Goldstein, page 45
‘It is possible that Fräulein Ritter was the victim of a kidnapping,’ he said.
Brettschneider looked horrified. ‘Those nice men? You must be mistaken.’
‘You saw them?’
‘Through the peephole,’ she said, apologetically. ‘Two well-dressed men. An older man, and a younger man.’
‘Would you recognise them if you saw a photograph?’
She hunched her shoulders. ‘I think so. Do I need to go to the station?’
‘That won’t be necessary for the time being. May I come in?’
She gazed into the stairwell, nodded and stepped aside. He entered the flat and she closed the door behind them, leading him into a meticulously tidy living room. A tea table with two chairs stood by the window overlooking Spenerstrasse. He could see his Buick at the corner. He sat and took a photograph from Tornow’s personal file, which had been passed to his office by Warrants.
‘That’s a police officer,’ Brettschneider said as she looked at the image which showed Sebastian Tornow under a shako wearing his best smile. ‘I thought this was a kidnapping.’
‘Was this man present?’
She nodded. ‘In plainclothes, not uniform.’
‘Undercover operation. Do you see?’ He gave her a conspiratorial smile and she nodded.
‘Are you . . . Is that why you’re in Fräulein Ritter’s flat from time to time?’ she asked. ‘Are you undercover as well?’
He nodded. ‘Keep it between us.’
‘Why should she have been kidnapped?’
‘I can’t talk about that.’ Rath lowered his voice. ‘Official secrets.’
Irmgard Brettschneider gave an eager nod. ‘I won’t say a thing, Inspector!’ She was beginning to flourish; she ought to have been a secret agent. ‘I have a number plate too,’ she whispered, as if her flat was being bugged. ‘I always take down the registration of whoever parks outside. You never know. It was a black sedan. I can’t give you the make, I’m afraid, I’m not so good with cars. But I do have the registration if that would help?’
Rath nodded, wondering how often Frau Brettschneider must have watched him coming and going, in the stairwell, perhaps even on the street outside.
‘That would be a great help.’
It was dark when he parked on Luisenufer, right outside the house this time. He had spent over two hours at the Castle trying everything to get into Road Traffic, but it was all locked on a Sunday, like most offices at headquarters. He didn’t dare use official channels and call in the division chief or the public prosecutor. What, after all, could he tell them?
He stepped inside the smoky hallway, hoping that Charly might have returned; that she had spent the last few hours waiting for him while he prowled around the station and her flat. Only when he stood at the kitchen door did he realise what was confusing him about the smoke. It didn’t smell of Junos. In fact, it didn’t smell of cigarettes.
It smelled of cigars.
Thus he was less surprised than he might have been, as he entered the kitchen and saw Johann Marlow with a cigar between his teeth, tickling the back of Kirie’s head. The dog didn’t appear to have moved since Rath had left the flat. On a second chair sat Liang. Two more men in summer coats stood by the dresser.
Marlow looked up. ‘There was no one here when we rang the bell, so we took the liberty of letting ourselves in.’
‘I see you’ve made yourselves at home.’
‘As far as we could, but it’s not exactly tidy in here.’
‘It was the men who killed Hugo Lenz,’ he said. ‘They got wind that I’m onto them.’ He took the photograph of Tornow from his jacket and laid it on the table. ‘Sebastian Tornow. The other one’s already dead. A Sergeant Major Jochen Kuschke.’
‘Respect,’ Marlow said. He looked at the two men by the dresser and said: ‘You could take a leaf out of this man’s book.’
‘So far, there’s no official investigation against Tornow. The evidence is pretty thin, and I’ve only just discovered he’s responsible for the whole thing. Clearly, he’s trying to provoke conflict in the underworld. He probably killed Rudi Höller too.’
Marlow nodded thoughtfully. It suited him that police headquarters still didn’t know. ‘Where might I find this Tornow?’ he asked.
‘That’s just it. I’m afraid he’s taken someone hostage.’
110
They were right. Sleep deprivation was the worst torture you could inflict on someone without actually injuring them.
So far, it was only one night, but they were just getting started. Charly had slept badly the night before too, as she always did when she fought with Gereon. What she wouldn’t give for a little nap, but whenever she was about to nod off someone shook her awake.
They had alternated during the night: Tornow, Scheer and Klinger, and other men she didn’t know. For hours at a time they had sat in front of her asking the same questions over and over. What do you know? What does Inspector Rath know? By their style of questioning, she knew they must be police, but it just didn’t fit. She had always thought of police officers as the good guys – with the odd exception.
She couldn’t help thinking of Gereon, the way he had reacted yesterday (or was it the day before? She could no longer remember), his disbelief when she told him about Tornow and what she had seen. He would scarcely believe this, either. What about the others: Gennat and Böhm? What if everyone she accused could provide an alibi? Perhaps Tornow and Scheer were right and no one would believe her. On reflection Gereon might, perhaps. What had he said on the telephone yesterday? Or the day before? Today? Her thoughts went round in circles as she began to doze.
Her body longed to fall into blissful sleep.
Until she was shaken brutally awake.
‘Where did Gereon Rath get this telephone number?’ a voice asked. Not Scheer, or Tornow, but one of the other voices that had been tormenting her. She didn’t have any idea what they were talking about, otherwise she might just have blabbed.
111
The Road Traffic Department opened at eight thirty. Rath had been sitting on the wooden bench outside since quarter past. Shortly before half past, a man in his mid-fifties came down the corridor, moving irritatingly slowly. Furrowing his brow, he looked at Rath waiting outside his office, and took a bunch of keys from his pocket.
‘Good morning,’ Rath said, receiving no response, not even a greeting.
Once the man had opened the doors, he tried to follow him inside, but was forbidden from doing so.
‘If you would be so kind as to wait,’ the man said. ‘We open in one minute.’
Other employees came down the corridor, other doors were opened, but still Rath had to wait until eight thirty on the dot, when the first officer poked his head through the door. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
All smiles now that work’s started, Rath thought, showing his identification.
‘A Division,’ he said. ‘I need some information. The owner of this vehicle.’ He passed the officer a handwritten note.
The man put on his reading glasses. ‘Have you put in an official request?’
‘No, but I’m in a hurry. Exigent circumstances.’ This was usually enough, but the man shook his head doubtfully. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said. ‘If you could help me out.’
‘OK, I’ll turn a blind eye this time.’
Rath waited at the desk, but the man showed no sign of moving.
‘What is it? Was there something else?’
‘The owner of the vehicle?’ said Rath.
‘Things don’t move that fast. I’ll call you.’
‘Would you please hurry up! This could be a matter of life and death.’
The officer was unperturbed. ‘Pretty much par for the course in Homicide, isn’t it?’
Rath hoped the situation wasn’t as serious as all that, but he didn’t know. He hadn’t slept. Uncertainty ate away at his insides. What had Tornow and his men done with Charly? They seemed to have their backs against the wall, and were responsible for at least two murders, probably more. He had told Marlow his theories yesterday evening: that a group of police officers was intent on sparking a gangland war between the Nordpiraten and Berolina. Evidently, some were prepared to commit murder. Murders, plural. All of which they hoped to pin on the mysterious American gangster the press already had its claws into – thanks to Stefan Fink.
It still wasn’t nine o’clock when he arrived at the office. He was the first there. Damn it, that pen-pusher in Road Traffic! Hopefully he’d cough up the vehicle owner’s name soon. It was Rath’s only lead.
At some point Erika Voss appeared, which meant it must be nine. Shortly afterwards Gräf entered too. Rath was distracted; he said hello, but no more. Gräf assumed it was Monday morning blues, and didn’t probe further. Rath sat like a cat on a hot tin roof, needing the vehicle owner, needing something to do. Why were they keeping him waiting?
‘Where’s Tornow?’ Gräf asked, cautiously.
‘He won’t be in today.’
‘Sick?’
Rath didn’t respond and Gräf preferred to focus on his work, phoning his way down the list of outlets that sold Camel cigarettes. In a low voice.
Suddenly, the door to the outer office flew open and Rath thought his eyes must be playing tricks. Sebastian Tornow smiled at each of them as if nothing had occurred.
‘Good morning,’ he said. Erika Voss returned his greeting.
Rath could have strangled her as, not for the first time, she gazed adoringly at the new man. Even Gräf’s friendly nod went against the grain. Rath muttered something incomprehensible, taking a moment to process the shock before he could react in a halfway normal manner.
Tornow hung up his hat and coat, and sat at his temporary desk. ‘Good weekend?’ he asked. ‘Let’s get started, then.’
‘What are you doing?’ Rath asked.
‘Going through the Camel outlets,’ Tornow said, pointing towards Gräf. ‘Our colleague has already made a start.’
‘Our colleague can take care of that on his own.’ Rath said. ‘You’re coming with me!’
‘Where?’
‘Come on!’
Rath was so aggressive that Gräf gave a start behind his desk. Even Erika Voss looked intimidated, which was a rare thing. They seemed to be wondering what punishment Rath would mete out for being ten minutes late.
Rath dragged Tornow outside into the corridor.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Not here,’ Rath snarled. A few officers were making their rounds.
‘I thought we were friends.’
‘Keep your mouth shut.’
Rath yanked Tornow into the toilets and closed the door, seizing him by the collar and throwing him against the wall. Tornow gasped for air. ‘Where is she?’
‘Wait a minute,’ Tornow said. ‘Can’t we resolve this like civilised human beings?’
‘There’s nothing civilised about abducting a woman.’
‘Let me go! Now, otherwise you’ll never see her again.’
Tornow had said it quietly, but pointedly enough to paralyse Rath with fear. Tornow still had the upper hand. He let him go and asked again: ‘Where is she?’
‘The fact you’re so concerned makes me think we did the right thing yesterday.’
‘Who is we?’
‘That’s none of your concern.’
‘Where is she, God damnit?’
‘Also none of your concern. Let’s just say that she’s doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances.’ Tornow straightened his shirt collar and tie. ‘We’ll deliver her safe and sound as soon as you’ve carried out a little assignment for us.’
‘You want me to kill someone? That’s what you lot do, isn’t it?’
‘It’s very simple. You need to forget everything you know about me, or think you know. No one’s going to believe you anyway. Then, and this is the important part, so listen up. You’re going to see to it that Abraham Goldstein is arrested and charged with the murders of Hugo Lenz, Rudi Höller, Gerhard Kubicki and Jochen Kuschke. Oh, and Eberhard Kallweit. I almost forgot about him.’
‘How about I throw in Emil Kuhfeld and Gustav Stresemann while I’m at it? Special offer.’
‘In your shoes, I’d be taking this more seriously. I’m not joking.’
‘What are you saying? That Charly will be released when Goldstein is sentenced? Are you planning to keep her locked up for six months?’
‘It will be enough when Goldstein is arrested and charged with these murders.’ Tornow looked Rath in the eye. ‘It’s up to you how long we keep the poor thing locked up but, in your position, I wouldn’t hang around.’
‘If you have so much as laid a finger on her . . .!’
‘No one’s going to do anything to her. We don’t believe in assaulting women, but she might not get much sleep over the next few days, which is unhealthy in the long run. Like I said: I wouldn’t be hanging around.’
What kind of man was this? Why was he doing this?
‘You’ll never get away with it,’ Rath said.
Tornow laughed. ‘Funny, that’s exactly what a female acquaintance of yours said. You’re mistaken, the pair of you. You don’t know how well connected we are. I advise you to tread carefully.’
Rath shook his head. There was nothing more he could say.
‘Oh, and another thing . . .’ Tornow smiled his smile, which now seemed more like a devilish grin. ‘ . . . it sounds rather strange to be saying this to a police officer, but it applies just as well. No police. If you want to get your girl out of this alive. This is between us.’
Rath left Tornow where he was and exited the lavatory, slamming the door as hard as he could.
112
Ernst Gennat sat on the terrace of Café Josty with a slice of gooseberry tart in front of him. Normally it was him dishing out cake to his subordinates, but here it was the other way around.
‘I hope you’re not trying to bribe me, Inspector?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Rath. ‘Please tuck in, Sir.’
Rath had taken his hat and coat and left the office without another word to Gräf or his secretary. Let Sebastian Tornow explain. Before setting off, he had paid another visit to Road Traffic. The information his friend from this morning had provided made him uneasy. He had impressed upon the man how important it was not to share it with anyone else.
The owner of the black sedan used to abduct Charly was known to him. Rudi Scheer had run the armoury at Alex, until it was discovered that he belonged to a weapons smuggling ring operated by right-leaning circles in the police force and Reichswehr. Scheer had been put out to pasture, but avoided censure. Even back then, Rath thought it was a mistake.
Gennat hadn’t touched his tart. ‘I would be very grateful, Inspector,’ he said, ‘if you would please tell me why you have asked me here. On the telephone just now you gave the impression that it was a matter of life and death.’
‘I fear it might be, Sir.’
Gennat listened so spellbound that his gooseberry tart remained untouched. ‘You’re not about to get mixed up in this extortion?’ he said, when Rath had finished. ‘Falsifying evidence!’ He was indignant.
‘I have another idea, but it won’t work without your support. First we have to arrest Goldstein.’
‘We have to find him first.’
‘Taken care of! I know where he’s hiding.’
‘Have you been withholding information again?’ Gennat let his cake fork drop and gazed angrily at Rath. ‘So, you are trying to bribe me!’
‘Absolutely not, Sir. I just want you to hear me out. Ten minutes, then you can decide for yourself.’
Gennat listened.
As expected, Marlow wasn’t pleased when Rath asked him to pull off the men in and around Tornow’s flat.
‘He’ll get his desserts, I promise you that but, if we lean on him now, we’ll be putting someone else’s life at risk. He has to think he’s safe.’
‘You’re asking a lot of me, Inspector.’
‘I know, but how would it be if you let the constitutional state do its work. No vigilante justice. Rest assured, the man will be punished.’
At length Marlow agreed. Another hurdle cleared, but it was the next one that mattered most.
In Saint Norbert’s, Rath came upon Pastor Warszawski, but the man was not inclined to cooperate. ‘I thought you’d be back,’ he said. ‘Which is why I took the necessary precautions.’
‘Goldstein’s no longer here?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Why should I tell you? Why do you suppose he’s no longer here?’
‘Could it be that you don’t trust me?’
‘I trust in God, not in people. Tell me where he can reach you and I’ll set everything in motion.’
‘I don’t have much time, damn it! Someone’s life is at stake.’
‘Then you’ll have to explain.’
Rath explained.
It wasn’t a particularly original hideout, but it was unlikely they’d have found Goldstein without the help of the Catholic Church. Pastor Warszawski insisted on accompanying Rath personally. A seed of distrust remained. They drove southwest along the Reichsstrasse 1, turning left just before Zehlendorf. As they reached a peaceful, green street, the pastor told Rath to stop. On one side were nice little houses with gardens, on the other a seemingly endless green hedgerow.
‘The Abendruh allotment gardens,’ Warszawski explained. ‘I have a plot here.’
Rath parked the Buick outside a pretty, detached house, the kind he always dreamed about owning, but knew he’d never be able to afford without inheriting his parents’ estate. The hedgerow on the other side was broken at regular intervals by entranceways. Behind it he saw trees, shrubs, flagpoles and the roofs of allotment sheds: the classic hideout in a city like Berlin. It was nigh-on impossible to find anyone here if you didn’t already have a lead, or a resident who’d reported something suspicious.
