‘His scars aren’t as old as that. If you ask me, he sustained these injuries two or three years ago at most.’ Schwartz took a magnifying glass from his bag along with a little flashlight, which he shone inside the dead man’s nose.
Böhm looked on, growing more and more impatient the longer the doctor held his tongue. He shifted from one leg to the other, biting back the question on his lips.
Meantime, Schwartz had placed the flash between his teeth and was muttering to himself. ‘I’m not certain,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise me if someone had driven a knitting needle through the poor man’s nose and into his brain.’
‘A knitting needle?’
‘Something like that, a long, sharp object. Simple but effective.’
‘Could it have been an accident? Was he trying to clean his nose with an unsuitable object?’
‘Not to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t think your man here cared much for hygiene. Besides: he’d still be holding the offending weapon. At the very least it would be lying somewhere close by.’
‘What can you say about the time of death?’
Schwartz gazed at the corpse. Frost and pigeon droppings made it seem as if it had been coated with icing sugar. ‘In these temperatures it can be hard to say. He could have been here for days. A frozen corpse doesn’t decompose in the usual way.’
‘Then I should wait for the results of the autopsy?’
‘I can’t see that the post-mortem will provide any more clarity. I could have the meteorological service send me the weather reports from the last few days, but even then, an exact estimate of the time of death is unlikely. The man could have been here a day, or a week.’
Böhm was disappointed.
‘The best thing would be to look for witnesses. Perhaps some passer-by knows how long the poor devil has been lying here dead, or at least unconscious. Damn it . . .’
One of the pigeons on the steel struts overhead had left a bright-coloured splodge on Schwartz’s dark winter coat. He tried to clean the mess with a lily-white handkerchief, but succeeded only in smearing the stain across his shoulder. ‘If pigeons could talk,’ he said, ‘then perhaps we’d be getting somewhere. Sadly all they do is coo and defecate. I suggest we get the corpse moved now. It’s too dangerous for me here. I’d rather continue in Hannoversche Strasse, where that lot are barred.’
Böhm looked at the corpse, examining the thin layer of faeces that covered it – and wondered if the pigeons couldn’t be of some use after all.
2
Wie kütt die Mösch, die Mösch, die Mösch bei uns in de Küch?
The voice of Willi Ostermann rasped from the loudspeakers, drowning out the babble of people jostling towards the escalators in the atrium of Tietz department store. Some resourceful salesperson had connected an electric turntable to the tannoy, so that even in Cologne’s largest mall there was no escaping the vernacular hit.
Listening to old Ostermann competing against the hum of shoppers, Rath felt as if he had never been away. The peculiar electricity that filled Cologne in the days leading up to Ash Wednesday fetched him home immediately. How many years had he been living in a city where this was alien? Sensing that familiar charge, he realised he had missed carnival fever – even the inevitable strains of the great Willi Ostermann.
The mannequins in the display window were decked out as gypsies, Mexicans, musketeers or clowns; they wore striped trousers and sparkly jackets, false noses and colourful little hats adorned with paper streamers. Stoical of gaze they watched shoppers barge past shelves full of wigs, masks and make-up, past clothes racks with slanted hats, short skirts and factory-made costumes. Everywhere was a sense of panic; only two days until Rosenmontag, and the start of the official parade.
‘It doesn’t have to be anything special,’ Rath said out loud. ‘Or original.’
‘You won’t find anything original at Tietz.’ The blond man next to him looked sceptical. ‘All of this will be worn a thousand times over in the next few days.’
Laughter lines formed under the elegant brim of the man’s felt hat. Paul smiled with his whole face, and looked on the world’s daily madness with a kind of fundamental, ironic detachment. Rath and Paul Wittkamp had been friends since childhood, since the Rath family had moved out to Klettenberg just before the war. Even if they didn’t see much of one another these days, a single glance was all it took to reconnect. For now, in front of a shelf of false noses.
Ostermann was replaced by Die Monacos. Der treue Husar blasted from the loud speakers.
‘The main thing is that no one should recognise me,’ Rath said.
‘Now, now,’ Paul wagged his index finger. ‘Behave yourself. You’ll soon be a married man.’
‘With the emphasis on “soon”,’ Rath said, reaching for the biggest rubber nose he could find. ‘Let’s celebrate Carnival first, like in the old days.’
He didn’t say why he really wanted to remain incognito during the festivities: that he was still afraid of being seen in Cologne by one of LeClerk’s reporters, and that it might all start again. The headlines back then, after the fatal incident in Neusser Strasse, had cut much deeper than he would admit even to Paul. Only in Berlin had he regained his equilibrium.
He examined the rubber nose, a real hooter complete with thick, black glasses and false moustache. Without further ado he held the disguise in front of his face.
‘How do I look?’
‘With a black hat and black frock coat you could be straight out of the pages of Der Stürmer.’
Rath glanced in the nearest mirror. He really did look like an anti-Semitic caricature, like one of the Isidor sketches Der Angriff had used to denigrate former Berlin Deputy Commissioner Bernhard Weiss.
‘You think I’ll cop it from the SA?’
Paul shrugged. ‘More likely from a Jew who thinks you’re making fun of him.’
‘There are thousands of these noses,’ Rath said. ‘Who knows how many people will be wearing them. But if I go for a red-and-white striped hat I’ll just look like an idiot.’
‘Do what you like, Gereon. But one thing’s for sure: with a get-up like that there’s no chance of you turning any heads. At least I won’t have to keep an eye on you.’
‘So, that’s what you had in mind?’
‘What kind of best man would allow his groom to stray from the path of virtue at this late stage?’
‘Do I look like I’m planning to?’
Paul laughed out loud. ‘Not with that nose!’ He clapped Rath on the shoulder. ‘Now for heaven’s sake go and pay for it, then we can head to mine and rummage through the dressing-up box. Or do you still want to go to Cords?’
‘No, I’ve had enough of department stores for one day.’
They had been traipsing through the shops all morning on the look-out for wedding rings, before striking lucky at a jeweller’s in Hohe Strasse, where they commissioned two simple but elegant rings which Paul would collect en route to the wedding in Berlin. There would be no risk of Charly seeing them before the big day.
Rath hadn’t skimped on cost, partly to ease his conscience. Even if he didn’t like to admit it, his trip to Cologne was a kind of escape from Berlin, from everyday life, from Charly. After months of toing and froing they had set a date, and the closer it came the more uncomfortable he felt. Paul’s invitation to spend Carnival together had been heaven-sent, especially with Gennat badgering him to use some of his overtime.
At the Schildergasse exit, Rath thought he spied a familiar face, but it took a moment for the penny to drop: ten years ago, when the Cologne Police was still under the supervision of the British occupying forces, a pickpocket, one of his first arrests. Schürmann, Eduard Schürmann, known as ‘Two-Finger Ede’. Apparently his three-year sentence had done nothing to rehabilitate him – not if his current overfamiliarity with a stout, bowler-hatted gentleman was anything to go by.
‘See you outside.’ Rath pressed his shopping into Paul’s hands and burst onto the str
eet. Despite losing Ede’s brown hat for a time, he kept the fat man in his sights. The victim didn’t seem to have noticed anything, and Rath had no choice but to jostle past him to grab hold of Ede’s shoulder.
‘Aren’t you getting a little old for this?’
Eduard Schürmann froze and turned around. He was hiding something black behind his back.
‘Do we know each other?’
‘I see old habits die hard.’ Rath gave a friendly smile. ‘Still targeting the fatties, then?’
Ede’s face turned a shade paler. ‘Inspector,’ he attempted to smile. ‘Didn’t recognise you there. I heard you’d moved on to better things.’
‘Like you? No jack today, or was I too quick for you?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Jack Crook. You should hand it over. The wallet you just lifted. Unless you want to pay a visit to the big building next to Cords Department Store.’ Rath pointed towards the tower of Police Headquarters, which rose dark and menacing into the grey sky around Schildergasse.
‘That’s all in the past, Inspector. I’m a watchmaker these days.’ Schürmann had a strong Cologne accent.
‘You’re telling me you’ve taken up a trade?’
‘It’s true, Inspector, I was sent down, and I deserved it. But in Klingelpütz I decided to become a better man. I’ve got my own little shop. Here.’ He handed Rath a business card. ‘I’ve gone straight. Just ask my wife.’
Rath looked at the card, momentarily confused.
E. Schürmann, Watchmaker
Unter Krahnenbäumen/Ecke Eigelstein
‘Ede Schürmann,’ he said. ‘The name doesn’t exactly inspire trust. Nor does the address . . .’
‘Call me Eduard, it sounds more respectable . . . and people by the railway station need watches, too.’
Meantime Paul had caught up. ‘What’s the matter? Do you need a hand?’
Rath pointed towards the fat man, whose bowler hat was moving further and further away in the milling mass on Schildergasse. ‘Stop that man over there. The fat one with the bowler.’
‘Has he committed a crime?’
‘The opposite. He’s the victim.’
Paul looked from Rath to Ede and back, as if waiting for an explanation. When none came he shrugged his shoulders and set off.
‘My friend will detain the man you robbed,’ Rath said to Ede. ‘And I’ll return his wallet.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Hand me the wallet and all is forgotten. Or how about the two of us stop in at Krebsgasse for a full body search.’
‘I really don’t know what . . .’ Schürmann hesitated and looked at the ground. ‘You mean this wallet?’
A black wallet lay on the pavement, closer to Rath’s feet than Ede’s. Ede made a move to pick it up but Rath got there first. The leather was still soft and warm, as if someone had been holding it in their hand. Rath opened it, finding a little change, a ten and a twenty-mark note, a few trading stamps, and, in the side pocket, an identification card of the sort the Brits had introduced during the occupation. The fat man had been a few pounds lighter in 1923. Wilhelm Klefisch, it said underneath the photograph.
‘Someone must have lost it. No wonder in this crowd . . .’
A stern look was enough to stall Ede’s explanation. ‘I’m nobody’s fool,’ Rath said. ‘If it wasn’t for my good nature you’d be dining out of town this evening. Is that clear?’
‘Crystal, Inspector.’ Ede bowed submissively.
‘We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Herr Schürmann. So make sure your fingers don’t go straying into any foreign pockets. Do we understand each other?’
‘Absolutely, Inspector.’
‘Good. Now scram.’
Eduard Schürmann gave a second bow and did as bidden.
Rath found Paul next to the fat man, who was gesticulating wildly. ‘Wilhelm Klefisch?’ he asked. ‘You’ve lost something.’
Klefisch felt in his overcoat before taking the wallet gratefully. ‘Thank you. Where did you find it?’
‘By the entrance to Tietz.’
Klefish opened the black leather wallet and counted the notes and coins. Once, twice, and a third time. ‘There are fifty marks missing,’ he said, looking reproachful.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. I don’t want to jump to conclusions but . . .’ He looked to Paul for assistance, perhaps uncertain as to his role. At any rate he seemed to take Rath for a thief, albeit one with an unusually sophisticated trick.
‘You can rest assured . . .’ Rath took out his police identification, ‘if that money really is gone, then I didn’t take it.’
Klefisch examined the identification, still suspicious. ‘Well, someone must have.’
And I know who! Rath thought. Only, he’s long gone . . . ‘We can go to police headquarters and report it but, speaking as a police officer, I don’t hold out much hope. Anyone could have taken it in the crowd back there. Just be happy you still have your papers.’
‘Very well. Let’s drop it, but I must insist on taking your name.’
So much for my good nature, Rath thought, folding Ede’s card smaller and smaller in his hand.
3
After almost three hours rummaging through the archive and card-index cabinets, Reinhold Gräf entered the office waving the file in his hand. Böhm looked up from his desk. Steinke pretended not to be interested, but not even that arrogant little upstart could spoil Gräf’s mood, not now that they had Wosniak’s name on file.
The dead bum might have ruined his weekend plans, but at least they had a starting point. Luckily Conny never complained when the job got in the way. Gräf was grateful, of course, but what could he do? Police work and chance operations went hand in hand.
‘Our man from Nollendorfplatz is already on file,’ he said, placing the folder on Böhm’s desk. The detective chief inspector gave a nod of acknowledgement. From Böhm, that was as good as praise.
‘I can’t say I’m surprised, Sir,’ Steinke said with pointed boredom. ‘With an antisocial like that.’
‘If you’re so clever,’ Böhm said, ‘how is it you haven’t made police commissioner?’
‘All I’m saying, Sir, is that rooting through the files isn’t enough. You have to trust your instincts.’ Steinke tapped his chest. ‘I’d have bet any money that bum was known to police. As soon as I saw his face. A mug like that, you just know.’
‘Perhaps those instincts of yours aren’t as trustworthy as you think,’ said Gräf.
‘What do you mean? You said yourself he was on police file . . .’
‘Heinrich Wosniak does indeed appear on file, but not as a suspect.’
‘Then what?’
‘As a victim.’
Böhm opened the file. ‘Arson,’ he said.
Steinke came over.
‘Heinrich Wosniak was the victim of an arson attack,’ Gräf went on. ‘He survived by the skin of his teeth. Perhaps I could make my report?’
Böhm grunted his approval.
‘Heinrich Wosniak was the victim of an arson attack, which took place on New Year’s Eve ’31. Seven dead, three seriously injured, one of whom succumbed to his injuries five days later. All of them beggars or homeless. The wooden shack where they lived on Bülowplatz went up in flames.’
‘I remember. It was in the press. So one of the survivors is our man . . . Am I right in thinking it was a child who started it?’ Böhm asked.
‘Hannah Singer. Born 1916.’
‘Was she messing around with fireworks? How did it happen?’
‘It was no accident. Hannah Singer was picked up by colleagues outside the shack. The matches she’d used to spark the flames were by her feet. She had a whole suitcase of them; she sold the things.’
‘Why did she do it?’
‘If only we knew,’ Gräf shrugged. ‘According to our records Hannah Singer was interrogated a total of eleven times after the attack. Each of the tran
scripts is a page long. There are no answers, just questions. She didn’t utter a word.’
‘No discernible motive?’
‘No motive, but an interesting detail: Hannah Singer is the daughter of one of the victims.’
Böhm looked at Gräf. ‘What did you say?’
‘There was a theory the explanation could lie there, but not even the courts could prise it out of her.’
‘Is it possible her father abused her?’
‘Heinz Singer lost both of his legs in the war. The poor bastard wasn’t in a position to abuse anyone.’
Böhm nodded thoughtfully and leafed through the file. ‘An act of mercy perhaps? A kind of assisted dying for her crippled father.’
‘Death by fire as an act of mercy? What about the six innocents who died with him?’
‘Then hatred. There must be a reason for something like this.’
‘If there is, we haven’t found it. A psychological report certified Hannah Singer as paranoid schizophrenic. It seems life on the streets messed with her head. The judge had her committed to a lunatic asylum.’
‘Psychology!’ Steinke said. ‘Jewish mumbo-jumbo. Murderers belong on the scaffold, not in a lunatic asylum.’
‘She was only fifteen. Even with a full confession she wouldn’t have been executed,’ Böhm said. ‘As a trained lawyer, you ought to know that.’
‘Laws can be rewritten.’
‘Luckily not without a Reichstag majority. Which is something no one has . . . not even your Nazis.’
‘That could change.’
‘Enough big talk, Steinke. You’re a CID officer, or at least you soon will be. Whether you like it or not, you have to comply with the laws of the land.’
‘Can’t a man say what he’s thinking anymore?’
Böhm glared at him. ‘Our work would be a damn sight easier if you kept your opinions to yourself.’
4
Gereon Rath gazed at Charly with that strange look in his eyes, defiant, withdrawn, and yet above all surprised. He was on duty, suit rumpled, impatiently staring into the camera lens, hands nestled deep inside coat pockets. The photograph had been taken by Reinhold Gräf about two years before, at a crime scene in Tiergarten. Now it stood on her desk for the sake of her female colleagues, who had presented it last summer following her engagement with Gereon. Though given partly to tease the new girl in G, Charly hadn’t wanted to appear unappreciative. Besides, she liked it: Reinhold was a good photographer.
The March Fallen Page 2
