Goldstein, page 43
‘Yes?’
Well, of course, she never gave her name, unless she was at work. Now he remembered why he found it so annoying. ‘Charly,’ he said quickly. ‘Gereon here. I hope you’re not still mad.’
‘Gereon! I . . . what a coincidence. I was just . . .’
‘Listen,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m in a rush. I’m sorry about yesterday. I’m a total imbecile.’
‘You’ve finally realised?’
‘Listen,’ he said again. ‘I need to know exactly when you saw Tornow in the Hansaviertel. What day? What time?’
‘Wednesday about half past twelve.’
A fit! The funeral started at eleven, at which point he had said goodbye to Tornow. After that he hadn’t seen him. The cemetery was right next to the S-Bahn. Changing once or twice, it would take no longer than half an hour, forty-five minutes, to get to Tiergarten.
‘I think it really was Tornow you saw in the Hansaviertel,’ he said. ‘Something’s not right. It’s just possible he had something to do with Red Hugo’s death too, and Rudi the Rat.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Two gangsters. Right now I’ve got something else to take care of, but I can be at yours in an hour. Wait for me there.’
‘But . . .’
‘Just wait. An hour tops. Then we can get something to eat, and I’ll tell you everything.’
He hung up, left the cramped, stuffy booth and walked quickly towards the church. On the way he debated how he could provide Charly with a plausible explanation for his knowledge of the Hugo Lenz case. Under no circumstances could she discover that he was working for Johann Marlow. He thought about Henning and Czerwinski. Unlike him, Plisch and Plum were actually involved in the case, and Charly knew that the three of them often worked together. Whether she believed him or not was of secondary importance. What mattered now was that they pooled their knowledge of Kuschke, Lenz and Höller.
Things here could be tied up quickly. Once he had Marion Bosetzky, everything else would follow. If need be, he could always cuff her and take her back to the station. After all, why shouldn’t an inspector just stumble upon a woman who had been the object of a police search warrant for more than a week? Perhaps it would be enough to lean on her a little so that she led him to Goldstein’s current pied-à-terre. In that case he’d save his handcuffs for the Yank and let Marion go. Both would earn him points in Gennat’s eyes, although the Goldstein variant was clearly preferable. Something like that could make him quite a name at the Castle, especially since the man had twice given him the slip.
He entered Saint Norbert’s through the middle door, crossing to a little anteroom before reaching the nave. He saw the holy water and, without thinking, dipped his fingers in it to make the sign of the cross. He hadn’t been inside a church for a long time, but the rituals of childhood soon took over. He had never been sure about his faith, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was Catholic.
He took in the familiar smell of a Catholic church, the same the world over, everywhere you went a slice of home and childhood. Perhaps they were the same thing: childhood and home.
It was pleasantly cool as he made his way through the nave alone, his steps echoing against the white walls. There was no sign of Marion Bosetzky. Where on earth had she got to? He looked inside the confessionals: empty. He even popped into the sacristy: again, no one. Perhaps in the organ loft? She had to be in here somewhere, or he would have seen her leave. He climbed to the upper floors, to the section of building overlooking the street. It looked more like an office than a priest’s quarters. Rath gazed around curiously. Had Marion Bosetzky disappeared inside one of the rooms? Was she paying the priest a visit?
He knocked on one of the doors. No one answered. He pressed down on the handle, finding the door unlocked. He opened it slightly and looked inside. The room was similar to their offices at the Castle: desk, telephone, roll-front cupboards, even a typewriter and a smaller table by the window. Only the large crucifix and pictures of the Madonna and the saints made it look any different from police headquarters. Instead of the obligatory Hindenburg portrait was an oil painting depicting a saint in Norbertine habit holding a monstrance. Out of his chalice crawled a spider. Rath could vaguely remember a legend in which Saint Norbert of Xanten had drunk a spider that fell into his communion chalice, displaying both death-defying courage and an unshakeable belief in God. It was one of many hagiographies that had been drummed into him as a child. He glanced out of the round-arched window. Below on Mühlenstrasse, his Buick glistened in the sun.
Aside from a saint with a spider in his chalice, there was nothing unusual here. He left the office and knocked on the door opposite. Again, no response. The room was dark. He was groping for a light switch when something jumped at him.
The blow to his chin didn’t strike him flush, but only because he had turned his head to one side. A blow like that to the point of the chin would have knocked him out but, as it was, he just felt a hellish pain in his jaw and fell backwards against the doorframe. The figure was on him, dealing a second blow to the solar plexus that left him short of breath, before making for the door. Rath stuck out a leg and, in the light from the corridor, caught sight of his attacker.
Abraham Goldstein.
He didn’t have time to wonder how Marion Bosetzky had morphed into the Yank. Goldstein was now running downstairs. Struggling to get his breath back, Rath gave pursuit, leaping as Goldstein reached the bottom. The pair crashed onto the stone floor with Goldstein taking the brunt. He was still dazed as Rath knocked him down with a right hook. He got up before toppling backwards into the nave of the church, his hands desperately searching for a hold, but succeeding only in tearing prayer books from a shelf.
Rath jumped after him, to finish him off, as he had stupidly left his handcuffs in the car. As he was about to throw a second punch, Goldstein dodged, recoiled, seized Rath’s arm and rolled over backwards. Rath didn’t understand what was happening until Goldstein pulled him down with his entire body weight. He felt the Yank’s boot against his groin as he slammed against the church pews, Goldstein having now let go of his arm. There was a loud thump as the wood struck his forehead and he saw stars, teetering like a ship on troubled waters.
Then Goldstein was on him again, pulling him up by the collar. Rath dodged the ensuing punch, and essayed a kick to the groin which momentarily gave Goldstein pause for thought. Just when he saw his chance to land the deciding blow and send the Yank into the realm of dreams, he felt a hard thud against the right side of his head and heard a loud, gong-like clang. There was a flash of brightness which seemed to light up the world before everything went black.
105
Charly paced her flat increasingly nervously. She had already smoked seven cigarettes, one after the other, not knowing whether she should be happy or even more furious with the bastard. He had barely let her get a word in.
‘I’m in a rush’, she imitated. What was he thinking? Snubbing her like that. At least he had conceded, but what was it he said about those gangsters? That their death had something to do with Kuschke’s? Red Hugo had been found dead at the Mühlendamm, and, as far she knew, he wasn’t Gereon’s case.
For some reason his telephone call had made her even more nervous. Pacing up and down, she felt the need to do something, but hadn’t the slightest idea what. He had told her to wait but her curiosity was greater than her rage. Almost an hour had passed. Where was he, and who was it that had telephoned for him? Did it have to do with his latest discovery?
There, the doorbell!
She checked her watch. Gereon had telephoned forty-seven minutes ago. If he had shaken a leg to get here it was most unlike him.
Her rage subsided, her tension eased. She had wanted to be mad with him but, as was so often the case, when he finally showed up her anger dissolved into thin air. At least she had the self-discipline to wipe the smile off her face as she opened the door.
She froze.
It wasn’t Gereon.
Sebastian Tornow was outside with an older man who looked familiar somehow, even if she couldn’t quite place him. She only knew it was his pistol pointed at her.
106
His head hurt. In fact, his whole body hurt. It was an unpleasant awakening. He’d sooner have slipped back into unconsciousness. At first he didn’t know where he was; he saw angels and saints in fluttering robes. Then he remembered: Saint Norbert’s. Goldstein!
Carefully, he turned his head. He was still in the church, and on one of the pews sat a mildly overweight priest, holding a battered incense burner, the sort of canister Rath would have swung as a ten-year-old boy. Though not to knock anyone out, which seemed to be what the priest had used it for.
Rath felt his temples. He had a mighty bump above his right eyebrow. ‘Did you do that?’ he asked.
Only now did he see Goldstein lying a few metres away and looking a little worse for wear too, holding the back of his head where the canister must have struck him.
‘I don’t tolerate violence in the house of God,’ the priest said, sounding like a teacher who had caught two young punks fighting in the schoolyard.
‘That man’s a dangerous gangster,’ Rath said, pointing towards Goldstein. ‘He’s armed.’
‘This man,’ said the priest, ‘has sought the sanctuary of the Holy Church, and he has been granted it. Besides, he is unarmed.’
‘What did you say?’ Abraham Goldstein, a Jewish gangster, had found asylum here, in a Catholic church? ‘There’s a warrant issued for his arrest.’
‘This man is enjoying church asylum, and, as long as I’m priest around here, won’t be surrendered to any secular justice system.’
Rath could almost have laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious.
‘Who says?’
‘I do. Johannes Warszawski.’
‘We’re not living in the Middle Ages!’
‘Ecclesia iure asyli gaudet ita ut rei, qui ad illam confugerint, inde non sint extrahendi, nisi necessitas urgeat, sine assensu Ordinarii, vel saltem rectoris ecclesiae,’ Priest Warszawski declaimed.
That went beyond Rath’s knowledge of Latin. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘From the Codex Iuris Canonici. It means something like no one who seeks asylum in my church can be made to go with people like you. At least not without picking a fight with me first.’
‘What does church law say about priests striking police officers with incense canisters?’
‘You’re a police officer?’ Warszawski showed no contrition, despite this revelation. ‘You don’t behave like one.’
‘He’s telling the truth,’ Goldstein said, taking up residence on a church pew.
Rath could do without his support. He ignored the Yank.
‘This man is a murderer,’ he said, struggling to his feet. ‘He stabbed someone to death in Humboldthain and is alleged to have shot two criminals.’
‘He’s no murderer,’ the priest said. ‘He’s simply wanted for murder. He’s told me everything. That you and your fellow officers are wrongly pursuing him.’
‘You believe him?’
‘Yes, I believe him.’ Coming from the priest, the words didn’t seem so naive. Perhaps because Rath shared his opinion. All the same, Goldstein was still a contract killer, who killed at the behest of an American criminal organisation. At least that’s what they said over there.
‘Joseph Flegenheimer vouched for this man,’ the priest said. ‘That’s enough for me.’
‘How does a Catholic priest know an orthodox Jew?’
‘I’m an old friend of Joseph’s. You can have a good old-fashioned ding-dong with him about questions of faith.’
‘You can have a good old-fashioned ding-dong with most Jews,’ Goldstein said.
‘You’re one to talk,’ Rath said, holding his head.
‘You weren’t exactly pussy-footing about either, but that bump there,’ Goldstein pointed towards Rath’s head, ‘is from the priest.’
‘You only have yourselves to blame,’ the priest said. ‘There are two things that I won’t tolerate in my church: one, that someone who’s sought the protection of the Holy Church should be surrendered to the state’s henchmen . . .’ That was directed at Rath. ‘ . . .and, two, that blood should be spilled here.’ That was directed at Goldstein.
The pair nodded like a couple of candidates for confirmation.
‘Where’s Marion, by the way?’ Rath asked.
‘Long gone. There’s a rear exit,’ Goldstein said. ‘You should have come in a different car, Detective. Marion recognised the Buick.’
‘You should have gone with her.’
‘I couldn’t have known you’d sniff around the whole building. Besides, it’s about time we spoke in private, away from the prying eyes of your colleagues.’
Priest Warszawski understood. He got up and took the battered old incense burner back inside the sacristy.
Rath took a seat on the pew next to Goldstein. Despite everything he was alleged to have done, he couldn’t help but warm to the man. ‘What is there to talk about that can’t be discussed in an interrogation room at police headquarters?’
‘A whole lot of things. I hope you have time.’
Rath looked at his watch. ‘Not really. I’m already running late.’
‘Then I’ll keep it brief. Firstly: I did beat up those bastards in the park. They were trying to pummel an old man. I even shot one of them in the foot. It was dumb luck; the gun just went off.’ Goldstein looked at him, as if trying to gauge whether or not Rath believed him. ‘Secondly, I didn’t kill anyone, simple as that.’
‘That was the abridged version?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that why you kept quiet about what you did in New York?’
‘What I’ve done in the States is none of your business.’ Goldstein gave him an angry stare. ‘The only thing you can charge me with here is illegal possession of firearms, but you can’t even prove that.’ The gangster laughed. ‘Pastor Warszawski has the Remington. That was his one condition, before he unfolded the camp bed.’
Rath looked at his watch. He should have been with Charly long ago. He knew how much she despised lateness, and there was no way he could explain that he and Abraham Goldstein had fought in a church and afterwards settled down for a nice chat.
‘You’re aware that the old man you helped is the only person who can exonerate you?’ Goldstein shrugged. ‘Take me to him. Do you know where he lives?’
‘Of course. I walked him home. His name is Teitelbaum. Simon Teitelbaum. I don’t think he’s been here long. At least, he doesn’t behave like it.’
‘He didn’t want to tell me his name,’ Rath said. He took another glance at his watch and stood up. ‘I really do have to go now.’
‘Why should I trust you not to have the church here besieged by your Warrants unit?’
Rath shrugged. ‘I’m Catholic.’
‘The same goes for the Irish in Brooklyn, but I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them.’
‘You trust the Italians, if I’ve understood your file. They’re Catholic, aren’t they?’
‘Trust isn’t a matter of religious affiliation.’
‘Let’s make a deal. Isn’t that what you say in the States?’ Goldstein looked surprised. ‘I’ll promise to leave you alone until you’ve taken me to this witness, if you promise me something in return.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘That you don’t ship out on the next boat to the States.’
‘If only it were that simple,’ Goldstein laughed. ‘You see, that’s one of things I wanted to talk to you about but, sadly, you don’t have time.’
107
What a beautiful Sunday, Alex thought as she stepped onto the pedestrian bridge across the Spree. For the first time since Benny’s death, she felt like she was getting back on top of things, and not just because last night had passed off without a hitch. The bags, weighed down with coins, were so heavy that she and Vicky almost hadn’t got them through the window. No, Alex felt good because she was finally fixing everything she had neglected so for long. Soon everything would be back on track, above all her life and Vicky’s.
She had even purchased a ticket for the S-Bahn journey to Bellevue. She couldn’t run the risk of being caught fare-dodging again, not now. Besides, money was no longer a concern at twenty pfennigs a pop. They hadn’t got three thousand marks out of the Wertheim registers, but it was well over two, and she’d never earned that much stealing watches with Benny. She should have thought of it sooner, but her reluctance to break into Wertheim prevented her. She was through with this city now, with Wertheim too. The store owed her this parting gift for all the misery her dismissal had caused.
She reached the junction at Spenerstrasse, feeling nervous and not knowing what to say to Charlotte, the court woman. Secretly, Alex hoped she wouldn’t be home. She could slip the envelope with the hundred and fifty marks and the little note she had written through the letterbox, and the matter would be resolved.
With a queasy feeling in her stomach she climbed the stairs and, for a moment, stood outside the door to the flat before pressing the bell. Nothing. She pressed again and laid her ear against the wooden door. Nothing doing inside. A noise made her spin around. The door opposite had opened and in the frame stood an elderly lady in her Sunday best.
‘Good day,’ Alex said, dropping a curtsey. She could be a good little girl when she wanted.
The woman looked her up and down. ‘Good day, young lady,’ she replied. ‘Are you looking for Fräulein Ritter?’
Alex nodded.
‘She left ten minutes ago.’ The woman painstakingly closed her door, turning the keys twice before saying, in a mildly disparaging tone: ‘In the company of several gentlemen . . .’
