Goldstein, page 25
‘Gone,’ Grunert said. ‘Your guest’s done a runner.’
It took Rath a moment to realise that he had a problem. A missing Goldstein was worse than a dead Goldstein.
Now you know how Charly must have felt, he thought, and sank into the nearest chair.
Part II
Punishment
Sunday 5th July
to
Saturday 18th July 1931
56
The wound was healing well. A scar stretched across the back of Alex’s hand, a keepsake, but there was nothing she could do about that. Too bad, she thought, but you were never the prettiest anyway. She gave her reflection a wry smile, threw the blood-soaked bandage in the rubbish and bound her hand with a fresh dressing. At the window she looked outside. She’d sooner be splashing through puddles like the kids downstairs than sitting up here holding her breath at footsteps on the stairs.
She was alone in the flat. Martha and Helmut were out; her sister-in-law had insisted on heading to the country with her husband. Helmut had suggested staying home to play cards, but saw the look on Martha’s face and yielded. Alex sympathised with her sister-in-law. It wasn’t just the sultry, warm weather that made her insist on the journey to Köpenick; a trip to the countryside meant a day without Alex.
Yesterday evening they had huddled together in the cramped flat and played cards, just like old times, when Alex and Helmut still lived with their parents and occasionally managed to persuade Mother to join in a hand of skat. It was Helmut’s idea and the game had lasted the whole evening. Alex would rather Helmut had taken Martha to the cinema or out dancing, but he wouldn’t be dissuaded. Martha dutifully fetched beer from the cellar and said nothing, even if her eyes told a different story.
It was too much. Alex had imposed upon her brother’s hospitality for long enough. She had enjoyed a roof over her head, eaten as much as she liked and licked her wounds. Now it was time to move on.
That woman, the court assistant or whatever she was, hadn’t come back. Alex couldn’t believe that she had appeared outside the door to ask her stupid questions. At the last moment she had hidden in the cubbyhole by the sink alongside scrubbers, brushes and preserves, and tried to breathe as quietly as possible. In the end the woman stayed outside in the stairwell. When she asked, in all seriousness, if Alexandra – Alex had almost forgotten that was her real name – might be staying with her parents, she almost laughed out loud. With her olds! Emil Reinhold, who let his own daughter fend for herself on the streets? Who had disowned his son? The woman had no idea.
Yet she couldn’t be completely stupid either. She had managed to find out Alex’s name, as well as Helmut’s address. This, despite the fact that Alex hadn’t said a word while she was in custody, or indeed afterwards. She had been scared stiff by all those blue uniforms, more frightened, even, than at KaDeWe when they chased her, or later when that cop opened fire.
Benny’s killer.
The whole time she had been in custody, she was afraid he might appear to finish the job. Each night she dreamed of him, his mug against hers, close enough to see every pore of the face she had marked for life. And then of Benny plunging silently to his death, every night plunging headlong to the ground. High above, the same face stared over the balustrade, grinning, sweating.
She’d recognise it twenty years from now, but she didn’t intend to wait that long.
She felt a kind of longing for the old factory. Not for the draughty corridors where she tried to sleep, but for the people, for Vicky and Fanny, Kotze and Felix. She’d have to accept that Kralle and his band of rats came with the package. There are two sides to everything.
Another of Benny’s phrases. God, she missed him!
If he was right, and everything good had its bad side, then didn’t everything bad have its good side too? Try as she might, she couldn’t find anything good about her situation, but perhaps all she needed was a few more days. At least she had seen Helmut again. Without all the shit that had happened to her, she’d never have dared turn up at his door. She was too ashamed of what she had done, of what Karl had done, but her big brother had taken her in his arms, and, suddenly, she didn’t feel the least ashamed of anything that had happened before Christmas. It was the first time she hadn’t celebrated the day. How many more Christmases would go uncelebrated? She couldn’t picture it happening in the old axle factory, anyway.
Beckmann’s death was such a joke. She didn’t mourn the Nazi, but hadn’t wanted him dead. Still, it was her fault; without her stupid idea it would never have happened. Without Alexandra Reinhold, Heinrich Beckmann would still be alive, damn it.
What a crackpot idea, paying the rent with stolen money. No one understood that she was trying to help, not her father who had thrown her out, nor her brother who thought she needed protection. It was Karl who had pulled the trigger, the idiot. How she missed him!
Helmut was the only one who’d been able to get on with his life, because he had cut ties and gone his own way. That was why she felt so ashamed about Beckmann. Only now, with her despair outweighing her shame, had she confided in him, and soon realised that all her worries were for nothing.
Without her brother she wouldn’t have survived the past few days.
She rummaged in the kitchen table drawer for the paper and pencil Martha used to write her shopping lists. She sat down to think, and suddenly knew what she was going to write. The pencil scratched across the page. Somewhere outside a car beeped its horn.
57
Bernhard Weiss spent most weekends at his private home in Dahlem, away from his official residence in Charlottenburg. As he turned into the tree-lined Bachstelzenweg, Rath could see why. No problem finding a parking spot here. Most people had their own garages. The only sound he heard when he cut the engine was the twittering of birds.
He had made the journey with mixed feelings. Weiss was his sole principal in the Goldstein affair, but, since he was at a summit in Breslau on Saturday, Rath had spent the day with Hotel Detective Grunert reconstructing the man’s disappearance. They had done a reasonable job, but Rath’s hopes of picking up the gangster’s trail before reporting to Weiss had been shattered. The Yank had disappeared and could be anywhere in this four-million-strong city. Why had he gone to ground? What had he done or, worse, what was he about to do?
This morning Weiss had invited Rath to submit a report. He opened the garden gate and entered an oasis of green. A walnut tree stood by the fence, with apple and pear trees in the middle of the lawn.
‘Are you looking for Papa?’ a child’s voice asked from above.
He looked up and saw a kind of treehouse in an old beech. A girl of eight or nine was gazing down curiously.
He nodded.
‘Are you a criminal?’ she asked, deadly serious.
Rath couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I don’t think so. I work for your father.’
‘Then you’re a policeman?’
He nodded again.
‘You can see how well guarded I am,’ a deep voice said. ‘No one gets by my Hilde unseen.’
Dr Bernhard Weiss stood outside the house, his hands buried in light canvas trousers. Over his shirt he wore a thin knitted waistcoat. ‘Please come in, Inspector,’ he said. ‘We have matters to discuss.’
‘I fear we do, Sir.’
Inside, a maid took his hat and coat.
‘We don’t want any disruptions,’ Weiss said, leading Rath into a spacious office that was far more impressive than his room at Alex.
At an upholstered suite, a pot of coffee and two cups stood on the table, along with fresh pastries. Rath interpreted that as a good sign. ‘Have you heard anything from Warrants?’ he asked.
‘Nor did I expect to,’ said Weiss. ‘We don’t even have a photo. In a city this large, all a description will get you is the wrong man. Or no man at all.’ Weiss poured coffee for his guest. ‘What have you found out, Inspector?’
‘According to what we know so far, the fugitive must have had help. What with our surveillance, he could only have made it outside using a pass key. He must have used an adjoining room, then taken the staff staircase.’
‘We should have thought of that.’
‘If we’d wanted to guard all exits, we’d have needed seven or eight men, but . . .’
‘I’m not making accusations. You did your best.’ For some reason, Weiss spoke momentarily in Berlin dialect before switching back.
‘I hope you’re right, Sir.’
‘You asked for reinforcements that I was unable to provide. Given the circumstances, keeping his room under surveillance made most sense. We couldn’t expect the man to get his hands on a pass key.’
Rath nodded.
‘You don’t have any leads?’ Weiss asked.
‘We have a statement from the laundry driver, who was surprised to see an elegantly dressed man with two suitcases at the staff exit. We asked him to describe the man, and it’s as close to a match as we’re likely to get. The driver says he left the hotel on Friday morning around six.’
‘Almost twelve hours before his disappearance was uncovered.’
‘We’ve been trying to trace him through the Taxi Drivers’ Guild. So far to no avail. It’s possible he took the U-Bahn. He did that a week ago when trying to give me the slip.’
‘Do you know how he got hold of the pass key?’
‘The hotel detective’s looking into it.’
‘Well,’ Weiss said. ‘That’s not a priority. First we have to see how we can get out of this shemozzle, before the press get wind that there’s an American gangster at large.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning: find Goldstein. As quickly as possible.’
Rath had to cross the city to reach his next destination. Niederschönhausen, another neighbourhood of villas. This time, however, he wasn’t seeing a police commissioner but an underworld boss. He got out of the car and looked around.
Where was he going wrong? He’d never be able to afford houses like these, either as a police officer, or as a gangster. Perhaps it was because he was neither one thing nor the other.
Johann Marlow lived in an impressive villa on Victoriastrasse. One of the reasons it was so impressive was that it didn’t need to try. There were no gun-toting thugs circling the property; Liang’s presence provided ample protection. The Chinese himself opened the door to modern decor decidedly more tasteful than Red Hugo’s nouveau riche apartment.
They traversed the house before stepping back into the open air on the rear terrace. Dr M. stood bare-torsoed, pointing a bow and arrow towards a large target at the opposite end of the garden. More muscular than Rath had thought, he took aim calmly, not letting himself be put off. The arrow struck right in the target’s centre.
‘Respect,’ Rath said.
Marlow lowered the bow and turned around. ‘Have you ever tried archery, Inspector?’
Rath shook his head.
‘It’s amazingly relaxing, and the perfect way to effect a silent kill.’
‘Like the Native Americans. Did you learn that in the States?’
‘They use different weapons these days. Above all, Thompson machine guns.’
‘You know your stuff.’
‘I’ve been to the States a couple of times. Once to Chicago and twice to New York. What are you trying to say?’
‘You really don’t know Abraham Goldstein? You’ve never had anything to do with him?’
‘No, what’s this about?’
‘I’m wondering why you helped him escape from his hotel.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You smuggled the chambermaid into the Excelsior, didn’t you?’
‘Stop speaking in riddles. Tell me what’s happened and what you want to know. Then maybe I can help you.’
‘Isn’t it strange that one of your employees should begin as a chambermaid in Goldstein’s hotel just days before his arrival? Was she there to keep an eye on him, or was it about evading police surveillance?’
‘One of my employees? What are you talking about?’
‘Bosetzky. Marion Bosetzky. A dancer in Venuskeller.’
‘Marion? She hasn’t worked for us in ages. Sebald kicked her out.’
‘Why?’
‘A minor loyalty issue. She was working for someone else on the side, which we couldn’t tolerate. Maybe you should have a word with him. Maybe he’s the one who smuggled her in.’
‘Gladly. If you would be so kind as to tell me who he is.’
‘Not he, so much as they, Inspector,’ Marlow burst out laughing. ‘Your colleagues. That is to say: your former colleagues, you know, in E Division.’
58
Rath hadn’t been down this way in a long time, certainly not this early in the morning. He didn’t encounter many colleagues, but the officers he had worked most closely with in Vice were both dead, and he hadn’t had much to do with the rest. He had been with the squad only two months but, even so, seemed to have made a lasting impression on the division chief.
‘Inspector Rath,’ Werner Lanke said, offering a hand. ‘What a surprise! You were never this early back in the day.’ He gestured towards Kirie. ‘You must be working like a dog.’
Werner Lanke laughed at his own joke and Kirie wagged her tail, realising they were speaking about her. Rath managed a friendly grin. He had to remain civil, even if he and Lanke were linked only in mutual antipathy.
Krumme Lanke, after the lake, was an accurate nickname. The man had such a pronounced stoop that, over time, his official six foot three had become more like five foot eleven. There was something vulture-like about him, an impression intensified by his prominent nose and piercing eyes that peered over reading glasses.
‘A good thing I’ve caught you, Sir.’
‘I don’t know that it is. I’m in a hurry.’
‘Just two minutes?’
‘Alright then.’ Lanke sat down again. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’
‘I’m looking for a female witness . . .’
‘If you’re referring to Fräulein Lübbe, she isn’t here yet.’
Jutta Lübbe was Lanke’s secretary. Rath’s stock of dutiful smiles was dwindling. ‘The woman’s name is Marion Bosetzky,’ he said. ‘She became a Vice informant two years ago.’
‘I see.’
‘She was a nude dancer in an illegal nightclub until her employers learned of her sideline.’
‘You’re well informed.’
‘The alpha and omega of police work.’
‘What would you like me to do about it?’
‘I need as much information as possible on her, and I’d like to speak with her go-between. Who recruited her, is she still deployed? That sort of thing.’
Rath realised that it was a mistake to ask someone like Werner Lanke for help. The superintendent savoured his power even more in view of Rath’s helplessness.
‘You’re talking about things that are subject to strict confidentiality. E Division internal affairs, and I . . .’
‘I’m talking about an investigation in which Fräulein Bosetzky could be an important witness.’
‘If it’s so important Superintendent Gennat will put in a request to examine the files, as one division chief to another.’ Lanke stood and reached for his coat. ‘Now, please excuse me. I don’t want to keep Prosecutor Rosanski waiting.’
Lanke threw on his hat and black coat, looking even more like a vulture. A vulture with a hat. Rath followed him into the corridor, where Lanke made a point of locking the door, as if to show Rath how little he trusted him. He briefly tipped his hat and stooped down the corridor towards the atrium and his car.
Erika Voss was already there by the time Rath entered his office. She gazed in surprise, first at him then at Kirie. The dog wagged her tail. ‘Inspector,’ she said, replacing the receiver she had just lifted back on the cradle. ‘You’re working in the office again?’
‘Yes,’ Rath said, hanging his hat and coat on the hook. ‘The Goldstein affair is resolved for the time being.’
‘Goldstein?’
‘The man we’ve been keeping under surveillance.’ Rath hadn’t mentioned the assignment to his secretary, not even that they were stationed in the Excelsior.
Erika Voss was so surprised she forgot to stroke Kirie, who was standing expectantly before her. She fetched a well-thumbed newspaper from her handbag. Der Tag, a scandal sheet published by the Scherl Verlag, which underlined its headlines in red.
‘I read it every morning on the train.’ She pointed to an article. ‘Do you mean this Goldstein?’
Rath felt like he was in a bad dream. It was exactly the headline Dr Weiss had been seeking to avoid.
Jewish gangster responsible for cowardly Humboldthain murder?
Below, the paper had printed a sketch that bore an unmistakable likeness to Abraham Goldstein. Rath recognised the work of a police artist whose services he had used in the past. He skimmed the article. An SA man, found on Wednesday morning with fatal stab and gunshot wounds in Humboldthain; witnesses unanimously described the man identified as Abraham Goldstein, a Jewish-American gangster striking terror in Berlin, as police apparently stood idly by.
59
Gereon still hadn’t been in touch. No word of apology, nothing. He hadn’t even come to collect his things. What a stupid man! She wouldn’t have thought it could come to this. In fact, she had sworn to never let things get this far again.
What on earth was wrong with him?
True, she had left him in the lurch on Wednesday night, and that wasn’t nice. Ditched him and headed home because she couldn’t take either the silence, that was like a wall between them, or his insensitivity about her search for the missing girl. Not that it justified treating him like that, and no doubt at some point she’d have apologised, but it didn’t give him the right to beat Guido to a pulp either! Did he think the whole world was just waiting for Gereon Rath’s next show of jealousy?
