Goldstein, page 39
‘Be that as it may,’ Rath said. ‘Call me if he gets in touch.’ He handed Flegenheimer his card. ‘I won’t keep you any longer.’
With that he left the mourners, reclaiming Kirie in the hall and descending the steps onto Berchtesgadener Strasse. In the Buick he lit a cigarette and waited.
About quarter of an hour later, Joseph Flegenheimer stepped out onto the street. Rath waited until he had reached Wartburgstrasse and was no longer in view, before starting the engine.
It wasn’t hard to keep the black figure in sight. Halting at the Wartburgstrasse junction, he waited until Flegenheimer reached Martin-Luther-Strasse. There was a tram line here, but Flegenheimer continued down the street towards the Schöneberger town hall. Rath watched while he crossed Rudolf-Wilde-Platz and continued down Mühlenstrasse. Following as slowly as possible, he caught up outside a large Catholic church which fitted seamlessly between the house fronts, like so many churches in this city. He was looking for a parking spot when Flegenheimer did something unexpected.
Dressed entirely in the garb of his forefathers, he opened one of the church doors and went inside.
Rath pulled over. What could this mean? He didn’t want to follow him into the building, as Flegenheimer might grow suspicious. Even so, he’d have liked to know what business an orthodox Jew had in a church.
He had been hoping that Flegenheimer would lead him to whatever flophouse Abraham Goldstein was staying in, but apparently it wouldn’t be that simple. All the same, he was certain it was Flegenheimer who had collected his cousin’s things from the hotel in Tieckstrasse and settled the bill.
He remained in the car to smoke an Overstolz, but Flegenheimer didn’t reappear. At length he threw the cigarette out of the window and restarted the engine. It was already late. He had to keep moving if he didn’t want to miss his appointment with Marlow. He wrote down the name of the church: Saint Norbert’s.
93
The room had no windows and was seldom properly aired, hence the musty smell. A uniform officer led them past a long line of shelves. It looked like an arms dealer’s warehouse, an arms dealer with a sideline in bric a brac: pistols and weapons of every design, knives, sabres, knuckledusters, carpets, candlesticks, oil paintings, record players and even a welded safety deposit box.
Charly held her hand over her nose and watched Lange as he examined a light-grey suit covered in congealed blood. Against their original plan, she had returned to the station out of sheer curiosity. Lange had not, in fact, forced the wooden casket open, neither in the flat nor in the car. He really was a model of Prussian rectitude. Perhaps her father had been right when he claimed that Hanoverians were more Prussian than the Prussians themselves.
They hadn’t spoken much on the return journey, but both were now certain that Alexandra Reinhold was no longer their prime suspect. Lange appeared just as relieved as Charly, not that it made the case any simpler. The cop in Kuschke’s flat must have been the same one Charly had seen in the Hansaviertel, and he must have something to do with the murder. What a nightmare: a murdering policeman, killed, himself, by a police officer. So far the dead man in the Hansaviertel hadn’t been accorded many column inches. The Castle had kept things under wraps, above all the man’s identity, deciding to release the information in stages, ideally in conjunction with reports on the state of the investigation.
The problem was that their findings had shed an increasingly disturbing light on matters.
After Charly failed to crack the box’s lock with a paperclip, they went to the evidence room. Lange fished a key out of Kuschke’s wallet and raised it triumphantly into the air.
Charly handed him the box: a fit.
At first she couldn’t make head or tail of the sheet of paper Lange took out of the box: a passport photo showing Jochen Kuschke in uniform, albeit not the uniform of a sergeant major; rather one that, for police, was strictly forbidden. Even before she read what was printed next to the photograph and saw the stamped symbol, she knew this wasn’t something they could give to the press.
Lange whistled through his teeth.
It was a membership card, confirming that Jochen Kuschke had been a member of the Berlin-Brandenburg SA-Gau since 12th December 1930, and held the rank of Oberscharführer. It was signed by Walther Stennes, the former Berlin SA Chief who had since been expelled by Hitler.
Grzesinski and Weiss would do everything in their power to ensure the press didn’t get wind of this. Who knew what would happen if word got out that, despite the strict ban issued by both the Interior Ministry and police commissioner, a Berlin police officer had not only become a member of the SA but allowed himself to be photographed in their uniform.
They didn’t know what to make of the other items, except that Kuschke clearly felt they were as worthy of protection as his SA membership: a black patch with a white hand stitched on, a similarly designed lapel badge and a few photos of Kuschke with other men, none of whom were in police or SA uniform, but plainclothes.
They packed everything up and were about to leave when Kronberg from ED peered around the corner. ‘There you are,’ he said to Lange. ‘Fräulein Steiner said I’d find you here.’
The ‘you’ referred to Lange alone. He didn’t so much as glance at Charly, but reached into an envelope and placed a photograph of a bloody knife next to the wooden casket.
‘The knife used to murder Kuschke,’ Charly said. ‘Have you found anything?’
‘It’s a dagger,’ Kronberg corrected, giving Charly a condescending glance. ‘A trench dagger, to be exact. Made for trench fighters in the war. Every veteran owns one.’
‘So?’ Lange said.
‘So, it can be difficult to identify the owner of such a weapon. But . . . in this case, I believe we have managed.’
‘Yes?’
‘The dead SA man in Humboldthain was stabbed to death with a weapon just like this, his own. Until now, the weapon’s been missing without trace, but if you ask me . . .’ Kronberg gestured towards the photograph. ‘This is it here.’
94
Johann Marlow held a bottle of chilled white wine. F.W. Borchardt was one of the most exclusive gourmet establishments in Berlin, where fine cuisine was fused with an impeccable wine cellar. Marlow had taken a table in a booth where they could talk undisturbed. Liang was there, and they had laid a place for Rath too. As much as he despised Johann Marlow’s attention, he was in no position to refuse. After all, what could he say? No thanks, I’ve already eaten? His stomach was making far too much noise for that. He hadn’t taken any food on board since wolfing down a meagre lunch at Stettiner Bahnhof with Gräf and Tornow; Kirie likewise. He was almost refused entry with the dog but Liang, waiting by the door, handed a note to the man at reception, and soon a boy emerged to take her. Kirie went willingly, instinct telling her there was food on offer.
‘Do sit down,’ Marlow said. ‘Wine?’
Rath nodded. Liang poured.
‘I’m sorry about Lenz,’ Rath said. ‘Perhaps it will comfort you to know that Rudi the Rat was found dead at a rubbish dump.’
Marlow slammed his fist against the table. ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Lenz was dead? Why do I have to hear from Teuber about your boys showing up in Amor-Diele, shouting about how Hugo’s mortal remains have been fished out of the Mühlendamm Lock?’
Rath lit a cigarette. If he had learned one thing it was not to be intimidated by this man. ‘It’s not my case; I only heard about it from Herr Liang here.’
‘Well, we picked the right man to have at the station.’
‘I’m not your man. I’m doing you a favour because I owe you a debt.’
‘I asked you to investigate the background to Hugo’s disappearance.’
‘I’ve already told you that I think he fell into a trap, at the Osthafen, and that he probably didn’t survive.’
‘Probably. So, who laid this trap?’
‘I’ve spoken to colleagues working on the case.’ Plisch and Plum had been only too happy to tell him what they knew, especially Czerwinski, who was proud to be leading an investigation that gave him the chance to order his friend Henning around. ‘Pathology has confirmed that Hugo Lenz didn’t drown,’ Rath continued. ‘He was shot. Bullets to the head and chest, just like Rudi Höller. They think Lenz’s corpse drifted around the Spree for a few days before surfacing at the lock. They’re assuming he was thrown into the water somewhere upstream. They don’t know where.’
‘But you do.’
‘Like I said a week ago, we know that Hugo Lenz went to the harbour area, but that no one saw him return. The next day his car was still parked where he left it. Then, there are the shots the night watchman claims to have heard near the cold-storage depot.’
‘You searched my warehouses and found nothing.’
‘I still believe that’s where it happened. Hugo Lenz was shot by whoever agreed to meet him at the harbour, and he would feel secure at a Berolina warehouse. It’s the same MO as Rudi the Rat, only he was disposed of in a rubbish dump.’
‘Both corpses were still found,’ Marlow said.
‘Perhaps they were meant to be. Mutilated and disfigured as a warning to you and the Nordpiraten.’
‘Who’s behind it?’
Rath shrugged. ‘Another Ringverein. Or someone you haven’t bargained on.’
Marlow made a pensive face. ‘And this someone hired an American contract killer?’
‘More likely it’s someone trying to lay the blame at his door. That’s what it seems like to me, as if the whole thing’s been staged.’
‘You surprise me, Inspector, protecting a gangster like this.’
‘It couldn’t have been Goldstein. I had him under surveillance at the time.’
‘I thought he gave you the slip.’
‘Not on the day Hugo Lenz disappeared.’
‘Whatever the case,’ Marlow said, ‘we have a problem. Now that Hugo Lenz has been confirmed dead, I have to act.’
‘You want revenge? When you don’t even know who’s behind it?’
‘Let’s not misunderstand each other,’ Marlow said. ‘I’m not mourning Lenz personally, but his death is an affront against my organisation and, since the whole world thinks the Pirates are behind it, it’ll be the Pirates who take the rap. They’ve been acting up for weeks, and who can say that Lapke wasn’t involved.’
‘He and Rudi the Rat were best friends.’
‘And rivals.’
‘Aren’t you being a little hasty?’
Marlow gave Rath a cold, hard stare. ‘I need to act, and if you can’t tell me who killed Hugo Lenz, it’ll be the Pirates who get it.’
‘Do you know what will happen in this city if you move against them now? It’ll be a bloodbath.’
‘You think I can stand for this? If I don’t strike back, Berolina will be on me before I can count to three.’
‘Lay down an example for all I care. Have a few Pirates beaten up, kidnap them, lock them in a damp cellar, but don’t risk open warfare until you’re one hundred percent certain who has your business partner on their conscience.’
‘Then it’s time you delivered.’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘I’ll give you three days,’ Marlow said. ‘Exactly seventy-two hours. On Sunday evening we’ll meet again and I want to know for certain. One hundred percent.’
‘You will.’ Rath stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.
‘Don’t you want to eat?’
‘We’re too close to the station.’
‘Don’t worry, your colleagues can’t afford this sort of place, and the commissioner’s too tight for Borchardt.’
‘No, thank you, but you could do me another favour?’
‘Yes?’
‘I need to speak to Christine again. You know, the dancer from Venuskeller.’
‘I think that can be arranged,’ Marlow grinned. Liang took a black notebook from his jacket and wrote down an address before tearing out the page and passing it to Rath. ‘You can reach her there, but not before midday. Or you can go to Venuskeller tonight.’
‘No thank you,’ Rath said. ‘I’ve got something better in mind.’
95
Charly hadn’t heard anything more from either Alex or Vicky. The girls were still missing. She closed the door to her flat and went inside. Gereon still wasn’t home. Luckily, she hadn’t run into him again at the Castle. She felt guilty, but also relieved that she hadn’t had to speak to him.
She found a half-open bottle of red in the cupboard, and sat at the table with her glass. The first sip felt good. She lit a cigarette. What was she involved in here? Police officers killing police officers? Underage girls seeking revenge. How she would have liked to talk things over with Gereon, if only she could. Her case seemed to hang together with his. The murder weapon: the SA man in Humboldthain had almost certainly been killed with the same knife as the police officer in the Hansaviertel. This same police officer was also a member of the SA. Was that a link? Was there someone going around town butchering SA men? More, was that someone Abraham Goldstein, Gereon’s gangster? He was Jewish. Perhaps that was why he had crossed the Atlantic? Because he had been contracted to take care of a few brownshirts on behalf of Jews who would no longer stand for the abuse. It was an absurd idea but, on the other hand, it was often the absurd ideas that led to the solution. Somehow, it fitted.
All this secrecy. Gereon might be used to it, but she wasn’t – and didn’t think she ever would be. With every hour that passed it grew worse. Should she try and get the green light to notify Inspector Rath? Then again . . . she knew only too well that Gennat had brought Böhm into their little team because he had been handling the Humboldthain case, and that Böhm just couldn’t deal with someone like Gereon, who rarely accepted another person’s authority. Charly didn’t blame him for ignoring Gereon half the time, even if Gereon hated him for it. She had always got on well with Wilhelm Böhm, so it could be done, so long as you didn’t take his surly charms to heart.
She heard footsteps in the stairwell. Could it be Gereon? She took another sip of wine and listened, almost anxiously, to the noise from outside.
96
Earlier that morning, Rath had sent Gräf and Tornow away to resume their investigation into Grabowski’s list of Camel outlets. They seemed to get along, so now he could do what he enjoyed best: working alone.
He parked the Buick on a side street in Treptow. Christine’s surname was the solidly middle-class, run-of-the-mill Möller, and she lived in far greater comfort than he had anticipated. Front building, first floor.
It took a while for someone to open, even though Rath had heeded Liang’s advice and waited until after lunch. The Venuskeller’s main attraction wore a midnight-blue, silk gown, as elegantly cut as the bathrobe she wore in her dressing room. She seemed to have recognised him, and looked at him like a lioness in her den, shy and belligerent in equal measure.
‘I knew we’d be seeing each other again,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Please come in. I’m having breakfast.’
The smell of coffee hung in the flat. She led him into a sun-filled room with the skylight tilted open and noise entering from the street. A percolator in a dark-red cosy stood on a small table with two chairs, alongside a cup of steaming black coffee. A stubbed-out cigarette lay in the ashtray. Christine Möller’s breakfast habits mirrored his own.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
She poured.
‘Why don’t you take off your hat and coat.’
Rath heard the undertone in her voice and, despite everything, could do nothing to prevent his sudden erection. This time Frau Lennartz’s flabby upper arms wouldn’t save him. He took off his hat and coat and joined her at the table, took a sip of coffee and tried to avert his gaze from her bosom, which was plain to see under the midnight-blue silk.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Warm in here, don’t you think?’ Christine blew away a strand of blonde hair and leaned forward so that her robe opened to reveal a breast.
It was time to get down to brass tacks. He replaced the coffee cup on the saucer with a clatter. ‘You don’t just work for Johann Marlow,’ he said. ‘You work for my colleagues in Vice too.’
She remained astonishingly composed. ‘Don’t you work for Marlow and the police yourself?’
‘We’re talking about you here, not me.’
She shrugged. ‘If you pay well, I’ll work for you too.’
The subtext was clear enough. He kept looking at her as he tapped a cigarette out of the carton and lit it. ‘Not necessary, thank you.’
‘A shame.’ She snatched together the ends of her dressing gown. ‘Perhaps you should tell me who you’re representing here. Dr M. or Dr Weiss?’
‘I’m here for me.’
The more she avoided his questions, the more convinced he was that she had something to hide. The photos he had found in Lanke’s drawer were no coincidence.
‘But that doesn’t mean something useful won’t come out of this meeting for my employers,’ he continued. ‘It depends entirely whether you tell the truth or not.’
‘You’re here to threaten me.’
‘I’m here to warn you.’
‘Perhaps it’s me who should be warning you. What do you think Dr M.’s going to do when he hears you’ve been trying to blackmail me.’
‘What do you think he’s going to do when he hears it was you who lured Hugo Lenz into a fatal trap?’
‘What are you talking about?’
Her horror, even if she attempted to hide it with studied self-assurance, was genuine. Rath had only been expressing a hunch, but her reaction told him he was getting close to the truth.
‘You provided Hugo Lenz with his police contacts,’ he said. ‘Lenz envied Marlow, and hoped to settle Berolina’s issues with the Nordpiraten by double-crossing them with the police.’ Rath drew on his cigarette. ‘It was you who fanned the flames. Perhaps it was you who put the idea in his head.’
