Goldstein, page 38
‘Right, men,’ Rath said. ‘We’ll meet at the station restaurant at one. If either of you find Goldstein, place him under arrest and notify the nearest precinct. Even if it’s before lunchtime.’
The men fanned out and Rath gazed with envy at the tanned Baltic Sea holidaymakers streaming out of the station. Was the weather on Rügen so much better than in Berlin? It certainly looked that way. What it would be to go on holiday with Charly now, and reprise their miserable summer. Perhaps he’d visit her in Paris in the autumn, when there was less going on in the Castle and they could take time in lieu. He wondered where she was now and hoped her fugitive girl hadn’t had anything to do with this latest police murder.
Tornow had been quiet all morning; you could see from his face that the cop’s death affected him. Perhaps he had been a friend. Rath hadn’t wanted to ask, but sensed that Tornow would rather be part of Gennat’s investigation than searching for some Jewish gangster.
Which was probably exactly why Gennat hadn’t picked him.
Rath hoped the work would help take his mind off things. Anything was better than sitting crouched in their office. He glanced at the list. The first hotel was in Eichendorffstrasse.
90
The flat was furnished and looked as though it been cleaned the day before. It was tidy enough, but lacked anything that made a place homely. Clearly, a bachelor lived here. There were no pictures or plants, and it appeared that the only woman the flat had ever seen was the landlady. Right now she was making no move to leave, regarding Lange with suspicion as he opened the wardrobe containing Jochen Kuschke’s uniform. The shako lay on top of the wardrobe.
She stood directly behind Lange, and Charly could see that she was making him nervous. Finally he lost patience.
‘Frau Stock,’ he said, planting himself in front of her.
‘It’s Fräulein. I’m not married.’
‘Fräulein Stock, you must have washing to take care of, or carpets to beat? We don’t want to keep you.’
Fräulein Stock only needed a moment to understand. She didn’t like to go, but went all the same.
A few minutes later she could be heard beating carpets in the courtyard. Either it was pure coincidence, or the landlady’s Royal-Prussian spirit was so dominant that she interpreted Lange’s suggestion as a command. Charly opened the top drawer of the desk and looked across at Lange, who returned her gaze with a grin.
She had accompanied him at her own request. It was agreed that, afterwards, she should stay away from the Castle. ‘If there’s anything you can do for us, Charly,’ Gennat had said, ‘we’ll be in touch.’ Buddha had tried to make her feel as though she were needed, but Charly sensed that they had pushed things too far, and he was keeping her at a distance. If she appeared too often in Homicide, people might ask questions.
One person above all, Charly thought.
She still hadn’t told Gereon anything. Although he had seen Alex in Spenerstrasse, and most likely drawn his own conclusions, he had said nothing, leaving it to her to come clean. She hadn’t, and the secrecy Gennat and Lange had sworn her to was beginning to cause problems. On the one hand, she was happy Gereon hadn’t probed, and thus spared them an awkward situation. On the other, her silence had begun to feel sordid. He didn’t approve of her taking the girl in, but if only he knew the full story . . .
How much longer would she be able to remain silent? She was doing exactly what she always reproached him for, being cagey about work while serving her own ends. Admittedly, it was with Superintendent Gennat’s backing, but did that really make a difference?
She leafed through the papers she found in the drawers. Nothing. She couldn’t help thinking someone had already been through them. The mess here wasn’t natural, an existing order had been destroyed.
A few books were turned upside down. If you looked closely there were signs that a search had been conducted. The flat’s spotless appearance couldn’t change that. Lange seemed to think likewise. He opened the window, called the landlady’s name and, two minutes later, she was back in her tenant’s flat with a look that said: You see! I knew you couldn’t manage!
‘Please excuse me for interrupting your work, Frau . . . Fräulein Stock.’ Elfriede Stock’s expression softened. ‘We have another question for you: was anyone in the flat after Herr Kuschke left on Wednesday afternoon?’
‘I was. To clean, this morning.’
‘I mean anyone else.’
‘Your colleague, but I’m sure you already know about him . . .’
‘What colleague?’
‘It was one of Herr Kuschke’s colleagues, to be exact. A man in uniform.’
Charly could see that Lange was excited, but managing to keep himself under control. ‘When was this?’ he asked.
‘Yesterday, late afternoon.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Just to pick up a few things. Herr Kuschke was about to go away, he said, and had asked him to collect his suitcase.’
‘Did he really just collect his suitcase? He didn’t take a look around the flat?’
‘I don’t know. I was making coffee next door.’
‘You were making coffee?’
‘The officer was so kind. I thought maybe he’d like a cup, but he didn’t have time.’
‘You just let him into the flat like that?’
‘He was a police officer, not just anyone. I don’t let in all comers, you know!’ She sounded indignant.
‘Of course not.’ Lange remained amicable. ‘The fact remains that you don’t know exactly what this officer did in the flat.’
‘He collected Kuschke’s suitcase, at any rate. I saw it. He had it under his arm when he knocked on the kitchen door to say goodbye. Said thank you too.’
‘Do you know what was inside the case?’
‘Whatever you take on a trip, I suppose. A few shirts, trousers, underwear, socks, toothbrush and so on.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I didn’t say I was sure. It’s just what I imagine.’
‘You said you cleaned here, didn’t you?’
She nodded. ‘And changed the sheets. Since I thought he was on holiday.’ She seemed to remember that the man was dead and fell silent.
‘Did you notice anything suspicious? What about Kuschke’s toothbrush?’
The landlady hesitated. ‘It’s still in the glass.’
‘Could it be that this police officer wasn’t here to collect a suitcase, but to look for something?’
‘Like what?’
‘Perhaps Herr Kuschke mentioned something.’
Elfriede Stock pressed her lips together. She was holding something back.
‘Fräulein Stock,’ Charly said. ‘Is there anywhere he might have hidden something?’
The landlady shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no. He didn’t hide anything here.’ She smiled mischievously and gazed across at Lange. ‘He did ask me to look after something though. Shortly after he moved in.’ Lange and Charly looked at each other. ‘I really don’t know if I can give it to you,’ she continued. ‘He expressly said that I shouldn’t give it to anyone, above all the police.’
‘Taking a promise like that seriously does you credit,’ Lange said, ‘but I think the change in circumstances frees you from your obligation. Sergeant Major Kuschke is dead, and we’re investigating a murder. He’d have wanted us to have anything that helped find his killer.’
Charly was astonished by how patiently Lange spoke with the old lady.
‘It’s a box,’ she said. ‘He would ask for it every few weeks, then give it back. “It’s safe with you, Fräulein Stock,” he always said.’ The short, dry sob that followed was no doubt an expression of her grief. She pulled out a pristine white handkerchief and began dabbing her face.
‘What’s in this box?’
‘Should I go and get it?’ she replied, and Charly could tell from her curiosity that she didn’t know.
‘If you would be so kind,’ Lange said, with a note of mild irritation. Elfriede Stock disappeared. Lange said nothing, but Charly could guess what he was thinking. The landlady returned, a little out of breath, with a wooden casket that looked almost like a treasure chest, and placed it on the dining table.
‘Here it is,’ she said.
The box was locked.
‘You don’t happen to know where the key is?’
‘Herr Kuschke always kept it on him, I think.’
‘This item is hereby seized. I’ll happily provide you with a receipt before we take it away.’
‘Don’t you want to open it here?’ she asked, her disappointment plain.
‘I’d have to force it open,’ Lange said, in a tone of deep regret. ‘Surely you can’t expect that of a Prussian officer.’
91
The porter shook his head, more bored than trenchant. ‘Never seen him before.’ He turned back to his crossword.
Rath had heard the sentence at least half a dozen times, but this was the first time he didn’t believe it. It wasn’t because of any uncertainty in the porter’s voice; or that he spoke too quickly, usually the sign of a pat answer. Rather, standing behind his rickety table, or reception counter as it was supposed to be, the man wasn’t merely disagreeable but utterly loathsome. Rath had thought the lead would be a waste of time, but the man was visibly thrown by the picture of Abraham Goldstein, much as he tried to hide it.
‘Underworld river in ancient Greece. Four letters, ending in “x”?’ he asked.
‘Styx,’ Rath said.
‘How d’you spell it?’
Rath tore the paper from the man’s hand and put it gently, delicately almost, on the table. He placed Goldstein’s picture over the crossword.
‘Take a closer look,’ he suggested in a friendly tone, which evidently confused the porter.
‘Like I say, I don’t know this man.’ The porter reached for the paper again.
There were electric lines showing through the wallpaper; it didn’t look like the work of experts. It wasn’t the cleanest hotel Rath had seen either. As for the accounts, well who could say?
‘Listen here,’ he said, still friendly, ‘what do you think it would take to get this fleapit closed down? A call to the public order office? Or the board of public health? I’m pretty sure the financial office would do the job. A little tax audit. Yes, best to be sure.’
The porter put the paper down again. ‘Let’s talk. What do you want to know?’
Rath pushed the Goldstein sketch under his nose. ‘Is he staying here?’
‘No,’ he said. Rath was just about to make for the telephone booth on Oranienburger Tor, when he added: ‘He checked out a few days ago.’
‘When?’ The porter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a bribe. Either you talk, or I make the call.’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I don’t know. He just didn’t come back. I’ve no idea where he’s staying now.’
‘What about his luggage? Is that still here?’
‘No, otherwise he wouldn’t be checked out. Someone came to pick it up.’
‘Male or female?’ A blank look. ‘His companion. Did she pick up his luggage?’
‘It certainly wasn’t a woman! He had a beard this long.’ The porter made a gesture with his hands. ‘All in black. A strange type. With a caftan, you know.’
‘What do I know?’
‘You know. He was a Jew. Anyway, it was him who came to pick the stuff up. Just the one suitcase, settled the bill too. So, all’s well that ends well.’
Rath nodded. He wasn’t listening anymore.
Forensics didn’t find anything. The cupboards were empty, and Goldstein had left nothing behind. The only item was a bible in the drawer of the bedside table. The room was much larger than Rath expected, probably the best a flophouse like this had to offer, but, compared with the Excelsior, it was a hole. The room hadn’t been cleaned following Goldstein’s hasty departure, and so, at the very least, the ED men were able to lift a number of fingerprints, enough to prove the Yank had been here, even if, by now, Rath needed no confirmation.
The most pressing question was no longer where Goldstein had spent the last few days, but where he was now.
Around four o’clock all three men were back at the Castle. In the absence of a third desk, Rath fetched a table into the office from next door and placed a visitor’s chair in front of it. He couldn’t offer Tornow his own extension, but had been only too glad to place his typewriter at his disposal. What was a cadet good for, if not the paperwork his boss despised?
While Tornow typed his report, to be checked by Rath before Erika Voss made a fair copy, he and Gräf went through Gräf’s interrogation records hoping that, among the waffle, they would find a few serious statements. Which, of course, they didn’t. They highlighted the odd account pointing to sightings around the Poetenviertel or the area by Stettiner Bahnhof. It might help to pay these witnesses another visit but it was probably just coincidence. Someone claimed to have seen Abraham Goldstein in pretty much every neighbourhood in Greater Berlin.
Later, when Rath was sitting in the outer office going through Tornow’s report, the telephone rang. He ignored it, having no desire to be yelled at by Böhm, the only one who ever dialled him directly. Everyone else went via Erika Voss.
Gräf and Tornow exchanged glances. Gräf likewise made no move to answer, so Tornow got to his feet, went over to Rath’s desk and picked up.
‘Tornow, Inspector Rath’s office.’ He listened for a while before handing Rath the receiver. ‘For you. A Herr Liang.’
With everyone listening . . . Rath took the call.
‘Yes,’ he said innocently.
‘I take it this isn’t a good time,’ he heard Marlow’s Chinaman say.
‘That’s right.’
‘Come to Borchardt’s tonight at eight. Französischer Strasse. The Doctor would like to speak to you.’
‘About what?’
‘No doubt you already knew, and were just about to notify the Doctor.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You didn’t? Your colleagues have found Hugo Lenz. He’s dead.’
‘I understand.’
This time Rath wasn’t sure he’d managed to sound casual and non-committal, but neither Gräf nor Tornow had noticed anything. He hung up.
‘Who was that?’ Tornow asked. ‘Someone Chinese?’
‘My hairdresser. I had to cancel our appointment.’
‘Then find a German hairdresser,’ Tornow said and grinned. ‘You could use a chop.’
92
If Rath had known what awaited in the Flegenheimer home, he might have postponed for another few days. The door to the flat stood open when he arrived but, for a moment, he lingered in the fabulously ornate stairwell. When he heard voices and no one responded to his tentative ‘Hello’, he entered.
Lea Flegenheimer and her husband were in the living room, just as before, but this time they were crouched on the floor, on small uncomfortable-looking stools. Four visitors, evidently friends of the family, were speaking with the Flegenheimers, in reverent, hushed tones. Rath entered with Kirie on her lead, and was met by six horrified faces.
Ariel Flegenheimer said nothing, he didn’t even stand up. An elderly guest, like his host clad entirely in black, approached in his stead.
‘What you are doing here?’ he whispered, pulling Rath into the hallway. ‘This is a house of mourning.’
‘CID,’ Rath said. ‘The Flegenheimers know me. I have a few more questions.’
‘When someone is sitting Shiva you visit to offer your condolences, not to ask questions!’
‘Offering condolences isn’t in my job description.’
‘What questions do you have then? Perhaps I can relay them to Ariel.’
Rath shook his head. ‘I’d like to speak to him myself, and his wife. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’
A hallway door opened and Joseph Flegenheimer emerged, starting back when he saw Rath. He closed the door behind him and entered the living room in silence.
‘You can see what’s happening here,’ the elderly man said. ‘Can’t you come back in a few days?’
‘I’m sorry, but the matter is urgent. I’m afraid police work often is.’
The man gave up. ‘Fine, then,’ he sighed. ‘But leave the dog outside.’
Rath pressed the lead into the man’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and went back into the living room.
The looks that Ariel and Lea Flegenheimer gave him were no more friendly than before. Rath waited until a guest had finished speaking before crouching alongside the two mourners on the floor. ‘Please excuse the interruption,’ he said. ‘Might I start by expressing my sympathies once again.’
‘But that isn’t why you’re here,’ Ariel Flegenheimer said.
‘Just a quick question and I’ll be on my way.’
‘Then ask away. You’ve disrupted our mourning enough.’
‘I wanted to ask about your nephew again. Has Abraham Goldstein been in touch with you in the last few days after all? Has he made contact with you or any other members of your family?’
‘Neither with me, nor my wife. Was that all?’
Rath turned towards Joseph Flegenheimer, who stood next to his parents. ‘What about you?’ He could still scarcely believe he was speaking with Abraham Goldstein’s first cousin. ‘Has he been in touch?’
Joseph Flegenheimer shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. Rath sensed that young Flegenheimer knew more than he was willing to reveal.
‘You didn’t see him anywhere?’
‘Where would I have seen him?’
‘Or do him a good turn?’
The face behind the black beard was motionless. Joseph Flegenheimer held himself in check.
