‘A kind of stiletto, but an unusual one. Dr Schwartz suspects it could be a trench dagger.’
‘There’s no shortage of those.’
‘True, but they differ greatly in style. Every front soldier had his preference. Anyway, it should help us identify the perpetrator.’
‘A soldier, like his victim.’
‘It’s highly likely. At the very least someone who knows a soldier.’
‘Or his way around a pawnshop.’
‘Unlikely. A front soldier wouldn’t part with his trench dagger.’
‘Why would an ex-soldier kill a homeless man?’
‘Because the homeless man was a soldier too. I’d wager that’s where we’ll find our motive. It could be score-settling from the old days.’
‘Or a fight between tramps,’ Rath said. Yet here we are.
‘The nature of the wound suggests this was no crime of passion. The man was stabbed through the nostril. It was a calculated act.’
‘Someone trained in close-combat?’
‘Could be. I’ve put in a request to the Reichswehr Ministry. We need to know exactly where Heinrich Wosniak served during the war, and with whom.’
‘That could be quite the list.’
‘Perhaps, but what is police work if not a search for a needle in a haystack?’
‘Hell of a job we have.’
‘Quite,’ Böhm said. ‘Which is why you’ll be delighted to hear that I’ve earmarked a special needle just for you.’
‘Come again?’
‘Not a needle exactly, but how about a trench dagger in a city of four million? One with a triangular blade. You need to find the manufacturer, and any potential owners.’ He handed Rath the report. ‘Measurements are in there: blade length, width and so on.’
Rath’s face grew pale. ‘Will Gräf be assisting me in this Sisyphean task?’
‘Detective Gräf has his hands full with the city’s homeless shelters. We still haven’t found anyone who can identify Heinrich Wosniak.’
‘Nothing from the morgue?’
‘Nothing, and in three days they’ll have to remove him from the showroom. That’s when the deadline expires.’
Rath gazed at the report in despair. ‘How am I supposed to manage this alone? Can’t you give me anyone?’
‘What do you think? They’re all out hunting for Communists. Be glad there are three of us working the case.’ He looked at Rath. ‘You have a secretary, don’t you? Why don’t you see if she’s game, if you can’t manage on your own!’
16
Rath had cajoled two hours’ overtime out of Erika Voss, and now knew just about everything it was possible to know about trench daggers, despite never owning one as a youthful recruit.
After finishing for the day he dropped her off in Wörther Strasse, and headed home in a funk. Police work could be such a drag. Stepping out of the lift in Carmerstrasse, he was greeted by the unfamiliar odour of hot food and remembered that he had skipped lunch. Kirie was even hungrier, pulling on her lead and sniffing everywhere as she dragged him to the front door. He removed her lead, and she pitter-pattered into the kitchen while he set down his bag and hung his hat and coat on the stand.
‘I’m home,’ he called. ‘Sorry for being late.’
Charly appeared in the kitchen door, looking a little frantic, a stained white apron tied around her waist. ‘There you are. I’ll get the potato dumplings on.’
‘You . . . cooked?’ Usually, if something warm landed on their plates, it was the work of their housekeeper, Lina, a young Silesian who came by twice a week. Most days they ate lunch in the canteen or at Aschinger, with a cold meal in the evenings.
‘Sauerbraten,’ Charly said. ‘Rhineland-style.’
‘What have I done to deserve this?’
‘Nothing. This is your welcome home meal.’
She vanished inside the kitchen where Rath heard pans clattering and the sound of cursing. He made straight for the living room to put on a record, Ellington’s Clouds in My Heart, and fetched the bottle of cognac from the cupboard. Just when he had poured himself a drink she reappeared.
‘Want one?’ he asked.
‘Maybe after dinner.’
‘I had a lousy day.’ Somehow he felt the need to justify himself. Since living with Charly he had seldom reached for the bottle, but after a day like today . . .
‘Catch many Communists?’
‘Not a single one. I’m one of the few who isn’t working for the Political Police. They put me with Böhm.’
‘So that’s why . . .’ she said, indicating the bottle.
‘Very funny.’
‘Paul called.’
He looked at her in her ill-fitting apron and, all at once, realised how much he loved her. The pangs of conscience were intense. Wilde Hilde. The night in Paul’s office. ‘What did he want?’
‘The usual. To warn me off.’
She was being ironic. Even so, he had to clear his throat. ‘Some witness.’
‘Why don’t you call him back? I assume he didn’t just want to flirt with me, though I could be wrong.’
Despite his guilty conscience, he felt a stab of jealousy. He waited for Charly to return to the kitchen before reaching for the telephone. No one home, so he tried Sudermanstrasse.
‘Wittkamp Wines.’
‘Chapeau, Herr Wittkamp. Working overtime so soon after your Carnival-induced coma?’
‘Ash Wednesday usually marks the end. Mind you, some don’t make it that far.’ Paul seemed annoyed. ‘When I opened my office again this morning it looked a little worse for wear.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And then my postbox . . . There wasn’t just business mail, but a letter from a certain Hildegard Sprenger. She writes that she’d like to see me again, the night we spent together was so wonderful. I’ll spare you the rest, shall I?’
Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen. Kirie had been chased out and looked at him from where she lay in front of the radiogramophone.
‘I tried to call, but I was ordered back to Berlin.’
‘Your sense of duty knows no bounds.’
‘I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t know what got into me that night.’
‘I thought you got into someone else?’
‘Fräulein Sprenger was one of the Mickey Mouses.’
‘You don’t have to explain. She was here just now, minus the ears.’
‘Come again?’
‘She stopped by the office. Seemed surprised to see me behind the desk. For a while she thought you were my partner, until I told her you didn’t sell wine.’
‘What else did you tell her?’
‘Not your name and address anyway.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You might have said you were spoken for! If not before your night of passion, then at the very least after it.’
‘There was no time. I never thought I’d see her again.’
‘Is that why you made yourself scarce on Tuesday night?’
‘I’ve told you already. I had to leave – on duty. You wouldn’t believe how many times I tried to call.’
‘Well, here I am.’
‘I owe you an explanation, but I can’t talk now. There’s no way Charly can hear of this and . . .’
‘That would top it all, wouldn’t it, if Charly got hurt? I’m your friend, Gereon, and there’s plenty I can ignore, but don’t ever treat her like this again! She doesn’t deserve it. And if you can’t manage that, then don’t marry her.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I’m serious! If you ever do anything like this again, you can consider our friendship over.’
Rath couldn’t think of a worse threat.
Charly poked her head around the door. ‘I don’t want to interrupt, but dinner is ready.’
He turned away as his eyes flooded with tears. Idiot, he thought. Feeling sorry for yourself, are you, because you’re such a prick? He cleared the lump in his throat before continuing. ‘I’ll call yo
u, Paul,’ he said, his voice still hoarse.
Charly had laid the table as if for a formal dinner. Serviettes, wine glasses, knives and forks were set neatly alongside the plates. All that was missing was a lighted candle.
‘Charly, I love you,’ he said.
She looked at him, and raised her eyebrows. ‘And all it took was your favourite meal.’
The beef cut easily and smelled as if Frieda had prepared it. Sadly it didn’t taste quite so good. Too sour, for Rhenish tastes, at least, and the seasoning was bland.
‘Good,’ he said, chewing contentedly.
The dumplings and red cabbage weren’t bad at all.
‘More sauce?’
‘No thank you.’
‘It could do with a little salt,’ she said.
‘Now that you mention it.’
‘Any news on Hannah Singer?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I thought you were working with Böhm?’
‘The crazy fugitive?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Warrants have bigger fish to fry. We have a new lead anyway, an old comrade. Someone Wosniak knew from the war.’
‘If Hannah had nothing to do with his death, then why did she scarper?’
‘Why do crazy people flee asylums? The same reason they catch flies and mistake their toothbrush for their dog.’
‘She isn’t crazy. She’s just . . . disturbed. I think they packed her off to Dalldorf because they couldn’t explain what she did. Perhaps she can’t either.’
‘Eight people on her conscience, and you’re telling me she can’t explain why? That’s pretty much the definition of insane.’
A quarrel was brewing, but he didn’t want to spoil their reunion meal when she had gone to so much effort. It wasn’t Sauerbraten Rhineland style, but with a little salt it tasted just fine. He helped himself to more.
‘And now?’ he said, dabbing his mouth with a serviette. ‘Fancy a little dessert? I know just the thing . . .’
She made a disappointed face. ‘Sorry, Gereon, but I have to go.’
‘What? Where?’
‘I’m meeting Greta.’
‘So that’s it for our reunion, is it? I thought we could make an evening of it. Dance to old Ellington, finish the wine, and then . . . well . . . then I thought we could really celebrate.’
‘It sounds good. I just can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’d rather stay here too, but I’ve promised Greta. You weren’t due back from Cologne until the day after tomorrow, and we wanted to have a girls’ night, like old times.’
‘Two women going out on their own? So you can, what? Make eyes at strange men?’
‘You’re not jealous?’
‘Of course not. But . . . we’re engaged! You should be going out with me. Especially on a night like this.’
‘Greta will scratch my eyes out.’
‘That I can believe.’
‘Gereon, I know the pair of you have never got on, but . . . she’s my best friend, and her friendship is very important to me.’
‘All right, it was a joke.’ He attempted a smile. ‘I don’t want to spoil your evening.’
‘We’re going to the cinema, then out dancing. Don’t worry, I won’t speak to any strange men. Unless, of course, they ask me to dance . . .’
‘Is this your way of saying I don’t take you often enough?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Then how about we celebrate my birthday on Sunday in style? Dinner followed by dancing in the Kakadu-Bar.’
‘Sounds good.’ She smiled and stood up. ‘But I really do have to go.’
Rath put on a brave face, and a quarter of an hour later Charly stood ready at the door. She looked stunning. ‘Should I drive you?’
‘I’ll take the S-Bahn. It goes almost door to door. We’ll get a taxi from Spenerstrasse.’
‘How about the way back? Are you planning to take the S-Bahn at night?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sleep at Greta’s.’
‘Come again?’
‘See you tomorrow morning. At the Castle.’
Before he could say anything, she planted a kiss on his cheek and left. For a moment he thought about going after her, only to reconsider. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself.
Was he jealous? Too damn right he was!
Jealous of any man who danced with her tonight, even of Greta. She still hadn’t said anything about the Negro from Aschinger last year, not that he’d admitted seeing them together. Were they still in touch? He’d have liked nothing more than to go after her, to watch how she spent her evening, but he couldn’t. Not at any cost.
‘Well, old girl,’ he said to Kirie. ‘It’s just me and you tonight.’ He attached her lead and they set off on her evening walk. Perhaps he might take a little trip up the Ku’damm himself.
17
Sewage pipes and electric cables ran along the low ceiling, and water dripped periodically onto the concrete floor. Leo stood in a long corridor alongside a group of men he didn’t recognise. He didn’t know how long he’d been here, didn’t know if it was day or night, if he was still in Berlin or in the country somewhere.
They had dragged him half conscious into the car and placed a stinking sack over his head. The drive had taken so long that blood from his head wounds had congealed against the coarse material. The wounds opened again when the sack was wrenched from his head and he blinked into the dim light of a 40-watt bulb.
That was when he knew he’d be lucky to make it out alive. They weren’t finished with him, otherwise they’d have thrown him out of the car on the way over. At one point it looked as if they might. The burr of cars and traffic had grown suddenly louder as he felt the ice-cold air on his skin, but then the man about to push him out had held fast. By his comrades’ laughter, he knew they were only messing around.
The men in uniform had come for him in the middle of the night, kicking down the door before he had a chance to open it. Seconds later they were in the bedroom. Vera had gazed first at him, then them, her world turned on its head. She had always known the cops might come knocking, but hadn’t reckoned on SA men in the white armbands of the auxiliary police grinning at her as she pulled the covers to her chin.
Leo chose not to reach for the revolver in the drawer of his bedside table, but when their leader made a suggestive remark, he couldn’t hold his tongue and paid for it with a heavy blow. He spat out blood and teeth and heeded their command to get dressed. As he struggled with his trousers, the leader hit him again with his rubber truncheon, on the knuckles this time. The four undernourished-looking dwarves that made up the rest of the troop hounded him out of the bedroom. Taking him by the arms, they hauled him downstairs and threw him onto the rear seat of a car waiting outside. A different SA man pulled the sack over his head before administering a third truncheon blow.
When he came round, head still ringing, he couldn’t see anything and his breathing was hampered by the stinking linen fabric. His hands were tied behind his back, but he wasn’t gagged. He knew they were driving, but not where. The men around him said nothing. Realising he was conscious again, they had played their trick with the car door, but otherwise left him in peace until they reached their destination and the fun started again. He thought it was another joke, but this time they really did throw him out.
He heard the crunch of tyres stopping on gravel. There must have been others waiting. Taking him by the feet they hauled him across the courtyard and down a flight of stairs. He didn’t want to know how many bruises he’d suffered, but experience from the war told him he wouldn’t feel them until tomorrow. If, that is, they let him live that long.
Another drip of water.
He hadn’t the slightest idea how long he had been down here with the others, hands on trouser seams, standing in line like carrots waiting for harvest. Stand up straight was the command, and no one dared move or lean against the damp, whitewashed wall. The first to give in was beaten for so long he was little more than a bloo
dy clump when his three assailants dragged him out. When another poor soul could no longer hold his bladder, they forced him to lick up his own piss, and laughed when he vomited. Then they beat him to a pulp too.
Leo was damned if he was going to move. He didn’t need the loo, thank God, and was used to standing for hours. No, he wouldn’t give these bastards any excuse. People were screaming in pain, shrill and full of despair. He had seen people suffer and die before, but this waiting, this uncertainty, was wearing him down so much he wondered if it wouldn’t be better to get himself beaten to death and have the whole thing over with. The temptation to step forward and give one of these brown scumbags a little something to think about grew with every minute. Perhaps they would shoot him, the kind of quick and painless death he’d always wished for.
There was movement in the stairwell, the steel door at the end of the corridor opened and a uniformed officer with a file under his arm emerged. ‘Juretzka, Leopold!’
Leo’s voice failed him at first, but at length he rasped a ‘Here’.
The SA man planted himself in front of him and rammed a rubber truncheon into his gut. Leo doubled up with pain.
‘Answer loud and clear when I address you,’ the Nazi said. ‘Stand up straight.’
Leo stood up straight and yelled: ‘Here!’
‘Now come with me, shit-heap.’
He was surprised not to be struck again but the man with the file simply pushed him along the corridor and up the stairs. It must have been dark outside. He couldn’t see any daylight. A fierce kick to the back, and he landed in a room lit only by a desk lamp, but managed to cling to a chair in front of a desk. Pools of blood were thickening on the floor. Blood glistened on the seating surface.
‘Prisoner Juretzka,’ File Man announced.
The man behind the desk was the highest ranking. He was writing something on a kind of report form, almost as if he were a real cop, but Leo realised he was playing at the role, perhaps to make himself feel more important. Behind him stood another, whose face was untouched by the cone of light shining from the desk lamp.
Despite the brown uniform and shorn hair, Leo recognised this third man immediately, having seen him often enough outside the door of Neunundsechzig, looking strangely out of place in evening dress. No doubt get-up like that was de rigueur for bouncers employed by the most infamous, and therefore most profitable, Nordpiraten-run illegal nightclub in the city. Müllerstrasse, in a rear courtyard basement of house number 69.
The March Fallen Page 8
