Goldstein, page 23
‘Let me guess: he was one of the arse-fuckers.’
‘Got it in one.’ Gräf took a few more sips of beer and drained his glass. ‘I’ve suggested to Böhm that we canvass the names on the Halensee list, but he won’t have it. Thinks we’d be better off softening up a few Communists.’
‘I never knew Böhm was such a Commie-basher.’
‘He doesn’t care if they’re Communists, Nazis or small children.’
‘But he saves his best for CID officers.’
Gräf laughed. ‘At least I have permission to question our dead Rottenführer’s superior officer tomorrow. Let’s see what comes of that.’ His gaze fell on the two glasses again. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked. ‘You’re a beer down already.’
The detective made a move to order a fresh round, but Rath waved him away. ‘Not tonight,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for his hat. ‘I’ve made other plans.’
Gräf looked at his watch. ‘At quarter past eleven?’
‘Sorry,’ he said and placed five marks on the counter. ‘Let me take care of this.’
The detective grinned. ‘So, what’s her name?’
Rath shrugged. ‘Not sure,’ he said, pleased at the look of bafflement on Gräf’s face.
51
Rath parked the Buick a walking distance from the door. If his former colleagues at Vice were on surveillance and took down his number plate, he could have a lot of explaining to do. He left the car by the Weberwiese and walked down Memeler Strasse. The fresh air did him good. He had packed his Walther, as he didn’t fancy his chances here unarmed, especially at night. When he reached the junction at Posener Strasse a dim memory surfaced.
Venuskeller was an illegal cellar bar near the former Ostbahnhof, concealed in the rear courtyard of an unprepossessing tenement house. Dim was the word. This was where his first meeting with Johann Marlow had been contrived during a visit more than two years before. Marlow’s men had led Rath, the coked-up policeman, to a warehouse on the site of the Ostbahnhof, where the gangster received him. The evening had marked the start of their fateful relationship. Well, Rath thought, at least this time he was invited.
Guards stood watch on the street, but let him approach the building and the stairs that led down to the cellar bar. A man stepped out of the shadows.
‘Herr Rath, I presume,’ he said. Rath nodded. The man tipped his hat. ‘You’re expected. Please follow me.’
The guard didn’t take him to the entrance at the foot of the stairs, but further towards the back where a staircase led directly to the office and back rooms. He would be spared the noise and scandal of Venuskeller. He wasn’t in the mood for an illegal nightclub, not after Charly and the grinning man had put paid to his evening. In fact, he was just happy to have something to do, even sleuthing for an underworld heavyweight. The guard gave two brief knocks and Liang opened.
Marlow’s Chinaman frisked him, fishing the Walther out of its holster and taking his coat. Johann Marlow sat behind Sebald’s desk. There was no sign of the bar’s owner, however. Apart from Marlow, Rath and Liang, there wasn’t a soul in the room. Sebald’s office appeared to be one of the many Marlow had dotted across the city, to be used as and when required. Through the door came the muffled sound of music aimed at getting patrons in the mood. Marlow offered a friendly greeting as usual, even standing to proffer a hand.
‘Do take a seat,’ he said, pointing to a leather chair that Liang was already straightening. The silent Chinese always seemed to be in several places at once. Rath sank onto the cushion, and Liang set down a whisky glass and poured.
‘I thought I remembered you having a taste for my malt,’ Marlow said, and raised his glass.
Rath lit an Overstolz. His supplies were dwindling again. He was smoking more than was good for him, especially in the five hours since the grinning man had opened Charly’s door.
‘You were going to introduce me to Red Hugo’s girl,’ he said, realising he sounded a little unfriendly.
‘Later.’ Marlow said. ‘I’ve been asking around. You have this Goldstein under surveillance?’
‘Since Monday.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I don’t think he has anything to do with the disappearance of some Berlin gangster. He hasn’t left his hotel in days.’
‘So he couldn’t have killed anybody . . .’
‘That’s why we have him under surveillance.’
‘As if it makes any difference to you if a man like Red Hugo is taken out of circulation . . .’
‘Or Rudi the Rat . . .’
‘Leave that idiot out of this. Now, what have you found?’
Rath told Marlow what he knew. As far as possible, he had pieced together Red Hugo’s movements on the day of his disappearance. It appeared that after leaving his house, Hugo Lenz had eaten lunch in Amor-Diele, where he had received a number of fresh complaints about the Nordpiraten. They had destroyed a kiosk whose owner paid protection to Berolina since time immemorial; thrown a cocaine dealer out of a nightclub on Berolina’s patch; and put two bookkeepers in hospital. Rath had made contact with all four men. Apparently Red Hugo had assured each one in turn that the Pirates would soon be eating humble pie, and that all wrongs would be set right in a matter of days. Then he had given his driver and bodyguard the rest of the day off and headed to a meeting alone. Marlow’s people had found Lenz’s red-black Horch on Stralauer Allee, just by the Osthafen.
‘Do you have any idea what he might have been doing there?’ Rath asked. Marlow shook his head. ‘When did you last see him yourself?’
Marlow took a cigar from a case on his desk and snipped off its end, a gesture that appeared threatening somehow. ‘Last week,’ he said, exhaling little clouds of cigar smoke into the room. ‘At the hospital. We were visiting one of our men. Kettler. You know, the one the Pirates crippled.’
‘You visited a minor drug-dealer in person?’
‘People need to know they’re being looked after. Otherwise they succumb to the promises of the Prussian Police.’
‘Which hospital and when?’
‘Last Friday. In Friedrichshain. We don’t see each other too often. Mostly we talk on the telephone.’
‘So when was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘Monday morning. Before he left.’
‘Did you know of his plans for the day?’
‘Only that we were due to meet in Amor-Diele that evening. Krehmann’s back room is Hugo’s study, so to speak. Mine too sometimes.’
‘What was the meeting about?’
‘Is that relevant?’
Rath shrugged. ‘I won’t know until I find him.’
‘It was about the Nordpiraten. Countermeasures we could take without triggering all-out war. To regain respect for Berolina, and yours truly as well.’ Marlow balanced the ash of his cigar, and let it drop into the tray. ‘Lenz was optimistic that morning. He seemed to have a plan. Unfortunately he vanished before he could tell me what it was.’
‘Could this plan have something to do with Rudi Höller’s disappearance? Could Lenz have eliminated him before going underground?’
Marlow shook his head. ‘I’d know about that. I’m afraid Hugo’s plan had something to do with his own disappearance.’
‘Because the Pirates got wind of it, and got to him first . . .’
‘That would be the most obvious explanation, but I don’t buy it. It would mean the Pirates declaring war on Berolina.’
‘Is that so unlikely?’
‘It would suggest that either the Pirates are unbelievably stupid or . . .’ Marlow paused thoughtfully, ‘ . . . that they have an ace up their sleeve which I know nothing about.’
‘What kind of ace?’
‘It’s your job to find out. Perhaps it’s this American gangster, or someone in uniform.’
‘A police officer? What makes you think that?’
Marlow pushed a button under the desk and a door opened, granting Rath a fleeting glimpse into the artists’ dressing room – or whatever it was called in Venuskeller. At any rate it was the room where the girls got changed, which, in most cases, meant getting undressed. The blonde who emerged wore only a white bathrobe and glittering tiara. She seemed to have been waiting for this moment, and made quite an entrance, her light bathrobe fluttering elegantly to reveal tantalising glimpses of her body. Rath was stunned into silence.
‘Christine, this is the inspector I was telling you about.’ He gestured towards the leather chair.
Christine’s cheeky Berlin-girl face gazed at Rath so provocatively that he felt a tingling sensation between his legs. Perhaps it was also because leaning over to stretch out her hand, she just happened to display her breasts. Rath tried to think of something else, before finally alighting on the flabby arms of Frau Lennartz, the caretaker’s wife at Luisenufer, as she wrung out a cleaning rag over a metal bucket filled with dirty water.
‘A pleasure,’ he said, standing up and taking her hand.
‘So I see,’ Christine replied.
Rath sank back in his chair.
The girl sat on the desk and crossed her legs so that the bathrobe no longer concealed any part of them. Without asking she fiddled a cigarette out of the case on the desk and lit up.
‘You haven’t been here for a long time, Inspector,’ Marlow said, clearly amused. ‘Christine has been our main attraction for half a year now.’
Rath reached for his whisky. Liang had topped him up again. ‘How well do you know Hugo Lenz?’ he asked.
The main attraction drew on her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the room. ‘Better than you could stand, believe me.’
‘Oh, I do. When did you last see him?’
‘Sunday evening. In Amor-Diele. In his office.’
‘You mean the back room . . .’
‘His office.’
‘What did you do there?’
‘Any number of things. Stay for a moment and I’ll give you a taste on stage.’
‘No need to go into detail.’ Rath cleared his throat. Christine seemed to enjoy discovering how Catholic he was. ‘What I would like to know is, did you notice anything about him? Did you talk about anything that could be linked to his disappearance?’
‘He always talked a blue streak. Afterwards.’ She cast him a glance that ought to have been made illegal. ‘There is something that might interest you – he didn’t talk about it explicitly, but he was pretty euphoric. He thought he’d found a way of sewing the Pirates crosswise.’
‘Go on.’
‘That was all he was prepared to say while he still hadn’t discussed it with his boss.’ She glanced at Marlow.
‘Do you have any idea what it could have been?’
‘Maybe what I’ve already told the boss: that Hugo had met a police officer of whom he expected certain things.’
Marlow shook his head gruffly. ‘I always told the idiot to leave that sort of thing to me.’
‘Was Lenz planning to meet this police officer on Monday?’ Rath asked.
‘I’ve no idea what he had planned that day.’
Rath turned back to Marlow, a move Christine met with an insulted expression. ‘Have you already been to his flat?’ he asked.
‘Of course, but if we’d found him, you wouldn’t be here.’
‘Clearly you didn’t find him, but perhaps some leads, a few clues . . .’
‘Inspector, we’re not police officers.’ Marlow’s gaze was almost reproachful. He gave the girl a nod and she disappeared back into the dressing room. Marlow waited until the door was closed. ‘I can give you the keys. As long as you promise to forget that you’re a policeman.’
‘I can be very forgetful.’
‘You seem tired,’ Marlow said.
‘I have a lot on my plate.’
Dr M. must have given Liang a sign. The Chinese stood next to Rath’s chair, and opened a silver jar containing white powder.
‘Might I offer your something?’ Marlow asked. ‘Guaranteed to perk you up.’
Rath shook his head.
‘I’ve never known you so reticent.’
‘Never between meals.’ It was meant to be an offhand remark, casual, indifferent, but the sight of the cocaine gave him cravings. He hadn’t taken any for a long time, above all for Charly’s sake, but he had liked it, back then. He stood up. ‘I just need a little sleep and I’ll be fine.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Marlow said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a set of keys, which he handed to Rath. ‘A few men from Berolina are keeping watch on the building. Show them your identification. I’ll let them know you’re coming.’
Hugo Lenz’s house was better guarded than Venuskeller, and more discreetly. Rath locked the car and crossed the street feeling watched, but there was no one to be seen. A man stepped from behind a tree.
‘What are you doing here?’
Rath showed his identification, remembering him as one of those guarding the Sorokin gold two years before. The man returned the papers.
Hugo Lenz had moved into a nice little house in the Prinzenviertel of Karlshorst, close to his beloved racetrack. You had to be more than just a head of a Ringverein to afford a place like this. Working with Marlow had clearly paid for the former safebreaker.
Three men playing cards spun around as he entered the kitchen. One drew his gun. Rath showed his identification and they relaxed.
‘Take as long as you need,’ the man with the weapon said.
Rath’s heart was pounding. It was a good thing Marlow had warned them in advance.
‘What were you about to play?’ another asked. No one paid the late-night visitor any more attention.
‘Grand Hand.’ The man placed his gun on the table. ‘Woe betide any of you shitbags if you’ve looked at my cards!’
Rath exited the kitchen. Why was Marlow guarding the flat so closely if Hugo Lenz wasn’t here? Perhaps they were guarding something else, or just preventing the Nordpiraten from torching the property?
The drawing room was conservatively furnished to the petit bourgeois tastes of a safebreaker who had come into money. Everywhere you looked, the carpets were plush and plump. Hugo Lenz was still trapped in 1890. Missing was the portrait of the Kaiser above the piano, although the obligatory Beethoven bust glowered from its rightful place on the piano. Rath doubted that Hugo Lenz could play, but its shiny black presence would correspond to his ideas of refinement. Likewise the books on the shelves were sorted according to colour. None appeared as though it had been read. Rath looked around, finding nothing valuable or noteworthy in the cupboards. He didn’t know what he was looking for, though that wasn’t always important; often it was precisely when you weren’t looking that you hit upon something of value.
It didn’t seem as if Hugo Lenz spent much time here; no doubt his real living room was the Amor-Diele. Things were different in the bedroom, however, a room of formidable size. The bed wasn’t made and worn trousers were draped across a chair, with old socks and underwear strewn across the floor. Hugo Lenz hadn’t planned on disappearing. A quick glance inside his wardrobe confirmed no empty hangers, and apparently nothing was missing. If Lenz had taken to his heels, for whatever reason, then he hadn’t had time to pack. Rath was starting to rule out the possibility that Red Hugo was a turncoat, gone over to either the police or the Pirates to sound the death knell for Johann Marlow.
He even had a kind of study – or at least a room that was dominated by a large desk. Rath rummaged through the drawers, finding neither an appointments diary nor a notebook, nor, indeed, any papers. Only a dozen sachets of cocaine. He did as Marlow asked and forgot he was a police officer.
The lower drawer also contained a number of forbidden items: pornographic photos. Not for sale, it appeared, but private use. They weren’t staged, like the ones Rath knew from his time in Vice, but snapshots, albeit of rare quality. Some gifted photographer had taken pictures of the Venuskeller sets down the years, and the results were for adults only. Right at the top of the pile Rath recognised Christine, only this time sans bathrobe and cavorting with a muscular gymnast. The picture left him strangely cold.
He leafed through the pile of photos and Venuskeller bills from previous years, at length finding one he had marvelled at two years before. The photographs showed a fake Indian working over a white woman tied to a stake – and not in the way old Karl May would have it.
He looked through the pictures, trying to recognise himself in the audience, but saw only unfamiliar faces. He couldn’t help thinking back to that night, when all this had started. Then, suddenly, he hesitated when he saw the face of the woman at the stake, a face he had long since forgotten, but which now seemed very familiar. Feverishly he searched for a better photograph. The photographer had fixed the lens on his subjects’ body parts, rarely their faces. Nevertheless, Rath managed to find a picture of such portrait-like quality it could have been used for a passport – at least, if you edited out the sexual characteristics. Suddenly he was wide awake. It took a moment for the penny to drop, but now he knew where he had last seen her, and it wasn’t all that long ago.
52
The 50th precinct was on Zingster Strasse, a stone’s throw from the Ringbahnhof and the new U-Bahn station at Gesundbrunnen. First Sergeant Rometsch hadn’t exaggerated. The station was mobbed. He received the visitors from Alex at the gate and led them into his office.
‘I place my office at your disposal, Detective.’ The sergeant stood up straight, as solemn as an army soldier about to lay down his life for the Fatherland. Gräf managed not to laugh.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘How many witnesses is it?’
‘Around a dozen.’
‘And they’re all here?’
‘Yes, Sir. I didn’t let anyone go before giving a statement.’
‘What about those who made their reports by telephone?’
‘I’ve summoned them too. They should be here by now.’
Gräf was no longer surprised by the crush in the corridor. ‘Send the most important witnesses in first.’
‘Got it in one.’ Gräf took a few more sips of beer and drained his glass. ‘I’ve suggested to Böhm that we canvass the names on the Halensee list, but he won’t have it. Thinks we’d be better off softening up a few Communists.’
‘I never knew Böhm was such a Commie-basher.’
‘He doesn’t care if they’re Communists, Nazis or small children.’
‘But he saves his best for CID officers.’
Gräf laughed. ‘At least I have permission to question our dead Rottenführer’s superior officer tomorrow. Let’s see what comes of that.’ His gaze fell on the two glasses again. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked. ‘You’re a beer down already.’
The detective made a move to order a fresh round, but Rath waved him away. ‘Not tonight,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for his hat. ‘I’ve made other plans.’
Gräf looked at his watch. ‘At quarter past eleven?’
‘Sorry,’ he said and placed five marks on the counter. ‘Let me take care of this.’
The detective grinned. ‘So, what’s her name?’
Rath shrugged. ‘Not sure,’ he said, pleased at the look of bafflement on Gräf’s face.
51
Rath parked the Buick a walking distance from the door. If his former colleagues at Vice were on surveillance and took down his number plate, he could have a lot of explaining to do. He left the car by the Weberwiese and walked down Memeler Strasse. The fresh air did him good. He had packed his Walther, as he didn’t fancy his chances here unarmed, especially at night. When he reached the junction at Posener Strasse a dim memory surfaced.
Venuskeller was an illegal cellar bar near the former Ostbahnhof, concealed in the rear courtyard of an unprepossessing tenement house. Dim was the word. This was where his first meeting with Johann Marlow had been contrived during a visit more than two years before. Marlow’s men had led Rath, the coked-up policeman, to a warehouse on the site of the Ostbahnhof, where the gangster received him. The evening had marked the start of their fateful relationship. Well, Rath thought, at least this time he was invited.
Guards stood watch on the street, but let him approach the building and the stairs that led down to the cellar bar. A man stepped out of the shadows.
‘Herr Rath, I presume,’ he said. Rath nodded. The man tipped his hat. ‘You’re expected. Please follow me.’
The guard didn’t take him to the entrance at the foot of the stairs, but further towards the back where a staircase led directly to the office and back rooms. He would be spared the noise and scandal of Venuskeller. He wasn’t in the mood for an illegal nightclub, not after Charly and the grinning man had put paid to his evening. In fact, he was just happy to have something to do, even sleuthing for an underworld heavyweight. The guard gave two brief knocks and Liang opened.
Marlow’s Chinaman frisked him, fishing the Walther out of its holster and taking his coat. Johann Marlow sat behind Sebald’s desk. There was no sign of the bar’s owner, however. Apart from Marlow, Rath and Liang, there wasn’t a soul in the room. Sebald’s office appeared to be one of the many Marlow had dotted across the city, to be used as and when required. Through the door came the muffled sound of music aimed at getting patrons in the mood. Marlow offered a friendly greeting as usual, even standing to proffer a hand.
‘Do take a seat,’ he said, pointing to a leather chair that Liang was already straightening. The silent Chinese always seemed to be in several places at once. Rath sank onto the cushion, and Liang set down a whisky glass and poured.
‘I thought I remembered you having a taste for my malt,’ Marlow said, and raised his glass.
Rath lit an Overstolz. His supplies were dwindling again. He was smoking more than was good for him, especially in the five hours since the grinning man had opened Charly’s door.
‘You were going to introduce me to Red Hugo’s girl,’ he said, realising he sounded a little unfriendly.
‘Later.’ Marlow said. ‘I’ve been asking around. You have this Goldstein under surveillance?’
‘Since Monday.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I don’t think he has anything to do with the disappearance of some Berlin gangster. He hasn’t left his hotel in days.’
‘So he couldn’t have killed anybody . . .’
‘That’s why we have him under surveillance.’
‘As if it makes any difference to you if a man like Red Hugo is taken out of circulation . . .’
‘Or Rudi the Rat . . .’
‘Leave that idiot out of this. Now, what have you found?’
Rath told Marlow what he knew. As far as possible, he had pieced together Red Hugo’s movements on the day of his disappearance. It appeared that after leaving his house, Hugo Lenz had eaten lunch in Amor-Diele, where he had received a number of fresh complaints about the Nordpiraten. They had destroyed a kiosk whose owner paid protection to Berolina since time immemorial; thrown a cocaine dealer out of a nightclub on Berolina’s patch; and put two bookkeepers in hospital. Rath had made contact with all four men. Apparently Red Hugo had assured each one in turn that the Pirates would soon be eating humble pie, and that all wrongs would be set right in a matter of days. Then he had given his driver and bodyguard the rest of the day off and headed to a meeting alone. Marlow’s people had found Lenz’s red-black Horch on Stralauer Allee, just by the Osthafen.
‘Do you have any idea what he might have been doing there?’ Rath asked. Marlow shook his head. ‘When did you last see him yourself?’
Marlow took a cigar from a case on his desk and snipped off its end, a gesture that appeared threatening somehow. ‘Last week,’ he said, exhaling little clouds of cigar smoke into the room. ‘At the hospital. We were visiting one of our men. Kettler. You know, the one the Pirates crippled.’
‘You visited a minor drug-dealer in person?’
‘People need to know they’re being looked after. Otherwise they succumb to the promises of the Prussian Police.’
‘Which hospital and when?’
‘Last Friday. In Friedrichshain. We don’t see each other too often. Mostly we talk on the telephone.’
‘So when was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘Monday morning. Before he left.’
‘Did you know of his plans for the day?’
‘Only that we were due to meet in Amor-Diele that evening. Krehmann’s back room is Hugo’s study, so to speak. Mine too sometimes.’
‘What was the meeting about?’
‘Is that relevant?’
Rath shrugged. ‘I won’t know until I find him.’
‘It was about the Nordpiraten. Countermeasures we could take without triggering all-out war. To regain respect for Berolina, and yours truly as well.’ Marlow balanced the ash of his cigar, and let it drop into the tray. ‘Lenz was optimistic that morning. He seemed to have a plan. Unfortunately he vanished before he could tell me what it was.’
‘Could this plan have something to do with Rudi Höller’s disappearance? Could Lenz have eliminated him before going underground?’
Marlow shook his head. ‘I’d know about that. I’m afraid Hugo’s plan had something to do with his own disappearance.’
‘Because the Pirates got wind of it, and got to him first . . .’
‘That would be the most obvious explanation, but I don’t buy it. It would mean the Pirates declaring war on Berolina.’
‘Is that so unlikely?’
‘It would suggest that either the Pirates are unbelievably stupid or . . .’ Marlow paused thoughtfully, ‘ . . . that they have an ace up their sleeve which I know nothing about.’
‘What kind of ace?’
‘It’s your job to find out. Perhaps it’s this American gangster, or someone in uniform.’
‘A police officer? What makes you think that?’
Marlow pushed a button under the desk and a door opened, granting Rath a fleeting glimpse into the artists’ dressing room – or whatever it was called in Venuskeller. At any rate it was the room where the girls got changed, which, in most cases, meant getting undressed. The blonde who emerged wore only a white bathrobe and glittering tiara. She seemed to have been waiting for this moment, and made quite an entrance, her light bathrobe fluttering elegantly to reveal tantalising glimpses of her body. Rath was stunned into silence.
‘Christine, this is the inspector I was telling you about.’ He gestured towards the leather chair.
Christine’s cheeky Berlin-girl face gazed at Rath so provocatively that he felt a tingling sensation between his legs. Perhaps it was also because leaning over to stretch out her hand, she just happened to display her breasts. Rath tried to think of something else, before finally alighting on the flabby arms of Frau Lennartz, the caretaker’s wife at Luisenufer, as she wrung out a cleaning rag over a metal bucket filled with dirty water.
‘A pleasure,’ he said, standing up and taking her hand.
‘So I see,’ Christine replied.
Rath sank back in his chair.
The girl sat on the desk and crossed her legs so that the bathrobe no longer concealed any part of them. Without asking she fiddled a cigarette out of the case on the desk and lit up.
‘You haven’t been here for a long time, Inspector,’ Marlow said, clearly amused. ‘Christine has been our main attraction for half a year now.’
Rath reached for his whisky. Liang had topped him up again. ‘How well do you know Hugo Lenz?’ he asked.
The main attraction drew on her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the room. ‘Better than you could stand, believe me.’
‘Oh, I do. When did you last see him?’
‘Sunday evening. In Amor-Diele. In his office.’
‘You mean the back room . . .’
‘His office.’
‘What did you do there?’
‘Any number of things. Stay for a moment and I’ll give you a taste on stage.’
‘No need to go into detail.’ Rath cleared his throat. Christine seemed to enjoy discovering how Catholic he was. ‘What I would like to know is, did you notice anything about him? Did you talk about anything that could be linked to his disappearance?’
‘He always talked a blue streak. Afterwards.’ She cast him a glance that ought to have been made illegal. ‘There is something that might interest you – he didn’t talk about it explicitly, but he was pretty euphoric. He thought he’d found a way of sewing the Pirates crosswise.’
‘Go on.’
‘That was all he was prepared to say while he still hadn’t discussed it with his boss.’ She glanced at Marlow.
‘Do you have any idea what it could have been?’
‘Maybe what I’ve already told the boss: that Hugo had met a police officer of whom he expected certain things.’
Marlow shook his head gruffly. ‘I always told the idiot to leave that sort of thing to me.’
‘Was Lenz planning to meet this police officer on Monday?’ Rath asked.
‘I’ve no idea what he had planned that day.’
Rath turned back to Marlow, a move Christine met with an insulted expression. ‘Have you already been to his flat?’ he asked.
‘Of course, but if we’d found him, you wouldn’t be here.’
‘Clearly you didn’t find him, but perhaps some leads, a few clues . . .’
‘Inspector, we’re not police officers.’ Marlow’s gaze was almost reproachful. He gave the girl a nod and she disappeared back into the dressing room. Marlow waited until the door was closed. ‘I can give you the keys. As long as you promise to forget that you’re a policeman.’
‘I can be very forgetful.’
‘You seem tired,’ Marlow said.
‘I have a lot on my plate.’
Dr M. must have given Liang a sign. The Chinese stood next to Rath’s chair, and opened a silver jar containing white powder.
‘Might I offer your something?’ Marlow asked. ‘Guaranteed to perk you up.’
Rath shook his head.
‘I’ve never known you so reticent.’
‘Never between meals.’ It was meant to be an offhand remark, casual, indifferent, but the sight of the cocaine gave him cravings. He hadn’t taken any for a long time, above all for Charly’s sake, but he had liked it, back then. He stood up. ‘I just need a little sleep and I’ll be fine.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Marlow said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a set of keys, which he handed to Rath. ‘A few men from Berolina are keeping watch on the building. Show them your identification. I’ll let them know you’re coming.’
Hugo Lenz’s house was better guarded than Venuskeller, and more discreetly. Rath locked the car and crossed the street feeling watched, but there was no one to be seen. A man stepped from behind a tree.
‘What are you doing here?’
Rath showed his identification, remembering him as one of those guarding the Sorokin gold two years before. The man returned the papers.
Hugo Lenz had moved into a nice little house in the Prinzenviertel of Karlshorst, close to his beloved racetrack. You had to be more than just a head of a Ringverein to afford a place like this. Working with Marlow had clearly paid for the former safebreaker.
Three men playing cards spun around as he entered the kitchen. One drew his gun. Rath showed his identification and they relaxed.
‘Take as long as you need,’ the man with the weapon said.
Rath’s heart was pounding. It was a good thing Marlow had warned them in advance.
‘What were you about to play?’ another asked. No one paid the late-night visitor any more attention.
‘Grand Hand.’ The man placed his gun on the table. ‘Woe betide any of you shitbags if you’ve looked at my cards!’
Rath exited the kitchen. Why was Marlow guarding the flat so closely if Hugo Lenz wasn’t here? Perhaps they were guarding something else, or just preventing the Nordpiraten from torching the property?
The drawing room was conservatively furnished to the petit bourgeois tastes of a safebreaker who had come into money. Everywhere you looked, the carpets were plush and plump. Hugo Lenz was still trapped in 1890. Missing was the portrait of the Kaiser above the piano, although the obligatory Beethoven bust glowered from its rightful place on the piano. Rath doubted that Hugo Lenz could play, but its shiny black presence would correspond to his ideas of refinement. Likewise the books on the shelves were sorted according to colour. None appeared as though it had been read. Rath looked around, finding nothing valuable or noteworthy in the cupboards. He didn’t know what he was looking for, though that wasn’t always important; often it was precisely when you weren’t looking that you hit upon something of value.
It didn’t seem as if Hugo Lenz spent much time here; no doubt his real living room was the Amor-Diele. Things were different in the bedroom, however, a room of formidable size. The bed wasn’t made and worn trousers were draped across a chair, with old socks and underwear strewn across the floor. Hugo Lenz hadn’t planned on disappearing. A quick glance inside his wardrobe confirmed no empty hangers, and apparently nothing was missing. If Lenz had taken to his heels, for whatever reason, then he hadn’t had time to pack. Rath was starting to rule out the possibility that Red Hugo was a turncoat, gone over to either the police or the Pirates to sound the death knell for Johann Marlow.
He even had a kind of study – or at least a room that was dominated by a large desk. Rath rummaged through the drawers, finding neither an appointments diary nor a notebook, nor, indeed, any papers. Only a dozen sachets of cocaine. He did as Marlow asked and forgot he was a police officer.
The lower drawer also contained a number of forbidden items: pornographic photos. Not for sale, it appeared, but private use. They weren’t staged, like the ones Rath knew from his time in Vice, but snapshots, albeit of rare quality. Some gifted photographer had taken pictures of the Venuskeller sets down the years, and the results were for adults only. Right at the top of the pile Rath recognised Christine, only this time sans bathrobe and cavorting with a muscular gymnast. The picture left him strangely cold.
He leafed through the pile of photos and Venuskeller bills from previous years, at length finding one he had marvelled at two years before. The photographs showed a fake Indian working over a white woman tied to a stake – and not in the way old Karl May would have it.
He looked through the pictures, trying to recognise himself in the audience, but saw only unfamiliar faces. He couldn’t help thinking back to that night, when all this had started. Then, suddenly, he hesitated when he saw the face of the woman at the stake, a face he had long since forgotten, but which now seemed very familiar. Feverishly he searched for a better photograph. The photographer had fixed the lens on his subjects’ body parts, rarely their faces. Nevertheless, Rath managed to find a picture of such portrait-like quality it could have been used for a passport – at least, if you edited out the sexual characteristics. Suddenly he was wide awake. It took a moment for the penny to drop, but now he knew where he had last seen her, and it wasn’t all that long ago.
52
The 50th precinct was on Zingster Strasse, a stone’s throw from the Ringbahnhof and the new U-Bahn station at Gesundbrunnen. First Sergeant Rometsch hadn’t exaggerated. The station was mobbed. He received the visitors from Alex at the gate and led them into his office.
‘I place my office at your disposal, Detective.’ The sergeant stood up straight, as solemn as an army soldier about to lay down his life for the Fatherland. Gräf managed not to laugh.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘How many witnesses is it?’
‘Around a dozen.’
‘And they’re all here?’
‘Yes, Sir. I didn’t let anyone go before giving a statement.’
‘What about those who made their reports by telephone?’
‘I’ve summoned them too. They should be here by now.’
Gräf was no longer surprised by the crush in the corridor. ‘Send the most important witnesses in first.’
