Goldstein, page 21
‘I know he isn’t.’
‘Did you send for Goldstein?’
‘Who?’
‘An American contract killer. The Pirates seem to think he was engaged by Berolina. And that Rudi Höller was his first victim.’
‘Inspector, if that was the case I’d have told you long ago. I don’t know this Goldstein of yours.’
‘I wish I could believe you.’
‘Why shouldn’t I play with an open hand? I’d only be hindering you in your work. You do work for me after all.’
‘Supposing someone else hired the Yank? Someone out for Berolina and the Pirates at the same time?’
‘I can’t think who that might be. Who would be delusional enough to take on two Ringvereine at once?’
‘Perhaps you should have a little think about that,’ Rath said. ‘One more thing: Krehmann said Hugo Lenz had a girl.’
‘Come to Venuskeller, and I’ll introduce you to Hugo’s little friend myself.’
‘Now?’
‘The evening’s only just begun.’
‘It’s a little tricky. My Buick’s in the garage.’
‘Which garage?’
‘In Reinickendorf, the arse-end of nowhere. Arse-end’s about right for its employees too.’
‘Then come tomorrow, let’s say at twelve. Leave the car to me.’
Marlow hung up. That was no suggestion. It was an order.
45
She was still furious. For half the night she had lain awake wishing him to hell, while at the same time longing for his presence beside her. She went to the window and looked out at the day’s first dismal rays of sunlight as they groped their way timidly towards Spenerstrasse.
It was quarter past seven according to Gereon’s alarm clock on the bedside table. She swept it aside, and it landed with a clatter on the wooden floor. That was no good either.
Her rage had surfaced again in the S-Bahn, gnawing away at her on the journey home, and continuing into the night.
The worst thing was that she didn’t even know why she was so angry, or at whom. Gereon, possibly, but just as likely herself. Ultimately, it was the silence of the last few weeks that had fuelled it, and this silence wasn’t just Gereon’s, but her own.
She no longer trusted him, no longer knew what he thought about her and her work. Did he take her seriously, or acquiesce just to keep her onside? What did he want from her, damn it?
Once you’re married, you won’t have to work anymore. Those were his mother’s words, but Gereon had said nothing in response. Was it because he felt the same way?
Charly had only wanted to tell Erika Rath about her work at Lichtenberg District Court, to get their faltering conversation in that stuffy cafe off the ground. Then came the offending sentence, and an even more embarrassed silence. Gereon looked at his shoes and sipped his coffee; Mother Rath didn’t seem to realise what she had done.
In all the months they had been together, they had never once spoken about marriage, not even jokingly, but that hadn’t stopped him from brazenly introducing her as my fiancée when they ran into Mother Rath by chance outside a large department store. For simplicity’s sake, he had whispered in her ear.
Cologne had been a total disaster, yet she had been so looking forward to getting out of Berlin, to seeing Gereon’s old friend Paul, and visiting his home city for the first time. Things had started so promisingly too.
It was the football that had sealed the deal. She had seen Hertha Berlin play a few times at the Plumpe, their home stadium, but never away, and certainly not in a final to decide the German championship. What a game it was! At halftime, Hertha were unlucky to be behind München, but had turned the game thanks to Hanne Sobek. When the winning goal was struck, shortly before the final whistle, she flung her arms around Gereon, then around Paul, and the two men joked that she was the only woman to be interested in football. They celebrated the win in Cologne’s old town, together with the visiting Hertha fans and a few sympathetic Rhineland Prussians until, at some point, Paul discreetly took his leave. Gereon had booked a room with a Rhine view, and later, as she stood by the window in her nightshirt and gazed onto the lights reflected in the river, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her on the nape of the neck. She felt as happy as she had done in a long time.
She wouldn’t discover how illusory this feeling was until the next day when, wandering through Cologne’s shopping district, they were caught unawares by a woman whom Gereon introduced as my mother, before gesturing towards Charly and saying: ‘Fräulein Ritter. My . . . fiancée.’
Erika Rath’s eyes widened in a mixture of curiosity and suspicion as she dragged them into the nearest cafe. ‘I’d have invited you to our home, of course,’ she said to Charly. ‘But Gereon never tells me anything.’
She had never seen him so subdued. ‘I . . . we were going to visit you, of course,’ he said. ‘But it was meant to be a surprise. We only arrived yesterday.’
Mother and son looked at each other in silence. Charly spoke a little about the District Court, until Erika Rath voiced her opinion about work and marriage, whereupon they lapsed back into a suddenly icy silence.
‘We’ll be round tomorrow,’ Gereon said. ‘Don’t tell Father, it’s meant to be a surprise.’
In the evening, Gereon took her to an exclusive restaurant on the banks of the Rhine, a modern building with windows all around, which offered a spellbinding view of the cathedral and river, but the evening was ruined before it began. Erika Rath was still present. It would have been better to talk about it, but Gereon preferred to remain silent.
The next day they paid the Raths a formal visit as promised. Charly was still his fiancée, for simplicity’s sake, and it became clear that Gereon had never breathed a word about her to his parents. The Raths felt ambushed by their presence and, for Charly, that second afternoon was even worse than the first.
Afterwards they left, as planned, by overnight train for a week on the Baltic Sea. The holiday flat in a captain’s cottage was tiny and wonderfully pretty, the weather in Prerow superb, but the atmosphere between them was soured. The blue skies over the Darss couldn’t salvage things, and their first holiday together was a disaster. Even if they had never spoken about it.
In fact they hadn’t spoken about anything, had simply returned to their daily lives upon arriving back in Berlin. Of course, she could have made the running, but she didn’t see why she should. It was his silence that had got them into this situation, and so it was up to him now to break it.
She just didn’t know where she was with him anymore, and the more she thought about it, the more she realised she never had. What did Gereon Rath want? To marry her? Then he should damn well go ahead and ask! But if he thought she would abandon her career, he’d better think again.
Charly went into the kitchen and put on water for coffee. The place still smelled of dog. Kirie’s guest basket stood outside in the hall under the coat stand. She gazed at the rims of her eyes in the bathroom mirror and decided for once to follow Weber’s orders and stay home.
She had a slice of bread with honey and two cups of coffee, and gradually her mind felt clear enough to reach for the telephone. She knew the number by heart. A secretary answered.
‘Good morning, Ritter here,’ she said. ‘Could I speak to Assessor Scherer please?’
46
Rath had a strange dream. Dancing with Charly through the lobby of the Excelsior, she kept standing on his bare toes with her pointed high heels. The music was bizarre and out of time. Behind reception, he thought he could make out the face of Johann Marlow above a gold-embroidered Excelsior uniform. Abe Goldstein sat at the bar, drinking one enormous glass of whisky after another and, with each new glass, toasting Rath and smiling cynically. Suddenly, he slid from the barstool, pulled a pistol from his jacket and pointed it at Rath, at Charly, at Marlow. Three times he pulled the trigger and the barrel spewed fire, but there was no bang, just an ear-splitting DRRRRRNNNG, DRRRRRNNNG, DRRRRRNNNG.
Rath sat up with a start. His hands groped for Charly, but couldn’t find her. Gradually he recovered his bearings, but only when the fourth DRRRRRNNNG sounded did he realise it was the doorbell. Damn, what time was it? Where was his wristwatch? His alarm clock was still in Moabit. He must have overslept.
It rang for a fifth time. Whoever it was they were damn stubborn. Rath got up and looked for his dressing gown, but it was in Spenerstrasse too. He fished fresh underwear and socks out of the wardrobe, threw on yesterday evening’s suit, which hung damp and mud-splattered over the chair, and went to the door. Kirie gazed at the door as curiously as her master. It couldn’t be Charly; the dog would have greeted her differently.
When Rath opened the door, a man in dirty blue overalls was crouched on the floor, trying to slip something through the letterbox. There were dark circles under his eyes, suggesting a lack of sleep. He gave a start and sprang to his feet. In his hand he held a familiar-looking key.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I didn’t think there was anyone home, so I . . .’ He held the key under Rath’s nose. A car key. ‘Your vehicle. You’re a busy man, and we thought why don’t we drop the car round, seeing as it’s ready.’
Rath was speechless. He took the car key and nodded thanks.
The man marked time for a moment, then gave a little cough. ‘Ehm, the replacement – could I take it back with me?’
Rath needed a moment to work out that the replacement was the Hanomag. He nodded, still not sure if he was really awake. ‘Of course,’ he muttered, searching in his coat pocket for the Hanomag key. The man took it and disappeared with a tip of his oil-stained cap.
‘The bill?’ he called after the mechanic, who had already reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘We’ll send it on,’ it echoed from below.
Rath went back inside. The kitchen clock showed just after half past eight. No need to panic, he wasn’t that late. Through the window he saw the mechanic crossing the courtyard with quick steps. He seemed to be in a hurry. Rath looked at the car key, then at Kirie.
‘Bark, so I know I’m awake,’ he said. ‘Or talk, so that I know I’m still asleep.’
He went into the bathroom, switched on the stove, gave the dog something to eat and returned to a lukewarm shower, washing away the previous evening’s disappointment. Only one suit hung in the wardrobe. He had to get the grey one to the dry cleaner’s. He bagged it up, deciding against a coffee in his rush to leave the house. Kirie looked bewildered. Usually they didn’t set off in such a hurry, but usually they didn’t sleep so long either.
A sand-coloured Buick was parked outside the house, its paint so shiny that at first Rath didn’t recognise his old car. It wasn’t until he saw the little scratch on the steering wheel that he was sure. He checked the paintwork, couldn’t find a scrape, and then the wheels: four new tyres fitted. At least three people must have pulled a nightshift to get this done.
Rath was continually astonished at how much influence Johann Marlow wielded. Anyone who could give a garage the hurry-up – literally overnight – must really have a lot of power. Nothing had impressed him more than the remoulded Buick standing outside his front door: not the luxury Marlow could afford, nor the private army, nor even the many connections to the police and municipal authorities.
‘Well, Kirie,’ he said to the dog. ‘Perhaps it was no bad thing Charly didn’t spend the night.’
If anything it was better. She’d have smelled a rat. Charly didn’t know anything about the five thousand marks, or the mutual favours linking him to Dr M., nor could she ever find out.
Rath put the key in the lock and turned – a perfect fit. ‘Looks like we’re all here now,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘You, me and the car.’ Kirie sprang onto the passenger seat, panting expectantly.
47
The man cut a forlorn and hostile figure, sitting uncomfortably on the wooden chair in Interview Room B. Gräf knew they had scored a bullseye yesterday, when he oversaw Leo Fleming’s arrest with a troop of uniformed officers. Renate Schobeck’s lodger had briefly eyed potential escape routes when Gräf pulled his badge but, in the end, come peaceably.
In the absence of Böhm and Grabowski, Gräf had taken matters into his own hands. There was no doubting it was the correct decision, but the Bulldog had still given him an earful this morning, before downgrading him to the role of spectator. The DCI wanted to lead the interview himself.
Böhm said nothing initially, a trick he must have learned from Gennat. Cheap as it was, it seemed to work. Fleming grew visibly nervous, and began polishing the chair with the seat of his trousers.
‘So, tell us what you were doing the night before last in Humboldthain,’ Böhm said.
Fleming gave a start. ‘In Humboldthain? What makes you think I was doing anything there?’
Böhm opened the file in front of him. ‘You were a member of the RFB,’ he read. ‘Got into a few scraps with the Nazis down the years, haven’t you?’
‘What if I have?’
‘After the RFB was banned too. In theory, anyway.’
‘The SA hasn’t been banned. They’re allowed to fight with impunity.’
‘No one in this country is allowed to fight with impunity.’
‘There’s the odd knuckle sandwich when the brownshirts take things too far. Have you seen how they carry on? You shouldn’t go thinking it’s always us Reds who start it.’
‘You don’t go out of your way to avoid it.’
‘We’re not cowards.’
Böhm nodded sympathetically. ‘In the small hours of Wednesday morning one of these fights spiralled out of control, isn’t that so?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I cut myself peeling potatoes. Didn’t Frau Schobeck tell you? Ask her!’
‘We’ve already spoken to Frau Schobeck,’ Gräf said.
Fleming looked at him in confusion. ‘Didn’t she confirm it? I gave her my things to wash.’
‘In the meantime we’ve run a blood test on them,’ Böhm said. ‘Blood type B.’
‘So what?’
‘You’re blood type O, Herr Fleming.’ He turned white as a sheet. ‘Take a guess who else has blood type B.’ Fleming was silent; no doubt he could imagine. ‘Exactly. Gerhard Kubicki, the dead man from Humboldthain.’
‘That’s a coincidence.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ Böhm shouted. ‘Why are you feeding me this crap about peeling potatoes? Do you really expect me to believe you’ve never seen Kubicki in your life?’
Fleming sat ramrod straight on his chair and fell silent.
Böhm tossed a pin onto the table. A hand held a weapon, upon which flew a flag bearing the inscription 4. Reichstreffen Berlin Pfingsten 1928. Underneath were the letters R.F.B.
Fleming stared at the pin. ‘You have no right to go rummaging through my flat,’ he said. ‘You need a search warrant for that.’
Böhm leaned back. ‘We didn’t search your flat. It was the coroner who found it, underneath Gerhard Kubicki’s corpse. It’s safe to say he wasn’t in the Red Front.’
Fleming flung his head this way and that, before positively screaming his response. ‘Alright, for God’s sake. Yes, I dragged the dead Nazi into the bushes.’
‘So you admit it.’
‘Only that I hid him! I didn’t kill him.’
‘You really expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘If you didn’t kill him, then why did you hide the corpse?’
Leo Fleming calmed down a little. ‘I meet my girl by the church there every morning. I didn’t want either of us to get in trouble.’
‘Well I must commend you there.’
‘Should I tell you what happened or not?’
‘Go on.’
48
Dark patches on the paving slabs were all that remained of the morning’s rain. Sitting here drinking coffee and cognac definitely had something. The drinks warmed from inside, the sun from outside, and a waiter appeared at regular intervals with fresh coffee, fresh cognac, and anything else you might wish for, even a copy of the Evening Post. Café Reimann had an international flavour.
Goldstein had heard English, French and Russian spoken in the hour and a half he had been here. He liked the European custom of placing tables and chairs outside, and here on the Kurfürstendamm the pavements were especially wide. Meanwhile, the passersby, who were mostly elegantly dressed and counted many pretty women among them, made for a spectacle he never grew tired of.
There was no news from Brooklyn in the Evening Post, or at least none that interested him. Not a single line about Fat Moe, and nothing about the war of the New York Gangs. The paper was six days old, but it was impossible to get a more recent edition. Nevertheless, he was glad to read anything that kept him up to date on events at home, and might inform him of Moe’s untimely demise.
The fat man’s days were numbered, that much was certain. Moe Berkowicz had rubbed too many people up the wrong way, starting with the Italians. He had an inkling he was on the way out, of course, which was why he had grown more suspicious in the last few months, eliminating more and more people, enemies both real and imagined, and weakening his position with every corpse. By now, his bloodlust had accounted for a number of his closest confidants. When even Skinny Sally, Moe’s old companion Salomon Epstein, the walking adding machine, whose precision brain had contributed more to the fat man’s rise than all his gang’s guns and muscle put together, stood on the blacklist, nobody was safe. For the first time in his life Abe Goldstein had failed to complete a contract.
Skinny Sally’s heart jumped when he saw the lights on in his flat and his boss’s killer sitting inside on the sofa. His gaze said simply: make it quick.
Abe had reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, Sally. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.’
Salomon Epstein understood Goldstein’s visit meant it would be wise to disappear for a few weeks, as far away as possible from Moe Berkowicz and his men. He packed a suitcase and, ever since that evening, Abe Goldstein had a new friend.
