Babylon Berlin, page 27
‘Can you rule out all other causes of death? Poisoning, for example?’
‘Young man, if you absolutely insist upon it, then I can open up the stomach. But believe me, it doesn’t smell too good.’
‘I know,’ Rath said. ‘But perhaps it is necessary.’
Schwartz laughed. ‘I like you, you don’t shy away from anything! Well, you can rest easy, Inspector. I’ve taken care of that already.’ The pathologist pulled the sheet down past the navel. There were fresh incisions on the breast and stomach of the dead man, which had been hastily sown up again. ‘I’ve examined the state of the vital organs, the contents of his stomach too. Nothing unusual, just beer and bratwurst leftovers.’ He pulled the sheet back up. ‘But there’s something else that might interest you!’ Schwartz lifted Wilczek’s right wrist and turned it slightly. ‘Before his sudden death it seems likely that our friend here also fired a gun. These powder burns suggest there was a shoot-out. Don’t get too fixated on the idea, it’s just a possibility.’
‘And when did our man die?’ Rath asked, rattling out the questions the same way he used to get through the Lord’s Prayer: automatically, without listening to his own words, let alone what Dr Schwartz said in response. His mind was on other things.
The bullet.
As far as the case went, the piece of metal he was holding in his hand was the best lead so far. It was only a matter of time before word got out that the bullet Dr Schwartz had fished out of Wilczek’s brain had come from the service revolver of Detective Inspector Gereon Rath.
‘I hope that’s sufficient, Inspector.’
‘Pardon?’
Schwartz was gazing at him over the rim of his spectacles.
‘Naturally you will also receive a written report of my findings, my good man, but I do expect you to listen. I am speaking to a detective inspector and not a medical student, am I not?’
‘Sorry, Doctor.’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘I wasn’t quite with it. Could you please repeat what you’ve just said?’
‘I wouldn’t do it for a student, so I hope you appreciate it.’ Schwartz pushed his glasses up and suddenly sounded very officious. ‘As already mentioned, I am afraid I cannot determine exactly when the death occurred, due to the heavy contamination of the open wound. A precise statement is further complicated by the fact that the corpse was embedded in concrete, which could conceivably have delayed the body’s decomposition.’
Rath nodded. At least the spur of the moment decision to bury the body in concrete had achieved something.
‘It is nevertheless certain,’ Schwartz continued, ‘that the corpse was not in the fresh air for long. The poor man was placed in concrete shortly after his death. Exactly when he came into contact with the concrete cannot be established on the basis of this forensic report. That could still take a few days, even a week.’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’
‘You will receive the written results tomorrow,’ Schwartz said, before covering the corpse once more. ‘There you will also find details pertaining to the state of the vital organs, the contents of the stomach and similarly appetising things…’
The bullet clattered in the can, as Rath walked through the showroom back towards the foyer. Each clattering sound reminded him that he was carrying a ticking time bomb.
Could be a ricochet.
Misdirected bullets seemed to follow him around in this city. First Krajewski on the scaffolding, then the two women in Neukölln, the ones who had brought him to the morgue in the first place, and now Wilczek. The last of these bullets was now threatening to bring him down.
He came to a halt in the lobby, just a few metres shy of the main door. A thought was racing through his mind, and he had to stand still to capture it. More a flash of inspiration than a thought, it felt almost as if it had sprung up of its own accord. The porter gazed at the inspector in amazement as the latter removed his wallet from his coat and looked inside, only to replace it and head for the porter’s office.
‘Where’s the toilet here?’ he asked.
‘That way,’ the porter said, pointing towards the swing door in the showroom.
A series of small signs coyly pointed the way. When Rath opened the door, all was quiet in the tiled room. He locked himself in one of the cubicles and opened the toilet lid. Soon he had opened his wallet and was examining the bullet from the Lignose. The projectile had long since become a sort of symbol for his friendship with Bruno, who had saved his life above Hermannplatz. But now there was a better use for it.
Rath opened the tin and let the bullet from the Mauser drop into the toilet bowl. There was a harmless splash, then a low click as the metal came into contact with the ceramic bowl. Streaks of red weaved their way through the water, gradually dissolving into pale red clouds. Next he dipped his index and middle fingers into the blood-smeared tin and rolled the bullet from the Lignose between his fingertips. When it looked bloody enough, he dropped it into the tin. Although Ballistics would certainly wash it before any examination, the bullet should at least appear as though it had been removed directly from a brain. Carefully, he screwed the lid tight and put the tin back in his pocket. After flushing he waited a moment or two until the swirl had died back down. There was no sign of the bullet, which had disappeared into the Berlin sewerage system. Perhaps a rat would swallow it by mistake, perhaps it would end up in a sewage farm, or perhaps it would simply disappear into the bowels of Hannoversche Strasse. At all events, it would never wind up under the microscope of a ballistics officer in ED.
Nor would there ever be a comparison sample for the bullet that was currently clacking around inside the can. The weapon it had been fired from had been taken out of circulation by Bruno, as part of the deal they had struck with the informant Krajewski. The ballistic examination in the Wilczek case would therefore, alas, come to naught.
This thought was an immense source of comfort, and Rath’s mood improved straightaway. When he emerged from the cubicle, he would have liked nothing more than to whistle a tune, but he managed to restrain himself. Better not to attract attention. He couldn’t hear anyone in the other cubicles, and he certainly hadn’t seen anyone, but you could never be too sure. He cleaned the blood from his fingertips, and exited the toilet. There was no-one in the corridor, so he went back through the foyer and waved goodbye to the porter on his way out. Dusk was already falling.
21
Rath had divided his people into groups. Czerwinski and Henning, Plisch and Plum, as they were called at the Castle, were still knocking around the Stralau quarter, combing the tenement houses around the construction site. They appeared inseparable, and it was best to deploy them as one. Meanwhile, Jänicke was trying his luck with the honourable members of Berolina. Marlow would be nervous when he learned the cops were scoping out his favourite Ringverein. Perhaps the rookie would expose some sort of criminal squabble, which could conceivably serve as a motive. Of course, such a lead would come to nothing, but it was better to have a lead that came to nothing than to have nothing at all. If he had to begin his stint in A Division with an unsolved case, he wanted at least something to show for his efforts.
He sat at his new desk, thinking; brooding more than he would have liked. The telephone rang. Probably some reader or newspaper journalist for good old Herr Roeder! Well, he’d get rid of the lot of them for good!
‘Plötzensee detention centre. Cellblock for delinquent authors and CID officers,’ he answered.
‘Kling, Zörgiebel’s office.’ It didn’t sound as if the female voice on the other end of the line had a sense of humour. Dagmar Kling, also known as the Guillotine, guarded the commissioner’s outer office like a Cerberus. ‘Is that you, Inspector Rath?’
‘Speaking.’
‘The commissioner would like to see you in half an hour, Inspector.’
Rath knocked on Dagmar Kling’s door promptly at nine, but was obliged to wait. She invited him to take a seat on a bench. The padded door to Zörgiebel’s office was closed, as the commissioner was still in a meeting. Kling hadn’t needed to say anything because, despite the padding, voices penetrated the door. The Guillotine carried on typing as if none of this concerned her, and yet they were bellowing so loudly in there that it was possible to hear almost every word. Rath pretended not to listen, playing instead with his hat and examining the engravings of old Berlin on the wall. Even if he had wanted to be discreet, the voices were impossible to ignore.
‘…but we are doing everything humanly possible, Commissioner!’ said the unmistakeable voice of DCI Wilhelm Böhm. The man seemed to be under a great deal of pressure; his barking sounded almost desperate.
‘Then what is humanly possible is not enough!’ Zörgiebel responded in the singsong Mainz accent Rath remembered from his Cologne days. The angrier the man became, the higher the pitch. Woe betide you if he moved from tenor towards alto, or even broke into soprano. ‘The press wants to see some results! You don’t have to solve the whole case but, heavens above, you must have something new!’
‘Nothing that would interest the press, Commissioner. Numerous tiny details, maybe significant, maybe trivial. For the moment I can’t decide, and I don’t want to leave the choice to the press.’
‘But you are there to make such decisions, DCI Böhm! By now you should have at least something approaching a lead, damn it! You can’t stand here and tell me you’re investigating all avenues. What lines of inquiry are you following right now? That’s enough! We don’t have to tell them anything more. The last press conference was over a week ago. I can understand why they’re impatient. It’s when we don’t give them anything that speculation runs wild.’
‘Then let it run wild. With all due respect, Commissioner, I am not some sort of media clown. I am trying to do my job.’
‘Then kindly do it in such a way that it yields results. Do we understand each other?’
‘My first duty is to the law, Commissioner, not to these newshounds! Let them write whatever they want. Good day!’
The door flew open and a bright-red Wilhelm Böhm shot out of the chief’s office, past Rath and Dagmar Kling, who continued typing unmoved. What an exit, even if it wouldn’t do his career any favours.
‘Inspector,’ Dagmar Kling said, gesturing towards the open door, ‘the commissioner will receive you now.’
Zörgiebel had composed himself quickly. When Rath entered, he stood up and stretched out his arms like an opera singer.
‘Young Inspector Rath!’ He offered a fleshy paw. ‘How have you settled in, my friend?’
Rath felt as if he had been ambushed. He would have preferred if the fat man had remained behind his desk and invited him to take a seat on one of the uncomfortable chairs. He certainly didn’t want to be the commissioner’s friend.
‘Thank you. Berlin is no Cologne, but…’
‘You said it! You said it!’ Zörgiebel appreciated the truism, without being interested in further details.
The telephone rang and he picked up angrily.
‘I said I didn’t want to be disturbed, Fräulein Kling.’ He listened for a while. ‘I have already given the Interior Ministry my answer. The Berlin police will treat this case like any other. A normal missing person’s case. Most of them turn up again after a few days. Now, please, no more disturbances.’
He hung up.
‘A member of staff at the Soviet embassy has gone missing,’ he said to Rath. ‘The communists are already making a song and dance about it. I’d bet the guy has been enjoying a few good days – and nights – in our city, and will be back outside the embassy in no time. He wouldn’t be the first to succumb to the temptations of capitalism.’
Zörgiebel led Rath to a seating area. The suite was relatively new, its chairs not as worn as the green monstrosities in Gennat’s office. ‘Please make yourself comfortable.’
Comfortable? Rath took a seat in one of the beige-coloured chairs, feeling anything but comfortable. At least there was no cake. ‘Thank you, Commissioner.’
Zörgiebel offered him a cigar, which Rath turned down, took one for himself and placed the carton back on the table. ‘So,’ he said, ‘What progress are you making with your homicide case?’
Good question, Rath thought. I know who it was, but I’m not going to say! ‘The evidence points to an altercation in criminal circles,’ he said, as bureaucratically as one might expect from a Prussian officer.
‘That’s something!’ Zörgiebel beamed, probably hoping that this case, at least, would be quickly solved.
‘The victim was a small-time crook, a member of the Berolina Ringverein,’ Rath continued, ‘the bullet a possible ricochet. Could have been an accident, therefore, or it could be that our man was involved in a shoot-out. There were powder burns on his right hand.’ He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. ‘But we still don’t know anything else.’
‘You don’t know anything else? But that’s already an awful lot, and in such a short space of time! Believe me, there are other detectives out there groping in the dark after weeks of investigations!’
The commissioner seemed to have lined Böhm up for the kill. Sometimes the right people got hit after all.
‘A murder investigation is never easy.’ He was slowly becoming more relaxed. Time to take a few precautions. The day would come when Detective Inspector Rath would also have to disappoint the commissioner, and soon. Would Father’s old friend receive him quite so warmly then?
‘Is anything easy?’ Zörgiebel made a dismissive gesture of the hand. ‘Up here, you have to deal with politics. Believe me, sometimes I envy the officer on the street for his tough but honest duty.’
Rath preferred to keep his counsel. He doubted whether the commissioner had even the slightest idea of what being a beat cop these days entailed. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m happy for the chance to work in Homicide again.’
‘I’m glad, young man, I’m glad!’ Zörgiebel seemed in very high spirits. ‘I thought we could call a press conference for this morning. What do you say?’
Rath was horrified, but didn’t let it show. ‘A press conference?’ He tapped an Overstolz out of the packet and lit it. ‘Do you think that’s necessary, Commissioner? We don’t have to make a big deal of this case. It’s probably just a shoot-out amongst crooks.’
‘Don’t be so modest!’ Zörgiebel took a puff on his cigar. ‘Or do I detect a little a publicity shyness? Have no fear, young man, I know how badly the press treated you in Cologne, but this case offers you the perfect introduction to the Berlin press corps. Take the opportunity, these things are important and I’ll be by your side. After all…’ He paused for effect and took another drag on his cigar. The air was gradually becoming thicker. ‘… it’s not as if it’s your bullet in the corpse this time, is it?’
Rath gave a forced smile.
‘So, it’s agreed,’ Zörgiebel continued. ‘Eleven on the dot in the small conference room. Collate all breakthroughs in the investigation by then, and submit a copy to me half an hour before the start. Perhaps you could also enlist the general public. Say we’re looking for witnesses, you know the drill. That sort of thing always goes down well, and you’ll have the press on your side.’
‘Does it really make sense for me to hold a press conference as a homicide detective?’ Rath inhaled cigarette smoke. ‘My department is still E Division, Commissioner. I’m only working on a homicide case temporarily.’
‘My dear Rath, that Vice squad isn’t right for you is something we both agree on. I need the best men available for A Division. Do your job well, and I’ll see what I can do for you.’
Rath raised his eyebrows and feigned surprise. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and took out the letter he had drafted the previous evening.
‘May I present this to you in person, Commissioner? I wanted to send it internally, but since you’ve already received me…’
‘What’s this?’
‘An application, Commissioner.’
‘I see.’ Zörgiebel nodded and took the letter, and a smile flashed across his face. He looked deep into Rath’s eyes.
‘Do you know what, my young friend? You really are your father’s son!’
Had it been right to apply for Roeder’s position at that moment? While he was working on a case that was going to be shelved with the other wet fish? Rath was at odds with himself as he strolled back to Roeder’s little office. It wasn’t perfect timing, granted, but would there be a better chance? There was a post free in A Division and the commissioner was well disposed towards him; all he had to do now was show what he was made of.
And that was precisely the problem. He couldn’t.
On top of all that, he had to appear before the press with the damned Wilczek case. The commissioner needed good press like a morphine addict needed his next shot. Hopefully this time he wouldn’t be forced into any ill-considered promises.
Rath reached the end of the corridor, A Division’s appendix, so to speak, where the solitude of Roeder’s office received him like an old friend. Only the outer office had a typewriter, so he sat at the abandoned secretarial desk, inserted a sheet of paper and started to think.
Fortunately, he had taken care of the most important things in the Wilczek case already. His greatest concern, the projectile, had been eradicated. The results of the ballistics report, which would be available in the coming days, would only confirm the theory that he was about to expound, namely that it had been a fatal quarrel between criminals. All that remained was to whisk the inquiry into a nice story, taking care to work in the activities of both the rookie and his two colleagues from A Division, and the press would have their fodder. Shoot-out in criminal underworld, was an everyday occurrence in the East. Readers in the more sheltered Western districts, meanwhile, loved stories which got them all shivery in the safety of their drawing rooms, while at the same time confirming what they had always suspected: that Berlin was a match for Chicago in every way.
