Goldstein, page 4
Rath had stayed in the Excelsior for a time after arriving from Berlin two years before, but in the cheapest available single room. Weiss appeared to have done his research there too.
‘Do you want me to greet him off the train with a bunch of flowers?’
‘I don’t care whether it’s on the platform or at the hotel, so long as you make it clear that he is to behave himself in our city. He should . . .’
The telephone rang. Weiss picked up. ‘What is it,’ he said, annoyed.
Rath wasn’t sure whether his audience with the deputy was over. He remained seated.
Weiss adopted a serious expression. ‘I’ll come out myself,’ he said. ‘Send for a car and let Heimannsberg know.’ He hung up. ‘I think we’re finished here, Inspector. Now, get to work, and report to me tomorrow morning in person. I have to go to the university.’ Clearly Weiss had been intending to leave it at that, but he must have registered Rath’s quizzical expression. ‘Student riot,’ he said. ‘The rector has requested police assistance.’
3
The Germans were strange, he decided. Everywhere he went, they wanted to see his passport: on the boat, in the harbour, on the train, and now in the hotel too. The head porter carefully entered his name, address and passport number into the big, black-leather guest register.
‘We didn’t expect you so early, Mister Goldstein,’ the man said in English. His parting was so straight it might have been made with a ruler. ‘But suite three-o-one is now ready for you.’ He pronounced the name Gollt-schtein, like everyone in this country.
Goldstein pocketed his passport. ‘Very kind, thank you.’
‘You speak German!’ The head porter raised his eyebrows as he waved a page boy over.
‘Sure.’
The head porter handed the page the keys to the room. ‘Three-o-one,’ he said, and the boy stowed the suitcases onto a trolley.
‘If you would care to follow me, Sir,’ said the page, setting off for the lift. In his ill-fitting gold-braided livery, he looked like a monkey escaped from his organ grinder. Goldstein wondered why they hadn’t given the boy, who wore a golden number thirty-seven on his cap, anything in his size.
It reminded him of his mother, Rahel Goldstein, who had made her only son wear his trousers for so long even the tramps would realise they were too small. The same Rahel Goldstein who left her dingy flat only to go to the synagogue or the market, and refused to learn the language of her adoptive country. Abe never understood why his parents had gone to America in the first place. Their existence had played out over such a tiny area that he wondered why they had chosen so big a country, so big a city, in which to live. He could never stand the confinement and, even as a little boy, had left the flat as often as possible until his mother’s illness drove him onto the streets for good.
While Mother battled typhus and Father prayed for her salvation, Abe started hanging around with Moe and his gang by Williamsburg Bridge. They respected him, even if he was a few years younger. After Mother died, his father tried to pass him into the care of friends, then into a home, but Abe had resisted. Moe’s gang was his family, and he didn’t need anyone else. At fourteen Abe Goldstein earned his first paycheck, more in a single day than his father could scrape together in weeks. People in the neighbourhood had already started talking about him after Mother’s funeral, which was the last time he had been to synagogue, and all the more when, on the occasion of Father’s funeral, he had appeared drunk at the cemetery. They were still talking about him, too, though these days with respect, which was the only thing that mattered.
The lift sped upwards, barely making a sound. They made two stops, but only when the liftboy announced the third floor did number 37 turn his attention to the luggage trolley. Suite 301 wasn’t too far from the lifts, just around the corner. The page opened the door and Goldstein stepped inside. Everything seemed to be in order. Exactly the level of comfort one would expect from the price category. A spacious, bright living room, big windows pointing towards the enormous station roof, immediately in front of them a large desk, and a comfortable, upholstered corner sofa against the wall. On the table was a fruit bowl, and, to the right, a double leaf door that led into the bedroom. The page had set the luggage down and was now waiting expectantly in the door, the flat of his hand facing discreetly upwards. Goldstein pressed a dollar note into the boy’s hand – he still hadn’t got around to trading his dollars for German money – and waited until the page had wished him a pleasant stay and departed.
At the window he lit a Camel cigarette. Clouds were building over the station roof, but the sun had fought its way through and was shining on the crowds in front of the round brick arches. People were streaming outside, with and without suitcases, waving taxis over or heading for the bus stop and tram. So, this was Berlin. He blew smoke against the glass and gazed across the city. Not knowing exactly what awaited him filled him with unease. Had he really made the long journey just to see a man about whom the only thing he knew was his name?
Hearing a noise from the bedroom he pressed the cigarette into the ashtray and reached for his waistband, still not accustomed to being unarmed. He took the paperweight from the desk and tiptoed towards the connecting door, bronze bird ready to strike. It seemed unlikely that it was one of Fat Moe’s boys. The man’s influence didn’t stretch this far, but Abe Goldstein had never lost anything by exercising caution when the situation demanded. He looked through the half-open door. Against the end wall was an enormous bed, covered with a champagne-coloured satin duvet and flanked by two night-tables. To the right, next to the dressing table, a door led to the bathroom. It was open, and in the frame he could make out a nicely rounded ass belonging to a stooped figure in a black dress and white apron. A chambermaid, running behind schedule, was draping white hand-towels over a stand. He savoured the view for a few seconds before audibly clearing his throat. The maid wheeled around, but Goldstein could see from her eyes that she had wanted to be caught. She was out for a tip.
‘My apologies, Sir.’ She curtseyed and gazed at the floor, but there was a cheeky glint in her eyes when she looked up again. ‘Excuse me, Sir. I’m Marion, your chambermaid,’ she said in English. ‘Ihr Zimmermädchen.’
She clearly knew that this latest guest was American, and her English wasn’t bad.
‘I appreciate chambermaids who go about their duties conscientiously,’ he said in German. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your work.’
‘Actually, I’m finished here.’ She gave him another of her perfectly innocent glances. ‘If my services are no longer required.’
He fetched his wad of dollar bills and handed her three notes. ‘I’m sure I’ll call on you again.’
‘Ask for Marion. I have to go now.’
She pocketed the notes as if a tip of that size were the most natural thing in the world, and wedged a stack of hand-towels under her arm. Her profile wasn’t bad either. She brushed casually against him as she squeezed past, and Goldstein felt the blood pulsing between his legs. He followed her into the drawing room, but she had already opened the door to the corridor.
‘Marion!’ he said. She came to a halt in the doorframe and waited. An elderly gentleman passed behind her along the corridor and squinted over curiously. To be on the safe side, Goldstein switched to English. ‘May I see you again, Marion?’ he said. ‘You know, I could use some company in this town . . .’
She stood in the door and gazed up at him with her big blue eyes, in such a way that he was suddenly very aware of his erection. No doubt she could see it too. Not that he minded.
‘I have to go, but I finish at four.’
‘I’ll be here. Just give me a knock.’
4
Rigaer Strasse was not a pretty street, but this was its ugliest point, right here. It was as if Kalli had deliberately chosen the lousiest spot in a district not famed for its charm. Alex had taken the 9 to Baltenplatz and walked the rest of the way; now she put down the heavy bag and stood in front of the display window. Eberhard Kallweit Bought and Sold was painted in white across the glass. All manner of junk was gathering dust behind the windowpane: a gramophone, a typewriter, an electric vacuum cleaner, a telephone, four chairs that weren’t part of a set, and a rubber plant. None of it had been sold in the months Alex had been coming here. Kalli made his money from items that weren’t on display, and didn’t show up in the accounts.
There were no customers inside. She picked up her bag and climbed the stairs.
A rasping, high-pitched ring announced her as she pressed down on the door handle and entered. Kalli was lurking behind the counter in his grey overalls. His best shopkeeper’s grin froze when he recognised her. For a fraction of a second, he seemed paralysed by the shock, but then he said quietly, as if afraid somebody might hear. ‘Are you mad, coming here like this? What if I have customers?’
‘You weren’t at Krehmann’s yesterday.’
‘You’ve got some nerve! You went to Krehmann’s after everything that’s happened? After that monumental cock-up of yours! The police are after you. You realise that, don’t you?’
‘Cock-up?’ Alex couldn’t believe it. Kalli was an arsehole. ‘A cock-up, that’s what you’re calling it? Benny’s dead for fuck’s sake.’
‘What’s he doing scrambling about on department store fronts?’
‘Trying not to get caught. If that pig hadn’t kicked him off, he’d still be alive.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘There was a cop after him. He stepped on Benny’s fingers until he couldn’t hold on anymore. That’s why he fell. That pig killed him, and I had to stand by and watch.’
Kalli shook his head. ‘I should never have let myself get involved with you kids.’ He seemed to be speaking to the cash register. ‘I ought to have known it would go belly-up.’
‘You’re the one who sent us to KaDeWe,’ she shouted. ‘We’ve never had any trouble otherwise. There were no cops in Tietz or Karstadt. It was you who insisted we turn over KaDeWe.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That you sent us in because you wanted the goods.’ She placed the bag on the counter. ‘And we got them for you.’
Kalli snatched the bag from the counter. ‘Are you crazy, walking around here with that? Coming into my shop?’
‘Since you weren’t at Krehmann’s, I thought I’d bring it round. Jewellery and watches, as agreed.’
‘The agreement was you wouldn’t get caught.’
‘They caught Benny. They didn’t catch me.’
Kalli gave a rueful shrug. ‘What am I supposed to do with all this? It’s worthless after all the commotion. No one can shift it, not even me.’
‘Commotion?’ Alex shouted louder. ‘Benny died for this and you’re telling me you don’t want it? Am I hearing you right?’
‘Don’t get so worked up, Alex. Let’s take a look, but not here, out back.’
The little room behind the shop smelled of onions and beer. Kalli cleared away a plate and two bottles and laid the bag on the table. From the breast pocket of his jacket he fetched a battered leather case, opened it and fumbled out a pair of glasses. In his overalls and crooked wire-rimmed spectacles he looked like a mad chemistry professor. He sat at the table and held each watch in front of his lenses.
‘Only watches,’ he said after a while, sounding disappointed. ‘No jewellery?’
‘The cops have it. It was in Benny’s bag.’
Kalli shook his head. ‘That stuff about the cops killing Benny. Is it really true?’
‘I saw it myself. And . . . he told me before he died. Benny told me the man trampled on his fingers until he couldn’t hold on.’
Kalli considered a moment. ‘Better keep it to yourself. You shouldn’t spread that sort of story around; the cops won’t stand for it.’ He stood up so unexpectedly that Alex gave a start. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I don’t want things to be awkward between us.’
She followed him back into the shop where he pulled a lever on the cash register. The drawer sprang open with a loud pling. He fumbled a brown note out and passed it across the counter. ‘Here! Because it’s you, and because of the business with Benny.’
‘A twenty?’ she said. Werner von Siemens was staring back at her. ‘You can’t be serious. You gave us more for the junk from Tietz!’
‘I’m doing you a favour. No one else will take it off you. Not after everything that’s happened. Do you know how hot it is? It’ll probably get me into trouble, but since it’s you . . .’ He waved the twenty. ‘Come on, take the money and that’ll be that.’
Twenty marks. Kalli would probably get that much for a single watch when he sold it on, and there were at least fifty in the bag. On the other hand, he was right. If he didn’t take the watches she’d have to sit on them. She swallowed her rage, took the twenty and sneaked a peek inside Kalli’s cash register. It was full. Maybe she could get the money due to her by other means. She stuffed the note into her jacket, and saw Kalli looking on in satisfaction. She wasn’t finished with him yet.
‘One more thing,’ Kalli said, grinning like a hyena as Alex reached the door. ‘I really don’t need any more trouble with the police. So . . . do me favour and don’t show your face around here for a while.’
We’ll see about that you arsehole, Alex thought and nodded, we’ll see about that.
5
Rath stood before a half-naked man, which so confused him he was no longer certain he was in the right place, although reception had given him exactly this room number. The man had an extremely muscular upper body which he seemed to enjoy showing off. Naked save for a hotel towel wrapped around his waist, he looked at least as surprised as Rath himself. He had clearly been expecting someone else, someone whom it was OK to meet clad only in a towel and with hair still wet from the shower. Had he already been accosted by one of the whores at Friedrichstrasse station, or did he have a girlfriend in Berlin?
Hand in front of his mouth, Rath gave a slight cough, an irritating habit in embarrassing or unpleasant situations that had been drummed into him as a child. Somehow he couldn’t rid himself of it, even if it made him feel like a butler who has surprised his master in the throes of lovemaking.
‘Abraham Goldstein?’
‘Gold-sstiehn.’
The man in the towel didn’t look dangerous exactly. He appeared athletic, and there was an ironic glint in his eyes, as if he didn’t take life entirely seriously.
Rath flashed his badge. ‘German police. May I come in, Sir?’
Goldstein stepped to one side and opened the door fully. Rath entered and looked around. The suite was elegantly arranged: damask wallpaper, mahogany furniture, soft carpets, and roughly four or five times bigger than the four-mark-fifty room Rath had taken some two years before. Probably five times as expensive too. At least.
Rath cleared his throat, continuing in English: ‘Well, Mister Goldstein, I have to inform you that the German police are legitimated to . . .’
Goldstein, lifting a packet of cigarettes from the table, interrupted. ‘I was hoping you were room service.’
Rath was surprised. The man spoke almost accent-free German, sounding nothing like the American tourists who seemed to chew, rather than speak, the language. ‘I’m afraid I must disappoint you there,’ he said. ‘I come bearing neither food nor drink.’
Goldstein placed a cigarette between his lips and offered the carton to Rath. Was this bribery or could he accept? Camel read the inscription, and Rath was too curious about American cigarettes to turn him down. Goldstein gave him a light.
‘So, Officer,’ the American said, ‘what brings you to me?’
‘Inspector,’ Rath corrected. ‘Inspector Rath.’ He almost added Homicide, as was his custom, but realised, just in time, that he was here in a different capacity. ‘You speak German?’
‘Thanks to my mother.’ Goldstein shrugged. ‘So, please explain what the Berlin Police wants from me.’
‘Fundamentally it wants the same from you as it does from anyone else: that you behave yourself accordingly in our city.’
Goldstein exhaled smoke through his nostrils, the smile at the corner of his mouth having suddenly disappeared. ‘Do you make this request of everyone, or is it just Americans?’
‘You are one of the chosen few. I hope you appreciate the honour.’
‘Speaking of behavioural codes, I’m just out of the shower. You’ll permit me to get dressed? Take a seat.’ Goldstein disappeared into the adjoining room.
Rath remained standing, keeping an eye on the bedroom window through the half-open door. He wasn’t expecting a bolt for freedom, and he certainly wasn’t expecting Goldstein to shoot his way out of trouble, but he decided, nevertheless, to unfasten his shoulder holster and take out his service weapon, a Walther PP, issued as a replacement for his Mauser the year before. He released the safety catch and placed it, together with his right hand, in his coat pocket. Just in case. Smoking with his left hand felt a little unusual, but it was fine.
He had just stubbed out the Camel when Goldstein reappeared in a thin, light-grey summer suit. Rath kept his hand tight on the pistol, finger poised over the trigger, but the American seemed determined to keep things peaceful.
‘So, here I am. Won’t you have a seat? You haven’t even taken off your hat.’
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve heard about me or my country, but rest assured you can take your hand out of your pocket. I’m unarmed.’ Rath felt like a schoolboy who hadn’t concealed his crib sheet properly. ‘You still haven’t told me the purpose of your visit,’ Goldstein said, lighting a cigarette. This time Rath declined.
‘I’d like to ask a few questions, that’s all.’
‘You do like keeping people in suspense. Ask away.’
‘You are Abraham Goldstein from New York?’
