Goldstein, page 30
‘To us,’ she said.
At that moment the first drops of rain fell on the awning. The balmy summer’s night on the terrace had come to nothing. They would have to move inside, not that it mattered now.
67
The address of the 127th police precinct was Bayreuther Strasse 13, but the station building itself was on Wittenbergplatz, close to the U-Bahn, bus and tram stations which thousands of Berliners used on their journeys to and from work. Thus the big letters painted in reddish brown across its front were seen by a great number of people that morning. Huge letters, smeared crudely across the wall.
In Communist areas, slogans scrawled overnight were usually political and might be normal, but here in the west they were anything but. The dirty-red graffiti, wet and running down the wall, had a deeply unsettling effect. Whether or not it was political was open to debate, but it certainly provided ample conversation material on an otherwise drab morning.
Not least for the three men in the Berlin Police Commissioner’s office currently discussing what it could mean.
Commissioner Albert Grzesinski, back on duty only yesterday, skimmed through the black and white photographs on his desk, which were still damp from the lab, and shook his head. He wished he could change the words, but they stubbornly remained the same.
A MURDERER WORKS IN THIS PIG PRECINCT! REVENGE FOR BENNY S.
‘The 127th precinct?’ Grzesinski asked, in his characteristically sober way.
Ernst Gennat nodded, his ample form spread across the visitor’s chair.
‘Why did the ward sergeant call in Homicide? I hope he isn’t taking this nonsense seriously?’
‘He didn’t,’ Gennat said. ‘Homicide is here of its own accord. One of my officers changes at Wittenbergplatz on his way to work. He notified me and I sent Herr Lange to photograph the whole mess.’ Andreas Lange sat in the second visitor’s chair. ‘I spoke to the ward sergeant over the telephone,’ Gennat continued. ‘He’s putting it down to Communists, which is unusual enough in this area. But I . . .’ he pointed towards Lange, ‘ . . . that is, we don’t agree.’
‘Go on.’ Grzesinski waved his hand impatiently.
Gennat explained that Homicide currently suspected one of the precinct’s officers of murder, outlining the fatal incident at KaDeWe. When he mentioned the name of the dead boy, Benjamin Singer, Grzesinski shook his head. When Gennat finished, he shook it again. ‘A uniformed officer, who causes a boy to fall to his death,’ he said, more or less stunned. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Everything points that way. Above all the pathology report. Of course, that’s not enough for the courts, which is why we’ve been handling the matter as discreetly as possible.’
‘So discreetly that not even I knew about it.’
‘Well, now you do,’ Gennat shrugged.
Lange raised his hand as if he were in school.
‘Not so formal, man,’ Grzesinski said. ‘You can speak freely here.’
Lange’s face turned red. ‘We’re assuming that the graffiti comes from the dead boy’s female accomplice, who almost certainly witnessed his fall. We received an anonymous telephone call.’
‘And you think this witness will be able to help you. A juvenile department store thief – not exactly ideal.’
‘She’s the only witness we have,’ Lange said.
‘Then see to it that you bring her in as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He looked at Gennat. ‘Who else knows about this?
‘So far, only Officer Lange, who came to me with his suspicions right away, Dr Schwartz, and myself. I’ve deliberately involved as few people as possible.’
‘Good, but with this . . .’ Grzesinski pointed towards the photos on his desk, ‘ . . . it could grow out of all proportion. We need to send someone to keep the press quiet.’
‘With respect, Sir, I think that would be a mistake,’ Gennat said. ‘Best let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘So, what should we do, in your opinion?’
‘Nothing. The best thing would be to do nothing. If the press believe the story about Communist graffiti we won’t have any trouble. As soon as we issue a denial, the problems will start.’
Unlike his predecessor, Karl Zörgiebel, Albert Grzesinski was capable of conceding mistakes in front of colleagues. ‘You’re right. So what do we do with this sergeant? If we stick him in custody, the press will have a field day. Even if we didn’t leak anything about our suspicions, journalists would have plenty of reasons to start digging.’
‘That’s my view too,’ said Gennat. ‘We would only create unease among our fellow officers, and such evidence as we have might not be enough for the magistrate.’
‘Nevertheless, you’ll agree that I cannot simply allow an officer accused of such a heinous crime to carry on as if nothing has occurred.’
‘Absolutely, Sir.’
‘Then I’ll suspend him from duty with immediate effect.’
‘It’s probably for the best,’ Gennat said. ‘But you’ll need plausible grounds.’
‘We have them already,’ Grzesinski said. ‘In the wake of the intense pressure he has faced since the tragic events at KaDeWe, Sergeant Major Kuschke has been temporarily excused from duty. The measure is taken to avoid placing further strain on his work, as well as that of his colleagues.’
‘There is something else,’ Lange said, taking a brown envelope from his jacket and placing it on Grzesinski’s desk. ‘We should deal with this too, before the press get wind of it and start joining the dots.’
The commissioner opened the envelope. ‘What is it?’
‘After taking the photographs at Wittenbergplatz, I went out to Kuschke’s home. It’s nearby, in Schöneberg.’
Grzesinski held the envelope upside down and half a dozen photos came tumbling out.
‘Kuschke hasn’t reported this, which I find very surprising. It reinforces our suspicion that the man has something to hide.’
Grzesinski listened attentively, looking at the photos spread across his desk. They showed a Schöneberg tenement, on the front of which four words were hastily scrawled.
REVENGE FOR BENNY S.
68
Charly hadn’t been up this early in a long time, especially not after such a late night, but business at Wertheim began with the lark. She wrenched herself out of bed, showered and took the U-Bahn to Kaiserhof. Alighting there she retraced her steps to Vossstrasse, past the Department of Justice and country embassies that filled one side of the street, with its relics of Berlin’s Royal Prussian history. On the other side was an enormous building complex several hundred metres long, which, despite its ornamentations, appeared strangely industrial.
Wertheim’s front looked onto Leipziger Strasse, leaving Vossstrasse a view of its rear. The once quiet street had become the department store’s lifeline, feeding the hungry Moloch with an endless supply of goods to keep its thousands of daily customers happy. It was in Vossstrasse that the delivery vans arrived with fresh produce, in Vossstrasse the rubbish trucks picked up whatever wasn’t sold, and in Vossstrasse the majority of Wertheim employees reported for duty. To gain access they passed through a huge wrought-iron gate, more like the entrance to a castle or villa than the delivery area of a department store.
Charly yawned. She hadn’t had much sleep. The evening with Gereon had turned out differently than expected, and she hadn’t drunk the champagne alone after all. They shared the crab meat salad too; enjoyed a little picnic in bed. After. And before.
That was yesterday, but this morning things were no clearer. Six months abroad with Heymann, a decision made over Gereon’s head, and he had accepted it. Then, somehow, she had yielded to his charm again, his stupid jokes. When had the turning point come? Certainly by the time she switched from mineral water to champagne, and then later to white wine, leaving all her best-laid plans in the dust. They had wound up back at Spenerstrasse, in bed – the place where they had always understood each other best.
The alarm clock this morning had sounded brutally early. She let Gereon sleep on and got up, sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee after her shower. She wanted to smoke but her Junos were finished, and so she reached inside Gereon’s jacket for his Overstolz. Whereupon she discovered the rings.
She had a guilty conscience even now thinking about it. Two identical rings that looked damn expensive, and one of them fit her ring finger perfectly. The other was a little bigger.
Damn it! So many opposing thoughts ran through her mind that she had to sit down. In the process she even forgot about the cigarettes.
Engagement rings! He had engagement rings in his pocket!
Was he really planning to propose yesterday evening, on the same night she had summoned him to talk? With Gereon, anything was possible. She couldn’t help thinking back to Cologne, to that awful evening in the restaurant, to the roses he had used to strike Guido. He could have been carrying these rings around for days, weeks, months, waiting for the right moment. It seemed hard to imagine that Gereon Rath, who could be pretty bold when dealing with superiors and criminals, was too cowardly, or too meek, or whatever, to ask for her hand in marriage. But, then again, was it really? Perhaps it wasn’t.
She didn’t know whether it was joy or despair, this feeling that was coursing through her veins, gnawing away at her insides and, even more than her jumbled thoughts, had her slumped on the nearest chair.
She always thought she knew what she wanted. But with Gereon she wasn’t sure. He had disappointed her more than anyone in her life, but she had never given up on him and, if that was a mistake, it was one she savoured with every fibre of her being.
The six months they would have to spend apart suddenly seemed like a godsend. If after these six months she still didn’t know what she wanted, whether she wanted to share her life with him or not, then perhaps she really was beyond help. Until then – well, why shouldn’t she just enjoy being with him, and cast all reservations aside.
At the Wertheim gate a lorry halted directly beside her, smelling of blood and diesel. On the driver’s door was the logo of the Central Stockyard and Slaughterhouse. The driver got out and showed the uniformed guard his papers, climbed back and drove into the courtyard. It proved trickier for Charly to enter. No papers, no right of access. Not even her feminine wiles, so effective on Herr Eick, could help. The man at the gate was unmoved.
‘No entry for unauthorised persons!’ seemed to be the only sentence he knew.
‘I’m looking for an Erich Rambow.’
She might as well have been talking to the no parking sign. After two or three more attempts, the gatekeeper froze to a statue and simply ceased to react, not so much as flinching until the next truck appeared, likewise bearing the Central Stockyard and Slaughterhouse logo. The meat they handled at Wertheim must come from Friedrichshain.
For the first time in her life she found herself thinking a little queasily about the mountains of flesh Berlin must consume each day, and felt a sudden desire for a simple green salad. The smell of blood soon overwhelmed everything else, leaving no room for vegetarian thoughts. A cigarette helped.
She stood smoking in Vossstrasse, waiting for she didn’t know who. Alex’s erstwhile suitor must be in his early or mid-twenties, she thought, keeping an eye out for men who fitted this description. Someone approached now who looked like a butcher’s apprentice. She intercepted him a few metres outside the gate.
‘Are you Erich Rambow?’
The boy was twenty at most and looked her up and down unashamedly. ‘What do I get if I am?’ he asked.
Charly was speechless, but only for a moment, then she found an appropriate response. ‘How about a boot between your legs?’ She hadn’t grown up in Moabit for nothing.
‘Alright, alright!’ The boy raised his hands in self-defence. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in Erich’s shoes.’ He shook his head, swung his bag over his shoulder and carried on to the gate, where he showed the gatekeeper his time card and went inside. Charly gazed after him. This could get interesting. Three more attempts, she told herself, and no more. She had better things to do than listen to little boys cracking wise.
The next candidate approached riding a bicycle. He braked furiously in front of the entrance. Charly went over and tried her luck again, this time armed with a proper comeback.
‘Erich Rambow?’
‘Who’s asking?’
It sounded more suspicious than hostile. He looked a little spare for a butcher, but his flushed cheeks denoted the slightly raised blood pressure common among meat-eaters.
‘I’m a friend of Alexandra Reinhold,’ she said.
Rambow dismounted and pushed the old boneshaker in the direction of the gate. ‘OK,’ he said, still suspicious. He had a thick Berlin accent. ‘What is it you want from me?’
‘I’m looking for Alex. You’re friends with her, aren’t you?’
‘I haven’t seen her in ages. You’re asking the wrong man. She ran away, didn’t she? Now let me past. I’m running late already.’
Erich Rambow ditched her, waved his time card at the gatekeeper and entered. Countless bicycles gleamed in the sun next to the steps by the loading platform. He parked his alongside and bounded up. Standing at the door for a moment and gripping its metal handle, his eyes searched for Charly through the bars of the fence. He looked her up and down shamelessly, which she observed, back turned, from the safety of her make-up mirror, before disappearing inside the enormous building.
She waited for a moment before approaching the gatekeeper again.
‘No entry for unauthorised persons,’ he began, before she could speak.
‘I don’t want to go in,’ she said, pleased at the look of bafflement on the man’s face. ‘When do staff in the butcher’s usually finish for the evening?’
This time, the gatekeeper was more forthcoming. He was probably just glad to be rid of a nuisance like her.
69
Margot Kohn was flabbergasted. Her nephew Abraham was in Berlin, her brother’s son? She didn’t know anything about it. And that Nathan’s boy was a gangster, a killer to boot, well, she just couldn’t believe it.
‘My brother founded a textile dealership in America, which Abraham’s been running for years.’ She looked outraged. ‘A gangster, you say? He’s a respectable textile trader!’
‘Has your brother retired?’ Rath asked, pouring oil on troubled waters.
‘My brother is dead.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.’
This was anything but a model interrogation. Rath glanced at Tornow, who seemed unmoved. At that moment a girl broke the embarrassed silence with a tray of tea and biscuits.
They sat in an elegant drawing room, a little old-fashioned perhaps, but impeccably furnished. Margot Kohn, née Goldstein, lived with her family in the shadow of the Siegessäule, barely a stone’s throw away from the Reichstag and only a few doors from the Interior Ministry. From its beginnings as a pleasure quarter, over the decades In den Zelten had become a more exclusive address, especially where it bordered on the Alsenviertel, an area full of diplomats and politicians.
Rath looked out of the window at the stony bulk of the Kroll Opera House silhouetted by the grey-blue sky behind the trees. The girl handed out the tea things and, after a nod from her mistress, disappeared, leaving Margot Kohn to serve her unbidden visitors herself. Rath added a little sugar and glanced briefly at Tornow, who understood. Time for a change-up.
‘When did you last see your father?’ Tornow asked, and Rath was astonished by the sympathy in his voice.
Margot Kohn immediately opened up. ‘Yesterday afternoon,’ she said, skilfully balancing her teacup as she sat. ‘We visited him as a family. We’ve been there almost every day these past few weeks.’
‘And he was fighting fit yesterday afternoon?’
‘We all knew he didn’t have long, my father more than anyone, but he wasn’t afraid of death. He never has been. He is . . . or was, very devout. The only thing that troubled him was the pain.’
‘Didn’t he mention anything about Abraham; he must have visited a few days ago?’
She shook her head indignantly. ‘Even if he did, he didn’t kill his own grandfather! You don’t really think that, do you?’
Rath was about to respond when the door flew open and a man entered. There was no need for an introduction; this had to be Dr Hermann Kohn. The lawyer was surprised by their presence. ‘Might I ask what you are doing here?’
‘Just routine questioning,’ Rath replied. ‘Your wife is related to a fugitive murder suspect, and . . .’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Abraham Goldstein,’ Rath said, before Margot Kohn interrupted.
‘Nathan’s son,’ she said. ‘From America. Apparently he’s in Berlin.’ She showed her husband Saturday’s edition of Der Tag, which Rath had brought, containing, as it did, the essential information. Hermann Kohn skimmed the article, the details of which were clearly as unfamiliar to him as to his wife. Journalists at Der Tag weren’t averse to anti-Semitic sentiment.
‘This still doesn’t explain why you’re here. My brother-in-law emigrated to the United States many years ago. The last time Margot saw him she was fourteen . . .’
‘Fifteen!’ his wife sobbed. ‘Nathan is long since dead, and here you are telling me his son is a gangster and murderer, who might even have killed his own grandfather.’
‘We had your father’s body sent to Pathology precisely to rule out that possibility,’ Rath said, realising at the same moment how tactless he was being – and not just because Margot Kohn started heaving again.
‘Without informing his next of kin,’ the lawyer said.
‘With respect, we did, of course . . .’
‘You told Flegenheimer! Not me!’
‘Then you must have heard it from your brother-in-law.’
‘I heard it from the hospital. They said you had seized my father-in-law’s corpse.’
