Goldstein, page 27
‘The case you’re investigating, but that’s no secret.’
Lange cleared his throat, finding it very hard to utter the decisive sentence. ‘We have reason to believe,’ he said finally, taking a sip of Selters, ‘that Benjamin Singer was sent to his death by a police officer.’
He said it very softly, but still looked around as if someone might be listening. All of a sudden, Charly realised what he was after, and where the fear in Alex’s eyes had come from. ‘You need Alexandra Reinhold as a witness?’ she asked.
‘We received an anonymous call. Probably from this Alexandra. You cops killed Benny, the caller said.’
Charly was contrite. ‘All the more infuriating that she gave me the slip.’
‘No, no,’ Lange appeased her.
‘If Alex really did witness the murder the killer might have seen her too.’ Lange nodded. ‘Then she’s in danger.’ Lange nodded again. ‘Do you have a suspect?’
‘A sergeant from the 127th precinct, but I fear we won’t get him without a witness statement. It’s a difficult thing, accusing a colleague of murder.’
‘You think they’d believe Alex in court?’
‘We have other evidence,’ Lange said, ‘but it’s no use without a witness.’ The waiter arrived with the menus. ‘It’s on me. Homicide will pick up the tab.’
Charly ordered a mineral water before the waiter disappeared. They looked at the menu.
‘I saw her,’ she said after a while. ‘She was scared stiff. Do you think it’s possible he’s the officer who chased her?’
‘Absolutely,’ Lange said, and couldn’t help but smile. ‘For all the good it did him. This Alex must have claws, or at the very least a knife.’
‘Is the man still on active duty?’
Lange nodded. ‘Didn’t even want to take sick leave.’
‘Why have you summoned me here, Herr Lange? I’d like to know before I order anything.’
‘Two things. I know you’re looking for the girl. Keep going. Try to find Alexandra.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because Superintendent Gennat was hoping you’d still be interested.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you, but under one condition.’
‘Which would be?’
‘You have to promise to protect Alex.’
‘Her cooperation will mitigate her sentence.’
‘I’m not talking about that. I can’t just hand her over to you, that won’t work. If she comes in, it will be of her own accord. And if she decides to go, then you have to let her.’
‘What am I supposed to say to the public prosecutor? I did question a witness, but unfortunately she gave me the slip?’
‘It’s that or not at all. I don’t want to be responsible for anything that happens. If she’s killed, for instance.’
‘Do you really think she’s in that much danger?’
Charly nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’
Lange took a sip of mineral water and appeared to consider. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘You have my word. I’ll protect the girl.’
Charly stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Two things, you said. What’s the second?’
Lange pushed a copy of a personal file across the table. ‘Keep an eye on this man, as best you can.’
Charly opened the file and stared into the face of Sergeant Major Jochen Kuschke. ‘That’s him. That’s our suspect.’
‘I can’t tail him around the clock,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to. So long as he’s on duty, we’ll have him in our sights; he isn’t walking the beat alone. We want you to look out for him in the evening. If you can manage, that is – the search for Alex takes priority.’
‘Why me? What about J Division?’
‘He doesn’t know your face. With Warrants he might suspect something; perhaps he knows the odd officer there. We don’t want to take any risks.’
The waiter arrived to take their order. She decided not to worry about the cost.
As she stepped out of the U-Bahn on Frankfurter Allee an hour later, Charly was still thinking about her meeting with Andreas Lange. Superintendent Gennat had put the young assistant detective onto her because he needed allies in his bid to prosecute a Prussian police officer for murder. Ernst Gennat was Charly’s great hero, perhaps even her role model; so naturally she had agreed. Especially since, through Lange, he had offered her something in return. A position as police cadet, to be taken up in summer 1932, before the conclusion of her legal preparatory service, with the prospect of a senior role at the Castle.
For that, she’d gladly call it quits with Weber; it was better than making a timid request for half a year’s unpaid leave which he would most likely refuse, if only to torpedo her joint project with Heymann. He wouldn’t be able to reject her resignation.
Charly wasn’t sure that she hadn’t been bought. Still, she was only carrying on what she had already started: looking for Alexandra Reinhold. So why did the offer make her feel so uneasy when, a year from now, she’d be a CID cadet?
Because somehow it didn’t feel right.
There was too much secrecy. Although, at least she could be sure that nothing would happen to Alex. Lange had promised. She just had to make sure she found the girl before Warrants did.
In Kopernikusstrasse she stood for a moment before entering the stairwell. This time, she knew, she’d make it inside.
As she hoped, Martha Reinhold was home alone and recognised her straightaway.
‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘My husband isn’t here. I’m sorry you’ve made the trip for nothing.’ She tried to shut the door of the flat but Charly wedged her foot in the crack.
‘No matter, Frau Reinhold,’ she said politely, pushing the door open and stepping into the narrow corridor. ‘I just wanted to have a quick look around.’
Martha Reinhold didn’t protest. Charly went to the kitchen-cum-living-room, where a wooden door led to a little cubbyhole next to the stove and sink.
‘What is it you’re after? Martha Reinhold had followed her, but her resistance was broken. When Charly sat at the kitchen table, she sat too. ‘Didn’t my husband tell you that he’s cut all ties with his family? That he no longer has anything to do with those Communists?’
‘Alex isn’t a Communist, is she? Has he cut ties with her too?’
Martha Reinhold was silent. She seemed to be one of those people capable of withholding the truth, but incapable of telling a lie.
‘When did you last see Alexandra, Frau Reinhold?’ Charly asked. ‘She was here, wasn’t she? Maybe she still is?’
‘No!’
‘But she was here! The last time I called she was in the flat, am I right? Your husband deliberately laid a false trail with that business about his parents?’
‘How am I supposed to know?’
‘Was Alexandra here or not?’
Martha Reinhold began nodding. First slowly, then quicker.
‘So she was here.’
‘I told Helmut it wasn’t on, while police were out looking for her.’
‘I’m not from the police, Frau Reinhold. I know Alex is afraid of the police. I want to help her. There are some dangerous people looking for her.’
‘Helmut can never know I betrayed his sister.’
‘Don’t worry, he won’t. I wasn’t even here. All I want is for you to tell me where I can find Alex. Where is she hiding?’
‘If only I knew. She’s been with us the whole time, since Tuesday. But . . .’ She fetched a crinkled piece of paper from her apron pocket and unfolded it. ‘I found this on the kitchen table when I got back from shopping today. Helmut still doesn’t know; he’s away on a job and won’t be back until tomorrow.’
I’m sorry, the note said in scrawled but legible handwriting. You’ve both helped me a lot. Thank you for everything. I won’t forget it. But I have to keep moving, there’s still something I have to take care of. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be OK. Some day I’ll return the favour, I promise. Alex.
‘You don’t have any idea where she went?’
Martha Reinhold shook her head, and Charly believed her. She thought there was a touch of relief there, and not just on account of her confession. Martha Reinhold was glad to be rid of her criminal sister-in-law.
‘I don’t think it’s her style to fit in with other people,’ she said. ‘I knew she’d be gone soon, but Helmut . . .’ She looked at Charly. ‘I think he wished she could stay forever. It was almost like having his family back. And now . . . now they’re scattered to the four winds just like before.’
62
Rath hadn’t told anyone about the old man, who now seemed more like an apparition, with nothing tangible left but a few notes in his black book. Not even a name or address.
Erika Voss was surprised by the note with the swastika she found on her desk. She had returned quarter of an hour after the old man vanished, looking round in confusion before throwing the crumpled paper in the bin. Perhaps there was a Nazi in the office.
Reinhold Gräf also popped his head in after the lunch break before returning to his interview marathon. Rath briefly considered closing the door and telling his colleague about the old man, but decided against. He couldn’t face admitting to a junior officer that yet another witness had slipped through his fingers.
Especially not after Gräf had told him about the trader from the Scheunenviertel, who recognised Goldstein from the sketch. He had promised to protect him from criminal proceedings and received a valuable statement in return. A man fitting Goldstein’s description had bought a pistol from the trader’s shop the week before. He had paid with dollars for a Remington 51, a gun seldom used in Berlin.
‘It could be a direct hit,’ Gräf said, before returning to the interview room. ‘If the Kubicki bullet was fired from a Remington.’
Rath agreed, fetched a Pharus map from the drawer and unfolded it on his desk. Walking with Kirie it had occurred to him that they should be looking for Goldstein in Wedding, and Wedding alone. At first Rath had suspected it was Goldstein’s taxi driver who had advised shaking him off in Kösliner Strasse. But then: Goldstein’s second excursion: Humboldthain, Gesundbrunnen U-Bahn station – the same neighbourhood, a kilometre or two away from Kösliner Strasse at most.
That couldn’t be coincidence.
During that first, seemingly random, taxi journey across Berlin, Goldstein must have been up to something, but Rath got in the way. Something in this neighbourhood exerted a magical pull on Abraham Goldstein.
Studying the map, Rath took out a soft pencil and marked, first, Kösliner Strasse, then, Gesundbrunnen U-Bahn station. After staring for a while he drew a large circle around the area between the Ringbahn line and Christiania Strasse. Folding and pocketing the map he left Kirie in the devoted care of Erika Voss, and set off.
The longer he sat in his car, the better he felt. Something to do at last! He drove north via Rosenthaler Strasse until, at Humboldthain, he throttled back to look across at the Himmelfahrtkirche where they had found the dead SA man. Driving at a leisurely tempo past the southern entrance of the U-Bahn, where Goldstein must have emerged in pursuit of the old Jew and the brownshirts, he crossed the tracks of the Ringbahn.
His plan was simply to drive around the area he had circled. If there was something here that could help them pick up Abraham Goldstein’s trail, he’d find it. He usually did his best thinking while driving anyway.
From Badstrasse he turned left onto Pankstrasse, the road linking Kösliner Strasse with Gesundbrunnen, the two most prominent markings on his map. The road opened onto a large square on the right-hand side, above which stood the forbidding stone structure of the Wedding District Court.
He pulled over and surveyed the stern neo-Gothic façade as if it had something to tell him, trying to picture Goldstein here. What business could an American gangster have in a German court? Did he mean to kill a German criminal, a judge even? He made a few notes, drawing three large question marks underneath.
At Kösliner Strasse he stopped to glance at the Rote Laterne, which was already open, leaving the engine running. No, that wasn’t it either. Goldstein had gone into the pub to shake off Rath’s tail and recruit a few volunteers to smash up his Buick. A few curious faces peered through the vehicle’s windows. This, after all, was a red stronghold where two years ago Communists had taken to the barricades. Park an overly expensive car here, or even use a car, and you made yourself suspicious. He engaged first gear, turned right at the corner and continued along the banks of the Panke, which was concealed by thick trees and shrubs, until the rear façade of the District Court reappeared overhead. At length he reached the long wall of an S-Bahn depot, to re-emerge onto the busy Badstrasse.
As he was considering his next move, he realised he had found what he was looking for. A large sign at the junction at Exerzierstrasse said:
Jewish Hospital.
He took a sharp left onto Exerzierstrasse, a quiet residential street with next to no traffic. A lone tram rumbled over the road surface. Rath kept behind it until a three-storey building appeared on his right. More reminiscent of a school than a hospital, its carved lettering left him in no doubt. Krankenhaus der Jüdischen Gemeinde, it said. Jewish Community Hospital.
He parked the Buick under a tree and searched for the police sketch in the glove compartment. Before pocketing it, he unfolded it and looked again at the face: a good likeness. If Abraham Goldstein had been here in the last few days, he could be recognised from this.
He walked the few steps back to the hospital. The building on Exerzierstrasse was only one part of the complex; the much larger ward block rose behind it, with its entrance on Schulstrasse. Rath paused outside, unsure for a moment whether he should go in. Wasn’t he just making a fool of himself?
He had just decided to enter the grounds when a surprised cry prevented him.
‘Inspector?’
On the other side of the road, Sebastian Tornow, the police lieutenant training as a CID inspector, stood in the shadow of a tree. Rath almost didn’t recognise him in plainclothes. He went over.
Tornow surveyed him curiously. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’ Rath sounded more caustic than he intended, but somehow felt caught out. Stupid: apart from being on his own, he had done nothing wrong. ‘This is a coincidence.’
‘I’m working for Warrants. We received a tip-off.’ Tornow gestured towards the hospital. ‘Abraham Goldstein. Apparently he’s been seen here.’
The cadet didn’t seem particularly excited. In fact, he gave a disengaged impression overall. No wonder, with all the false sightings, but could this be the one? Suddenly, Rath was seized by the fever, that tingling in his veins he felt whenever things started to come together.
‘Well, perhaps you’re right this time,’ he said. ‘I’ve also received information which suggests Goldstein might have been here.’
Tornow brightened. ‘Perhaps we could go in together? Although it would be the fifth false lead for me today.’
‘Not quite as exciting as you thought then, CID work?’
‘What are you going to do?’ Tornow asked. ‘An apprentice is not his own master.’
‘Let me guess – Kilian said that?’
‘Respect! I see you know our colleagues well. You’ll have to tell me more about them sometime.’ He looked in the direction of Badstrasse. ‘There are a few nice cafes over there. What do you say?’
‘Business before pleasure. DCI Kilian must have taught you that too, or hasn’t he had the chance?’
‘Lack of business or lack of pleasure?’
Rath pointed to the hospital complex. ‘Come on. Let’s go inside and ask our questions, then the coffee’s on me. How about that?’
‘Your wish is my command, Sir.’
They crossed the street, Rath surveying the cadet out of the corner of his eye. They could use a man like him in Homicide, he thought, he’d be a good addition to his team. He’d be only too happy to part with Paul Czerwinski in exchange. He wondered why someone like Sebastian Tornow was assigned to DCI Kilian, of all people.
Although expecting to uncover a lead, Rath was still surprised to see the porter nodding through the glass after one look at the sketch.
‘He was here,’ the porter said. ‘A few days ago. With a bouquet.’
‘Was he visiting someone?’
‘I’d say so. Asked for someone anyways.’
‘Do you remember who?’
‘A Herr Goldstein, I think.’
‘Goldstein?’ Rath said, trying to stay cool. He gave Tornow a discreet nod. ‘That’s the name of a patient?’
‘Yes,’ the porter looked at a long list. ‘Jakob Goldstein. First floor, room 102.’
‘Do you remember when he visited?’
‘I’d reckon Wednesday or Thursday. During afternoon visiting hours, anyway. I can’t tell you any more than that. Only that he wasn’t the only one with a bouquet of flowers.’
‘Did he come a second time?’ Rath asked.
‘Not that I’m aware of. At least not while I’ve been on shift.’
‘We’d like to visit Herr Goldstein in room 102. Is that possible? Now, I mean.’
63
The old man was clearly in pain. The skin in his face seemed thinner, more transparent somehow. On the table stood fresh flowers, another bunch that was beginning to wilt, just like him. Everything in the room smelled of death and departure.
Abraham Goldstein had pictured his grandfather, whom he knew only from his father’s stories, with a long, white beard like all the old men in Williamsburg. And, of course, sidelocks – an older edition, so to speak, of his father Nathan. But Jakob Goldstein was about as much of a black hat as his grandson, Abraham, or he’d never have asked for such a favour.
Looking at his grandfather was like staring into a mirror: Abraham Goldstein fifty years older. No beard, no sidelocks, the same facial characteristics, only more prominent, the skin more wrinkled, the eyes deeper, the nose bigger, and the ears. Since arriving in Berlin he had realised that he looked more like Jakob than Nathan; and that Jakob looked more like him than his son.
