he seemed as surprised as she was, gawping idiotically before bringing his expression under control. He did at least seem aware of how terrifying he looked. He puffed out his chest and crossed his arms to make them look even more muscular.
‘Can’t you read?’ he said. ‘Entry’s forbidden.’
‘I was just going.’
Charly tried to remain unfazed but was surprised at how wispy her voice sounded. C’mon now, she thought, can’t you think of anything better than that?
‘Shame. I prefer my women to come.’ His grin left her in no doubt that he was being deliberately suggestive.
Damn it, she thought, why did you have to go traipsing around here all by yourself?
‘I’m looking for someone,’ she said. ‘A girl. About five foot seven, dark-blonde, slim, bandage on her . . .’
‘What the hell is this, are you a dyke?’ The boy planted himself in front of her. ‘Or is it your daughter who’s run away? Give me a better description. Maybe I’ve fucked her.’
Charly wanted to punch his ugly face. You don’t scare me, she thought, you’re still just a kid, a cheeky brat with no manners. ‘Looks like someone forgot to bring you up properly.’
‘You can always start now. Shall I show you where I’d like to be brought up?’
This potty-mouthed chatter was too much. Charly tried to push her way past, but the boy took her by the arm and flung her backwards. She stumbled but managed to grab hold of the rail before landing on the steel edge of the concrete steps, earning herself a few bruises.
She was wrong. This was no child she was dealing with, and no one knew she was here, not even Weber. She picked herself up and was about to say something when she heard a voice, sharp as a knife. ‘Leave the woman alone, Kralle!’
She looked around at a girl in a thin coat, her black hair covered by a beret. Although her snub nose and massive brown eyes made her look sweet, Kralle seemed to respect her – or maybe it was the large knife in her hand.
‘If it isn’t little Vicky,’ he said. ‘What’s this, have you founded a new club? Women helping women?’
‘I don’t want the cops breathing down our neck because you can’t keep it in your pants. So apologise and let her go.’ She pointed towards the exit with the tip of the blade.
‘Naughty little Vicky has a knife. I’m so scared.’
‘I would be too in your shoes, arsehole, or have you forgotten what girls with knives can do? I’m just as handy as Alex.’
‘Alex, the stupid dyke.’
Vicky had touched a nerve.
‘Alex,’ Charly asked, ‘is a girl?’
She could see Vicky thinking quickly. She had said more than she intended.
‘Is she the one you’re looking for?’ Kralle said, almost politely now. ‘Alexandra Reinhold? The description fits. Well, I’m afraid our Alex isn’t home at the moment, otherwise I’d be only too glad to introduce the little tramp . . .’ Stupid as he looked, he had an instinct for hurting people.
‘Kralle, shut up!’
‘The fuck I will! Who brought you up? When grown-ups ask you something, you answer.’
Charly tried to allay Vicky’s fears. ‘You needn’t be afraid,’ she said. ‘I want to help your friend.’
‘If you’re from Welfare, you can piss off,’ Vicky hissed. ‘We know your kind of help!’
‘Maybe the cops sent her on ahead,’ Kralle said. ‘Is Alex involved in this KaDeWe business? I thought she and her little Jewish friend had something to do with it.’
The girl with the knife suddenly lost her temper. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re saying,’ she shouted. ‘Do you have any idea what happened, you stupid, fat bastard? Now piss off before I cut you a second arsehole!’
Kralle hunched his shoulders and left.
‘You’d better go too,’ Vicky said to Charly, ‘and forget what that idiot just said.’
‘I want to help Alexandra. Do you know where I can find her? She’s injured her hand and I think . . .’
‘Didn’t you hear me? Piss off!’
The knife in Vicky’s hand shook, and she looked as if she could lose control at any moment. Charly decided not to take that chance. The knife looked sharp.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘but if you change your mind, call me. Like I said, I want to help. I know that Alexandra is afraid of something; perhaps she should talk to me about it. I’m not from the police or Welfare.’ From her handbag she produced the notebook she had carried since her time in Homicide, wrote down her Moabit number and tore out the page. She placed the paper on the stairs and picked her way across the shards of glass, back into the open air.
Her heart was pounding as she emerged onto the street. Walking quickly towards Landsberger Allee, she opened her handbag and counted her change as she went. At the Ringbahn station she made straight for the nearest telephone booth.
25
Dressed in a dark suit with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, Goldstein stood outside the door, stared at the brass number, and withdrew the hand that was about to knock. Seized by a sudden nervousness, he paced back and forth like a tiger in a cage. No one paid him any attention; only a child being dragged through the ward in his parents’ wake looked at him for any length of time. He decided to go in, despite his reservations, just as the door unexpectedly opened. A man wearing a black hat came out, looked at him and his bouquet with a serious expression and walked past.
Beard and sidelocks made him seem older than he was, possibly about thirty, more likely mid-twenties. The brief moment the door was open had been enough for Goldstein to see the numerous visitors inside the room. It looked as if the entire family was gathered round the sickbed, including a second man in a black caftan. Everyone else was dressed in normal clothes.
He took a deep breath when the door closed again and the young man had disappeared inside the stairwell at the end of the corridor.
Arriving during visiting hours had been a bad idea. He couldn’t go in, not with all those people there, and suddenly felt out of place with his bouquet of flowers.
Yet, until that point everything had gone so smoothly. No one had asked any questions, and the porter had provided the room number without hesitation. Dressed in his plain, dark, single-breasted suit and carrying his bouquet of flowers, Abraham Goldstein looked like an ordinary visitor, blending in with the many others moving about with flowers during visiting hours.
Everything had seemed so easy, except that it wasn’t.
Goldstein paced up and down outside the door, unsure what to do. No one in there would recognise him, but he wondered whether he shouldn’t wait until the family had gone. With that, he made up his mind. Pressing the flowers into the hands of a puzzled nurse, he exited the ward the same way he had come.
26
At the public entrance, Charly had said, but she wasn’t there when Rath turned the corner past Alexanderhaus. The entrance to police headquarters on Grunerstrasse, right by the arches of the suburban railway, might have been the only one with an eye-catching perron, but that didn’t stop the rest of the colossal brick structure from inspiring awe. Purpose-built and bigger, even, than the City Palace, Berliners referred to it as Red Castle. Most police officers, however, simply called their workplace Castle; others, somewhat less awe-struck, dubbed it Factory.
He was to wait on the steps outside, rather than at the porter’s lodge or in his office. She hadn’t said why, but he sensed she would have no great desire to run into her former colleagues. Well, there was little chance of that happening here. Although a great many people used the public entrance, those who worked at police headquarters tended to avoid it. She hadn’t said a great deal on the telephone, only that they should meet at Alex and that she needed his help.
Kirie was sniffing at every corner and gazing at strange dogs as they passed. Already Rath had been forced to ward off the attentions of a pushy male pug during their lunchtime stroll, but that was as exciting as it got. His shift in the Excelsior had passed without event. Evidently Goldstein had given up trying to escape his minders and disappeared into his suite. He hadn’t shown himself since, even choosing to have his lunch brought to the room.
Rath was so preoccupied with Kirie that only now did he register the eye-catching vehicle parked beside the railway arches. A slender man climbed out of the driver’s door, and his appearance caused something of a stir, partly on account of his straight, black hair, which was bound in a long ponytail, and partly on account of his high cheekbones and impenetrable, dark, narrow eyes. Rath recognised him instantly . . . Liang Kuen-Yao, Johann Marlow’s shadow, in a tailored suit as always.
What the hell was Marlow’s Chinaman doing at police headquarters? Liang strode purposefully to the entrance, but only when he tipped his hat in greeting did Rath realise that he himself was the target.
‘Inspector,’ Liang said. ‘Please come with me. Your presence is requested.’ Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed back to the car.
Rath looked around. When he was certain there was no one here who knew him, he followed. The freshly washed car was parked between a dusty Opel and a new Ford. The colour of a fine red wine, it looked as if it had arrived straight from Holly-wood. Not even Hindenburg’s Mercedes could have attracted more attention. Several youths gazed in wonder while maintaining a respectful distance. They were discussing what make it was.
‘It’s a Chevy.’ – ‘Nonsense, a Buick Master Six.’ – ‘American at any rate.’
It was indeed an American vehicle, but a Duesenberg, as uncommon on Berlin’s roads as penguins in the Sahara. Liang opened the door and, to Rath’s great surprise, Kirie sprang into the back. Before following, he took one last look to check Charly wasn’t coming around the corner. Kirie crouched in the spacious footwell in front of the backseat, and allowed herself to be stroked by a man inside.
‘Good dog,’ said Johann Marlow.
‘That must be a Boulette from Aschinger,’ Rath said. ‘Kirie would eat one of those out of the devil’s hand.’
‘I hope that’s not a reference to me.’ Marlow looked just as Rath remembered him: a little stocky but powerfully built, his linen summer suit tailored to perfection. ‘Good to see you again, Inspector,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know I had a choice?’
‘I’m pleased to see you’re as realistic as ever.’
Rath felt as if he’d stepped into his own nightmare. He had been expecting Marlow to show up again, but had pushed the knowledge aside, almost daring to hope that his dealings with the man were over.
Johann Marlow was known as Dr Mabuse or simply Dr M. At the start of his time in Berlin, Rath had become involved with him in the course of a case. Its resolution had brought a series of consequences.
At first everything had been fine. Rath had his killer, and Marlow had the gold he was after. Then a few months later an envelope containing five thousand marks appeared in Rath’s mailbox. No letter, no sender, not even Rath’s address – but he knew straightaway who it was from.
He hadn’t asked for the money, but neither had he given it back. Several months later, he ignored the fact that it was dirty and bought a car. Perhaps to this day he wouldn’t have touched it if his friend, Weinert, hadn’t needed to sell his old Buick when he was in a financial jam. The money meant that Rath could help him, though the stubbornness with which the Free State of Prussia refused him promotion and, with it, a decent salary, were contributory factors too. What was left had lain untouched in an account ever since.
Among all this he had neglected one crucial detail: the five thousand marks weren’t just a thank you and reward for his part in locating the Sorokin gold, they sealed a bond which Rath would sooner have dissolved – only, he didn’t know how.
He looked at Marlow. What did the man want from him? ‘I’m realistic enough to know that heading me off outside police headquarters is lunacy, especially in a flashy crate like that.’
‘If you don’t like it, then make sure you can be reached by telephone in future. Or, at the very least, that you spend your nights at home.’
‘You were at Luisenufer?’
‘If you had been there at four this morning we’d have had this conversation long ago. Poor Kuen-Yao had to wait in your flat for nothing. As for the flashy crate, the vehicle is a present from a girlfriend overseas, which I’m currently test driving.’
‘There was I thinking it was you who sent your girlfriends cars.’
Marlow laughed. ‘In this case, it concerns a female business associate, whom I helped gain a foothold in the States. She’s doing rather well now, as you can see.’
‘It’s still a typical American show-off machine,’ Rath said. Right now anything American could go hang. Except for their music.
‘I must say I’m surprised. I thought you drove American vehicles too?’
‘Singular,’ Rath said. ‘I drive an American vehicle, a used one at that. It’s no match for your fleet.’
‘You should work with me more often. You’d be able to afford something better.’
‘Who says I want to?’
‘Have I been misinformed about Prussian Police pay grades? Weren’t your salaries cut again?’
Rath was tired of the subject. ‘What’s so important that you need to interrupt your test drive to speak to me?’
‘I need your help.’ Marlow made it sound like a request. ‘Hugo Lenz,’ he continued. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’
Rath shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Head of the Berolina Ringverein . . .’
‘Red Hugo!’
Marlow nodded. ‘You’ve come across him then?’
‘No, but I know the name.’
Operating under his nickname, Hugo Lenz was a known figure in the Berlin underworld. Red Hugo, an experienced safebreaker, was head of Berolina, the Ringverein Marlow used for his shady deals – without ever having been a member himself. It was a profitable collaboration for both sides. Berolina did the best business out of all the Berlin underworld syndicates, and Marlow always had enough men at his disposal – and not just when there was work to be carried out. The men from Berolina were Marlow’s muscle, a small army loyal to his illegitimate business empire. Nevertheless, he was careful to avoid anything that gave the impression he might have links with the Ringverein. He didn’t even go to their receptions – in contrast to a number of police officers, who maintained good relationships with Berlin’s criminal organisations. Even Superintendent Gennat had been known to attend the odd founder’s day celebration.
‘You’re aware that Lapke and Höller were released from Tegel two weeks ago?’
Rath nodded. The heads of the Nordpiraten had been caught red-handed two years ago breaking into a vault at Reichskanzlerplatz. Their temporary incarceration in Tegel had decisively weakened the Pirates, with Berolina the main beneficiaries. With Lapke and Höller back on the streets they seemed determined to re-establish the old status quo, and incidents were stacking up. A week ago, unidentified men had thrown one of Marlow’s drug-dealers through the closed window of a dance hall along with his goods, the victim sustaining not only cuts but paralysis to his legs and lower body. Shortly afterwards, a newly established Pirate betting office had been raided and destroyed. A gangland war seemed to be in the offing, a development many police officers observed with satisfaction, content to let the city’s criminal elements take care of one another.
‘I’ve heard about your trouble,’ Rath said.
‘Trouble’s the wrong word. We have our first fatality. A . . . how shall I put it? Business associate of Berolina was found murdered in his shop.’
Rath was surprised. Murder was against the Ringverein code of honour. That said, the Nordpiraten weren’t thought to take matters such as honour and tradition particularly seriously. ‘You believe the Pirates are behind it?’
Marlow shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I no longer believe in coincidence.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Hugo Lenz has been missing since yesterday.’
Rath pricked up his ears. ‘And you think the Pirates are behind that too?’
‘That’s what I want you to find out.’
Rath thought he saw a familiar face in the polished rear mirror of the Duesenberg. He turned his head to make sure. It was her! She was coming down Dircksenstrasse, gazing searchingly at police headquarters. Rath ducked.
‘What is it?’ Marlow asked. ‘Are you playing hide-and-seek?’
‘There’s someone outside,’ Rath whispered, ‘who must not see me in your car under any circumstances.’
‘Oh, let’s not be coy now. You’re talking about a woman. The cute dark-haired thing with the green hat?’ Marlow laughed and signalled to Liang. The engine gave off a low, steady rumble and started. ‘The same woman you took to Plaza back in the day, am I right?’
Rath didn’t respond. Slowly he lifted his head over the seat and looked through the rear windscreen. Charly was still gazing at the public entrance, looking at her wristwatch.
