‘You bet your marriage it’s important. Now what. Did. He. Look. Like.’
‘Well, I noticed him straight off, you know? His clothes were all wrong.’
‘Wrong?’
‘For the Scheunenviertel. He didn’t belong.’
Much like you, Trautmann wanted to say, but didn’t, not wanting to interrupt the flow.
‘He looked like money,’ Esser said. ‘I can’t explain it, but that’s what I thought.’
‘And his face? Did you see what he looked like?’
Esser told him, and Trautmann knew he had his killer.
Chapter 25
Paul von Gaben opened the door to his study and paused to gather his thoughts.
Trautmann didn’t blame the man; he’d have been shocked to find himself there waiting behind the desk too. Not to mention sipping a glass of the smoky Scotch from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. It might have looked like a deliberate affront, but really he needed it to calm his nerves.
Besides, he had permission. He raised the glass, half-toast, half-apology:
‘Your wife said I could. She’s gone out, by the way. I thought it best if we had privacy for what we need to discuss.’
That was a lie, of course, but von Gaben seemed not to be listening. Instead, he loosened his tie and shot his cuffs, keeping his eyes on Trautmann the whole time and refusing to be intimidated.
‘I suppose you know what you’ve done.’
And just like that, he’d stolen back some of the initiative. The wax on his moustache shone in the lamplight.
Trautmann put down his glass and crossed his arms, deciding he’d wait for the minister to continue. Von Gaben came closer.
‘They attacked the convoy,’ he said.
‘I knew it. What did I tell you! Brownshirts? Or Schupo from the 87th?’
‘Communists, damn it!’
What? That was the last thing Trautmann had expected.
‘They detonated the leading armoured car with some kind of explosive device and your friend Fleischer and the girl got clean away.’
Trautmann chuckled. ‘Well, what do you know? Don’t suppose Kessler was any too pleased.’
Von Gaben went to the sideboard and poured himself some scotch.
‘We’ll never know,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘Fleischer saw to that.’
He turned back with a glass half full, and met Trautmann’s quizzical stare with: ‘They kidnapped him, Trautmann. Stole him right off the street in broad daylight. His body turned up outside the Alex three hours ago trussed up in a potato sack. I take it you’re familiar with the practice of sacking?’
Trautmann nodded. Putting a man in a sack was an old underground enforcer trick. Having coshed your victim and tied his hands behind his back, you then tucked his knees under his chin, running a length of twine from around the knees to around the neck. Lastly, you bundled him in a sack. Waking up later, the victim would panic and try to straighten up, thereby choking himself to death.
‘Well it’s a damned nasty way to go, I don’t mind telling you. And I suppose you realise it raises the temperature of the water you’re already in by several degrees?’
‘All right, this is all very shocking. But it’s time to stop the charade, I think.’
Von Gaben’s lips curled into a sneer. Well, all to the good. He was about to object even more.
‘Tell me, you think getting the sack is worse than two bullets to the gut?’
Trautmann held up the type-written document he’d brought with him; he threw it in von Gaben’s direction.
‘My report, minister. A little late, I know. But worth the wait, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Von Gaben retrieved the dog-eared pages from the floor. He sat on the edge of one of the sofas and began flicking through them.
‘It was your sudden keenness to admit Meist was your son that first got me thinking. That, and the statement from his girlfriend that he was blackmailing someone. Well, this afternoon I finally managed to put it together. It was all about politics, that’s the crazy thing.
‘I don’t know how long you’ve been a Nazi, minister, but that was the big secret you couldn’t reveal to the world. Not until the government had moved in and taken control of the police, cleared it of all socialist elements. And Meist’s murder was the perfect catalyst, wasn’t it? To show that Grzesinski and Weiss had lost control of the streets and couldn’t be trusted. The perfect excuse.’
Von Gaben looked up from his perusal of Trautmann’s report.
‘What I can’t work out was whether you’d planned it. I mean, you went to see him last night. That was why he left his party meeting and came home early. Now, all of this could have been part of a plan to kill him. I assume you had the gun with you. But then why write him that cheque, only to tear it up and have to burn it afterwards? It doesn’t make sense. Unless you were willing to buy him off and something went wrong...’
The minister’s shoulders slumped. There were bags beneath his eyes, and his lips had lost some of their elasticity.
‘That little bastard,’ he said, his lisp to the fore. ‘All he had to do was keep his stupid mouth shut. I blame that girl of his, messing with his mind. Yes I wrote him that cheque, but then he said he was going to tell the world anyway. Tell them all about my secret party membership. The bloody fool. Well, what else could I do?’
He paused to take a deep slurp of scotch.
‘You can’t prove any of this, of course. The Fleischer girl has disappeared, doubtless never to be heard from again. And it’s just your word against that of a grieving government minister.’
‘You were seen going into their apartment building after Maria had left.’ Trautmann nodded at his report. ‘It’s all in there. Page eleven, I think. Odd, for a man who swore to me and my colleague that he hadn’t known his estranged stepson’s whereabouts. That’s why the anger when you found out your wife had written to him. Because it suggested a link when you thought you’d kept your tracks covered.’
‘An eyewitness?’ von Gaben sneered. ‘And how long do you think he’ll last once you reveal his identity? How long do you think any case would last in the courts with so many party members or open sympathisers sitting on the bench? It’s too late, Trautmann. Too late. We’ve made our move and you lost.’
Trautmann willed his hands to keep from shaking. This part was going to be tricky and he needed to look in control.
‘Oh, I know that, minister. But there is a way to make all of this unpleasantness go away entirely.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Honourable discharge for me and Kriminalassistant Roth. No charges, no recriminations, no internal investigation. And full pensions in perpetuity.’
Von Gaben blinked in surprise. ‘That’s it? So little?’
‘Some of us don’t need very much, minister.’ Trautmann held up some more type-written pages. ‘I took the liberty of drawing up these for you to sign.’
The minister stood and walked to the desk, shooing Trautmann out of his chair. Then he sat and looked over the documents.
Without a word, he took a pen from his inside jacket pocket, unscrewed the lid and signed the two pieces of paper.
‘This will be the end of it? You’ll destroy your report – and any other copies you have?’
‘I have a copy in a safe place. As insurance.’
‘Wise, Trautmann. Very wise.’
‘Just tell me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Did Kessler know about the murder?’
‘Christ no!’ von Gaben laughed. ‘He was a loyal drone, keen to take Fleischer off the streets, that’s all. God knows why. Hell, he didn’t even know I was in the party.’ He relaxed in the chair. ‘Pass me my whisky, will you? We might as well drink to this new accord.’
Trautmann picked up the two signed documents, comparing the handwriting to his memory of the scraps Roth had recovered from the fire in Meist’s apartment. Now he knew they were scraps from the chequ
e von Gaben had written out, and he was sure they matched.
He crossed to the low table between the two sofas where the minister had left his glass, hoping he could keep up his front for as long as it took to get out of the house and get the writing samples to the graphologist at the Alex.
Then the study door opened. The baroness entered the room, a small pistol in her manicured fist. She aimed the gun at her husband and cocked the hammer.
Chapter 26
Trautmann hadn’t accounted for this.
‘Kitten?’ von Gaben said, small eyes popping wide and jaw slackening.
‘I didn’t believe him at first,’ the baroness said. Despite the wild emotion playing on her face, her hair and clothes were immaculate.
‘He told me what he suspected, and I didn’t believe him. My husband, a murderer. No! I thought. The killer of my own son? How could I believe that?’
‘No, baroness,’ Trautmann said, the whisky glass still in his hand. ‘This wasn’t what we talked about.’
She waved the gun in his direction and he went quiet.
‘You heard him!’ she cried. ‘Nazis on the bench. Nazis in the government. How are we going to get justice for my boy? You tell me. How?’
‘You were hiding there all this time?’ von Gaben said, confusion turning to understanding on his blubbery features. He’d been trapped into confessing, and now he knew it.
‘We’ll find a way, baroness,’ Trautmann said. ‘I promise you. We have the evidence now.’
‘No!’ She pointed the gun back at her husband and took several steps forward. ‘I can’t take that chance. He has the whole government behind him.’
Trautmann did the only thing he could think of. He stepped between the gun and the minister, shielding him with his body.
‘Get out of my way,’ the baroness snarled.
Von Gaben got out of his chair.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he said. ‘I was going to give him money. I wrote him a cheque, for God’s sake. You heard that, didn’t you?’
‘I heard it all,’ the baroness replied.
Trautmann wondered whether he could get to her before she pulled trigger, maybe take the gun out of her hand.
‘I refuse to let you do this,’ von Gaben said, walking around to the front of his desk.
Trautmann followed the flick of the gun in the woman’s hand and mirrored it with his own body.
‘I don’t want to shoot you, kommissar...’ the baroness said, leaving the rest of that thought hanging.
‘This is wrong,’ Trautmann said, creeping closer. ‘This isn’t justice.’
‘Open your eyes! There is no justice.’
‘Please...’
‘He killed my boy!’
Trautmann flung the scotch in her face. She flinched and he launched himself at her. His shoe caught the underside of the table and he fell.
Two shots rang out. Then a third.
Trautmann looked up to see von Gaben slumped against the front of his desk, blood spreading from the wounds in his chest. A thin smoke trail rose from the gun in the baroness’ trembling hand.
Trautmann picked himself up and walked slowly towards her. She dropped the gun at the sound of running feet from the other side of the study door.
‘That’s justice,’ she told him, with a sniff.
‘Not yet it’s not,’ he replied, and punched her full in the face.
Berlin, 23 July 1932 – 2.57pm
Chapter 27
Petra raised a freckled hand to her mouth and smothered a shocked laugh.
‘You punched her?’ she whispered, a little too loud. Trautmann looked around at the other people in the waiting room, but none of them seemed to have heard. ‘But why?’
Trautmann showed her the front page of the newspaper he’d brought for Roth:
MINISTER KILLED BY BARONESS WIFE
Baroness snapped after years of violence, say lawyers
‘To make it look like he’d been beating her,’ Petra said. ‘You think she’ll get away with it?’
‘With her wealth? Her connections? The Nazi party and the government both keen to keep the truth quiet? Of course she will.’ Trautmann shrugged. ‘That’s politics.’
He frowned then, thinking of how his single foray into subterfuge had gone so wrong. Petra pulled his attention back to her.
‘You shouldn’t blame yourself so much, you know,’ she said.
He cast her a smile and looked away, unable to meet her eyes, though he clasped her hand.
‘I’m glad you came to see him.’
‘I’m glad you asked me to.’
The bell rang for visiting hours. They stood and filed out of the room into the ward, Petra carrying a brown paper bag, Trautmann his newspaper and the two discharges signed by von Gaben.
This was their second time visiting Roth. The day before he’d been groggy from surgery. He’d kept all his limbs after the stampede, though the doctors said it was unlikely he would walk again. And all Trautmann could think was it was his fault. If he hadn’t driven them into that damned slaughterhouse...
Well, if he hadn’t then he’d never have caught up with Maria. Never found out about the blackmail. Maybe never put the whole story together.
Though in that event the minister’s wife would not have shot him and he would still have been alive.
Sunlight streamed in through high windows. Slothful ceiling fans did little to dissipate the heat, and the more mobile patients had kicked off their bedclothes. Roth couldn’t, of course, being unable to move his legs.
He smiled at them as they came near, and the smile seemed genuine enough. Petra leaned in and kissed him, first his forehead and then his lips. His smile spread wider as Trautmann pulled up a couple of chairs.
Trautmann was walking stiffly, and he knew it.
‘Wow,’ Roth said to him. ‘You look as if you could do with a week or two in here yourself.’
Dagmar had said the same. More than once.
Trautmann answered by handing Roth the paper and his discharge. Roth looked at the signed document first.
‘What’s this?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘Is it because I’m a cripple?’
‘Stop it, Markus,’ Petra said.
Shades of Dagmar there, Trautmann thought.
‘It’s because we misbehaved, Roth,’ Trautmann said, waving his copy. ‘I’ve got one too.’
‘So that’s it? Chucked away after all these years? For trying to find the truth?’ Roth snorted.
Trautmann tapped his finger at the story in the paper and Roth fell silent as he read.
‘Turns out you were right, Roth. Meist was killed by a Nazi for political reasons. You just got the wrong Nazi.’
Petra poured some water into a glass for Roth from a jug on his bedside table. He thanked her and sipped from the glass, then looked up at Trautmann.
‘So ... von Gaben killed him?’
‘Von Gaben was in the party. His stepson was blackmailing him. That was it. Those scraps you found in the fireplace...’
‘From a cheque?’
Trautmann nodded. ‘Apparently he was willing to pay, but the whole thing with Meist walking in on his girl...’ he looked over at Petra and hesitated. Couldn’t tell if her bland smile was mocking or encouraging him to go on. ‘...Well, the fight they had. He was all fired up when his step father came calling and he said he was going to tell everyone anyway. Wasn’t thinking straight. Hence the shooting.’
Roth snorted. ‘You believe that? Then why take the gun along.’
‘Well, we’ll never know for sure. Not now. Meist was leaving the party, you know.’
‘Leaving?’ Roth said. ‘So he did have some sense after all.’
‘Doing it for his woman,’ Trautmann said. ‘Or so she told me.’
Petra took Roth’s hand and gave it a squeeze. It was Roth’s return squeeze that gave Trautmann hope. Hope for the future in general, despite everything.
‘L
ook,’ he said, folding his discharge document and getting to his feet, ‘I should leave you two in peace. But think about this, Roth. We’re better off out of things for now. All the politics. It’s going to be a grim couple of years.’
‘You think that’s all?’ Roth said.
‘The Nazis are popular because the economy’s bad, Roth, that’s all. Once things pick up their support will melt away, like snow in the spring. Weiss is saying he’s going to challenge the government in court. He won’t be the only one. It’ll take a while, but things will return to normal. Meanwhile, you keep your head down, use that pension money to buy yourself a nice shop or something. Build something for the future, for when all this is over.’
Trautmann put on his hat and loomed over the other man.
‘And stay away from politics, ok?’
‘I’ll make sure he does,’ Petra said. Roth held his discharge in front of his face. Then, with a quick grimace, he tore in it in two.
‘What are you doing?’ Trautmann said.
‘Pretty self-explanatory isn’t it, Mule?’
‘You have any idea what I had to go through to get that?’
‘But you said it yourself. This is just a temporary storm. What about when it clears? Won’t the people need a few honest detectives to pick up again? To bear witness to the worst of it?’
‘Damn it, Roth...’
‘To protect them?’
‘How are you going to protect them from behind a desk?’
‘Better than from behind a shop counter, that’s for certain.’
‘You idiot...’ Trautmann said. Roth was grinning.
‘You really going to use yours?’ the younger man said.
‘I...’
Trautmann looked from Roth’s upturned face to Petra’s. No one else knew about the papers. Von Gaben was dead and his wife unlikely to remember, much less care. Then he sighed, unfolded his discharge papers and tore them up too.
‘So I see I’m going to have to keep you out of trouble a while longer then,’ he said, before kissing the young woman’s cheek and extending his left hand for Roth to shake.
‘You know I’m right,’ Roth said. ‘You just won’t admit it. And make sure you come and see me again tomorrow, ok?’
‘Ok.’
Berlin Burning Page 9
