The cop standing in the rain on Stresemannstrasse had already seen the murder wagon. ‘Goods entrance, Inspector!’ The man gestured towards Köthener Strasse and saluted.
‘Inspector’s on his way,’ Gräf said. He folded the window back up and instructed the driver to take a right.
He wasn’t in the best of moods. The sole accompanying officer was Assistant Detective Lange, who, like Gräf, had been on night shift in Homicide. They had roused the stenographer, Christel Temme, from her bed, before collecting her in Schöneberg, otherwise there was only the driver. Gräf hadn’t been able to reach anyone else in the twilight hour between midnight and morning, not even an inspector. Despite being on standby, Gereon Rath wasn’t answering his phone. After four failed attempts Gräf had lost heart and climbed into the Maybach with Lange, picking up the stenographer en route and heading for the crime scene. The journey had passed in silence, broken only by Lange’s superfluous remark.
Of course it was Haus Vaterland. Köthener Strasse took them along the dim rear side of the building, past an endless row of high round arches, meagrely lit by the gas of the street lamps. Once upon a time Ufa, the film production company, had resided here, but since then the Kempinski group had spared no expense in redeveloping the enormous complex from scratch, converting it into Berlin’s largest pleasure palace. As a result Haus Vaterland now provided your average provincial tourist with everything they could hope for from a night out in the metropolis, from food, dance and booze, to scantily clad revue girls – and all under the same, one roof.
Threads of rain glistened in the dazzling electric light that filtered through an open gate at the back of the building. The goods entrance was situated as far away as possible from the busy Stresemannstrasse. A light-coloured delivery van was parked on the street corner with its rear doors open, alongside a dark-red Horch. The Maybach nestled in behind, and the driver moved to open the door for Gräf.
‘That’ll do, Schröder. I’m hardly the police commissioner.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
The slogan Mathée Luisenbrand, der schmeckt was visible on the side of the van, and underneath, in smaller letters: Herbert Lamkau, Spirits Merchant. Gräf pulled his hat down over his face as the rain grew heavier.
‘Don’t forget the camera,’ he barked at Lange, who was already making a move to find shelter. He hadn’t meant to sound so ill-tempered, but he wanted there to be no doubt about who was in charge while the duty inspector was conspicuous by his absence. Lange shouldn’t go getting any ideas: so long as he was still completing his inspector training, he retained his old rank of assistant detective. Only time would tell whether he would pass the final examination.
The assistant detective moved stolidly towards the boot of the murder wagon, gave it a jolt, then another, more forceful this time. Still, nothing happened. Gräf knew that the flap sometimes became wedged in the rain. There was a knack to it. Surely, in all the months he had been at Alex, Lange had thought to ask?
Gräf rounded the puddles and approached the goods entrance and the uniform cop standing guard. The rain that had pooled in the brim of his hat splashed on the concrete floor as he lowered his head to fumble for his identification. The cop stepped to one side to avoid getting water on his boots.
‘Beg to report: First Sergeant Reuter, 16th precinct, Vossstrasse. We were notified of the corpse by telephone at approximately four thirty-two this morning. I examined the site in person and promptly informed Homicide.’
‘Anything so far?’
‘Nothing, Inspector, only that . . .’
‘Detective,’ Gräf said. ‘The inspector’s on his way.’
‘Beg to report: no findings, Detective, other than that the man is dead.’
‘So, where’s the corpse?’
‘Up there.’
‘On the roof?’
‘In the goods elevator. Fourth floor. Or third. It got stuck.’
Gräf looked around. To the left were two plain metal elevator doors. To the right was a concrete staircase leading up.
‘We haven’t allowed anyone to use the elevators,’ the cop said. ‘On account of Forensics.’
‘Very good,’ Gräf said. Such a precaution was by no means a given with Uniform, even though Gennat never tired of lecturing its troops on the fundamentals of modern police work. ‘Have there been any issues as a result?’
‘Only with the pathologist. When he realised he had to take the stairs.’
‘Are there no passenger lifts?’
‘Any number, but not back here. Towards the front of the building, in the central hall.’
Gräf sighed and nodded in the direction of the stenographer who, having just joined, was now shaking out her umbrella. ‘We need to take the stairs, Fräulein Temme,’ he said, and opened the door. He just had time to see Lange finally prise open the boot before starting the trek up to the fourth floor.
A handful of men gazed at them as they emerged from the stairwell. Alongside the uniform cop standing watch was a guard from the Berlin Security Corps; next to him, a man easily identifiable as a chef; then a worker in overalls; and, finally, a wiry, elegantly dressed gentleman whose sand-coloured summer suit bore dark flecks of rain. In the space of a few quick glances, Gräf acquired an overview: behind him the door to the stairwell, on the wall to his left two windows, and on the wall opposite the two elevator doors. The left-hand door was open, revealing a gloomy shaft and a thick wire rope from which the car hung. Being jammed, only the upper two-thirds were visible. The light in the car was still on, illuminating a large pile of plywood crates of schnapps that stood on a wire mesh cart. The name Mathée Luisenbrand was branded in ornate lettering on the wood.
Der schmeckt, Gräf thought, removing his identification. Tastes good. ‘So, tell me what happened,’ he said.
Before the cop or anyone else could speak, the man in the suit jumped in. His unkempt hair was testament to the fact that he had been rudely awakened.
‘I just can’t explain it, Inspector, it’s all so . . .’
‘Detective,’ Gräf corrected. ‘The inspector will be here soon.’
‘Fleischer, Director Richard Fleischer.’ The man in the suit proffered a hand. ‘I’m in charge of Haus Vaterland.’
‘I see.’
‘I hope we can handle this unfortunate incident with discretion, Detective. Not to say, speed. We open in a few hours and . . .’
‘We’ll see,’ Gräf said.
Director Fleischer looked vexed. He wasn’t used to being interrupted, and certainly not twice in quick succession.
‘All of our elevators,’ Fleischer continued, ‘even the freight elevators and dumbwaiters are regularly serviced. The last time was three months ago. After all, we have seventeen lifts in our building and simply cannot allow . . .’
‘Your freight elevator jammed though, didn’t it?’
Fleischer seemed offended. ‘As you can no doubt see for yourself, but that isn’t what killed Herr Lamkau.’
‘Why don’t you leave the detective work to us? Is the dead man known to you?’
‘He’s one of our suppliers.’
Gräf nodded, and gazed towards the elevator car, in which a shadow was moving. Suddenly a lean figure in a white coat appeared next to the schnapps, and a blonde, neatly parted head of hair poked its way out of the car. Although Dr Karthaus measured almost six foot three, it was impossible to make out more than his head and shoulders.
‘Well, if it isn’t the Berlin Criminal Police.’ Karthaus’s words rang metallic and hollow from the shaft.
‘Dr Karthaus! How is it you always get here before us?’
‘I wouldn’t complain if I were you. Just be glad it’s me who’s on duty. Dr Schwartz would have refused to climb in here. At his age, he probably wouldn’t have managed either.’
‘Well,’ Gräf said. ‘This job makes no allowances for age.’
‘You’re right there,’ Karthaus said. ‘Still, I’d rather be working than standing here t
widdling my thumbs.’
Gräf went over and peered inside the car. The dead man lay next to his delivery, and was dressed in light-grey shopkeeper’s overalls. His face was pale, with blue lips. Above him a red cloth was tied to the wire mesh, its material sodden. The hair, too, was glistening wet, likewise the man’s shoulders, where his overalls had taken on a dark-grey hue. There was evidence of a puddle by his head, its remains now trickling out towards the corner of the elevator.
‘Been in the rain, has he?’
The pathologist shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask Forensics. Let’s hope they’re here soon.’
‘They’re on their way.’
‘Where’s our inspector?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Gräf said, gesturing towards the door, where the tip of a camera tripod had emerged from the stairwell. ‘First, Lange here will take some photographs. After that you can attend to the corpse.’
Placing the camera and tripod on his shoulders, Lange gazed around curiously. Gräf nodded towards the elevator, and the assistant detective understood.
‘Good morning, Doctor,’ Lange said, lowering the heavy device into the elevator car. ‘Could I pass that over to you?’
Gräf returned to the witnesses. ‘Who found the dead man?’
The chef raised his hand like a schoolboy. ‘I did, Detective.’
‘Herr Unger is one of our head chefs,’ prompted Fleischer.
Gräf was growing frustrated by the man’s constant interruptions. ‘Where were you when the corpse was discovered, Herr Direktor?’
‘Me?’ Fleischer hesitated. ‘At home of course. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m just surprised that a man like you should be here in person at this time.’
‘A dead body has been found! I was notified by security, as you would expect, and immediately made my way over.’
‘In that case I commend you,’ Gräf said, giving a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Still, I assume these men were actually on site when the corpse was discovered.’
Guard, chef and worker’s-overalls nodded as one.
‘Right. Then I’ll question you three first. Is there somewhere more private we can talk?’
‘You . . .ah . . .you could use my office,’ Fleischer said.
‘Good idea. Does it have a telephone?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then please show me and Fräulein Temme here the way, and round up all those present when the corpse was discovered.’
Fleischer nodded and started off. ‘If you would follow me. It’s two floors down.’
There was a flash from the elevator. Lange had started taking photographs. Gräf sighed. All he had to do now was find out where the hell Gereon Rath was hiding, then perhaps the day might be salvaged after all.
2
Dawn shimmered grey-blue through the glass roof, displacing the tired light of the electric bulbs. Voices murmured, policemen whistled, the tannoy scratched. The big station clock showed twenty-three minutes past five, and Rath had the feeling that most people were just as tired as him – in spite of the noise they were making. After two cups of black coffee he still felt outside of himself, as if he were hovering above the station observing his body’s movements. A tall, dark-haired man in a light-grey summer suit and hat, carrying a platform ticket in one hand and a bouquet of flowers and a red dog lead in the other. A tired man passing through the barrier, with an equally sleepy-looking dog in tow.
It had only occurred to him to buy flowers when he was outside the station. He had seen a light on in the concourse and knocked on the windowpane. The girl had kindly interrupted sorting the freshly delivered flowers to make up a bouquet. Now here they stood on the platform, all dressed up with nowhere to go: a man, a dog and a bouquet of flowers.
Rath stretched, standing on tiptoes to get the blood pumping. Reaching for the cigarette case in his inside jacket pocket, he wedged the flowers under his arm and lit an Overstolz. The truth was he shouldn’t be here. He was on standby, which meant he must be contactable at all times. Usually people simply informed headquarters where they could be reached if they didn’t want to spend the whole weekend by the telephone. In this way Rath suspected that Buddha Ernst Gennat, the chief of Homicide, had built up a pretty clear idea of how his officers spent their free time, knowing, as he did, the bars, theatres, cinemas, gymnasiums, race tracks and even the women they frequented. It was why under normal circumstances Rath chose to perform his duties from home, as he had done this morning, before ducking out to Bahnhof Zoo. Still, he would only be gone for half an hour, three-quarters of an hour tops. What could possibly go wrong?
Recently, homicide cases had been few and far between – if, that is, you discounted the activities of Communists and Nazis, who seemed to take increasing pleasure in killing one another, ever since the new regime had lifted the SA ban imposed by the Brüning government. Only yesterday there had been gunfights in Wedding and Moabit. The result: one dead Nazi, eight additional casualties. Such cases were handled by local CID forces, if anyone from Alex attended then it would be the political police. Otherwise, suicide was still king. Someone had blown their brains out in Grunewald, while in Bernauer Strasse, a woman had thrown her five-year-old child out of the window before following herself. The usual madness, then.
Rarely had his work in Homicide felt so futile. Rath had always thought that police were there to maintain law and order, but recently it seemed their only role was to pick up the pieces.
There was a scratch on the tannoy and a military-sounding voice announced that the Northern Express would arrive after a delay of approximately ten minutes. Rath flicked his Overstolz onto the platform and reached for another. One more smoke and she’d be here. He felt more and more nervous the longer he was made to wait. It was just him on the platform, no grinning man, no Greta, no one else who might get in the way; two telephone calls had been enough to see to that. He knew that most of Charly’s friends preferred to give him a wide berth, or perhaps it was the other way around, he couldn’t say for sure. He had never known quite what to make of all these students and lawyers.
Accompanying Charly to the station last autumn, he had felt simply lousy, but now that she was on her way home, he scarcely felt any better. Her single semester in Paris had become two. Though they had exchanged many letters and spoken regularly on the telephone, they had only met once, a few weeks after her departure, and endured a frantic night of lovemaking in a Cologne hotel, before saying their goodbyes. Rath’s plan to spend Christmas with her in Paris had been scotched when he hadn’t been able to get the time off.
A contract killer was on the loose, a sniper who picked off his victims with a single shot to the heart, before vanishing without trace. A flashy Berlin lawyer had been gunned down in front of the opera house in Charlottenburg and, with only the bullet to go on, Czerwinski, the portly detective, had made a quip about the ‘phantom of the opera’. The press had gleefully seized on the name.
The Phantom, as the triggerman was now known in official circles, had gifted police officers a Christmas ban on leave, but Rath had consoled himself with the knowledge that Charly would be returning in mid-February. Perhaps they might even catch the man before New Year’s Eve, in which case he could at least decamp to Paris for the Bells.
Sadly, neither came to pass.
They hadn’t caught the Phantom, neither before New Year’s Eve nor after. The unidentified sniper had continued to strike, and was responsible for at least two further deaths, possibly more, and had become a symbol of failure for the otherwise celebrated Berlin Homicide Division.
As for Charly’s return . . . At the end of January, two weeks before she was due home, she had sent a telegram to say that Professor Weyer had extended her contract. Rath had pretended to share her joy and extended his congratulations, keeping his true thoughts to himself. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly in Paris. Fräulein Charlotte Ritter was beginning to make a name for herself in the legal world. In Gereon Rath’s world, ho
wever, things weren’t quite as smooth, and the photo she had left him appeared so unreal it was as if the person depicted no longer existed . . .
. . .but all that was over now. She was coming back, and he had sworn never again to be apart from her for so long, had sworn, finally, to take his life into his own hands.
He threw the stub of his second cigarette on the track bed as the loudspeaker announced the train’s arrival. Rath stood up straight, tugged at his suit and gazed into the lights that were gradually emerging out of the dawn, noiselessly at first, until the Northern Express rumbled into the station, hissing and steaming, and filling the air with a loud, metallic squeal. A series of midnight-blue sleeping cars passed, moving ever more slowly until the train eventually came to a halt with a final sizzle of its valves.
It felt as if time had stood still, until the doors flew open and people flooded out, filling the platform with noise and chatter. Rath craned his neck, searching for Charly’s slim figure, but it was hopeless in the mayhem. He had to take a step back to avoid being knocked down. Suddenly Kirie barked, wagged her tail vigorously and pulled on the lead with all her might. Rath yielded, allowing her to lead him through the crowd.
Charly was on the platform, and he was so bowled over by the sight of her that for a moment he stood rooted to the spot. Kirie howled as the lead tightened, and gazed up at him in confusion. Charly had scarcely changed but, somehow, he almost failed to recognise her.
Her hair was different, in a shorter, new cut, her dark locks tinged with an unfamiliar, red sheen. Her hat must be new, too, as well as her coat and her shoes. Her appearance contradicted his mental image of her to such an extent that he was overcome by a feeling of estrangement. He shot up an arm and waved the bouquet until, at last, she saw him. When she smiled, the dimple on her left cheek made her a little more familiar. The dog kept pulling, and positively dragged Rath towards her.
Kirie jumped up to lick Charly’s face, and Rath was so overjoyed by Charly’s laughter that he stood and watched until long after Kirie had settled back into wagging her tail and barking. For a moment they stared at each other without words.
The Fatherland Files Page 2
