Babylon Berlin, page 8
‘Surprise me, Doctor. I’m waiting.’
‘Heroin,’ Dr Schwartz said simply.
‘Heroin?’
‘Respiratory failure, caused by an overdose of diacetylmorphine; that is, heroin.’
‘The cough medicine?’
Schwartz nodded. ‘Cough tablets for morphine addicts. It used to be prescribed as an anti-asthmatic. Until people realised it was addictive. A particularly strong opiate, very hard to procure on the legal drugs market. On the illegal market, however… If you take too much of it, you stop breathing, but by that stage you won’t notice a thing.’
8
Rath paused for a moment in front of the main gate to arrange his thoughts. The cool air did him good. He felt as if he had awoken from a morbid dream where a dead face had been staring at him. Something that could only be caused by a visit to the morgue. Before descending the steps, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
There was no doubt about it. It was definitely the Russian lying on the marble table. The man who had visited him a few nights before. The drunk who had wrecked his wardrobe. One moment alive, the next a case for Homicide. He took another long draw, turned up his collar and set off towards Oranienburger Tor.
Why hadn’t he said anything? It was too late now. They would ask him why he had withheld the information and then – at the very least – institute disciplinary proceedings.
Rath felt his carefully suppressed rage returning. DCI arsehole! If everybody in A Division was as much of a bulldog as DCI Böhm, he wondered if it really was such a desirable place to work. He was yet to meet a bigger idiot in the whole of the Castle. In comparison even Lanke seemed like a charming, sympathetic paternalist. Naturally he hadn’t told the bulldog anything, but it was more of a reflex than a rational decision.
What kind of information could he have passed on anyway? He knew almost nothing about the dead man. Boris had been in his flat that one time, a few days before this death, drunk, screaming and flailing his arms about. Rath wasn’t even sure that Boris was his name; he only knew that he had been searching for a fellow countryman who had once lived in Nürnberger Strasse. And that he was now dead.
Heroin! A drug addict, driving into the Landwehr canal? How had the dead Russian sustained the injuries to his hands and feet? A very strange case, Rath thought. It was a strange case though none of his business.
At Oranienburger Tor he ignored the steps to the underground. Instead he lit a cigarette and continued to Friedrichstrasse station. The crowd of people on Weidendammer Bridge had grown since he’d driven over it in the mortuary car. Most of them had finished work for the evening and were on their way home or to the nearest pub, already thinking about dinner, families, their wives or a beer with friends. Here the city seemed frighteningly normal. How many of these people could imagine what was happening in Neukölln or Wedding? Whether shots were still being fired in Hermannstrasse? The events of the day had given Rath an upset stomach and only now did he realise that he hadn’t eaten anything. There was an Aschinger here, directly behind the railway underpass on Friedrichstrasse. He decided to have a snack before heading home, and a beer or two. He flicked his cigarette into the Spree and fought his way through the crowd. In front of Friedrichstrasse station, the paperboys were crying out the evening’s headlines. ‘New street battles!’ – ‘Further deaths in communist disturbances!’ – ‘RFB to be banned?’
‘Strange!’ Elisabeth Behnke lifted the broken padlock from the damp cellar floor. Someone had broken into Kardakov’s storage area. ‘That’s my padlock,’ she explained. ‘I locked his cellar two or three weeks ago, so he couldn’t sneak out his things without paying his final month’s rent.’ She held out the cheap, misshapen brass lock. ‘I wonder who it was?’
Rath shrugged his shoulders and stepped into his predecessor’s cellar. There was barely any light from the dim 40 watt cellar bulb and the air was musty.
‘When was the last time you were down here?’ he asked.
Elisabeth Behnke considered for a moment. ‘Maybe last week.’
‘The lock was still intact?’
‘No idea. I wasn’t paying any attention. My cellar is over there.’ She pointed towards a few wobbly shelves, upon which a number of jars were gathering dust. Next to them was a big crate of potatoes.
‘Does Kardakov still have a key to the main door?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then it wasn’t him picking something up.’
‘It doesn’t look as if anyone’s ever picked anything up.’
Junk was piled to the ceiling. Along the back wall stood an old cupboard with a few framed pictures leaning against it, while the side wall housed a rusty bicycle. But for the most part it was boxes: box upon box, stacked one on top of the other.
‘How long did he live here?’ Rath asked.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe three years.’
‘Three years and all that junk!’ He shook his head. ‘You need an expert to go through that. Lucky I’m a police officer.’
‘I’ll go upstairs and make us a tea,’ she said. He tried not to think what that might mean, and lifted the first box from the pile.
It had been his idea to look in the cellar. His interest in Kardakov had grown enormously since his unexpected encounter with Boris in the morgue. He couldn’t get the image of his battered body out of his mind.
Only a few hours ago, his guilty conscience had been eating away at him, on account of his silence. Then he had sat at the counter of Aschinger’s in Friedrichstrasse and dulled his conscience with a few beers. He tried to view things objectively, and realised that it was a sign. He knew a little more than Homicide. He knew that the dead man had been looking for someone in Berlin. Maybe this was his chance. Why shouldn’t he take advantage of it? It was what life was about, after all. He only had to think back to Bruno’s words. Gennat’s boys are hand-picked. You have to land something really big. No, he wouldn’t do Böhm any favours, wouldn’t confide the little he knew. He wouldn’t break the rules either though, quite the opposite. He would present the commissioner with a solved case. And in order to do that, he would need to learn a little more about his mysterious predecessor. Handy, when you could begin the search in your own cellar.
After half an hour, all the boxes stood open in front of the wooden shed. Most of them had contained books. Book after book, almost exclusively in Russian. Rath couldn’t even make out the titles. He didn’t know a lot about the Cyrillic alphabet. The only thing that meant anything to him was a coffee-table book about St Petersburg, or Leningrad as people said these days. He was surprised that an author should have abandoned his books for so long and stored them in the cellar. There was only one box of personal items, a few letters that Rath could make neither head nor tail of, all in Russian again. The only thing he could halfway make out was the date. He noticed that the letters weren’t in chronological order but were bundled together higgledy-piggledy. In the middle of the pile was a number of programmes from the Delphi Palace in Kantstrasse. The artist Lana Nikoros, who was heavily billed, wore a mysterious smile in her photo. The Mona Lisa had nothing on her. Kardakov seemed to be a fan of the singer. He had collected programmes from several months, from October 1928 to March 1929.
In addition, Rath had also uncovered a few manuscripts. If Kardakov had use of a typewriter with Cyrillic keys he must have taken it with him. At least, it wasn’t here. Amongst the manuscripts was a folder containing photos of a young man. Above a big nose, the dark eyes were deep in their sockets. Hollow cheeks and a mouth that twisted sadly. Elegantly curved lips. There was something almost feminine about that face and Rath suspected that Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov himself was staring back. If the man wanted to look like a poet he was succeeding. That melancholy Russian gaze.
Rath took the photos, pocketed one of the Delphi programmes, packed the rest of the junk back into the cellar and climbed the stairs. He hadn’t found a great deal, nothing of much use anyway, but it was a start.
Elisabeth Behnke looked disappointed when after a cup of tea – without rum – Rath got to his feet and reached for his hat and coat.
‘It’s half past nine,’ she said. ‘Where are you going at this time of night?’
‘It’s Friday,’ he said. ‘I’m going dancing.’
‘With whom?’ She actually sounded a little jealous.
He showed her the photo of Kardakov.
The night was advancing towards dawn and the silhouette of the Memorial Church towered over the brightly lit mass of houses, the only building in the neighbourhood that wasn’t drowning in neon light. It seemed to serve as a warning to revellers, with its dark, silent mountains of stone in the midst of the night-time racket. Rath walked past the church and went up the Kurfürstendamm, squeezing through a group of noisily laughing, drunk tourists he guessed were from somewhere near Stuttgart. He heard a strong southern German accent, at least, when one of the men made an indecent offer to a young woman walking by.
‘Learn some German first if you want to pop your cherry,’ the woman replied, suddenly no longer so coy.
The Swabian loudmouth blushed and fell into hurt silence while his companions grinned inanely. Rath was annoyed. For some reason, everyone from the provinces seemed to think they could let it all hang out in Berlin. In a way he was happy that, aside from his parents, nobody from Cologne knew he now lived here. It meant that no-one would be visiting. He could imagine some of his friends – his friends from before, mind – behaving in exactly the same way as the merry Swabian.
Rath glanced at the time. It was past midnight, and he hadn’t made any headway. He felt the long day in his bones, having scoured the Russian bars in the neighbourhood as systematically as he had unsuccessfully.
He had thought his night-time operation would be easier when he questioned drinkers in the little Russian pub in Nürnberger Strasse, an establishment for those hankering after a taste of home. In the smoky bar with the low ceilings and Cyrillic menu he would have bet on finding someone who recognised Kardakov. A bet he would have lost, even though the place was barely five minutes from his flat, from the flat where Alexej Kardakov had lived until a few weeks ago. Either the Russians kept mum when someone ventured into their world or Kardakov really never had set foot in the bar. Rath suspected it was the former for, even in the cosmopolitan meeting points favoured by Russian intellectuals, he had only heard the word njet when he showed the Russian’s picture.
Yet he felt sure that a man like Kardakov would come to this sort of place when he gave in to his longing for melancholy, alcohol and his fellow countrymen. Charlottenburg was the centre for Russians in Berlin. They had built their own world here with Russian bookshops, hairdressers and bars, a world in which you needn’t speak a word of German to get by. Charlottengrad the locals called it.
He crossed Augsburger Strasse and counted his money. The Kakadu-Bar’s neon sign was reflected on the wet pavement. Taxis kept arriving and spewing people out. He had come to know most of the bars in Berlin through work, but Kakadu was one of the few he also visited privately, stumbling in after prowling around town unable to sleep. It was situated where Joachimstahler Strasse and Augsburger Strasse intersected with Kurfürstendamm, not far from his flat. Before he returned home he wanted another drink – and not tea mixed with rum. Besides, he liked the jazz band.
The red-gold room was jam-packed when he entered. The band drowned out the babble of voices and a number of couples were dancing. The stools by the long bar at the back were all occupied. Cockatoos and other exotic creatures romped around on glass panels that were illuminated from behind. In front of them quicksilver barmen positioned themselves against the glare to receive customers’ orders with eager smiles.
Most of the drinkers in Kakadu had fat purses, the place wasn’t exactly cheap. Rath placed himself between two men who looked as if they might keel over from their stools at any moment and waved a barman over. The man leaned closer to take his order, gazing at him as if he knew him although Rath knew this wasn’t the case. It was how they had looked at him the first time too. It was just part of the service. Everyone should feel like a regular.
‘An Americano please,’ Rath said, leaning on the bar. Although the music went straight to his hips, he suddenly felt very tired. No wonder. He had been on the go since early morning.
The man placed a glass on the counter. Rath dropped a one-mark coin into his hands and pulled out the photo. The barman seemed bored. The smile had disappeared and he shrugged his shoulders. Discretion was part of the service here too.
Although he had hoped to avoid doing it in this bar, Rath placed his ID next to the photo. ‘Have you really never seen this man?’
Another shrug of the shoulders. ‘So many things happen here every day…’
‘He’s Russian,’ Rath discreetly placed another mark on the counter.
The barman made the mark disappear even more discreetly under the palm of his hand and leaned in closer.
‘The Russians usually keep to themselves,’ he whispered. ‘You should ask them.’ He gestured in their direction with his eyes. ‘Try your luck in the corner back there, but don’t say you heard it from me.’
Rath looked round. At the other end of the room ten men were sitting at two adjacent tables. There wasn’t a single woman amongst them. Rath moved slowly across the floor, one hand holding his glass, the other in his trouser pocket. The men took no notice of him whatsoever, as they were engaged in what was obviously a stimulating discussion. They were speaking Russian.
‘A gathering of the displaced?’ Rath asked. The conversation ceased immediately.
‘Please excuse this interruption,’ he said, displaying the metal badge on his jacket. ‘CID. If you would be so kind as to provide some information about one of your countrymen.’
Rath removed the photo from his jacket and held it right under the nose of a blond youth. ‘Do you know this man? Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov.’
The young man gazed at him through big blue eyes as if he hadn’t understood a word.
Two men from the adjacent table stood up. One man’s face was disfigured by a long scar across his cheek. It wasn’t a duelling scar, more like a serious wound. He cast an eye over the large-size photo.
‘No-one here knows this man,’ said Scar Face.
Rath knew the man was lying before he had finished his sentence.
‘Are you sure?’ Rath gestured towards the blond. ‘Your friend here didn’t understand my question. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to translate?’
‘Not necessary. He understood you.’ The Russian puffed himself up. Rath could see his muscles flexing under the fabric of his dark suit. They wanted to do more than flex. ‘Now might I ask you to leave us in peace? We Russians live amongst ourselves. We regulate our own affairs. We don’t like it when Germans interfere in our business.’
‘I’ll weigh in wherever I please,’ Rath replied provocatively.
The Russian’s face turned red, his scar a shade of violet. ‘You’re lucky you’re a police officer,’ he said. ‘We respect the agencies of law enforcement. Otherwise you’d be in trouble.’ He paused theatrically. ‘Big trouble. No-one talks to me like that. I have a good memory for faces. Just pray that you don’t run into me off duty.’
‘I’m never off duty.’
‘A good cop doesn’t drink on the job,’ the Russian said and pointed towards the glass in Rath’s hand.
‘Then maybe I’m a bad cop,’ Rath said. As laughable as this alpha male posturing was, he had no intention of showing this muscled ape the white feather.
The Russian became friendlier. He cast his eye over the photograph, took it from Rath’s hand and feigned interest.
‘We’d like to help you but, as I’ve already said, none of us have seen this man.’
‘I’d like to ask your friends that myself.’ Rath took an Overstolz from the packet.
‘They’d all say the same thing.’ The Russian produced a small matchbook and offered Rath a light.
A quick look around was enough to tell Rath that Scar Face was right. The others would all say the same thing.
‘You can keep the photograph,’ he said. ‘Something might occur to you. You never know.’ He finished his Americano and laid the glass on the table amongst vodka glasses. ‘I’m here from time to time.’ With that he turned and left the Russians.
For the first time that night, he was certain that he had run into people who knew Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov, but he had every reason to believe Scar Face. No-one in this company would say a word to the German police. At least not when either of the two Russian heavies was in the vicinity.
Rath was too tired to really care. Despite his fatigue, however, he made his way back to Nürnberger Strasse in the best of spirits. He had tasted blood and finally had the tiniest of clues. He also knew where he would continue his search. Conditorei Café Berlin. The advertising on the matchbook.
9
When Rath arrived at the office on Saturday morning, a little hungover, a little late and more than a little tired, Wolter was already hammering away on his typewriter. The type bars crackled against the paper like shots from a pistol.
‘Morning,’ Rath said, hanging his hat and coat on the stand next to the door.
Uncle looked up and raised an eyebrow. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘A bit late last night?’
‘Just a bit,’ Rath replied. ‘Stephan not here yet?’
‘Won’t be coming today. The politicals just rang. 1A need him a little longer.’
‘And our inquiries?’
‘Not today. Vice has to wait. We’re sticking with politics.’ Wolter continued typing; it was obvious he didn’t like it. Schmittchen wasn’t there on Saturdays, Lieselotte Schmidt, their secretary who did most of the paper work. ‘It’s almost like a murder investigation, this. Ought to be right up your street.’
