Goldstein, page 5
‘Williamsburg. It’s part of Brooklyn.’
‘Why are you in Berlin, Mister Goldstein?’
‘Why don’t you look in the guest register at reception?’
‘I want to hear it from you.’
‘I’m a tourist, exploring Germany’s beautiful capital city.’
‘There are no other reasons for your visit?’
‘Such as?’
‘Perhaps you’ve been hired to kill someone.’
Goldstein, who had just taken a drag on his cigarette, looked as if he had misheard. ‘I beg your pardon? You have too much imagination, Officer.’
‘You’ve been implicated in five separate murder investigations in your home country.’
‘Yet I’m standing here before you now. What does that tell you?’
‘That you have a good lawyer.’ Rath opened the brown briefcase and removed an ink pad and fingerprinting sheet.
Goldstein stared at the form with the ten consecutively numbered boxes. ‘What the hell is that?’ he asked, switching to English.
Well, my arrogant friend, Rath thought, it seems as if we’ve thrown you after all. ‘Herr Abraham Goldstein,’ he said, formal as a bailiff, ‘the Berlin police commissioner has invested in me the power to take your fingerprints. Perhaps we should sit down . . .’
‘Do you behave like this with every foreigner?’
Rath opened the ink pad’s metal lid. ‘No.’
‘To what do I owe the honour then?’
‘Mister Goldstein, if I may speak openly, Berlin is not exactly thrilled at the prospect of your visit . . .’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything Hoover’s men tell you. Do you think I’m a gangster?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think. Your convictions justify police measures of this kind. I came here to spare you any unpleasantness. If you like I can pack everything up and order you to appear at the station tomorrow. The waiting times in ED are notorious. You’ll want to take a few puzzle books with you.’
Goldstein grinned. ‘I see you know all the tricks.’ He took off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and sat at the table. ‘OK, let’s get it over with. But if you’re planning to do this sort of thing in future, come a little earlier. Then I won’t have to shower twice.’
‘Cleanliness is a virtue,’ Rath said, taking the American’s right hand and pressing the thumb first on the ink pad and then inside the appropriate box on the form. A good, clean print. ED, the police identification service, would be pleased, even if Rath hoped they’d never have to use it. The fingerprint business was meant to show Goldstein who was in charge, not that he seemed greatly impressed.
‘What happens to that sheet when we’re finished?’ he asked, sounding like a patient who wants to know his blood pressure.
‘It’s added to our collection,’ Rath said, taking the next print. ‘And if your prints turn up on anything even halfway suspicious, you’ll be behind bars. Simple as that.’
‘As I said, I’m a tourist, here to explore your city.’
‘Then you’ll have no objection to police observing you as you go about it.’
‘Pardon me?’ Goldstein pulled his hand away before Rath could press his already blackened pinkie onto the page.
‘No need to get worked up. We’re keeping an eye on you for your own safety. It shouldn’t put you out in the slightest, so long as you’ve nothing to hide.’
‘What if it does put me out?! Fucking unbelievable! Is this some sort of police state? I thought you’d driven your Kaiser out and founded a democracy!’
‘The safety of our . . . tourists matters a great deal to us.’
Goldstein gazed at Rath as if sizing him up. ‘So, I have my own babysitter, is that right? One with a piece, to boot.’
‘If you like.’
Goldstein shook his head. ‘What happens if I give you the slip? Will you shoot me?’
‘You won’t.’
A smile reappeared on Goldstein’s face. ‘Finally, an offer I can work with,’ he said, stretching out a blackened right hand.
6
The number of people passing through these revolving doors! Just looking made you dizzy. For a while Rath had counted bald men, then moustachioed men. When that became boring he counted women with bandy legs. You had to do something to pass the time – and he had already read all the papers. He still had to keep an eye on the hallway, of course, in case the Yank took a stroll, but it seemed as if Abe Goldstein was happy as Larry in his suite.
Every few minutes some helpful soul would change the ashtrays, so Rath lost track of how many cigarettes he had smoked. His supplies, at any rate, were dwindling. Only two were left in the packet, but the Excelsior housed a good range of tobacco products.
His attempt to intimidate the show-off Yank had failed spectacularly, and he was annoyed. Goldstein had made fun of him instead, by proposing a wager. As if they were playing chase, hide-and-seek or – more appropriately – cops and robbers.
Things weren’t looking good. Rath lit his second to last Overstolz. The coffee in the gold-rimmed cup had long since grown cold. He took a sip and leafed through the Vossische Zeitung without reading it, until he grew tired even of that and placed the paper next to the cup. A boy immediately sprang forth, smoothing and folding the crumpled newspaper so that it looked as good as new, and replacing it beside the others. Rath stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. The porter gazed at him expectantly.
‘Ah, Inspector.’ His voice dripped with kindness turned sour. ‘What can I do for you? Would you like to take another glance at the guest register? Or might I reserve you a room, since you are clearly intent on staying a little longer?’
‘Don’t put yourself out. Your hallway is perfectly agreeable. Very comfy chairs.’
‘Where the comfort of our guests is concerned we spare neither trouble nor expense.’
‘I should hope not.’
The porter leaned in a little and lowered his voice. ‘Inspector, won’t you please tell me what Mister Goldstein has done to attract the attention of the police?’
Rath leaned in too. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t any of your concern.’
‘If one of our guests is suspected of a crime, we ought to know about it. I shall have to inform our in-house detective. We’re talking about the safety of our hotel here!’
Rath nodded. ‘Quite right. Fetch your detective here but, first, I’ll make a telephone call.’
‘Should I put it on your account?’
‘If you would be so kind,’ Rath smiled pleasantly. Four coffees, a sandwich and a telephone call. Driving up his expenses bill was about the only pleasure left to him, and there was still a big carton of Overstolz to be added.
A short time later, he stood in one of the telephone booths, staring through the glass door, listening for the connection. He still had the lifts in his sights, as well as the great revolving door leading onto Stresemannstrasse. No one was home at Spenerstrasse, so he asked to be put through to Lichtenberg District Court and Fräulein Ritter.
‘Good thing you called,’ Charly said. ‘There’s trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Weber’s just back from holiday . . .’
Special Counsel Albrecht Weber was Charly’s superior at the District Court.
‘So?’
‘Weber isn’t quite so taken with your dog’s charms as the rest of them here . . . Gereon, I can’t take Kirie into work anymore. From tomorrow you’ll have to start taking her to Alex again.’ That was all he needed. ‘Let’s talk about it at dinner. There’s something I need to speak to you about anyway. Will you be home on time?’
‘That’s why I’m calling,’ he said. ‘I’ll be about an hour late. Weiss has lumped this surveillance on me.’
‘The deputy himself? Go on, I’m all ears.’
Charly couldn’t hide her curiosity. Once upon a time she had worked in Homicide too. As a stenographer, nominally, but Gennat and Böhm had been only too happy to rely on her investigative acumen, and had deployed the prospective lawyer accordingly.
Rath told her about Goldstein and his assignment.
‘Sounds like a punishment,’ she said.
‘I didn’t do anything, honest.’
‘Perhaps Weiss wants to make you atone for your youthful misdeeds.’
‘I thought I’d already paid my dues.’
About a year before, Rath had been subjected to disciplinary proceedings. He had got off lightly, mainly because Gennat had put in a good word, but his scheduled promotion to chief inspector had been temporarily put on hold. Not even political support from the Prussian Interior Ministry, prompted by Konrad Adenauer, a personal friend of his father, had been able to change that.
‘I have to hang up now, Charly. I’m wanted here. See you tonight.’
There was a man at reception, whose appearance didn’t quite match the elegance of his light-brown summer suit. Although the suit looked tailor-made, it flapped at the edges whenever its bearer moved. He didn’t look anything like the veteran cop Rath had been expecting, more like a starving, unemployed bookkeeper. The porter pointed with his chin towards the telephone booth. Rath left the booth and went over. The man’s handshake was firmer than expected.
‘I’m the hotel detective,’ said the hotel detective. ‘Grunert. And you’re from the . . . CID?’ He spoke the last word quietly, as if it were something to be ashamed of. ‘Could I see your identification?’
‘Certainly.’ Rath fumbled the document out of his bag.
The hotel detective unfolded it with nimble fingers and compared the photograph with the man, declaring himself satisfied and returning it to Rath. ‘You understand that we have a legitimate interest in knowing why the police are here. Herr Teubner tells me that your attention is reserved for a particular guest. The American in 301?’
‘That’s right. Abraham Goldstein. But don’t worry, the man knows that the police . . .’
‘Herr Rath?’ Teubner, the porter, interrupted them. He stood behind his counter, holding the receiver in his hand. ‘My apologies. Telephone for you, Herr Rath. It seems to be rather urgent. A Herr Gräf . . .’
Rath took the receiver. ‘Reinhold?’ he said into the mouthpiece.
‘Gereon, you were right!’ The detective sounded a little harried. ‘Goldstein has taken the lift downstairs and is heading for the tunnel.’
7
It took Kalli a moment to realise what had happened. The pain in his skull was resounding, like the noise of the S-Bahn if you stood directly under the bridge. Then he noticed that someone was singing. He recognised the voice, but couldn’t see who it was and, when he opened his eyes, saw nothing but a blurry, undefined, dirty grey. He had to force himself to focus, at last making out the familiar grey overalls he wore in the shop, covered in blood. He was staring at his own lap. A record was playing, and now he recognised the song thundering from the loudspeakers, much louder than he was accustomed to.
A blue figure was sitting on the sofa next to the record player, where he usually took his nap. With the face, the memory came flooding back.
A cop had appeared in his shop, someone he had never seen before, neither here nor in the neighbourhood – and Kalli knew all the cops who walked the beat. A newbie, he thought at first, who would learn in time that it was best not to sniff around in here if you didn’t want to make trouble with Berolina. He had taken a wristwatch from the shelf, a cheap piece of rubbish, nothing like as elegant as the pieces Alex had lifted from KaDeWe. The cop hadn’t responded to his friendly greeting, merely held the watch in his hand, gripping the strap so that the dial now faced him, and gaping at the inert clock-hand as if this piece of crap, whose provenance Kalli knew absolutely nothing about, was the most valuable item under the sun, before drawing closer to the counter.
‘Bet this is stolen,’ were his precise words as he arrived, nothing more, and Kalli felt his hunch confirmed: a greenhorn who needed to be taught some manners. One phone call to Lenz, and the matter would be resolved. Berolina would cut this big mouth down to size, no need to feel intimidated, but then something unexpected happened.
The cop, now standing right in front of the counter with an indefinable grin on his face, struck him without warning with his right hand, using the watch as a kind of knuckleduster. The first blow landed in the middle of Kalli’s face, and the shopkeeper heard his nose break and felt blood streaming out of him. He tumbled against the shelves, still not sure what had happened. The cop pulled him up brutally by his overalls and struck him again on the point of the chin. After a brief flash of pain, everything went black.
He couldn’t say how long he had been unconscious. Light spilled in from the shop through the crack in the door, so it must still be daytime. He lifted his head slowly, carefully, to avoid exacerbating the pain. The cop had made himself comfortable on the sofa, having removed the shako from his head and placed it beside him. This man sitting on his sofa, in his back room, listening to his music, did he have any idea what Berolina would do to him when they found out?
Kalli couldn’t believe he had let himself be caught unawares like this. He thought he knew all the tricks, thought himself better than all the ne’er-do-wells here in the Samariterviertel. No one would dare rob his little shop. It was no secret that he kept a loaded war pistol underneath the counter. This cop either didn’t know or didn’t care.
Kalli tried to speak, but his tongue stuck to his gums. He could only utter a squelching sort of groan.
‘Well, you bent Jews’ sow,’ the cop said. ‘Awake at last?’
Kalli had to gather enough spit to get his tongue moving again. ‘I’m not a Jew,’ he protested, as if that was the most pressing issue to clarify. He was still thinking about the stupidity of his response when the cop planted himself in front of him.
‘Then what are you doing in a goddamned Jew shop?’ Kalli could smell the sweat in the fabric of his uniform.
Again, the blow came without warning, this time to the solar plexus. Kalli felt like he was going to choke, and instinctively tried to protect his stomach with his hands, but couldn’t move. The man must have bound him.
‘What’s the big idea?’ he gasped. ‘What the hell is going on?’
The next blow struck him in exactly the same location. The gag reflex turned Kalli’s stomach upside down and a part of its contents landed in his mouth. He swallowed the sour-tasting gruel and suppressed a fresh urge to choke. What kind of arsehole was he dealing with here?
‘First rule: only speak when spoken to,’ the cop said.
Kalli waited to be spoken to, but the man moved silently to the record player, removing the needle so that a violent scratch echoed through the loudspeaker.
Then a question did come, but not from the cop who had retaken his seat next to the shako. It came from a man who must have been standing at the door leading out back.
‘Why do you think we’re here, Kalli?’ said a familiar voice.
Kalli turned as far as he could, but it wasn’t enough to see his interrogator. The thing that startled him most was that they knew his name, even his nickname. All at once, Eberhard Kallweit knew he was in serious trouble. He had misread the situation. The cop was just muscle. Kalli’s real problem was the other man, the owner of the voice. The nameless man, whom Kalli had always called Stephan, after the telephone exchange through which he contacted him. How the hell had he found his shop?
Lenz or Berolina must have played him false, otherwise he’d never have been listening to that voice within his own four walls, unless through a telephone cable. He didn’t know anything about Stephan, didn’t know what he looked like or what he was called, but he had to be a cop, a cop that Berolina trusted and probably even paid.
Lenz had given him the number to get rid of Alex and Benny, and Kalli had called it. Stephan hadn’t identified himself on the line, and Kalli hadn’t divulged anything, not even just now, when, after Alex’s surprise visit, he had gone straight over to the S-Bahn station, and asked to be put through again: STEPHAN 1701. It was the only link to Stephan he had. He almost gave a start when the man picked up after the first ring. Then, drawing courage from the fact that he couldn’t be seen, he proceeded to kick up a fuss. He had been shocked by the news of Benny’s death, putting two and two together that morning as he leafed through the paper. Alex had merely confirmed his suspicions with her version of events later that day. He hadn’t wanted the boy to die; nor, surely, had Berolina. No, it was the fault of the cops alone. It was they who would have to pay!
Stephan had been angry from the start, but seeing as he was invisible, Kalli didn’t care. ‘Why the hell are you calling me?’ he had said. ‘It’s over. You don’t know this number anymore.’
‘That wasn’t what we agreed! They were supposed to end up behind bars. No one said anything about killing them.’
‘What was supposed to happen is none of your concern. The boy died. It was an accident.’
‘It was no accident, it was murder. I’ve got witnesses. I know reporters who’d pay a pretty penny for a story like that. Police officer murders minor!’
The momentary silence at the end of the line confirmed what Kalli knew already. Alex must have been telling the truth.
‘You’ve had your money, now you’re out.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t enough.’
The voice was silent for a moment. ‘Let’s talk about that,’ it said meekly, as if assailed by a guilty conscience. ‘Where shall we meet?’
‘Meet? You must be joking. I’ll call you.’ With that, Kalli hung up. There was still time to decide how much to ask for, and how it should be delivered.
If he had known the consequences of that brief telephone conversation, he’d have closed his shop for a few weeks and driven to his brother’s place in the country. Instead, he was tightly bound in the backroom of his own shop, cursing the day he had ratted on Alex and Benny for a few measly pennies. All because they had become a nuisance to Berolina: two street urchins who had grown too big for their boots, cleaning out the city’s department stores, making the fuzz jumpy and forcing prices down. Berolina was a more important business partner than Alex and Benny. A few years in the can wouldn’t do them any harm, Kalli had thought.
