Goldstein, page 15
He walked down Andreasstrasse, looking at the house numbers. The neighbourhood didn’t bring back good memories. Not far from here, at a construction site on Koppenstrasse, which had long since been replaced by a new building, Rath had clashed fatally with Josef Wilczek, a small-time crook, and then disposed of the corpse. Later he had consigned the man’s file to the Wet Fish, the Castle’s store of unsolved cases, after sabotaging the investigation. At least that’s what he thought, until Johann Marlow quite casually dropped the name Wilczek into a conversation. It was one of the reasons he couldn’t refuse any of the gangster’s requests, and that included searching for Red Hugo. At least – and this was to the man’s credit – it was the first time in almost two and a half years that Marlow had tried to use him. Until now it had been the other way around, which only exacerbated Rath’s debt.
He looked around. The pub where Dr M. had waited in vain for Hugo Lenz on Monday evening must be close. Not the sort of neighbourhood Charly should be walking around in at night.
On Langen Strasse, a flickering neon sign was engaged in battle with the oncoming dusk. Amor-Diele. That was the place. For an underworld meeting point it looked pretty respectable. Perhaps it had to be for Johann Marlow to frequent it.
Rath came to a halt. He looked at his list of addresses and then the sign outside the pub. Damn it, he thought as he pocketed his notebook. Charly’s Reinholds could wait. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter and went over.
31
The old man didn’t make it out of the station building. The brownshirts caught up with him and pushed him into a corner. Two or three passersby looked across, and suddenly rushed to get down to the platform. The man at the ticket counter leaned over his till to count his change. Goldstein entered the foyer from the top of the escalator and saw the lips under the white beard moving as if in prayer. ‘Could you please to step aside so that I go back down the underground?’ he asked politely.
‘It’s for Germans only,’ said the red-faced man who had started the whole thing off. He tapped the old man’s chest with his fingers. ‘Who said you could take the train?’
‘But I have ticket.’
‘Didn’t you hear? For Germans only, you’ll have to walk!’ One of the brownshirts struck the old man a hefty blow so that he stumbled into the arms of the ringleader.
‘Hey, Jew, watch where you’re going!’
‘Well,’ said a third, giving the old man, who was still holding his ticket, a sharp rap on the arm. ‘Aren’t you going to apologise to the Scharführer?’
The old man’s eyes flitted this way and that, from one man to the next. Enough was enough.
‘Why don’t you just let the man go home?’ Goldstein said.
Four pairs of eyes turned to face him.
As calmly as possible, Goldstein lit a Camel, and, for a moment, they were speechless, looking at each other before returning to the man with the cigarette. ‘What do we have here?’
Goldstein would have liked to tear a strip off them, but he didn’t want to start a fight. He just wanted them to leave the old man in peace.
While the eyes of his tormentors were on Goldstein, the old man lunged to the right, darting sideways and out of the building with surprising speed. The four men gazed after him in confusion.
‘We haven’t finished with you yet!’ the Scharführer waved his fist at Goldstein, a gesture that seemed laughable, and followed his three cronies outside.
‘You’re welcome, asshole,’ Goldstein snarled in English. He was part of this now. By the time he stepped onto the street the old man had crossed the carriageway. His pursuers waited for their Scharführer to catch up, then bore down on the old man from both sides. He looked to the left and right, before turning towards the park, which rose dark and threatening in the night sky, a wall of leaves illuminated by streetlights.
They had forced him into a corner.
Goldstein who, as a child, had been told never to walk through McCarren Park after dark, had no idea what the man was thinking. Perhaps the trees reminded him of the Galician forests, or he hoped simply to hide among the bushes. He disappeared between two box trees and, for a brief moment, the brownshirts looked around idiotically, before stalking after him.
Goldstein had to let three or four cars pass before he could cross too. The old man had struck out for the undergrowth, and his pursuers had followed. He decided on a gravel path. At least the way here was lit.
32
The man was smoking behind the wheel of his car.
Rath hadn’t learned much in the pub, but at least they had stood him a beer. The landlord, obviously briefed by Marlow, showed him to a spacious room behind the lounge and toilets, with three tables that could be pushed together for conferences or large dinners, but would better suit games of skat. The most noticeable thing was the desk with the telephone, by which Rath knew straightaway that he was in one of Johann Marlow’s many offices. This was where Red Hugo Lenz should have appeared yesterday evening, having last been seen at lunchtime. According to the landlord Lenz didn’t have any quirks, only a passion for the horses, and regularly visited the racetrack at Karlshorst. Rath’s theory that the Nordpiraten had taken him from outside Amor-Diele was rejected out of hand. The landlord claimed the Pirates were too cowardly to set foot in Friedrichshain, but it looked like he might be mistaken there.
Rath crossed the street, opened the passenger door and sat inside. The man stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a taxi.’
Rath pulled out his identification. The man made to open the door but froze when he felt the barrel of Rath’s Walther against his temple.
‘Stay where you are, and close the door.’ The man obeyed. ‘Back on the streets, Johnny?’
‘Do we know each other?’
‘It was a long time ago. Vice squad. Bruno Wolter.’ A light came on in Johnny’s head. ‘You were a doorman, weren’t you? You’ve risen in the world.’
‘Is this allowed?’
‘Does it matter?’ Rath pressed the Walther a little harder against the man’s temple. ‘You’re from the Nordpiraten, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘And you’re a cop coming out of a Berolina dive. What am I supposed to make of that?’
‘Nothing. You’re here to answer questions, not me. Hugo Lenz has disappeared, and the majority of people in there think the Nordpiraten had something to do with it. How many evenings have you been sitting here now? Was it you who kept an eye on Red Hugo before giving him up?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Why break a drug-dealer’s spine? Why make a bonfire out of a newspaper kiosk?’
‘We’re taking back what’s rightfully ours.’
‘No matter how many people are killed in the process?’
‘That’s rich. Do you know why I’m sitting here, Inspector? It’s because Rudi Höller has disappeared. Lapke thinks Berolina bumped him off.’
‘Rudi the Rat?’
‘We deal with these things ourselves. No cops.’
‘What makes you think Berolina are behind it? They don’t go about killing people. They stick to the code of honour.’
‘Well, maybe Red Hugo and his men don’t get their own hands dirty, but if you knew who just landed in Berlin . . .’
‘Explain!’
‘Don’t you know anything? You haven’t heard there’s an American killer in town? Now, who has the money to send for someone like that? Not the Pirates! You should spend some time probing the good men of Berolina.’
‘What do you think I’ve been doing?’ Rath gestured towards the pub. ‘The things they’re saying about your lot, you’d want to be careful hanging around like this.’ He opened the door. ‘Tell your boss that we don’t want a gangland war here in Berlin. Tell him to keep the peace, or he’ll be straight back in the can.’
33
Away from the streetlamps it was pitch black. Wind rattled the trees and gravel crunched underfoot. Goldstein had started to believe he was the only person in this nocturnal wilderness when he heard a cry, but the juddering of a passing train drowned all other sound, even the rustle of leaves in the trees.
He moved in the direction of the cry until he saw the four brownshirts gathered in a little clearing around the old man. Silhouetted by the light of a streetlamp, their long shadows were thrown across the grass. The black hat was pulling himself up from the ground. ‘You Shkotzim, why don’t you let an old man go about his business in peace?’
‘Speak German. This is Germany!’
One of the brownshirts launched a kick at the old man’s solar plexus, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. A second kick struck him under the chin and he toppled forward, his hat rolling across the grass.
Goldstein stepped silently onto the soft grass, but they were too preoccupied to notice. The fat one fumbled around with his fly. ‘Make a bit of room. I’m desperate here.’
The others laughed and stepped aside. The old man groaned but didn’t move. The fat man had his dick in his hands when Goldstein shouted. ‘Who shat on your uniforms?’
All four turned, and the one holding his dick said: ‘I don’t believe it. Someone must have a death wish.’
‘It’s the big mouth from just now!’
‘Must be a foreigner who doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Needs teaching a lesson.’
‘I’ll tell you who I’m dealing with,’ said Goldstein. ‘A group of cowardly mamzerim going at an old man, one with a fat belly and a tiny schmock. Put that thing away before it drops off. You won’t find it in the dark.’
The fat brownshirt stuffed his penis back in his fly and fumbled frantically at the buttons. The other three turned their attentions to Abraham Goldstein.
‘The way you’re talking you must be a Jew too?’
‘It doesn’t fucking matter what he is, Stefan,’ the ringleader said, still buttoning his fly, ‘either way he needs a good slap.’
Stefan planted himself in front of Goldstein and looked him over. ‘You don’t look Jewish to me, so don’t butt in. You’ll regret it.’
Goldstein flung his cigarette onto the grass. ‘Fuck you,’ he said in English, putting his hands in his coat pocket.
‘We’re in Germany,’ Stefan said, ‘and in Germany we speak German. Time for your first lesson.’
He lifted his right hand but Goldstein rammed his forehead against the bridge of his nose before he could move. Stefan’s eyes rolled and he fell to the floor, blood streaming from his nose. One down, three to go.
‘Did you understand that?’ Goldstein asked. ‘Or do you need me to translate?’
The fat ringleader found his voice. ‘Now you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Show him, Gerd!’
Gerd put on a knuckleduster. ‘You won’t get me like that,’ he said. ‘Not so much as a warning, you cowardly piece of shit.’
‘Consider yourself forewarned.’ Goldstein pulled the Remington out of his coat pocket. ‘One more step, and there’ll be a hole in that nice uniform.’
Gerd stared uncertainly into the barrel and looked to his leader. ‘He’s got a piece, Günter. He must think we haven’t seen it all before.’
‘Put that away,’ said Günter. ‘You think the SA would venture into a Communist area unarmed?’
‘I repeat. Reach for a pocket and you’ll find yourself with a hole in your shirt.’
Abe must have been concentrating too hard on the ringleader and Gerd’s knuckleduster. He lost sight of the third man. By the time he registered movement, his arms were gripped from behind. He lost his balance and, together with his attacker, fell to the ground. A shot went off and someone screamed.
‘Aargh, my foot!’
His attacker loosened his grip for a moment and Goldstein slammed the Remington against his temple, knocking him out. He wasn’t the only one rendered out of commission. Gerd was sitting on the lawn next to the unconscious Stefan, clasping his right foot with both hands. On his right hand he still wore the knuckleduster. Dark, shiny lines of blood seeped through his fingers and dripped on the floor.
‘Damn it, my foot!’ he yelled. ‘What have you done, you arsehole?’
Goldstein looked over at the fat man, who stood off, making no move to approach. He picked himself up, ready for the next attack, but the man stayed where he was. ‘So,’ the man said, ‘things look a little different now, don’t they. Drop your weapon!’
At first Goldstein thought he must have misheard, but then he saw the Luger cocked in the man’s hand.
‘I’m warning you,’ Günter said. ‘I’m a good marksman. Pistol on the floor.’
Goldstein shrugged. ‘You know, in situations like this, it doesn’t really come down to who’s the best shot.’
‘Oh?’
‘It comes down to who can hold their nerve.’
‘Drop your weapon!’
‘That’s what I’m talking about. You’re too nervy. Your voice is too loud. Any moment now your hand will start shaking.’
‘An arsehole like you, I’d hit every time.’
‘The problem is you don’t want to shoot me. You can’t. You’re not capable. Otherwise you’d have done it already.’
The Luger began to shake.
‘Shoot him!’ cried Gerd. ‘Do him! The bastard shot my foot! It’s self-defence!’
Günter was already moving backwards.
‘I think it’s about time I issued another warning,’ Goldstein said, nodding towards the Luger. ‘Drop your weapon before I shoot it out of your hand. Have you ever thought how awkward life can be without a right hand?’
The panic in the fat man’s eyes grew. Fight or flight? He dropped the Luger, turned on his heels and ran.
‘Some Scharführer,’ Goldstein said to the whimpering Gerd, who was still mourning the loss of his toes. ‘Leaving you in the lurch.’
Stefan groaned and put his hands to his bloody nose. Reaching it, he gave a yawp and immediately regained consciousness. The third man was also coming round. All three looked at Goldstein. In the meantime Gerd had tears in his eyes, and was making an increasingly strained face.
‘This isn’t a picnic, you know,’ Goldstein said. ‘So far, you’ve managed to escape with a few bruises . . .’
‘Bruises?’ Gerd wailed. ‘My foot!’
‘ . . . but I warn you. It’s time to get the hell out of here before I change my mind.’
Stefan and the other man cast a final glance at their lame colleague, before taking flight in different directions.
Goldstein planted himself in front of Gerd.
‘Stop dragging your feet, that means you too.’
‘How am I supposed to walk?’
‘Try hopping or crawling. Your whining is getting on my nerves.’
Moments ago, Little Gerd here had been prepared to smash his face in with a knuckleduster. Now he was behaving like he’d just realised that life was unfair. He pointed the Remington at him. ‘I’d get out of here, unless you want to lose the other foot.’
Gerd gave a cry of pain as he tried putting weight on his left foot for the first time. When he shifted the load to his heel it appeared to work. Slowly he limped towards the beam of light and the gravel path, and hobbled out of sight.
Goldstein went over to the old man and handed him his black hat. He was a little worse for wear, and there was a bruise under his white beard. All in all, though, he wasn’t doing too badly. ‘Up you get, old timer,’ he said, helping the astonishingly light man onto his feet. The Jew dusted the dirt and blades of grass from his caftan, and looked at him as if he were the Messiah.
‘Just so we understand each other,’ Goldstein said. ‘I don’t exist. You never saw me!’
‘But I do see you. You stand here now.’
‘But really, I am somewhere else.’
‘I don’t understand. Who are you?’
‘I could be the Archangel Michael for all it matters. Just to be clear again: this never happened. I’ll take you home to your family, and then you’ll forget about the whole thing, yes?’
‘Many times, thank you,’ the old man said. ‘But you shouldn’t have fired shot.’ He shook his head. ‘Shooting is wrong.’
Arguing with pig-headed old Jews of this kind was a waste of time, as Goldstein knew from experience. He gave the man his arm and led him towards the gravel path.
‘Let me tell you the story of old Rabbi Zanowitsch from Lubowitz,’ the old man said. Goldstein rolled his eyes. He had heard it many, many years before.
34
The new month began in a crush as Weiss summoned all senior CID officers, from inspector upwards, to the large meeting room.
For once Rath didn’t mind. He pressed Kirie’s lead into Gräf’s hands, dispatched the detective to the Excelsior and treated himself to a coffee. In the cluster of people that formed outside the room were a few familiar faces from A Division, among them Wilhelm Böhm sporting a holiday tan. Rath wouldn’t have begrudged Bulldog Böhm a few more days off, or, indeed, early retirement on full pay. He kept his distance, shuffling forward beside Narcotics, who were bitching about Nebe, their former boss, whom Weiss had made head of Robbery Division a few weeks before. Nebe was ambitious, unpopular, and seen as Bernhard Weiss’s protégé. Those who enjoyed the protection of superiors at the Castle didn’t have an easy time, as Rath knew from experience, having been seen as the darling of the former commissioner, Zörgiebel, when he started in Berlin.
The crowd pushed through the double leaf doors and into the room. Rath found a space at the back and sat down. The air was already sticky. Most officers were smoking, and no one thought to open a window. He yielded to the herd mentality and opened a packet of Overstolz, sniffing the fresh tobacco before lighting up.
Yesterday evening had ended with him and Charly smoking in his flat on Luisenufer, exhausted and resigned after many hours of fruitless door-to-door canvassing. Rath had waited over an hour for her, and was starting to worry when he heard the key turn. Moments later, her disappointed face appeared in the door. She hadn’t found the girl, of course, although she had worked through her entire list. He consoled her with the prospect of tomorrow, and received a tired, battle-weary nod in return.
