Babylon Berlin, page 4
‘Who?’
‘The tenant before you. Herr Kardakov was an author, you know.’ The kettle began to whistle. She poured hot water into the pot. ‘A quiet tenant, I thought. What a mistake! They were always going on, these late night excesses.’
‘…but you’ve banned me from receiving female visitors.’
‘Do you mind? Herr Kardakov only ever had male guests. They talked and talked and drank and drank. You’d be forgiven for thinking by talking and drinking was how they earned their money.’
‘So, how did they make their money?’
‘Don’t ask me. Quite honestly, I don’t want to know either. Herr Kardakov always paid his rent on time, though I’m not sure he ever published a book. He certainly never showed one to me anyway.’ She almost sounded hurt. Rath could imagine that Kardakov had also been obliged to resist his landlady’s overtures.
‘I suppose that visit just now must have had something to do with Herr Kardakov?’
‘You can be sure of it.’ Elisabeth Behnke poured tea for them both.
‘I think the man’s name was Boris. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘No idea. There were so many of them coming and going.’
‘Well, good old Boris demolished my wardrobe. Perhaps Herr Kardakov would be so kind as to pay for the damage.’ Or to buy me a completely new wardrobe, Rath thought to himself.
She fetched a half-full bottle of rum from the wall cupboard and poured generously. ‘He left in a hurry last month and there’s been no trace since – though he still owes me a month’s rent and the cellar’s full of his junk. I’ve written to him at his new address several times. No reply. Do you think there’s anything you could do? His name’s Alexej. Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov.’
That was the name Boris had used.
‘Maybe he’ll show a little more respect if the police get involved,’ she said, and passed him a cup. ‘Drink up. It’ll do you good after a shock like that. Although I’m sure you’re used to it, as an officer.’
He didn’t know quite what she meant. Was it the shock or the alcohol he was supposed to be used to? Probably both. Phew, she hadn’t stinted on the rum! For a moment he suspected she was planning to get him drunk, but then he saw how she downed her own cup in one.
‘Another?’
He finished his cup and nodded, feeling he could use a little self-medication. Not so much because of the stranger, but because of the dream he still hadn’t managed to shake off. He’d sleep easier with a rum or two in his system.
‘Forget the tea,’ he said, and handed her his cup.
He awoke the next morning at quarter to nine, sat bolt upright and held his head in his hands. It was throbbing after the unexpected exertions of the previous evening. What on earth had he been drinking? More to the point, how much? He was in his own bed at any rate, albeit naked. A record was performing forlorn pirouettes on the gramophone. Rath groped for the telephone on his bedside table, almost getting tangled up in the cables. He could have reeled off Wolter’s extension in his sleep. Uncle lifted the receiver and Rath mumbled an apology into the mouthpiece. He heard laughter on the other end of the line.
‘You don’t sound too good, old boy. A few too many last night was it?’
‘First night for a week I haven’t been in Hermannstrasse.’ Rath had spent the previous six nights in the musty Neukölln flat, observing the comings and goings in König’s studio, a shift that no-one else had wanted.
‘True. In that case you’ve earned a day off.’
‘You’re more use to me rested,’ Wolter said. ‘Stay at home today.’
Rath didn’t object. He hung up and was just about to turn round and get back to sleep when something warm under the bedclothes gave him a start.
Had he brought a woman back yesterday? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. He remembered the dream and the strange Russian who had smashed his wardrobe, the tea with his landlady… the rum… the toast to friendship… He hadn’t…
Rath pulled back the covers slowly, expecting the worst. The arm belonged to a set of blonde locks with a silvery tinge. Elisabeth Behnke was lying in his bed.
The last thing he could remember was the moment she had said to call her Elisabeth, after they had emptied the bottle of rum and started on the Danziger Goldwasser. They had kissed, he knew that. That was the custom when you toasted to friendship. But what had happened afterwards? Questions he couldn’t answer. The only person who could was his landlady, who was currently stretching her ample and naked body beside him. She blinked into the light and pulled the covers over her breasts.
‘Good morning,’ he said, making every effort not to sound sarcastic.
‘Good morning,’ she said, almost shyly. At least she’s embarrassed too, he thought.
‘My God!’ The alarm clock now showed nine o’clock. ‘So late already. I should have made breakfast ages ago. Weinert’s sure to complain.’
She used the bedclothes to cover herself until she realised that she was exposing Rath’s manhood. She was still somewhere between getting up and sitting back down when there was a knock on the door. Quick as a flash, Elisabeth Behnke jumped back into her tenant’s bed and disappeared under the covers.
‘That’s Weinert now,’ she whispered.
The door opened slowly and Berthold Weinert poked his nosy head into the room.
‘Good morning, sleepyhead,’ he said and gave Rath a knowing wink. ‘You couldn’t lend me a few marks could you? There’s been no sign of old Behnke this morning, otherwise I’d have asked her. Seems to be ill, hasn’t even made breakfast, but I need to head into the office…’
‘Help yourself.’
Rath pointed towards his jacket, which was folded neatly over the clothes stand, in sharp contrast to the dressing gown that, along with his pyjamas, formed a confused tangle on the floor somewhere between the door and the bed. Rath only hoped that Weinert wouldn’t notice the blue chemise lying on the other side of the bed.
‘Has your girl gone?’ the journalist winked, as he searched the inside pocket for Rath’s wallet. The conspiratorial glances were beginning to get on Rath’s nerves. ‘Behnke’s like a hawk. I always send my girls home in the evening. Better safe than sorry. You were still going long into the night… and then the music! To think what old Behnke said about that Negro racket during the day!’ He looked round, afraid that she might hear. ‘You should tell your girl to be a little quieter. I’ve never heard a dirtier laugh! Not only that…’ He fished a ten mark note from the wallet. ‘Not that I minded, of course, just don’t let her next door hear you!’ He winked for a final time and left the room.
When he pulled the covers away, Rath saw that Elisabeth Behnke was blushing. ‘I hope that blabbermouth didn’t smell a rat,’ she said.
‘Didn’t sound like it,’ he said. ‘Were you really laughing that much, Frau Behnke?’
‘Call me Elisabeth.’
‘Isn’t that how all this started?’
‘We’re both adults, Herr Rath! I mean Gereon,’ she said, more like her old self. ‘I’m as keen to keep last night a secret as you are, but what’s done is done. We don’t have to go back to pretending we don’t know each other.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. Her outburst had given him an erection. He pulled the covers tighter.
She stood up, having obviously decided she could live with his seeing her naked. Her voluptuous curves only intensified his erection, even once they had disappeared under her chemise. He turned over on his back.
‘I’ll make breakfast,’ she said and left the room.
He lay in bed thinking. Elisabeth Behnke was almost ten years older than him. Her husband had fallen at the Second Battle of the Aisne in 1917. Rath remembered, back in the summer of 1918, after they had completed their basic training and awaited the call to the front, how they had felt that they were entering the final days of their lives. In the delirium of that time a zest for life was borne out of the fear of death. Sweating bodies writhed in bed with women who had all been older by ten years or more. Most had been married, their husbands either fighting on the front or already fallen.
Rath had just turned eighteen when he was called up by the Prussians and the draft had felt like a death sentence. He couldn’t help thinking about Anno. He couldn’t know that the war had entered its final year. His mother had cried, not wanting to lose another son. Her oldest had fallen during the first days of war. Anno the infallible, the eternal role model, but on this score Gereon had no desire to emulate him.
At the garrison they had felt like prisoners awaiting execution, and then all of a sudden the war was over. Before they fired a single shot in anger news of the mutiny at Kiel spread through the ranks and soldiers’ councils were formed. As soon as it had become clear that no-one would arrest him as a deserter, Rath simply removed his uniform and went home to Cologne. Some of his comrades continued to play at war, joining the Freikorps as they crossed the country fighting communists. Private Gereon Rath listened to his father and joined the police. They too had given him a gun, as well as the desk that Anno Rath had occupied before the war.
He banished the memories and gazed out of the window where the sun was shining: the first day of spring to merit the name.
Rath’s hangover finally dissipated in the fresh air. He took a deep breath and dug out the sheet of paper Elisabeth Behnke had given him. Luisenufer. Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov’s new address was in Kreuzberg.
The street name had endured down the ages. Only a few years before, the Luisenstadt Canal had flowed between Urbanhafen and the Spree. Now there were children playing in the massive expanse of sand that the city had used to fill the harbour basin. Their shouts and laughter filled the clear skies. After the endless winter, spring had finally arrived. Rath had hated the Berlin winter, ever since he had stepped off the long-distance train at Potsdamer station to be greeted by a flurry of snow and traffic at Potsdamer Platz. The cold was entrenched in the streets until well into April.
His gaze wandered along the house façades to a pub, a hair salon, a dairy. He glanced at the sheet of paper again to check the number.
Breakfast with Elisabeth Behnke hadn’t gone as badly as he’d feared. Neither of them breathed a word about what had happened, what could have happened, or what might have happened afterwards, but he had promised to take Kardakov to task over the outstanding final rent payment, over the junk in the cellar and the wardrobe.
The house he was looking for was beside the dairy. A train rattled across the elevated railway at Wassertorplatz as he entered the main house. He checked the mailboxes, including out back, but couldn’t find the name Kardakov anywhere, or any name that sounded even vaguely Russian. He glanced again at the piece of paper. The address was correct, as was the house number.
He checked the mailboxes of the two neighbouring houses, but there were no Russians there either. Had he gone to ground to avoid paying his rent? Perhaps he simply hadn’t changed the nameplate on the door. Rath went back to the first house. Before he could get there, the front door opened to reveal a face that was as surprised as it was mistrustful.
‘Looking for someone?’ The man was small and slight, his hat too big for his gaunt face, likewise his enormous moustache. There was a little steel helmet on his lapel.
‘You could say that.’ Rath dug out the piece of paper and read aloud. ‘Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov.’
‘Never heard of him. Is he supposed to live here?’
‘He left this address.’
‘That doesn’t mean a thing with these Russians.’
‘But you live in this house?’
‘I don’t need to tell you anything.’
‘Perhaps you do.’ Rath waved his badge, although he was not on duty.
The man raised a conciliatory hand. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Have you noticed anything suspicious in the last few weeks? Has anyone new moved in?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Perhaps under a different name.’
‘I’d like to help you, mate, but no. What’s this guy supposed to have done?’
‘Just routine questioning,’ Rath said. He was regretting having shown his badge, strictly speaking it was illegal. He needed to get rid of this pesky witness before he became any more curious. It was obvious he couldn’t assist any further. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘Always at your service.’
Rath had already turned round when the stranger shouted after him. ‘Hang on, officer! Are you here because of the row by any chance?’
‘The row?’
‘There was someone here in the middle of the night banging on the door so loudly that no-one could sleep. Crazy, he was. Afterwards, there were two of them fighting. The noise, well I’ll tell you it was quite something. I thought they were going to kill each other.’
‘And?’
‘They were Russian. Hundred percent. Maybe it was the man you’re looking for, but he doesn’t live here. Definitely not. Only decent people live here.’
Rath tipped his hat.
‘Many thanks.’
Strange, he thought, as he made his way via Skalitzer Strasse back in the direction of Kottbusser Tor. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who’d had his sleep disturbed by a Russian.
4
The new month had got off to a good start. Rath was sitting at his desk, cup of coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. In front of him were the photos. The print of Wilhelm II was the only one still with a question mark; a little secret he shared with Wolter. They had managed to identify all those who had been snapped, even the ones who had given them the slip during the raid. Yesterday, after he had softened up Old Fritz in the interview room, Rath had presented Uncle with a list of names.
For the first time since his arrival in Berlin, Rath felt halfway decent about himself and at one with the world. His gaze wandered out through the window, past the railway platform to the dark wall of the courthouse.
The day off had done him good, even if he had squandered it in fruitless inquiries. At least he had been able to avoid Elisabeth Behnke. She had cooked for him that evening, and he had told her about his futile search over a bottle of wine. This time he hadn’t drunk too much, but had simply planted on her cheek a goodnight kiss that left everything open while promising nothing. The next morning, yesterday morning, he had arrived at work feeling fresh and well rested for the first time in weeks.
Wolter had pressed for results because time was short. ‘We need to get a move on with our questioning. 1A will need plenty of space in the cells tomorrow. On the first of May our friends will be transferred to Moabit. We need to have something we can use by then.’
Well, now they did.
Section 1A, the political arm of the police, was in charge of the May actions, and obviously reckoned on making a lot of arrests. The communist press had been agitating for days. Commissioner Zörgiebel, meanwhile, had responded with an appeal that almost all the city’s papers had carried: If the communists have their way the streets of Berlin will be paved with blood. I am determined to assert the powers vested in me by the state and use all available means at my disposal. It was clear what he meant.
In police barracks there was talk of civil war. Everyone knew the RFB – the alliance of Red Front fighters – had weapons, and many feared they would use them.
Accordingly, E Division’s investigation was now less important. If the cells in Alex were to be filled with communists, then the pornographers would have to make way. Wolter had even been asked to postpone any further arrests until after the weekend, which had dulled Rath’s sense of achievement a little. Despite the breakthrough they were forced to twiddle their thumbs.
He had managed to show his colleagues what he was about though; Detective Inspector Gereon Rath, the cop from the provinces. Bruno had been amazed. The rookie Jänicke likewise.
There was always a weakness, a wall of silence invariably contained a loose stone and, once you found it, the rest would crumble. In this case the loose stone was Old Fritz, who had squealed as soon as Rath threatened to subpoena his wife. Pure bluff, Rath hadn’t known the old man was married. He didn’t even know his name. The only person they’d been able to identify beyond any doubt in the last few days was Johann König and, like the rest of them, he hadn’t said a word. They must have made a deal in the Black Maria while Jänicke had been half-asleep.
Rath had tried a few things before he had finally broken Frederick the Great, aka Old Fritz. The old man wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but he had the air of a respectable family man. Pressed in that sensitive spot, he had broken down and the names came gushing out. The stenographer had a job keeping up.
There was a knock at the door. Rath yanked his top drawer open and swept the prints from his desk. No-one else needed to see them, and he found them embarrassing. At the same time, some of his colleagues in E Division got a kick out of displaying their photo collections whenever a female CID officer entered. It didn’t matter if the women blushed or came out with some saucy riposte, the men’s laughter was always the same.
‘Come in,’ he cried. The door opened. It was Wolter. ‘Why so formal?’ Rath asked. ‘Since when do you knock?’
Uncle grinned. ‘Were you expecting visitors? I can see you’ve cleared your desk!’
‘Not everyone has to see our evidence.’
‘Especially not stenographers from A Division, am I right?’ Wolter laughed. ‘Come on, don’t be such a sourpuss. You’ve got every reason to celebrate.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because the calendar says Monday the first of May, and you’re not in uniform. They’re the ones out fighting the communists. While we get to stay warm inside.’
‘Thanks, but I already know why I never wanted to join uniform.’
‘Don’t get your hopes up too soon. CID might still be needed on the streets.’
The entire Berlin police force had been on high alert since seven that morning, including both uniform and CID, sixteen thousand officers in total. They had called in those training at the police academy and mounted police had closed off all the parks. There was a strong police presence in the public transport depots, and uniformed officers had assembled in force in the city’s working class areas.
