Goldstein, page 26
Seeing the roses on the hall floor, she had figured out what must have happened and, for a moment, the flowers mollified her. Until she saw what he had done to her friend. Since then, Gereon had been avoiding her. How would she have reacted if he’d appeared at her door with a second bunch of roses? Perhaps she’d have hit him, just to even things up!
Heymann was making her wait.
All was quiet in the corridors; not a trace of the bloody noses and worse of last week. She hadn’t thought scenes like that possible at the university.
She stared at Heymann’s door, knowing that time was on her side. She felt completely free now that she was relieved of her court duties. After Guido’s visit she had no desire to return to Weber’s stuffy office anyway, to these men who called themselves colleagues, but had never accepted her as one of their own.
She was learning that it was almost impossible for women to prevail in the service of Lady Justice, at least not without the presence of a strong male mentor. Even then there was the suspicion that you were providing services of a different nature.
She had never had that problem at the Castle. Böhm did everything in his power to encourage her. Gennat also valued her work, and she set great store by their judgement. She didn’t care what her other colleagues thought, Gereon included. Let him think she was fixating on matters that weren’t important. That she showed too much compassion. That she wasn’t suited to the job. Wasn’t that what he had meant? Pah!
How was it she was thinking about him again! Weren’t there other men in her life?
The door opened, and a student emerged. He was a few years younger than her, and still wet behind the ears, but already he wore a duelling scar with pride. He gave her such an arrogant look that she forgot to say hello. Goodnight, Germany, she thought, as she watched him swagger down the corridor: a skinny boy who thought he was creation’s crowning glory. Goodnight, if these were the people who stood to inherit the constitutional state. Last week, he’d have been one those hiding behind friends as he swung at Communists and Jews, as well as classmates he thought were Communists or Jews. Now, here he was at the Professor’s office, hair neatly parted, wilfully ignoring the fact that Heymann was of Mosaic faith so long as it served his career. She knocked on the door and went inside. Heymann sat at his desk.
‘Good day, Fräulein Ritter. Apologies that my previous meeting overran. Take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’
Heymann made a few notes while Charly surveyed the Hindenburg portrait above his desk. It reminded her of police headquarters, where a likeness of the German President hung in every office. It wasn’t so common at the university, however: Heymann must have hung it himself. The professor was a highly decorated war veteran and admirer of the general field marshal, but otherwise a genuinely nice man as well as a real authority in his field. Not a straight-out democrat, perhaps, but still a tireless propagandist for the constitutional state.
Heymann snapped shut his notebook. ‘I know I haven’t given you long to consider,’ he said. ‘A week isn’t much time when you’ve got your day-to-day work to think about, but the matter is urgent. Have you decided?’
Charly nodded. ‘Yes, Professor, I have.’
60
The headline in Tag caused a stir at the Castle, and made a meeting with Bernhard Weiss inevitable. This time he asked for Rath and Böhm together, but Rath had gone in feeling the more composed. It was Böhm who looked stupid, since the press were better informed about the Humboldthain murder than the officer in charge. For Böhm, the questions were not just who provided the paper with the police sketch but also, more worryingly, who identified it as Abraham Goldstein.
Until that point, no one who had seen the likeness had been able to put a name to the face, neither Böhm nor Warrants. But someone at Alex must have recognised Goldstein, and this same person hadn’t told Böhm, but Stefan Fink, a journalist who craved sensation as a morphine addict craves his next phial.
So, where was the leak? The police sketch had gone to Warrants and police stations citywide on Saturday evening. That meant someone must have passed it to Fink during the night.
Gereon Rath and his men were among the few who knew who Goldstein was, and Rath vouched for them all, even if he was a little unsure of Czerwinski. Weiss dismissed them with clearly defined tasks: Böhm was to step up investigations in the Kubicki case, while Rath was to continue searching for the missing gangster with the help of J Division, for whom the search was now priority number one. They couldn’t keep the fact that there was a known American gangster in the city under wraps any longer.
Rath’s men were already in position. Henning and Czerwinski had been in the Excelsior since eight o’clock continuing their interviews with hotel staff. Plisch and Plum were to question all employees who had been on duty in the relevant section of the hotel. If Goldstein had used the staff staircase, then perhaps someone had seen something.
It should have been Gräf conducting the interviews, but Böhm had pinched him again. He was in Interview Room B working his way through the list of witnesses. The number of people who claimed to have seen something, but really just wanted attention, had risen further since the article in Tag. More often than not it was anti-Semites taking advantage of the opportunity to remind police of their failure; there was an American gangster roaming the streets, a Jewish killer who clearly had it in for the SA!
Rath was especially tickled by the prospect of brownshirts up and down the city huddled indoors in fear of venturing out. If that were true, Goldstein’s escape had actually made the streets safer, but Rath didn’t envy Gräf the task of dealing with such idiots, knowing he lacked the patience for it himself.
By now it was lunchtime and he was at his desk. He had telephoned Czerwinski and spoken with Warrants but, so far, DCI Kilian had no leads. The paper’s unauthorised printing of the sketch had brought a number of innocent people to the department’s attention. None bore any resemblance to Abraham Goldstein. The one thing they had in common was that they were Jews, denounced by resentful neighbours or colleagues.
Needing fresh air, Rath attached Kirie to her lead. After stopping at Aschinger for a few Bouletten, he made for the telephone booths at the train station. Luckily, one was free. While the dog busied herself with the meatballs, her master pressed a ten-pfennig piece into the slot.
‘Herr Weinert isn’t in the office,’ said the voice on the line. ‘Didn’t you know? He’s with Dr Eckener.’
‘In the Zeppelin?’
‘That’s right. Didn’t he tell you? He’s covering the Iceland flight.’
Rath hung up. Berthold Weinert might have given him something on Fink’s informer, but he was hovering somewhere above the Arctic Ocean. He took Kirie’s lead and stepped back into the fresh air, heading for Monbijou Park to think things through.
When he returned to the office an hour later he had to use his key. Erika Voss had gone for lunch. He sat at his desk, with Kirie underneath.
He thought back to Lanke’s office that morning, before all the fuss about Goldstein had started. Rath could tell by the superintendent’s face that he knew exactly who Marion Bosetzky was. Since the division chief, a pencil-pusher par excellence, couldn’t have recruited the nude dancer himself, another suspicion presented itself. Rath decided to look into it before asking Gennat’s permission to access the files. The bureaucracy involved there, he’d be drawing his pension by the time it was approved. He couldn’t wait that long.
He had left the door to the outer office open and, while he was still thinking, there was a timid knock. Who the hell could that be? Another knock.
‘Enter!’
A short time later, there was a third knock. Whoever it was, they were as stubborn as they were deaf. He stood up and went to the outer office. Kirie pitter-pattered after as he threw the door open. ‘What in God’s name do you want?’ he asked, staring at the figure outside.
An old man, dressed in black, with a grey beard and sidelocks; an orthodox Jew who looked as if he had just arrived in Berlin from his shtetl in Galicia.
‘Detective Gräf, please,’ the man said, looking now at Rath, now at the dog.
‘I’m sorry, he isn’t here.’ Rath hated giving answers that were Erika Voss’s responsibility. ‘If you’re a witness, Interview Room B is down the corridor, then the second or third door on the right. There’ll be a sign outside.’
‘I already was, the room is closed. I ask but am sent here.’
‘Detective Gräf must be at lunch.’ Rath gave a pointed look at his watch. ‘If you come back in an h . . .’
‘Please, I do not have much time. I need to make statement.’
‘Then please take a seat.’ Rath pointed down the corridor. ‘There are benches outside.’
‘Please, I do not have much time.’
Rath bade the man enter, Gräf’s witness or no. At least he wasn’t an anti-Semite here to insult the police. ‘Please sit down, and I’ll take your statement,’ he said.
There was no stenographer, but that wouldn’t matter. He showed the old man to a chair and sat behind Erika Voss’s desk, opened his notebook and pulled out a pencil.
‘So, let’s get started,’ he said. ‘Your name, please.’
‘Please, I just want to make statement.’
‘I understand that, but I still need your name.’
‘I can’t give you name, I just want to make statement.’
‘To make a statement we need your name and address.’
‘Please, I just want to make statement.’
‘Which is why I need your name.’ Rath rolled his eyes. ‘Tell me what you saw, and we’ll take care of the formalities later.’
‘Not tell. I met man you are searching for.’
There was a pile of newspapers in Erika Voss’s filing tray. Rath took one and passed it across. ‘You mean this man?’
The old man nodded, and Rath sat forward.
‘Where and when did you see him?’
The old man pointed at the photograph. ‘Didn’t have knife. Had pistol.’
Rath cleared his throat. ‘Can we agree on something? I ask the questions and you answer them.’ The man nodded. ‘So: where and when did you meet him?’
‘Helped me, this man.’
‘Where and when?’ Rath felt like a broken record.
‘Under the ground. They were bad men.’
‘You mean the underground?’
The man nodded. ‘Men insulted and cursed me.’
Rath thought of the witness statements made by several passengers at Gesundbrunnen. He drew a swastika in his notebook. ‘These men?’
Again the man nodded. ‘I wanted go. Didn’t want no trouble. Better dog in peace than man at war.’
‘But they didn’t leave you in peace?’
‘They chase me, into woods.’
‘Four men, is that right?’
The old man nodded.
‘One more time for the record: four men in SA uniform abused you at Gesundbrunnen U-Bahn station; you tried to avoid a confrontation, but the men followed you to Volkspark Humboldthain . . .’
The old man nodded.
‘What happened in the park? Is that where they met him?’ Rath tapped the Goldstein picture.
‘Not there. Was before. Already in station.’
‘He followed them?’
‘I don’t know. I only know he reappear when men attack me.’
‘Then what happened? Tell me exactly.’
‘Well . . . He hit them and drive them away.’
‘Who did he hit?’
‘Two men he knock to ground. The third he shoot in foot, the other he just make scared. But all run away.’
‘He pursued one of them, am I right? The man whose foot had been shot?’
The old man shook his head. ‘He do nothing. He just bring me back to station. A good man. But he shouldn’t have shoot. Shooting is sin.’
‘Hang on: he brought you back to the station? He didn’t chase any of them? None of the men?’
‘Men were all gone.’
‘He brought you to the station. Then he went back to the park?’
‘The man sit with me on train. Get out with me, too, at Rosenthaler Platz.’
Rath was astonished. Goldstein had an alibi for the murder of Gerhard Kubicki. Or had the gangster bought the old man as a defence witness? Rath looked at him, his bearded face, and saw in his eyes an indelible faith in God. No, he didn’t look like someone who could be bought, not even with Abe Goldstein’s American dollars.
‘Can you show us the place where you were attacked?’ The old man nodded. ‘Did you sustain any injuries?’ The old man waved the question away, although there was a bruise under his beard. Rath made a renewed attempt. ‘Your statement is very important. If you set any store by our investigation, then we need your name and address.’
‘No name. I just want to make statement.’
Even Charly’s stubbornness paled in comparison. ‘Your address then. So we know how to reach you, in case . . .’ The telephone on his desk rang. Rath glanced over his shoulder towards his office, then back at the old man. ‘Would you excuse me a moment?’
The man nodded.
He went into the adjoining room and lifted the receiver. Kirie followed, almost as if she knew who was on the line.
‘Hello, Gereon.’
She didn’t even sound unfriendly. He had to sit down. ‘Charly! I wasn’t expecting you to call.’
‘We should talk, don’t you think?’
Damn it, she was good at catching him off guard. He stretched out an arm and closed the door to the outer office. ‘What is there to talk about?’
‘What do you want? For me to send your toothbrush in the post?’
Of course he didn’t want that.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but these last few days . . . I had the feeling you were trying to get rid of me. And then this guy . . .’
‘If you mean Guido, he’s not some “guy”, but a friend. Someone you should be apologising to. He didn’t deserve to be treated like that.’
‘I’m sorry. The roses were meant for you. A peace offering.’
‘I wouldn’t like to see a declaration of war.’
Rath couldn’t see her, but could tell from her voice that Charly was grinning broadly, or at least trying her best not to. His heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t lost her yet! ‘I’m really, truly sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise to me, apologise to him.’
Did she have to keep mentioning that idiot? ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We need to talk. Your place or mine?’ The possibility of reconciliation turned him on. It didn’t matter if it was in his bed or hers.
‘Neutral ground. That’s what you do during a ceasefire, isn’t it?’
‘No idea.’
‘I was thinking Café Uhlandeck, you can . . .’
‘Not Uhlandeck.’
‘Then make another suggestion.’
‘How about I invite you to dinner? Tonight. Kempinski on the Ku’damm.’ The restaurant had a lovely terrace, and Rath was hoping for a balmy summer’s night.
‘Agreed.’
He could have jumped for joy, but despite the closed door decided against it. He replaced the receiver carefully in the cradle and let out a yelp of delight. Hell, he might just get out of this! He had overreacted with the grinning man; of course there was nothing going on with Charly. Still, the bloody nose served him right. Even if there was nothing going on, Rath was certain old perma-smile would jump at the opportunity. If Charly insisted he apologised, he would, but he’d also make it clear that it was time grin-face found himself someone else to comfort.
He stood up and moved towards the door. ‘My apologies,’ he said, pausing when he reached the outer office.
The old man’s chair was empty.
Rath ran out of the office and looked down the corridor, but there was no chance of catching him. He shook his head. He was a strange bird, but what he had said was entirely plausible.
It looked as if Abraham Goldstein hadn’t manifested himself as a killer, but as some kind of Boy Scout. At any rate a man of civic courage.
61
Charly felt strange as she stepped out of the telephone booth at Alexanderplatz. She had telephoned him within view of the station. Couldn’t she just have gone in? No, of course not, but the call had been smoother than expected. He didn’t realise how serious it was. Now she just had to see it through.
Crossing the enormous construction site, which was beginning to hint at how Alexanderplatz would soon look, she headed for Tietz. The department store’s restaurant was a good choice. Close to the station, but a place few police officers visited of their own accord. Who wanted to spend their lunch break among whining children and ill-tempered mothers?
It took a moment to see him. Lange had found a secluded table where they could talk uninterrupted.
‘Fräulein Ritter,’ he said, straightening her chair like a gentleman of the old school. ‘I’m glad you found the time to speak to me.’
He must be glowing red, she thought, taking her place opposite.
‘No doubt you’re wondering why I asked to meet here, rather than my office.’
‘I’m perfectly happy here,’ she said.
‘I have my reasons. The matters I’d like to discuss with you are strictly confidential.’
‘Aha.’ She lit a Juno. It seemed to make him nervous, or was he nervous already?
‘Superintendent Gennat thinks very highly of you. Did you know that?’ She found praise a little embarrassing, but it was good to hear. ‘Can I count on your discretion?’ he continued. ‘Only Superintendent Gennat, Dr Schwartz and I know about this.’
‘Not even Böhm?’
‘Not even Böhm.’
‘I thought you were working together.’
‘Not on this.’
‘Is it about Alexandra Reinhold?’
‘Indirectly. When we spoke recently we were interrupted by DCI Böhm.’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘It concerns the death of Benjamin Singer. Alexandra’s accomplice, who died attempting to escape.’
