Goldstein, page 35
Her attempt to lighten the mood misfired. Lange turned red.
‘Right,’ Charly said, packing her cigarettes back in her handbag. ‘I’ve fulfilled my side of the agreement. I’ve found Alex.’ She made a move to get up.
‘Wait a minute,’ Lange said, with surprising sharpness, and Charly sat back down. ‘Don’t forget there’s a second part. Sergeant Major Kuschke will have read the papers this morning. You still need to keep an eye on him.’
‘How long do I have to keep the man under surveillance?’ Charly sighed.
Lange smiled and tapped the paper. ‘Until this witness turns up and we can take him into custody. Or until Alex changes her mind and turns herself in. In the meantime, I’ll speak to Gennat about what concessions we can make, and see if we can’t get her sentence commuted.’
Charly stood up. Lange might go red easily but he was tough. She had understood: so long as she couldn’t persuade Alex to turn herself in, she’d have to continue her surveillance of Kuschke. A nice little incentive to see her on her way.
81
Rain drummed non-stop against the windowpane. The perfect weather for a funeral. Rath hadn’t slept much and had a hangover, even though he hadn’t touched a drop after his late-night visit to the Castle. Otherwise, he was in the best of spirits, despite the lousy weather and the fact that he hadn’t got anywhere with Charly. She had fobbed him off, but then, if she hadn’t, he wouldn’t have drained half a bottle of cognac, nor, most likely, would he have hit on the crackpot idea of raiding Lanke’s office.
He parted his hair with a wet comb and gazed at his reflection in the bedroom mirror, liking what he saw, dressed in black with an elegant top hat set on his head at a slight angle. It lent him a touch of gravity that he didn’t otherwise possess. Just a shame he could only dress like this on unhappy occasions.
Rath hated funerals, and police funerals above all. The last time he’d decked himself out like this was for his colleague Stephan Jänicke. He didn’t know the policeman being laid to rest this morning, but Weiss had requested that senior CID officers attend to show that the death of a uniform cop mattered.
The caretaker was cleaning out a blocked drain, but paused when he saw his tenant approach dressed all in black, with a black dog and black umbrella, and tipped his cap by way of greeting. Rath responded by briefly raising his umbrella before entering the front building to ring the ground floor flat. Annemarie Lennartz looked surprised as she surveyed him from head to toe.
‘I’m here to drop the dog off,’ Rath said. ‘I hope that’s OK.’
The caretaker’s wife gazed at Kirie’s fur, which was still halfway dry. ‘Of course,’ she said, taking the lead. Kirie understood, and pitter-pattered into the flat as if it were her second home.
‘Can I ask who died?’
‘A colleague,’ Rath replied.
‘My condolences.’
‘Not necessary. I didn’t know the man.’
Rath said goodbye to Kirie, who had forgotten about him already, and went on his way.
Erika Voss gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he entered. ‘Well, I never,’ she said. ‘If it wasn’t such a sad occasion, I’d say you looked like a new man.’
‘Thank you.’ Rath almost hung the top hat on the stand out of habit, but then remembered that he was here to take Tornow to the funeral. The cadet was the only one heading out to Schönholz Cemetery with him; Gräf, Henning and Czerwinski were on duty.
‘Where’s our trainee got to?’ he asked.
Erika Voss nodded towards the connecting door. ‘He’s in there. Herr Tornow had to take care of a telephone call.’
To Rath’s great surprise on entering, he was confronted by a uniform cop: Tornow himself, reading a newspaper at Gräf’s desk.
‘What’s going on?’ Rath asked. ‘I thought you’d left Uniform?’
Tornow folded the newspaper and stood up. There wasn’t a single crease in his trousers; his buttons gleamed. The man was impeccable.
‘When our colleague was murdered, I was still a cop,’ he said, very solemnly. ‘I think it’s appropriate that I pay my final respects in uniform.’
Rath nodded and, all of a sudden he, too, was in funeral mode.
‘Let’s go, shall we,’ he said, to break the embarrassed silence.
This time he had parked the Buick in the atrium. The rain hammered down on the enormous glass roof.
‘Hopefully it’ll pass,’ Tornow said, and gestured skywards. The men got in.
‘What lousy weather,’ Rath said, switching on the windscreen wipers. ‘Can I drive you back too?’ The cemetery was out of town, in Pankow.
‘Thank you, no,’ Tornow said. ‘That won’t be necessary. I think I’d like to spend a little time with my ex-colleagues. If you don’t mind . . .’
‘Of course not. As long as Gräf can live with the fact that he’ll have to write up your joint operation on his own. I don’t need you today.’
‘I’ve already spoken to Gräf.’
‘Then that’s settled. How did yesterday go?’
‘Depends on how you look at it. A lot of work for not much result. Most likely Goldstein parked the ambulance where we found it and continued with the S-Bahn or tram. He could be anywhere.’
‘Did no one see anything? Nothing from neighbours, workers at the freight depot?’
‘Just one. A worker who says he was surprised that the ambulance driver wasn’t wearing white, but didn’t know which way Goldstein made his escape, or how.’
‘He’s brazen enough to have taken a taxi.’
‘Gräf was going to check that today with the Taxi Drivers’ Guild.’
‘It’s not much to go on. Even if he finds the taxi driver, it’s unlikely he was dropped off outside the hotel door.’
‘You think he’s hiding out in some hotel?’
‘There are enough flophouses in Berlin if you need to disappear.’
Tornow shrugged. ‘Our witness did mention one other thing. Apparently Goldstein has a rip in his coat. A corner’s missing.’
Rath nodded.
It took a long time for them to reach Pankow. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still grey. A few hundred metres from the main entrance, Rath applied the brakes. Outside the cemetery was chaos. Half of Berlin seemed to have arrived on foot – or bicycles – to pay their final respects, and it wasn’t just police officers, but any number of private citizens. Perhaps there was hope after all. There were days when Rath thought this entire city was conspiring against the police, but today showed there were other people out there too.
He parked and the two men walked to the cemetery entrance. Tornow took his leave before they reached the gate. ‘Thank you for the lift,’ he said. ‘But I have to be with my people now. One last time . . .’
Rath gazed after him as he mingled with the uniformed officers, greeting colleagues with a handshake. An unhappy occasion to don the uniform for the final time, he thought, and looked around. Cops were everywhere. Only when the hearse rolled into view did the crowd settle. Rows of blue uniforms led the cortège, marching behind Deputy Police Commissioner Weiss and Uniform Commander Heimannsberg. Weiss was dressed entirely in black, Heimannsberg in uniform like his men. A police orchestra played funeral music.
Rath joined the procession when the plainclothes officers began to pass, recognising his colleagues from A Division, among them Gennat and Böhm. A few metres ahead of the homicide investigators was the delegation from Vice, including the division chief himself, as well as several of his inspectors and chief inspectors. Werner Lanke shot Rath an angry glance over his shoulder; evidently Lanke junior had squealed about his recent visit.
It wasn’t just police officers paying their final respects but a huge number of ordinary Berlin citizens; members of the Reichsbanner, the SPD’s paramilitary wing, kept the flag of democracy flying, while the press had also sent its representatives. Emil Kuhfeld had been a Social Democrat and, increasingly, evidence indicated that a Nazi, rather than a Communist, had fired the fatal shot. This revelation made few headlines.
When the throng was gathered by the grave, Magnus Heimannsberg took the floor. The uniform commander wasn’t much of an orator. Next up was Bernhard Weiss, who didn’t need a megaphone to gain the crowd’s attention. His light Berlin brogue could be heard everywhere, and he had no difficulty striking the right note. The pens of press representatives, which had been stationary during Heimannsberg’s speech, suddenly began to take notes.
Weiss briefly mentioned events in Frankfurter Allee, before turning to the dead man. ‘Emil Kuhfeld is not the only man to sacrifice his life in the performance of his duties,’ he said. ‘He is not the first. Nor, I fear, will he be the last. As we stand by his grave, we call upon our fellow countrymen to present a reasonable, decorous, and humanitarian front that regards uniformed police officers as human beings, as opposed to fair game.’
Weiss had used similar words at Alex, in front of CID colleagues, but here, at the grave of the dead officer, they were a hundred times more powerful. All were moved, including those civilians present, and among mourners there was an unspoken feeling of togetherness. It didn’t matter whether uniform cop, CID or ordinary citizen, all felt they were taking a stand against the violence and terror on the streets. Berlin was fed up with Communists and Nazis, and anyone else who confused politics with Wild West shoot-outs. The mood offered hope that Emil Kuhfeld might be the last police officer to be killed for political reasons for some time.
Perhaps, Rath thought, this city wasn’t quite the hopeless case he had taken it for, since arriving in the spring of 1929.
82
The municipal hospital in Friedrichshain was almost like a small city, made up of impressive brick buildings on the edge of the Volkspark. Andreas Lange opened the door to Male Surgery where, a year and a half ago, SA-Führer Horst Wessel succumbed to gunshot wounds, and subsequently became a Nazi martyr.
With the aid of a porter, he found his room. A uniformed officer waited outside the door with a man in a white coat. Lange didn’t have to show his identification, as the doctor and the police officer recognised him.
‘Five minutes,’ the doctor said, before opening the door. ‘No excitement. The wound needs peace and quiet to heal.’
‘Is the injury that bad?’ Lange asked.
‘The boy was astonishingly lucky not to damage his intestines.’
Lange went inside to find a burly young lad with a pale face lying on the bed. His pained expression didn’t suit him. Lange pulled out his notebook and sat down.
‘You wanted to make a statement, Herr Krahl?’ he asked. The boy turned around.
‘That’s right, Officer.’ The voice sounded strangely weak.
‘Assistant detective. Assistant Detective Lange.’
‘I hope you find that whore soon.’
‘Let’s start from the beginning. What is it you want to tell me?’
Lange pulled himself together. He was sitting at the bedside of a known petty criminal, who had been admitted to hospital with a serious slash wound. When someone like that was ready to make a statement, it was best to proceed with caution. The most pressing question was why someone who’d usually be loath to tell a police officer the time, should suddenly be so eager to talk.
‘I’m here,’ he began, ‘because I have been informed by colleagues that your statement is linked to the KaDeWe break-in. I hope that is correct. I can be pretty nasty when people waste my time.’
‘Alexandra Reinhold,’ the boy said quickly. ‘She’s the one you’re looking for. It was her in KaDeWe.’
‘We know that already.’
‘Do you know how dangerous she is, the little tramp?’
Krahl pulled back the covers and pointed to a heavy bandage they had wrapped him in like a mummy. There hadn’t been quite enough material to go round.
‘She cut me open, the bitch. I had to have stitches.’
Lange pricked up his ears. ‘That was Alexandra Reinhold?’
Krahl nodded. ‘She’s dangerous. You need to be careful, you and your men.’
Lange wasn’t inclined to believe someone so eager to get the police involved, but, when he remembered the wound on Jochen Kuschke’s face, the boy’s statement didn’t seem quite so absurd. This Alex was a dangerous customer, and there was Charlotte Ritter making as if she had just gone off the rails. Was she even aware of the danger Alex posed?
‘Where did you sustain these injuries?’
‘I found her hideout. Some shitty little hovel on the grounds of the slaughterhouse. She cut me open. Without warning, just like that.’
‘Because you found her hiding place? Nothing else happened?’
‘What else could have happened, chief?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you.’
‘Nothing.’ Krahl looked innocent as a fawn. ‘Left me lying in my own blood and scarpered.’
‘Do you know where?’
The boy shrugged. ‘She used to stay in the abandoned axle factory, in Roederstrasse, but not for a long time.’ He made a face as if thinking – a mode of expression that was clearly unfamiliar to him. ‘But,’ he said, ‘there was someone from Welfare or the courts helping her. You should sound her out. The Welfare Office shouldn’t be shielding criminals, should it?’
Lange nodded. He could well imagine what this supposed welfare officer looked like, and he did, indeed, intend to sound her out.
83
Here she was again. Out of sheer boredom she had ordered a second breakfast, a bread roll with cheese, although she could have had it cheaper at Tietz, where Lange would have paid. She’d been here over an hour now, her third cup of tea and fourth newspaper in front of her, staring at the rain-soaked house front. The writing was still visible on the wall though Kuschke had made every effort to wipe it off, the rain also having played its part. It was still just about legible. REVENGE FOR BENNY S. Pig’s blood, Alex had said. How fitting. It would probably need a new coat of paint, or three weeks’ constant rain.
Let’s be sensible here, Charly thought. The rain has only just stopped. What a dreadful summer! The weather had been better during the Kaiser’s reign, or was she simply imagining it? When he abdicated she had just turned eleven; when, perhaps, all you remembered were the sunny days.
Right now, at any rate, it was pretty bleak outside, and Kuschke still hadn’t put in an appearance. Why should he come out in this weather if he didn’t have to? He was probably taking advantage of his leave to catch up on some sleep. Perhaps he hadn’t even seen the papers?
If he had, would the latest development throw him into a panic? A police report saying a witness was being sought? Lange was gambling on Kuschke trying to find out who this witness was, so that police could collect a little more evidence. That was the theory. In practice all it had achieved was a great, fat nothing.
The CID appeal was carefully formulated. There was nothing to suggest a police officer was suspected of murder; it merely mentioned an important witness who might have observed the fatal incident at Kaufhaus des Westens, and whose description had been provided by another witness. Alongside was the sketch that nearly all papers had printed. Sadly, it really was a generic face. Were Lange’s suspicions justified? Was it possible that this witness didn’t actually exist, that Alex was leading them all on?
Charly didn’t know what to make of the girl. On the one hand she trusted her; on the other, she sensed the deep mistrust Alex felt in return, in contrast to Vicky, who seemed to view Charly as a kind of maternal friend.
Yesterday evening, before she went to bed, Charly had been cautious enough to disarm the Bayard, removing the magazine as well as the rounds still in the chamber, and placing the cold pistol under her pillow. It was an excessive measure, as it turned out. The rounds hadn’t been touched, and the two girls even made breakfast for her when she got up. ‘A little thank you,’ Vicky had said, with a shy smile. ‘For everything.’
Alex said nothing at first, simply poured coffee, a strong brew that Gereon might have liked, but which Charly could barely drink. She complimented them on the jet-black sludge all the same. Finally, Alex spoke.
‘We won’t impose on you any longer. We’ll find somewhere new.’
‘You’re not imposing. Stay a little longer if you like.’
Alex nodded, but didn’t seem to take Charly’s offer seriously. Whether it was the tail end of her mistrust or simply a desire to be independent again, Charly couldn’t say. She’d have to wait and see. Either the girls would still be there tonight – or they wouldn’t. She hoped they didn’t get any silly ideas in their heads. The truth was, it was probably no bad thing for her to keep an eye on Kuschke, in case they had cooked up some plan.
Something was happening in the house opposite! The front door opened and Jochen Kuschke emerged. A little better dressed than yesterday, and he was clean shaven too. He had replaced the bandage on his face with a few, discreet, little plasters. The wound seemed to be healing well. In addition to a light-grey suit, he wore a broad-brimmed hat and carried an umbrella.
Excitedly, Charly folded the paper, almost spilling the pathetic little puddle of cold tea still in her cup, and stood up. She left money on the table again, before retrieving her umbrella and leaving the cafe.
‘You should think about a tab,’ the waitress called after her. ‘Seeing as you’re always in such a hurry.’
Charly didn’t have time to react, because Kuschke was in a hurry too. He moved towards Winterfeldtplatz, using his umbrella as a walking stick. She followed him discreetly from the other side of the road, looking at the displays in the shop fronts whenever his pace slowed, but always keeping him in view. She was becoming a surveillance expert. Perhaps she should start her own agency.
Kuschke kept glancing at his wristwatch. Well now, Charly thought, perhaps we have jolted him into action. Who knows? Instinctively she checked for her pistol. Kuschke proceeded to the tram stop where a few people were waiting, or else Charly wouldn’t have felt safe. She didn’t think he’d seen her, but knew he had a fifteen-year-old boy on his conscience, and had opened fire on a girl in broad daylight. She studied the timetable while watching him out of the corner of her eye.
