The March Fallen

by volker Kutscher

  The doorbell returned her to the present. It was the postman. ‘Fräulein Charlotte Ritter?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He never missed the chance to show his disapproval that she should live in an apartment with a different surname on the door.

  ‘A letter for you, from Prague.’ He stressed ‘Prague’ as if a letter from the Czech capital was the most obscene thing an upstanding German could receive.

  ‘I’m glad you know where it’s from. Did you look inside? Want to read it to me too while you’re at it?’

  The man looked at her as if she were serious, and perhaps thought she was. ‘Read it out?’ He shook his head. ‘No time, Lady. Do you know how many houses I still have to visit?’

  She closed the door and went inside to examine the stamp. Pošta Československá. No sender. She didn’t know anyone in Prague. Unless Professor Heymann had . . .

  These days receiving mail from democratic countries made you a target of suspicion, and men like the postman were a perfect fit for this sick, new Germany. Sometimes Charly felt as if Berlin had been full of people just waiting for this government who were now, suddenly, revealing their true colours. As if the whole time somewhere deep under this city there had been another, darker Berlin that was seeping upwards like sewage rising in the street.

  That wasn’t true, of course, it was the same people inhabiting the same Berlin. The new government simply had a talent for bringing out the worst in its citizens.

  The letter was written on hotel paper.

  My dear Fräulein Ritter,

  My brother informed me of your concern regarding my whereabouts and mentioned what a great help you had been in these troubled times.

  Let me start by saying that all is well with myself and my family; as I write we are in Prague, where we have taken up residence in the Hotel Modrá Hvĕzda. I do not wish to speak of the events of recent weeks, but will say this much: I have seen places and sides of Germany that I never knew existed, both good and bad (places as well as sides).

  Spring is on its way here, bathing the city in golden light. It is hard not to feel optimistic. We are, at least, safe for now and must wait and see what happens next. I am friends with the police commissioner here and count on receiving his support.

  Thank you for everything, and pass on my regards to your future husband. Our police force needs people like you! And take comfort in the fact that nothing lasts forever.

  In the spirit of which I remain yours

  B.W.

  She let the letter drop. Weiss was safe, the Political Police had been too late in issuing their warrant. Tears flooded her eyes, and she didn’t know why. Relief, perhaps, or grief. Rage that one of Germany’s most celebrated criminal investigators had been forced into exile like a common thief.

  The doorbell rang. She wiped the tears from her eyes before opening to a brawny man wrapped in a dark coat and wearing a bowler hat.

  93

  The morning after his visit to the Adlon, Rath shared the photos of Gerhard Krumbiegel with Gräf and Steinke in the main Homicide office. He was still off-duty, but a visit to Alex had become unavoidable. If Achim von Roddeck knew about Krumbiegel it was essential to bring the official investigation up to speed. He put the letter from Halle in a new envelope, removing the note to Charly. The photographs spoke for themselves; there was no doubt this was the dead man from Nollendorfplatz.

  ‘Stray post . . .’ he said. ‘Landed in my office. Actually it was addressed to me, but it’s part of your case.’ He shook them onto the desk. ‘Gerhard Krumbiegel,’ he said, slapping the flat of his hand on the table. ‘The corpse from Nollendorfplatz was Gerhard Krumbiegel, not Heinrich Wosniak.’

  Steinke glared at him, while Gräf stared at the photos. ‘Engel must have got them mixed up because he was wearing Wosniak’s coat, and because of the burn scars from the Bülowplatz fire.’

  ‘Really? Do they look that similar?’

  ‘We have no photo of Wosniak, but if his former lieutenant got them mixed up, then it’s safe to say Engel did too . . .’

  His attempt to steer Gräf’s thinking had failed. He couldn’t afford to be any more explicit. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Intensify the search,’ Gräf said. ‘If Engel got the wrong man we have to do everything we can to find Wosniak. Perhaps we can use him to lure Engel into a trap.’

  ‘No sign of our captain last night?’

  ‘I think he was deterred by the police presence. It’s good to know it’s paying off. There’s no question Lieutenant Roddeck is safer for it.’

  Steinke had reached for the telephone and asked to be patched through to Warrants. Rath gave up. Let them search if that was all they could think of. ‘Good luck,’ he said, hoping Gräf would hear the sarcasm.

  ‘Thank you, Gereon,’ Gräf said. ‘Perhaps we can go for a drink when this is all over.’ He seemed glad his old partner was speaking to him again.

  Rath left, stopping briefly at his office before heading home. He might be finally rid of the photos, but it seemed unlikely the official investigation would create problems for Achim von Roddeck any time soon.

  Opening the door to the apartment, he was surprised to hear voices from the living room. It wasn’t Fritze, and it wasn’t the radio. A deep, booming bass. A dark coat and bowler hat hung on the stand. Entering the room he was ready for anything: for the grinning man, or another of Charly’s university friends, even the Negro from Aschinger who occasionally still haunted his dreams (and about whom she kept quiet to this day), but not for the man sitting in his favourite armchair, a cup of coffee on his lap, speaking earnestly with Charly.

  ‘Sir,’ Rath said. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’

  Wilhelm Böhm looked to the door in surprise. ‘No more “Sir”,’ he growled, setting down his coffee and rising to shake Rath’s hand.

  ‘They demoted you?’

  ‘I jumped before I was pushed.’

  ‘The coffee’s fresh,’ said Charly. She fetched a cup and poured.

  ‘I’ve retired from police service,’ Böhm explained. ‘Our commissioner would never have allowed me back into Homicide. I’ve already spoken with Gennat.’

  ‘I’m considering following suit,’ Charly said, ‘but Böhm advises against.’

  ‘I’ve suggested that your bride-to-be consider thinks very carefully before destroying her career.’

  ‘Anyway I’ve extended my leave of absence.’

  Rath’s gaze flitted back and forth. What the hell was she talking about?

  ‘What will you do now?’ he asked Böhm. ‘Do you have private means?’

  ‘I’m not as wealthy as you must think. Besides, I’m too young to pack it in completely. It’s possible to be a detective outside of the police.’

  ‘If you’re looking for a job as house detective, I could put you in touch with someone at the Excelsior,’ Rath said, earning an angry glance from Charly.

  Böhm waved dismissively. ‘I was thinking of starting my own agency.’

  ‘I hope you’re not here to recruit Charly.’

  ‘We were having a perfectly normal discussion between friends and ex-colleagues until you arrived,’ she said, sharper than Rath thought necessary.

  ‘Charly’s been telling me about the strange developments in our old case,’ Böhm said, attempting to change the subject. ‘You know, the dead man from Nollendorfplatz. I understand Levetzow has reassigned you?’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘Don’t take it personally. It’s almost a badge of honour to be spurned by our latest commissioner.’

  ‘Gereon makes a point of being spurned by every commissioner,’ said Charly.

  ‘Levetzow usually lets Homicide go about its work in peace, but this case is different,’ Rath said.

  ‘You don’t think his intervention has been for the better?’

  ‘With all due respect to Gräf, I don’t believe we’ll solve these killings by fixating on a single suspect who might not even be alive.’ />
  Böhm agreed. ‘Charly has explained that the dead man at Nollendorfplatz wasn’t Heinrich Wosniak, but the other beggar. His corpse doesn’t fit with the rest.’

  Rath threw Charly a horrified glance. What else had she given away? ‘It’s not for me to worry now I’ve been taken off the case.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Böhm said. ‘Your theory about a deliberate identity switch would mean Heinrich Wosniak murdered his former companion and faked his own death, in order to set about killing his ex-comrades.’

  At least, Rath thought, she hasn’t told him Wosniak’s corpse is lying at the bottom of the Spree.

  ‘You’re right about one thing,’ Böhm continued. ‘On no account should you risk making a fool of the police commissioner. These days it could cost you more than your livelihood.’

  Rath agreed politely, thinking Böhm was starting to sound like a rich uncle whose advice you couldn’t contradict.

  Böhm stood up and they accompanied him into the hall where he shook both their hands. ‘I’ll be on my way now,’ he said. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Charly, and for your hospitality, Herr Rath. It’s good to have friends in times like these.’

  Rath nodded and forced a smile. No sooner was Böhm out the door than he turned to Charly. She had a guilty look on her face. ‘You’ve extended your leave of absence?’

  ‘I’m sorry Böhm heard it before you. His visit caught me off guard. I was going to tell you today that I’d seen Wieking.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She wasn’t pleased, but I need more time.’

  ‘Charly, this isn’t good. You’re off sick for two weeks, now this? It looks like you’re shirking. Goddamn it, you’re this close to becoming an inspector!’

  ‘I can’t be there right now, I’ve told you that.’

  ‘What did you tell Wieking?’

  ‘Marriage preparations. She’s more likely to understand that.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what else she’s more likely to understand. Women staying at home to look after their children.’

  ‘If there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s to stay at home.’

  ‘Then what have you been doing these last few weeks? Because you certainly haven’t been at work!’

  ‘Maybe that’s why I’ve been in such a good mood!’ She turned on her heel and slammed the door.

  Rath shook his head. What on earth was wrong with her? At least this time she hadn’t slapped him. Or gone to Greta’s, just back into the living room.

  The doorbell rang and he opened to Fritze grinning at him with Kirie in tow. ‘Well,’ the boy said. ‘Together again at last?’

  94

  The day Rath had been dreading came as a perfectly ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

  ‘Sounds like Gräf will be rejoining us soon,’ Erika Voss said.

  ‘Has Levetzow given him his marching orders already? After just two weeks?’

  ‘I’m afraid he has been rather more successful than you, Sir,’ she said, with a distinct lack of sympathy. ‘He’s found Benjamin Engel. Which means he’ll be back as soon as they close the Alberich file.’

  ‘He’s found Engel?’

  ‘Dead or alive, the commissioner said. Well, dead it is. They found his corpse in the Spree.’

  Rath didn’t have to wait long for the full story.

  Heinrich Wosniak’s mortal remains hadn’t made it as far as the Mühlendamm Lock. They had been washed ashore just beyond the Schilling Bridge, when an eagle-eyed pool attendant noticed a white shape floating near the public baths. Using long sticks, he and a colleague reached for the strange, ghost-like bundle, but the fabric ripped, and the corpse broke free and floated to the surface. Forensics took it from there.

  The disfigured face, the burn wounds, the clothing, all pointed towards the mystery killer, and the sheet the body was wrapped inside also contained several cobblestones and a trench dagger with triangular cross-section. Gräf had no hesitation in notifying the commissioner and declaring the case closed. The mass-murderer Benjamin Engel had surfaced, in the truest sense of the word, from the depths of the Spree.

  Much as Magnus von Levetzow advocated caution in dealings with the press, he had no less performance instinct than his predecessors, and a press conference was arranged for that afternoon. Rath decided to tag along uninvited and mingle with the journalists. Towards the back he spied a familiar face for the second time in recent days. ‘Berthold!’

  ‘Gereon! Shouldn’t you be up there?’ Berthold Weinert pointed to the podium.

  ‘It’s not my case anymore.’

  ‘Sorry . . . didn’t mean to offend.’ Weinert was whispering now. ‘Was it political?’

  ‘Just a difference of opinion.’

  ‘Sounds like maybe we should meet for a beer.’

  ‘Let’s see what this lot have to say first.’

  They were all there, even Gennat, hauling his heavy frame up the double step. Buddha hated acting as a figurehead for Commissioner Levetzow, whose sole interest for weeks now had been catching Benjamin Engel and parading him before the public. The commissioner took his seat in the middle, flanked by Gennat and Gräf. Last to take to the stage was Achim von Roddeck. A murmur passed among the journalists. Most recognised his face; many would have been present at the Adlon launch.

  Levetzow opened proceedings, announcing the discovery of the corpse before introducing Gennat. Buddha, in turn, handed the floor to Detective Gräf who, nervously at first, gave a detailed report of the discovery, the trench dagger and the similarity between the corpse and the man who had been sighted around several previous murders.

  ‘We had good reason to proceed on the assumption that we were dealing with the disabled war veteran Benjamin Engel. To eradicate any lingering doubt, only moments ago, we invited someone to identify the body. This man not only knew Benjamin Engel, but has written about him: Lieutenant Baron Achim von Roddeck to whom I bid the warmest of welcomes.’

  Roddeck rose to his feet and made a bow as if he were being applauded, which, Rath was pleased to note, he was not. These journalists had their plus points.

  ‘If Herr von Roddeck would care to provide his own impressions.’

  ‘Gladly, Detective,’ said Roddeck, as his gaze wandered over the room. When he caught sight of Rath he looked momentarily confused, but continued. ‘Though heavily scarred by an explosion sixteen years ago, I am almost certain the corpse is that of Captain Engel.’

  Rath wondered if, were it not for his own presence, the lieutenant might have said absolutely certain as opposed to almost certain. On hearing the almost, Gräf made a surprised face. Roddeck must have been less equivocal in the morgue.

  Gräf went on to explain that the investigation into Engel’s death was still in its infancy, and journalists would be kept abreast of developments.

  ‘From what we know so far, he was stabbed with his own trench dagger. Forensics have discovered seven stab wounds, of which three could have been fatal. As yet we have been unable to reconstruct the precise sequence of events, nor have we isolated the crime scene, although we are looking at an area somewhere in the vicinity of the Brommy Bridge. One hundred emergency officers, along with a canine unit and several forensic technicians, are combing both sides of the Spree.’

  Rath hoped he and Charly had left nothing incriminating behind.

  ‘Feel free,’ Gräf continued, ‘to report that we are seeking witnesses. If anyone noticed anything suspicious in this area between two and two-and-a-half weeks ago, they should contact police headquarters and ask for the Alberich team. We will be issuing a press release to this effect.’

  Rath looked at Weinert’s notepad. He hadn’t written much but raised his hand. ‘One question! Do you have any idea who might be responsible?’

  Gräf left this to Levetzow. ‘Whether or not to go public with this has been a matter of careful consideration,’ the commissioner said, ‘since it looks as though we are not dealing with murder, but with self-defence.’ Magnus von Levetzow glan
ced at Gennat, who ignored the look. ‘We are proceeding on the assumption that Benjamin Engel underestimated his intended victim’s skill in hand-to-hand combat. The man’s only mistake was to dump Engel’s corpse in the Spree rather than notify the police.’

  ‘It sounds as if you have a name, Commissioner,’ Weinert said.

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ Levetzow said. ‘The name of the man responsible for Benjamin Engel’s death, and who – let me emphasise this – has nothing to fear from the criminal prosecution authorities, is . . .’ The journalists reached for their notepads. ‘ . . . Heinrich Wosniak.’

  More than just a murmur passed through the room as the journalists talked over one another.

  ‘Wosniak?’ someone shouted. ‘Wasn’t he the first victim in this series of murders?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Levetzow said. ‘Detective Gräf?’ He handed Gräf a note and the detective looked as if he had been blindsided.

  ‘What the commissioner is referring to is . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘For a short time we have known that Benjamin Engel’s first victim was not Heinrich Wosniak, as . . . Detective Chief Inspector Böhm’s team wrongly stated.’

  Rath suspected Gräf was smearing Böhm on Levetzow’s orders and, for the first time in his life, was angry at hearing his former DCI’s name being dragged through the mire.

  ‘Rather,’ Gräf continued, ‘his name was Gerhard Krumbiegel, a man with whom Wosniak lived for many years as part of a begging gang, and who, like Wosniak, sustained serious burns in an arson attack carried out on New Year’s Eve 1931.’