Goldstein, page 42
‘What the hell was Buddha thinking getting you involved?’
‘I think he has a guilty conscience. He probably wasn’t expecting things to develop the way they have.’
‘You were forbidden from telling me?’
‘Gennat and Lange didn’t mention you explicitly,’ she said, smiling for the first time since Hardenbergstrasse. ‘They said I wasn’t to tell anybody.’
‘So, why now?’
Charly took his hand and pulled him and Kirie past the advertising pillar. At the fourth or fifth house she halted. ‘It was here,’ she said. ‘This is where I ran into a cop. Just before I found Kuschke mortally wounded. He was coming towards me, approaching from Händelstrasse, from around the corner.’
‘So?’
‘This cop ransacked Kuschke’s flat on the same day. His victim’s flat.’
‘A uniform cop killing one of his own? My God, what a horror-story.’
‘Until now we thought Kuschke’s killer only used the uniform as camouflage, and to gain access to his flat. You know how most landladies go rigid at the sight of a uniform.’
Rath nodded.
‘Gereon,’ she said. ‘The man I saw here three days ago was Sebastian Tornow.’
100
Now everything was quiet, Alex could venture out of her hiding place. She’d never have thought she’d shut herself in a department store again. The business in KaDeWe and Benny’s death were only two weeks ago. Now it was Wertheim, of all places, but she didn’t have any choice. She urgently needed funds to get out of this city. Cash, that she knew was lying dormant in this vast, confusing mass of buildings. It was spread across the whole store, on every floor, in every department. The tills would contain only change by the evening, as the day’s takings were stored in Wertheim’s private cellar vault. Cracking it was impossible. No safebreaker had ever tried, not even the Brothers Sass, though she reckoned the Wertheim vault contained more cash than most banks in Berlin.
Getting to the money in the registers was easier, however, especially if you knew where the keys were kept. The cashiers picked them up every morning before the start of their shift, and she knew exactly where.
Jewellery and watches were a no-go. Kalli was dead, and with any other fence she ran the risk of being handed over to the police. So, cash it was, and change above all. It would be a real grind, but it would be worth it. In every till was thirty marks’ worth of change, and there were many tills in Wertheim, often several to a department. Alex didn’t know how many exactly but it was at least a hundred. This was Europe’s largest department store, after all. A hundred times thirty. It would mean a lot of shrapnel, and a lot of weight, which was why she had brought Vicky along. They would have to negotiate their escape together, above all if they didn’t want to leave the spoils behind.
She had no reservations about stealing from her former employer. This would be her last hurrah before leaving Berlin for good.
They had borrowed a hundred and twenty marks, having found the cash in an earthenware pan that still smelled of herring. So far they had only spent around eighty, on a few new items of clothing for herself and Vicky, hair dye and, of course, the digs they were staying in. They had rented the room to continue their campaign of revenge. She had hatched a new plan when she saw the article. She wasn’t certain, since it was very vague, but Vicky’s call to the station at Wittenbergplatz had settled the matter. At first they had said that Kuschke was on leave, but when she dug a little deeper, saying it was a private matter she needed to discuss with him at his home, the cop on the telephone explained. He was very sorry, he said, to be the one to have to tell her, he didn’t know how close she was to Sergeant Major Kuschke, but unfortunately the man had died in tragic circumstances.
Someone had killed the sadistic arsehole!
At first, she wasn’t sure if she should be happy or not. It felt as if someone had stolen her chance of revenge. She wouldn’t have gone so far as to kill him, just to put the fear of death in him, but now the fucking pig was dead and she didn’t know if the punishment was fitting or not. It wouldn’t bring Benny back to life, but, then, her own revenge wouldn’t have done that either.
Standing in her dark outfit in the dim light of the store’s vast atrium, Vicky looked almost exactly like Benny two weeks before. The night watchmen had finished their rounds. It was time. They wouldn’t need more than an hour if they stuck to Alex’s route, beginning downstairs in haberdashery.
101
They were the last customers in the Nasse Dreieck but Schorsch, the taciturn landlord, didn’t complain. He simply placed beer after beer in front of them with the patience of a saint, every so often adding a short for good measure. A landlord who knew his patrons didn’t have to talk much, or take orders.
Rath had imagined his evening panning out rather differently. It was a week since he had last sat here with Gräf, putting the world to rights, and he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing after his latest blazing row with Charly.
Why did they always quarrel at the start of the weekend? They would be better off squabbling on Monday or Tuesday, so that they could make up again by Friday, Saturday at the latest. That would be altogether more productive, especially since any reconciliation usually ended with the two of them in bed, which wasn’t the worst way to draw a line under the working week.
This time the cause was Sebastian Tornow. He couldn’t believe what she had told him. Above all he didn’t want to believe it: Tornow was no killer. ‘You saw this cop for maybe three seconds, and his face is branded on your memory?’
‘His smile. It’s his smile that’s branded on my memory. It was the same man.’
‘He’s not the only man ever to have smiled.’
‘Don’t joke, you know it upsets me!’
That was when he knew it wouldn’t just blow over. The more arguments he presented the more stubborn she became in her – flimsy – defence.
‘Tornow hasn’t been in uniform for almost two weeks. It can’t have been him in the Hansaviertel.’
He made a triumphant face, but Charly remained unimpressed.
‘Even so.’ She folded her arms like a defiant child. ‘It was him. Just believe me!’
‘How can you be so pig-headed?’
‘I’m not the one being pig-headed around here!’
Five minutes later he was sitting in the car with Kirie on his way to Luisenufer. The dog understood their quarrels least of all. She had been settling in for a cosy evening in Spenerstrasse when suddenly they left without her mistress. Even as she trotted dutifully after him, it was plain that she didn’t understand what was going on. People were inexplicable. With dogs it was different. They sized one another up and, as soon as they smelled each other, got down to business. People are far more complicated, thought Rath as he looked at Kirie, curled up at the bar.
He clinked glasses with Gräf who was immersed in his own thoughts. Rath hadn’t mentioned the quarrel. Even though Gräf was a friend, he never talked about Charly, just went drinking with him whenever they fought.
‘What do you think about the new man?’ he asked, offering Gräf a cigarette from his case.
‘Seems OK. Why?’
‘Just asking.’ Rath also took a cigarette and lit it. ‘I thought he might be one for our team when he’s finished training. It could be worth mentioning to Gennat, don’t you think?’
‘He’s a good fit,’ Gräf said. ‘Impressive powers of observation and deduction . . .’
‘But?’
‘But nothing.’ Gräf sipped at his beer.
Rath already regretted the question. Gräf would see Tornow as competition and, besides, no one liked being used as a spy. That hadn’t been his intention, but now he was curious. ‘You don’t sound like you’re convinced.’
‘Some of his opinions are a little out there. I think if it was up to him, he’d put all criminals away without trial.’
‘That’s exactly what you said the other day in the canteen.’ Rath realised he was defending Tornow, but there was no way Gräf could know the baggage the man carried around.
‘Maybe. It’s frustrating when someone gets away with something. Or when you can’t get them even though you know they’re guilty. Last week, we had Goldstein on a plate, and now that we can actually prove he did something, he’s disappeared.’
‘It’s something you have to get used to in our line of work. Where would we be without the rule of law?’
‘Then I fear young Tornow has a lot to learn,’ Gräf said.
‘Are you about to do the dirty on a colleague, or what is this?’
‘You did ask.’
Rath gazed ruefully into his beer. ‘I’m just surprised. I thought the two of you were getting on well.’
‘We were until he started asking these strange questions.’
‘What kind of questions?’
‘Well, what I think of the fact that there are so many criminals at large, for one.’
‘Questions like that always bother young officers. More experienced ones too. It’s good that he asks questions. It means he wants to learn.’
‘It felt more like he was sounding me out. As if he wanted to see if I shared his opinions.’ Rath looked at him quizzically. ‘He asked me if I thought a good police officer should be able to kill.’
102
Watching the churchgoers streaming out of mass, Rath felt something akin to guilt that he hadn’t fulfilled his Sunday duty. Now that cynicism was his only creed, he rarely gave it a second thought, but these people had a different perspective. Believing in something other than the Great Big Nothing, they aroused his envy and scorn in equal measure. He scorned them for their naivety; he envied them their faith.
Having faith made you strong, which was precisely how he didn’t feel this morning. Worse, he was unsteady on his feet. He had left the Buick at his new permanent parking spot, outside the undertaker’s and diagonally opposite the church front. He couldn’t request an Opel from the motor pool today without arousing suspicion. He was off duty so, whatever he did here, he was doing it for himself and, since his business didn’t concern anyone in the Castle, it felt wise not to have his signature beneath today’s date in motor pool records. He checked his watch. Sunday Mass had ended promptly. He surveyed each member of the congregation as they emerged. Joseph Flegenheimer wasn’t among them, but of course not, he hadn’t visited the church because he harboured Catholic sympathies.
Rath’s head was still fuzzy from last night. In truth his quarrel with Charly suited him just fine. He had better things to do than idle the day away with his girlfriend and his dog. He had left Kirie with the Lennartz family, knowing that he couldn’t expect her to sit in the car all day. He didn’t fancy it much himself, either, but sometimes you just had to bite the bullet. The word ‘bite’ reminded him of his rations, and he took his first apple from the picnic basket. He still hadn’t been at his observation post for five minutes.
An hour later his food supplies were dwindling and there was still no sign of Joseph Flegenheimer. One hour! It felt more like three. He looked down on a solitary sandwich and a hard-boiled egg. Boredom made for hungry work.
He opened the car door to take a stroll down to the main drag. It was pleasantly warm, a gentle breeze was blowing, a beautiful Sunday, and here he was dividing his time between the inside of a car and a telephone booth.
He sighed. He had no choice but to do Marlow’s bidding if he didn’t want to find himself in serious trouble later tonight. True, he had made progress since his conversation with Gregor Lanke’s informant, but he had no desire to throw Christine Möller under a bus. Better to give Marlow a concrete lead on whoever was actually responsible for Red Hugo’s death. If he had one by then, that is. If need be, he could always serve up Lanke, but even there Rath had his scruples. The man might be an arsehole, but he didn’t deserve to end up in Dr Mabuse’s claws. Rath didn’t want to be responsible for another two people getting killed; didn’t want any more demons haunting him at night.
He needed a concrete lead, but the only thing he had was the telephone number from Christine. How many times had he tried it now? And all because this mysterious number wasn’t to be found in any telephone book. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, his mother always used to say. He just had to keep trying.
It was stuffy in the glass booth, a real greenhouse. Rath lifted the receiver and put in a ten-pfennig coin when a face on the other side of the street justified his choice of observation post. In the meantime the operator spoke on the line.
Rath automatically reeled off the number: ‘STEPHAN 1701 please.’ At the same time he kept an eye on the pretty lady turning into Mühlenstrasse. She must have got off the tram, and it couldn’t be a coincidence that she was hanging around here. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared from his field of vision. He opened the door of the booth to watch as she made for the church. A slightly scratchy voice announced itself on the line.
‘Yes.’
He was a little taken aback. He hadn’t been expecting to get someone on the line so quickly, after all the failed attempts yesterday and the day before. Back inside the booth, he closed the door, muffling the noise from the street. ‘Who am I speaking to, please?’ he asked. This idiotic custom of answering the telephone without saying your name! Just like Charly!
‘Who am I speaking to?’
The subscriber refused to be intimidated. Damn it, Rath wasn’t prepared for this. He had hoped whoever it was would give their name, so that he could hang up and take care of everything else through the civil register. Perhaps the name might turn up in the files of the Berlin Police . . .
‘I find it incredibly rude not to give your name,’ he said. He couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say.
‘Gereon?’ the voice at the other end said, and Rath felt something like an electric shock pass down his spine. It was no coincidence that the voice had felt familiar from the moment he first heard it. ‘Is that you?’
He hung up with his mind racing. He lifted the receiver a second time and waited for the operator. ‘Operator,’ he said. ‘Would you be so kind as to repeat the number you just connected me with? I’m not sure I gave you the right one.’
‘STEPHAN 1701,’ a mildly irritated voice said. Rath looked down at the scrap of paper he had used to write the number. There was no doubt. The telephone number provided by Christine Möller, which concealed the man who almost certainly had Red Hugo on his conscience, had been answered by a colleague.
103
Charly paced around her flat like a tiger in a cage. Even at breakfast she hadn’t been able to sit still. She simply didn’t know what to do. Telephone Lange on a Sunday? Or Gennat? It was unlikely to be a problem, but she wasn’t sure it was urgent enough. Gereon’s misgivings had driven her so dotty that she no longer quite believed what she had seen in the Hansaviertel. Had there actually been a uniform cop? And had he really looked like Gereon’s new colleague? She was furious with him. He could never back her, not even this one time. He always had to play devil’s advocate!
She knew how sensitive it was to accuse a colleague of murder. Because that was what it boiled down to. He couldn’t be a harmless witness if it was the same man who had ransacked Kuschke’s flat.
Damn it! She’d have felt happier with Gereon onside. Just with him being there at all.
She could always resume her search for Alex, but there was too much going on inside her mind since she had seen Sebastian Tornow smile and experienced her moment of insight.
The telephone rang.
Perhaps it was Gereon? Despite her rage she was happy to call it quits. It was all getting too much for her, and she could use him by her side. Then why, she asked herself, did you send him packing yesterday evening, you silly goose? She had wanted to borrow money off him, too, since Maltritz would be back tomorrow for the rent. Very well. If he wanted a reconciliation he could have it. Just not right this minute . . .
Come on, don’t be childish, don’t keep him in suspense. He’s already called five times. She lifted the receiver. ‘Yes?’
‘Charlotte Ritter?’ It wasn’t Gereon’s voice.
‘Speaking.’ In the same instant she wondered whether it was wise to confirm her identity. ‘Who is it, please?’
‘I’d like to speak to Gereon Rath.’
‘He isn’t here.’
‘Then please excuse the interruption.’
‘No problem,’ she said, but the caller had already hung up.
104
Rath slammed his fist down and swore. Engaged! Did she have to be on the phone at precisely this moment? He hung up and the ten-pfennig piece jangled onto the change slot.
Marion Bosetzky had disappeared inside the church, and he was still standing in this telephone booth trying to reach Charly. He had to speak to her, now, as soon as possible, quarrel or no. He couldn’t help thinking back to last night ever since he had heard Tornow’s voice on the line. It didn’t make any sense, but something here was rotten. His argument from yesterday resurfaced: Tornow hasn’t been in uniform for almost two weeks now. But that wasn’t true. There was a day last week when Sebastian Tornow had been in uniform, even if he was still a long way from the Hansaviertel: Schönholz Cemetery in Pankow, at Emil Kuhfeld’s funeral.
He took the ten-pfennig piece from the coin return and put it back in the slot. Hopefully she wasn’t speaking to the grinning man, or else this could take forever. Keeping the church portal in view he gave the number. Still no sign of Marion Bosetzky, illegal nightclub dancer, chambermaid and gangster’s moll. At last, the dial tone! Charly picked up.
