Babylon Berlin, page 9
Rath ignored the jibe. ‘Can I write down what happened to me yesterday first? It was quite an adventure.’
‘Feel free. The Prussian police force is ideally equipped for precisely that task.’ Wolter gestured towards Rath’s desk, where there was another covered typewriter. ‘Did you know that we have more typewriters than weapons recorded in our inventory?’
‘Just CID or the entire police?’
Wolter shrugged. ‘In Germany, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Reichswehr had more typewriters than canons.’
Rath sat at his desk and removed the protective cover from his pre-war Adler. The black machine stared at him like a hostile insect.
‘Were you able to satisfy our friendly communist doctor yesterday?’ Uncle asked without looking up.
‘Völcker? So comrades, come rally.’
‘That’s a good one.’ Wolter laughed and, finally, stopped typing.
‘It’s from Dr Schwartz. He’s known the Red doctor since university.’
‘And what else did Dr Schwartz say? Did Völcker let him work in peace?’
‘More or less. To begin with he played the outraged communist pain in the arse but, during the examination, he was astonishingly friendly. Even Schwartz teasing him didn’t put him out.’
‘People like him are never put out. That’s why they turn out the way they do.’
‘Maybe, but Völcker might also be happy with the result. It turns out a single bullet was enough to kill both women. It entered through the younger woman’s chest and passed through her heart. The older one was hit in the shoulder but died of coronary failure. Probably the shock.’
Uncle pulled a disgusted face. ‘The thing that annoys me most is that the communists make capital out of this. It’s only because the social democrats are too stupid to plan an operation properly.’ He tore a sheet of paper from the machine. ‘Maybe this can get us out of it,’ he said. ‘I mean, who says it wasn’t a communist bullet after all? It wasn’t a police bullet anyway.’
‘Your report?’ Rath asked. ‘Finished already?’
‘Wündisch’s people like to have everything early.’ Deputy Wündisch was in charge of the political police. His department, 1A, was also investigating the deaths during the May actions. Rath skimmed the report. Brief, functional and precise, it was a shining example of police reporting, including a detailed account of Dr Völcker’s appearance and the fact that it was the doctor who had removed the confiscated bullet from the wood. Wolter had formulated the report in such a way that one couldn’t help suspecting the communist doctor of having exchanged the bullet himself. At least of having had the opportunity to do so and, with that, the pointed bullet was no longer worth a great deal as a piece of evidence.
‘It was a police bullet,’ Rath said. He didn’t like the way Wolter’s report skirted the truth, but sometimes there was no alternative. Dr Völcker would also manipulate the truth for his own ends – at least that had been Rath’s impression in the morgue.
‘A pointed bullet like the ones we use in our rifles,’ Wolter agreed. ‘I brought it to Ballistics myself. A pointed bullet given to me by a communist. Now what does that prove? Other than that there are communists out there who collect police bullets?’
Still reflecting on Wolter’s relationship with the truth, Rath sat in a café in Tauentzienstrasse after work with a pile of newspapers on the table in front of him. He understood that there were different versions of the truth. Every police officer knew that, with each trial it was experienced afresh. Resourceful lawyers could call into question even the most unambiguous of facts, which made the work of the police all the more important. You had to provide the public prosecutor with evidence so watertight that no lawyer could pick it apart. Wolter had just done the exact opposite. He had made a piece of evidence inadmissible to protect police from communist attacks. Did the end really justify the means?
They would come before court with their differing versions of the truth, Wolter and Völcker, the cop and the communist, and what side would the witness Gereon Rath take? It was inconceivable that a police officer should testify against the police. If he did, he might as well pack it in. Most likely he would claim he hadn’t seen anything, but he felt queasy about it already.
Was the cleverly fudged report another of Bruno’s lessons? At various times, Rath had the feeling that he was trying to familiarise the provincial cop with the way things worked in Berlin. He knew that Bruno thought highly of him. Likewise, he had a high opinion of his experienced colleague, but what to make of these private lessons he wasn’t sure. First the outburst on the Karstadt scaffolding and now the exercise in bending the truth, but perhaps that was what you did to survive in the big city. Perhaps Rath had been too naïve, even in a provincial city such as Cologne. Perhaps that was how LeClerk had been able to give him such a going-over in the press.
Rath remembered meeting Alexander LeClerk for the first time. The face of the man called to identify his dead son was like stone. On the marble table the deceased no longer looked like the madman firing at unsuspecting passers-by. He was a pale young man with dead eyes, who hadn’t made it to thirty because Gereon Rath had pulled a trigger.
Passing one another in the corridors by Forensics, the policeman and the father, Rath hadn’t known what to say or how to behave. He had offered his condolences, well aware of how inappropriate that was. LeClerk hadn’t accorded him so much as a glance, showing no emotion in that stony face, neither grief nor anger.
Alexander LeClerk, one of the most important newspaper publishers in Cologne.
It started shortly afterwards, each day a new headline. The first: Hail of bullets in St Agnes. Is our police force trigger-happy? The name Gereon Rath appeared in the very first article.
LeClerk had obviously fed his reporters the background information and, in this first article alone, Rath’s name was cited five times. Also mentioned was the fact that he was the son of the famous Engelbert Rath. Triggerman Gereon Rath. Each syllable a fresh bullet. His father had tried to bring his influence to bear, but that had only spurred LeClerk on and the media declared war on Rath senior too. About this time the decision was taken to remove Gereon Rath from the line of fire and he was granted leave of absence for the duration of the trial. When he resumed his duties post-acquittal, however, there was a fresh volley of headlines, each one more damning than the last.
The publisher seemed determined not to let his reporters rest until the career of Detective Inspector Gereon Rath lay in ruins. When it became clear that there wouldn’t be a moment’s peace for him if he stayed in Cologne, his father hatched a plan. Together with Otto Bauknecht, the Cologne Commissioner, he worked on Gereon until the latter finally agreed. Engelbert Rath made use of his connections with dear old Karl – he had been on first-name terms with Berlin Commissioner Karl Zörgiebel since their Cologne days – and arranged the transfer to Berlin. At the same time he laid a false trail in Cologne.
When the final headline appeared, Gereon Rath was sitting in a train bound for Berlin. This time his father’s disinformation policy had worked. In Cologne only Engelbert Rath and Otto Bauknecht knew the truth and, in Berlin, only Commissioner Zörgiebel was aware of the Cologne past of Detective Inspector Gereon Rath, E Division, Alexanderplatz.
They had chosen Vice because there was a vacancy. Engelbert Rath somehow even managed to find something positive to say about his new role. ‘At least you won’t have to use your gun in a hurry.’ This by way of farewell, as he passed his suitcase up to him on the train.
Rath watched silently as the platform and the waving people receded into the distance, and the steel truss of Hohenzollern Bridge hove into view. After a final look at the cathedral, he had unfolded the paper and read the headlines: Triggerman resigns his post. The truth was a pliable commodity, perhaps he should take a leaf out of Weinert’s book. After all, he was in the same business as LeClerk. They twisted the truth in the whole of Kochstrasse, whatever it took to fit a particular paper. Omit something here, rephrase it there.
Although his coffee was cold, Rath took another sip and gazed at the mountain of papers on the table. Though the majority had given the same importance to the May disturbances, every one painted a different picture. The only thing they could agree on was that these were the worst street riots in ten years. Even on the number of deaths, reports varied. Some papers went with the police statements, while others read more like adventure stories or war reports. Rath wondered where the journalists got their information. The reporter from Tageblatt seemed at least to have been there as the liberal press wasn’t completely reliant on the official reports. Although Vossische Zeitung had printed the commissioner’s statement, clearly labelled as such, they placed it alongside their own reports, and the paper had coined a new word which was already doing the rounds. Blutmai – bloody May.
The large-scale police action had come in for criticism. The conservative and national press thought the police had basically acted correctly, though amateurishly, but didn’t think the social democrats were capable of taking the drastic measures that were required. The criticism from the liberal papers, on the other hand, concentrated on the agitators from the far left and the far right, who had grown intoxicated by the idea that the heavy rioting might, in time, result in merry civil war, as Vossische Zeitung had put it. In the meantime they had also condemned the police as excessively brutal. There were too many innocent bystanders amongst the dead.
Zörgiebel would come in for flak. Engelbert Rath’s old friend carried full responsibility and had as good as provoked the disturbances with his strict ban. The May Day demonstrations had gone off peacefully enough everywhere else, if one was prepared to overlook the odd fight between communists and social democrats.
Truth be told, however, it wasn’t the criticism of Zörgiebel that Rath was interested in. He had wanted to learn more about a different police operation, one which the May disturbances had, without exception, banished to the back pages. For once the papers were all agreed on the subject of the dead man from the Landwehr canal.
Each one had described the case as a mysterious death by the Landwehr canal; each one could only offer the same basic information; and each one had published a picture of the deceased with the caption: does anybody know this man? In this case it seemed the Castle’s public relations machine had been successful. All the major papers had gone with it. What choice did they have? Constructing one’s own truth revolved around the art of omission, but the press had so little information they couldn’t leave anything out.
Rath stirred his coffee, gazing out of the window at the Saturday afternoon crowds outside the KaDeWe department store. Almost without his noticing, his mouth curled into a faint smile. Böhm must be completely groping in the dark, A Division had a corpse that they couldn’t even identify. Rath saw his chances of playing a role in the case improve dramatically.
‘Another coffee, sir?’
The waiter wore a somewhat hurt expression. Rath surveyed him from top to bottom, as if his appearance might influence the desire for coffee.
‘No, thank you. The bill, please.’ He had read enough. It was time to act.
‘The bill, sir? Certainly.’ The waiter was unmoved. ‘Then might we legitimately inform our patrons that the newspapers will be available today after all?’
The man in tails sped away to collect the bill. Rath didn’t wait for him to return. He put his money on the table, tore a photo of the dead Boris from Tageblatt and took it with him. Now he had pictures of two Russians. Perhaps that would bring him a step closer to resolving things.
The tenement on Luisenufer seemed like an old friend by now. Only, the search for Alexej Kardakov interested Rath a great deal more than it had five days ago. In the courtyard he could hear someone beating a carpet. Rath stepped into the hallway and the smell of cleaning agent.
He started right at the bottom, in the caretaker’s flat. Schäffner it said on the doorbell panel. He rang. Nothing happened. After a while he pressed the bell again. Finally he could hear noises: a bolt being pushed to one side, a key turning in the lock. The door opened a little and the head of a fat woman poked through the crack. ‘Yes?’
‘Sorry to trouble you on a Saturday but…’
Rath needed a moment to interpret her blank gaze, before correcting himself, ‘I mean on Sonnabend…’ He hadn’t quite settled in the city linguistically either. Sonnabend was the word Berliners used for ‘Saturday’. ‘CID,’ he continued, ‘would you mind answering some questions?’
‘You’re not from around here!’ came the suspicious reply through the crack in the door. ‘Have you got any ID?’
He showed his badge through the crack.
‘And what do you want?’ She had a thick Berlin accent.
‘Perhaps I could come in first?’
She stepped to the side and opened the door fully. ‘Well, you’d better come in before the whole house sees it’s the police. Make sure you don’t get anything dirty!’
He wiped his feet and entered, squeezing past her.
‘Why do you want to speak to me in particular?’ she continued. ‘Just be glad that my Hermann isn’t here. He’d have told you where to go! Don’t you have anything more important to do? This is a respectable house, we’ve never had any trouble from the police.’
A brown uniform cap was hanging on the cloak stand in the hall.
‘Politically active, your husband?’ Rath interrupted.
‘You have to be, with the communists getting fresher by the day and the police losing control.’
She led him into a cosy living room. Although it smelt of cleaning agent here too, the air in the flat was somehow stale. The woman shifted her weight and followed Rath through the living room door. Hindenburg was hanging on the wall, next to the ex-Kaiser, both gazing sternly at the visitor. Rath couldn’t help thinking of their doppelgangers in König’s studio.
‘Take a seat, Herr…’
‘Rath, Detective Inspector Rath.’
‘So, you’ve finally caught up with the Liebigs from the rear building?’
He almost sank into the yellow chair. ‘Sorry?’
‘If they aren’t communists I’ll eat my hat! Liebig senior was out on the streets on the first of May, even though it was forbidden. Didn’t catch him though, your colleagues. Little snotbag came home talking big, with a red flag rolled under his arm. As for his wife…’
‘Thank you. I will pass your information on.’ He didn’t think she noticed his sarcasm. He watched in astonishment as her weight almost pressed the sofa cushions down to the ground. ‘But Frau Schäffner, I am here for a different reason.’
She squirmed on the sofa. ‘I don’t have much time. You’ve interrupted me in the middle of cleaning.’
‘I’m looking for a man who’s supposed to live here, but clearly doesn’t.’
She stared at him blankly.
‘Does the name Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov mean anything to you?’
‘A Russian? There are no Russians living here.’
‘No-one who’s moved in in the past couple of months?’
‘Not here. Brückner moved out of the first rear building. That is, my Hermann threw the red swine out because he couldn’t pay his rent. There’s someone new there now, but he’s German, not Russian.’
‘Kardakov has been in Germany a long time. Perhaps you didn’t realise he was Russian.’
‘Believe me, that’s the sort of thing I notice. Besides, he has a German name.’
‘Which is?’
She considered for a moment. ‘Müller or Möller. Something run of the mill like that. Now that you ask, I realise I don’t actually know. Probably because I’ve never seen him. I can only remember names once I’ve seen their faces.’
‘You’ve never seen him?’ Rath could scarcely believe that anything in this block escaped Frau Schäffner’s notice. Herr Müller or Möller must have been invisible.
She shrugged her shoulders as if she herself were surprised by this gap in her knowledge. ‘My husband must have seen him. He collects the rent.’
‘How long has the man been living here?’
‘Not very long. That’s what I’ve been saying. Works as a night watchman as far as I know. At Osram’s, Hermann said. During the day he sleeps. You can ask anyone here, he hardly ever shows his face.’
‘One final question…’ He took the scrap of newspaper from his pocket and pushed the photo of the dead Russian across the living room table. ‘Perhaps you have seen this man?’
She glanced at the picture curiously and shook her head, then suddenly recognised him. ‘That’s the man from the paper. The guy they pulled out from the canal! Is that your Kardakov?’
‘No, it relates to another case,’ Rath said quickly and returned the scrap to his pocket. A dead loss. He showed her the glossy print. ‘That’s Kardakov.’
‘Never seen him.’
He thought of something else. ‘Did you hear anything about a fight a few nights ago? Here, outside?’
‘We sleep at the back. The train makes such a racket out front. Means we don’t always hear what’s happening on the str…’ She paused. ‘But wait! There was a fight out in the courtyard. Someone was making such a noise we nearly fell out of bed. Hermann tried to get involved, but the troublemakers had left by the time he got outside. Someone else must’ve sorted it out. Is that why you’re looking for Kardakov? Did someone here complain? They should have come and spoken to us. Hermann would’ve dealt with it.’
‘Two Russians fighting?’ Rath probed.
‘One of them was Russian, true. The other was German.’
‘German? Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. The one who calmed things down, naturally, was the German!’
‘And when was this?’
She considered briefly. ‘No idea. Monday or Tuesday perhaps. Sometime at the beginning of the week.’
She looked at the clock on the wall. ‘So.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Now I must ask you to leave. I’m not through with the cleaning yet and I still have to cook.’ Rath was surprised by how quickly she emerged from the cushions. He had a lot more trouble with his own chair. It felt like he had almost drowned in it. ‘You should take a look in the rear building,’ she called after him, ‘it’s about time the police dealt with the Liebigs.’
