Goldstein, page 40
‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Rath felt confirmed in his hunch. Christine Möller had stopped trying to seduce him. She folded her arms to keep her dressing gown closed. He could no longer even see her neck.
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. Herr Marlow, on the other hand, doesn’t, and I think it’s best if you keep it that way.’ Rath paused to let his words take effect, and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Of course, it’s entirely up to you. You tell me what happened and it stays between us, I give you my word. Dig your heels in, or if I find out you’ve been lying, and I’ll leave it to Marlow to extract the truth.’
‘You lousy bastard.’
‘It’s your choice. Tell me everything you know, here and now. Or tell Marlow, while you’re tied up in a damp cellar.’
He didn’t need to make himself any clearer. Christine Möller understood.
‘I didn’t know they would kill him. I thought they were just going to arrest him.’
Then she told him everything.
97
In person, Gerald Thiemann looked even more like Harold Lloyd than on the sketch. He seemed nervous.
‘Thank you for getting in touch,’ Gennat said.
Thiemann nodded. ‘A friend told me that my picture was in the papers.’
Seated on the upholstered green living-room suite in Gennat’s office, Buddha was at pains to make him feel at home. Trudchen Steiner entered with freshly brewed coffee to join the selection of cakes already on the table. Gennat served them out personally after she poured. First, the witness. Gerald Thiemann selected a small slice of nutcake, clearly impressed by the range on offer. Charly passed, a decision Gennat met with a look that was somewhere between pitying and sympathetic, while Lange took an enormous slice of Herrentorte that he stared at reverently. For himself, Buddha chose a slice of gooseberry tart. The tray was still more than half full.
Böhm was the only one absent. Gennat had sent him back out to the Hansaviertel, where two assistant detectives were canvassing houses for possible witnesses to the Kuschke murder. Charly knew it was better that Böhm wasn’t present for awkward interviews such as this. He could be intimidating, even when he didn’t mean to be, and this was no time to be intimidating witnesses. It was one of the reasons they weren’t sitting in an interview room, but over coffee and cake in Gennat’s living room office. Ignoring the fact that the upholstery was not only worn but like something out of Kaiser Wilhelm’s era, you could probably say that Gennat’s was the cosiest office in the whole of police headquarters. Rumour had it that even the police commissioner’s official residence on the first floor – with its panoramic view of Alexanderplatz – wasn’t as comfortably furnished.
All that could be heard was the clatter of cake forks and coffee cups, until Gennat posed his first question. ‘What did you see at KaDeWe on the night in question?’
Thiemann set his cup back on his saucer. ‘There was this boy,’ he said, ‘and this girl. At first I thought she was a boy too, until I heard her voice.’
‘Please, start from the beginning. You were walking down Passauer Strasse . . .’
‘That’s right.’
‘What direction were you coming from, and where were you heading?’ Lange asked hastily. Charly registered Gennat’s angry glance, which caused Lange to go red and fall silent.
‘I wanted . . . I . . . I was on my way to . . .’ Thiemann looked at Gennat uncertainly. ‘Does this really have to be on the record?’
Gennat shook his head. ‘For us, the only important thing is that you were there. Not why you were there. Even so, it would help if you could provide a detailed outline of what you saw.’
Thiemann looked relieved. ‘So, I was coming down Passauer in the direction of Tauentzienstrasse, on the other side from KaDeWe, when I was surprised to see lights on in the department store. Not just the neon lights. I mean inside, on every floor.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘I was looking over at KaDeWe when I saw this boy.’ In danger of disappearing into his chair, he sat up and gripped the armrests. ‘I thought he was about to jump, the way he climbed over the railings, but then this policeman came, and I thought it’ll be OK, there’s someone looking after him.’
‘Did you see what happened next?’ Gennat asked.
‘Yes. I was rooted to the spot.’
‘Were there any other people on the street?’
‘Not where I was. It was just me and this girl. She stood on the other side of the road looking up. She had trousers on. That she had just come out of KaDeWe, that she was a thief just like her friend up there . . . well, I didn’t work that out until later.’
‘What happened next?’
‘I don’t know how long it all lasted, but the co . . . the police officer just stood there making no attempt whatsoever to save the boy. At first I thought, he doesn’t want to rush things, he’s trying to talk him down, that sort of thing. Then I saw him tread on the boy’s finger with his boot, almost as if he were treading out a cigarette with his heel.’
‘You had a good view of all this from down there?’
‘Define “good view”. The front was illuminated by the neon sign, and there was light coming through the windows. So, I saw what I saw. My eyesight’s pretty good, even if I do wear glasses.’ He took his glasses off with his right hand and pointed with his index and middle fingers at his pupils. ‘Long-sighted.’
Gennat nodded as Lange took notes, neglecting his Herrentorte as a result. They had made do without a stenographer to keep the number of people involved to a minimum. Charly could have taken on the role – indeed, she had been expecting to – but Buddha had pressed the notepad into Lange’s hand.
‘What happened after that, Herr Thiemann?’ she asked, as though Gerald Thiemann was a storyteller, and she were listening to him over coffee.
‘The boy cried out a few times,’ Thiemann continued, ‘until at some point he fell.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. ‘Terrible. As he fell, he didn’t make another sound, didn’t cry out, nothing.’
‘And the girl?’
Thiemann shrugged. ‘I wasn’t looking at her, but I think she stood stock still, like me. She ran to him straightaway, as did I. She shouted at me to call an ambulance.’
Charly thought of the Alex she had come to know. Yes, that was a fit. ‘That’s what you did?’
‘First, I had to look for a telephone booth. The closest one’s on Wittenbergplatz, so it took a while. And, well . . . when I came back, your colleagues were there, standing over the boy. I think he was already dead. The girl was gone.’
‘What about you. You weren’t questioned by our colleagues?’
‘No one paid any attention to me. I was just another rubbernecker. I waited for the ambulance to arrive and went on my way without speaking to anybody.’
‘You should have, Herr Thiemann.’ Gennat pushed his cake plate aside and looked at the witness through friendly eyes. ‘What you have to say is important. Why didn’t you mention anything at the scene?’
Thiemann sat helplessly, rake-thin and disappearing inside a chair that was far too big for a single person. ‘I didn’t want any trouble. I had spoken to the girl, a criminal, remember, and I didn’t stop her, I just let her go. Because I went looking for the nearest telephone booth to call an ambulance.’
‘No one could reproach you for that.’
‘Maybe. But . . . there was something else. That man . . .’ He pointed at Kuschke’s portrait. ‘I was afraid of how he looked at me.’ He swallowed, as though it were tricky to utter the next sentence. ‘And I was pretty muddled after everything that happened; I didn’t know where I stood any more. With you . . . with your colleagues, I mean.’
Gennat gave an understanding nod. ‘Why didn’t you contact us later? When you were no longer so muddled, I mean.’
‘Perhaps I still am,’ Thiemann said. ‘As a child,’ he continued after a time, ‘as a child, I always learned that the cops are the good guys, and the robbers are the bad guys . . . that was how we always played it anyway . . .’ He looked around suspiciously. ‘But maybe things have changed since the Kaiser’s reign . . .’
‘I don’t think so,’ Gennat said. ‘We’re still the good guys. The exception proves the rule.’
98
Rath parked at the same spot as before. The only thing distinguishing Saint Norbert’s from the adjacent buildings were the two church towers and gable front that rose above the five-storey apartment houses which otherwise dominated Mühlenstrasse. The left-hand tower was kinked slightly to follow the bend in the road, and bordered directly on the neighbouring Norbert Hospital. The lower levels, with the round-arched portals (one of which served as the entrance to the courtyard), were veneered with dressed stone, while on the upper floors the façade was broken by a row of windows which seemed to conceal a number of rooms, perhaps where the priest had his quarters.
He had taken an Opel from the motor pool and left the Buick at the station. His visit yesterday had startled young Flegenheimer, who later visited the church. Why? The only thing that seemed halfway plausible was a dead letter box. Somewhere in the church, Flegenheimer had left a message for his cousin.
He thought back to Christine Möller’s flat. The Venuskeller’s main attraction had indeed betrayed Red Hugo, though she had stressed, again and again, that she had no idea she was sending him to his death. He still didn’t know if he could trust her, but it seemed more likely that her instructions had come from the police than the Nordpiraten. She hadn’t been able to give a name, or even a description; everything had been done anonymously, and mostly over the telephone. The only face-to-face meeting she’d had was with Gregor Lanke, who arranged the initial contact with this ominous stranger – or, at least, his telephone voice. Lanke had pressured her, telling her if she didn’t do him this favour he’d have her sent down on drugs charges. Someone must have told him she took cocaine as he had shown up at her house one day and uncovered her supply. She had been paying for it ever since, less with information than with regular services. She didn’t have to go into any more detail.
After months of sex in return for silence, Lanke had tried to engage her as an informant. ‘He must have heard about me and Hugo,’ she said, ‘even though I’d only been with him a few weeks.’ The instructions she received over the telephone were precise, which was how she’d been able to set up a meeting without Hugo connecting it to her. Red Hugo must have met his killer twice; the third meeting had ended fatally. Christine had never seen the man, but she still remembered the number she had called. Rath looked in his notebook: STEPHAN 1701. He had tried it just now in the telephone booth. No one picked up, but at least he had something to go on.
The booth was on Schöneberg’s main drag, a few metres down from Mühlenstrasse. He looked at his watch and thought about trying again. Watching the church for over an hour, he’d seen no sign of Joseph Flegenheimer or Abraham Goldstein.
After checking to make sure he didn’t recognise anyone on the street, he got out of the car. Walking down Mühlenstrasse he gazed into an undertaker’s window that reflected the church façade. Saint Norbert’s was still visible from the telephone booth if he opened the door and stepped outside. He chose not to, however, even though the flex was long enough. It felt as if he were wasting his time here. He asked for STEPHAN 1701 and let it ring a long time. No luck: not a police station, then.
He lit a cigarette, gazing through the window at the coffins, and wondered whether it wouldn’t be better to give up smoking. The prospect of returning to a cramped, smoky Opel was less than appealing. If the mountain wouldn’t come to Muhammad . . .
Barely three minutes later, he stood in front of the Flegen-heimers’ front door, determined to interrupt their mourning for a second time. It took a moment before he heard footsteps and a woman he hadn’t seen before opened.
‘This is the Flegenheimer residence, isn’t it?’ he said, a little confused.
She looked him up and down. ‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to speak to Joseph Flegenh . . .’
‘He’s not here,’ she said, before he could finish his sentence.
‘Who is it, Rikwa,’ Rath heard a familiar voice. Lea Flegenheimer was home. Two seconds later she stood at the door surveying Rath like a troublesome insect. ‘Haven’t you pestered us enough already?’
‘I’d like to speak with your son, Frau Flegenheimer.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve chosen the wrong day.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Shabbos,’ Lea Flegenheimer said. ‘The men are at synagogue. I’m preparing our shabbat meal with Rikwa.’
‘I thought the Sabbath was on Saturday.’
‘You don’t have any Jewish friends, do you, Inspector?’ Lea Flegenheimer said, and while Rath was still thinking about whether he’d describe Manfred Oppenberg or Magnus Schwartz as friends, or, indeed, if he had any friends at all, whether Jewish, Catholic, Protestant or even Atheist, she provided the answer. ‘Clearly not, otherwise you’d know that Sabbath begins at sunset.’
‘Thanks for letting me know.’ The best way to annoy people like Lea Flegenheimer was to remain resolutely polite. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me which synagogue I might find your son in?’
‘You’re not going to disrupt the liturgy?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll wait outside.’
Rath took less than five minutes to reach the synagogue on Münchener Strasse. Naturally, he didn’t go inside, and wouldn’t have done so even without Lea Flegenheimer’s warning. He stood in front of the portal and lit a cigarette. Dusk was falling; it wouldn’t be long now. He contemplated the enormous Jugendstil façade, above which a cupola stood in solitary splendour, capped by the star of David.
It took two cigarettes before the men started to emerge. Only men. No doubt the women were at home preparing the food.
He looked carefully, not just because night was closing in, but because most of the men were dressed in identical fashion. Nearly all wore black coats and black hats, and all wore prayer shawls. Beards and sidelocks made it trickier still. He caught sight of the Flegenheimers among a group of men proceeding down Münchener Strasse towards Grunewaldstrasse, and followed at a distance until Flegenheimer father and son separated from the group at the junction with Berchtesgadener Strasse.
For some reason he couldn’t bring himself to speak to Joseph Flegenheimer, or tell his father that his offspring had been seen entering a Catholic church. He didn’t know whether it was the prayer shawls, or that they were celebrating the most important day in their faith, but there was something in the air, an almost intimate feeling of religion, that he didn’t want to disturb. Perhaps somewhere deep inside he was simply too Catholic not to respect those who still believed in God, even though he was no longer capable of it himself – however much he might long to be.
He waited until the two had disappeared inside their house before walking down Berchtesgadener Strasse towards his car. It was time to go and collect the Buick from the Castle.
99
On Saturday there was schnitzel. Czerwinski had asked for an especially large plate, with extra potato salad. The workers in the canteen knew the detective’s appetite. Rath and Henning were more modest and contented themselves with smaller portions.
Plisch and Plum were in good spirits. Reaching the weekend without incident was all that mattered to Czerwinski, and he had managed again. The pair thought nothing of Rath quizzing them for information. They had worked together so often that it felt normal when he enquired about the state of an investigation, even now, after Böhm had split them up.
They still hadn’t formally identified the Osthafen as the scene of the crime, even though it stood on their shortlist along with several other remote areas by the shore. Nor could they say anything about the time of death. In other words, they had nothing. In the absence of any other leads, Plisch and Plum only had Hugo’s reputation to go on, and they concluded that it was a gangland revenge. Meanwhile, Rudi Höller’s murder fitted the picture perfectly, even if the pair couldn’t say who was avenging whom, given the uncertainty surrounding the times of death.
‘What’s strange,’ Henning said, ‘is that the pattern in both cases was the same. Exit wounds to the head and chest. Even stranger, according to Ballistics, both Höller and Lenz were killed by the same weapon. The one that did for the dead SA man’s foot.’
‘Goldstein’s Remington,’ Rath said.
‘It looks as if the newspapers were right,’ Czerwinski said. Despite his enormous portion, he was already eating dessert. ‘Our gangster’s been working overtime.’
‘I don’t know.’ Rath was sceptical. ‘Don’t you think everything points a little too obviously at Goldstein? I mean, how does the dead SA man fit in there?’
‘Don’t blame yourself, Gereon,’ Henning said. ‘None of us feels good about how he escaped, but we have to look the facts in the eye.’
Rath fell silent, stood up and took his leave. Earlier that morning he had been to Lanke’s office several times, where he was brusquely informed that Lanke was ‘out in the field’.
The man lived in Schöneberg, near the Queen-Luise-Gedächtniskirche. He stood wide-eyed when he opened the door to find Rath outside. He seemed to have been expecting someone else.
‘You?’ he said. ‘What do you want here?’
‘To talk to you. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘I’m afraid this really isn’t a good time. I’m expecting a visitor . . .’
‘Your uncle?’
Lanke didn’t take the bait. ‘Please leave,’ he said.
Rath stepped inside the flat. He knew he had Lanke where he wanted him. Looking round he noted that Gregor Lanke seemed to exist on more than a detective’s salary. How else could he afford such a roomy front-facing apartment? The maid must have been here recently too; everything looked clean and tidy. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me anything?’ he asked.
