This ritual was even less appealing. The thought made him decidedly uneasy, but Grigat’s expectant face left him no choice. Time to grit your teeth and get on with it! The result was a horrible sludge that didn’t taste quite as bad as expected.
‘And now we repeat, a dozen or so times.’ Grigat laughed when he saw Rath’s horrified expression. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Pillkaller is more of an evening thing. When you want to get drunk but don’t have much in your stomach.’
Rath resolved to give Chief Constable Grigat a wide berth this evening, if not for the remainder of his stay in Treuburg.
32
The houses on Legasteg were small, with low roofs. Bed sheets lay on the low meadows, bleaching in the afternoon sun. The tired, sluggish river; the crooked little houses – at first glance it appeared idyllic, but poverty was plain to see. Rath knocked on the door of August Simoneit’s former address and waited. There was no bell, neither here nor anywhere else on the street. Probably, most houses had no electricity.
He heard floorboards creaking before the door opened. At first he could hardly make out the man standing in the dark hollow of the entrance hall. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Please excuse the interruption.’
‘We’re not buying.’
‘I’m not trying to sell.’ Rath showed his identification. ‘CID, Berlin. I have a question.’
‘Berlin?’
The man stepped into the sun to take a closer look at the badge. Rath saw a thin, wrinkled face, with blonde hair that was now mostly white. ‘It concerns August Simoneit,’ he said. ‘He used to live here. Do you remember?’
The man looked at him through suspicious eyes and shook his head before closing the door. It wasn’t rude; he didn’t slam it, just closed it without another word.
Taciturn and lightning-fast. Rath remembered how they used to joke about the odd Westphalian officer who strayed into the Rhineland during his years in Cologne.
He knocked again and waited. After a time, the man opened the door again and looked at him inquiringly. He didn’t have a photograph of Simoneit but took pictures of the other two men from his jacket. The man at the door inspected them thoroughly. ‘Do you recognise either of them?’ Rath asked. ‘They used to live in Treuburg.’
The man shook his head. ‘Don’t know them,’ he said, and promptly closed the door a second time.
Rath gave up. It really wasn’t unfriendliness; the people here were just taciturn. It was how they communicated – or didn’t, as the case might be.
It was the same story in the Schmale Gasse, where Wawerka had lived before moving west, only here a woman came to the door – and she proved even more taciturn than the man at Legasteg. Her contribution consisted entirely of headshakes, nods and suspicious glances. She had never heard of a Johann Wawerka.
Unlike the previous two streets, Lamkau’s address on Lindenallee was perfectly presentable, a neat, solidly middle-class little home with a well-maintained garden. Rath stood at the garden gate and, for a moment, considered entering the grounds. He rejected the notion. He felt himself being watched. The whole neighbourhood was probably just waiting for this stranger in the fancy suit to do something illegal so that they could call the police or, better still, reach for their shotguns.
Assmann, the enamel sign read. Rath noted the name and made his way back to the marketplace. It was gone three, but the sun was still beating down. At least the shadows were starting to lengthen, and a few shops had their awnings down. An advertisement on one of the houses gave him an idea. Fahrschule Emil Hermann. A driving school. He rang the bell and asked the instructor about a certain pupil.
‘Lamkau? When would this be?’ Another suspicious Treuburg resident.
‘A good ten years ago.’
The instructor, a well-fed man in his fifties, scratched his chin in careful consideration, but all it yielded was a regretful shrug, and an isolated sentence. ‘Nope, no idea.’
‘Perhaps you have a telephone book?’
Herr Hermann led him through a kind of classroom into his office at the back. As soon as Rath saw the so-called telephone book, he knew it was no use. The sum total of Treuburg’s telephone subscribers, from Adomeit to Zukowski, fitted on a single page hanging from the wall. He had intended to take a note of any Wawerkas, Simoneits and Lamkaus with a view to tracking down potential relatives, but the only thing he found was the number of a certain Dietrich Assmann, the man who lived at Lamkau’s old address. At least he had a telephone, unlike the Lamkaus, Simoneits and Wawerkas of this town.
After making a solitary entry, he clapped his notebook shut. ‘One more thing,’ he said, once driving instructor Hermann had accompanied him to the door. ‘The Luisenhöhe estate and Mathée Korn distillery . . . What’s the best way to get there?’
Emil Hermann looked him up and down. ‘It’s about half an hour on foot,’ he said, at length. ‘Or you can take the light railway to Schwentainen. It stops at Luisenhöhe. Doesn’t go too often, mind.’
‘Thank you.’
Rath returned to find his unsolicited colleague and chaperone exactly where he’d left him: in the catacombs of the district administrative office, surrounded by a mound of files and card boxes. ‘Found anything?’
‘You should know that Prussians are slow on the draw,’ Kowalski replied.
Rath had asked him to scour the archives for mention of the three names. ‘You find anything that links them, you let me know right away.’
Kowalski had been unable to recall anything specific that had happened in Treuburg or Marggrabowa in 1924. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything. I was at the village school in Markowsken; it wasn’t easy keeping up with the world outside.’
Perhaps he wasn’t quite so taciturn after all, at least not in comparison with his fellow East Prussians, but his failure didn’t bother Rath particularly, since the main reason he’d left him trawling through the archives was to buy himself a few hours’ peace. ‘Then spend the afternoon looking through the case files from the district court. Maybe you’ll find something there,’ he said. ‘Focus on 1924 again.’
Kowalski nodded, less than thrilled. ‘How about you? Any luck?’
‘I’m certainly getting to know Treuburg.’ Rath lit a cigarette. ‘I’m going to drive out to the Luisenhöhe estate. Could you pass me the keys . . .’
Kowalski looked reluctant. Evidently his superiors weren’t banking on him handing over the car without a fight. ‘Why don’t I drive you there? I know the way. It’s why I’m here after all.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ Rath gestured towards the dusty mound of files. ‘You’re of more use to me here.’
‘You know,’ Kowalski said, ‘I’m not even sure I’m authorised to lend you the car . . .’
‘It’s a Prussian police vehicle, right?’
‘Right.’
‘What does a Prussian assistant detective say when a Prussian detective inspector requests the use of a vehicle?’
‘He says: “Yes, Sir!”, Detective Inspector, Sir.’
‘There we are.’ Rath gave a satisfied nod and stretched out his right hand for the keys.
The black Wanderer handled well enough, and Rath enjoyed steering through the countryside unaccompanied. The truth was that he preferred working alone; somehow it allowed him to think better. He took the B road to Schwentainen, but quickly realised it was a mistake. A farmer on a hay cart sent him back to Treuburg, where he was to take the road to Lyck. He reached the railway line within ten minutes and, shortly after that, the stop with the lightly rusted sign. LUISENHÖHE. With its high chimneys, the brick distillery appeared more like a factory than an estate building. The name Mathée was printed on the pediment in the same ornate writing as on the Luisenbrand bottles; below, in much smaller, simple block letters was the rubric Brennerei Gut Luisenhöhe. Luisenhöhe Distillery. A low, modern annexe, behind which two large copper storage tanks glistened in the sunlight, marked the boundary of a paved square, upon which two trucks containi
ng barley malt waited to be unloaded.
The quantities that must be produced here! This was no provincial operation distilling cheap schnapps for Treuburg and its outlying villages.
Rath parked the car in the courtyard and spoke to the nearest worker. ‘Where can I find the boss around here?’
‘You mean the operations manager or the managing director?’
‘Director Wengler,’ he said, displaying Lamkau’s driving licence photo. ‘Or anyone who can tell me about this man. Herbert Lamkau.’ The worker looked at the photo briefly and shrugged. ‘He never put in an appearance here? Lamkau was a distributor, a pretty important one too, I might add.’
The worker gestured towards the top of the hill. ‘Director Wengler has his office up there in the estate house.’
‘Many thanks,’ Rath said. ‘Wait a minute . . .1924 . . . That was the year Herr Lamkau left town, along with a few other men. I suspect something happened here that forced their hand. Any idea what it might be?’
Again the worker shrugged, but this time Rath sensed he was lying; the man knew exactly what had happened eight years ago.
A shaded avenue led up to the estate house, which wasn’t nearly as ostentatious as he had imagined: more large villa than small castle. He parked in front of a stoop, and no sooner had he got out of the car than a man in a suit descended the steps. Either they were permanently on guard here, or the distillery worker below had telephoned up to the house.
‘Good afternoon,’ the suit said, sounding excessively polite. He had the air of a bookkeeper.
‘Herr Wengler?’
‘I’m afraid Herr Wengler is away on business; we’re not expecting him back before evening.’ The man stretched out a hand. ‘Fischer’s the name. I’m Herr Wengler’s private secretary. With whom do I have the pleasure?’
‘Rath, CID.’
The secretary didn’t look overly surprised. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’
Rath showed him the driving licence photo. ‘I need some information about this man,’ he said. ‘Herbert Lamkau. A business associate of Herr Wengler’s.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not responsible for Herr Wengler’s business affairs. But I could make you an appointment to see him.’ Fischer pulled out a little black book and leafed through it. ‘You’re in luck. There’s a small window tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.’
‘You’re in luck too.’ Rath handed the secretary his card. ‘Tell Herr Wengler I’ll be with him at ten.’
33
The day had begun with a mound of carrots that needed peeling, a doddle in comparison with chopping onions. Then, immediately after lunch, Unger had summoned Charly to his office. The head chef had a pile of correspondence to deal with, and, after dictating various letters, had left her to type them up.
Working quickly, she used the opportunity to rummage through Unger’s drawers. The window glass prevented a systematic search, but she managed an overview as she feigned looking for paperclips or envelopes.
She didn’t strike lucky until the filing shelves, where, right at the top, she stumbled on a folder marked Complaints. After skimming the copies inside, she surmised that they were letters of complaint sent by Unger on behalf of the Kempinski firm. It was unappetising stuff. One was a complaint addressed to Fehling Foods about a venison delivery overrun with maggots, another concerned a pallet of rotten eggs from Friedrichsen Eggs and Poultry.
Hearing the door open behind her she returned the folder to the shelf, and looked around to find Manfred Unger ogling her legs.
‘What is it you’re looking for, Fräulein Ritter?’
‘I’m finished with your correspondence and thought I might file the copies.’ She dismounted her stool.
‘No need to go up there.’
He took a folder from the shelf in front of her. +++ Korrespondenz 1932 +++ the cover said.
‘Another classic case.’ Charly laughed.
‘A classic case of what?’
‘Failing to see the wood for the trees.’
She opened the folder and returned to the desk. Luckily, she really had finished her typing. Unger regarded her benevolently as she reached for the punch and began filing the copies. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything. ‘You just need to sign,’ she said, placing the originals in front of him.
He tore his gaze away and turned to signing correspondence that was perfectly harmless compared to what she had just found. ‘If you could take these to the post office and then call it a night. You’ll find envelopes and stamps in the flat drawer at the top.’
She nodded demurely. She already knew where they were kept, but there was no reason for Unger to find out. ‘Many thanks, Herr Unger.’ At the desk she began folding the letters and placing them in their envelopes.
Unger gazed at her legs for a final time before disappearing inside the kitchen. It seemed like there was a lot going on today; he was everywhere issuing instructions, but still glanced periodically in her direction.
Did he suspect? Surely not but, even so, she didn’t dare reach for the Complaints folder a second time. She had seen enough, even if she hadn’t found anything addressed to Lamkau. Gereon’s hunch appeared to have been borne out. The letters were odd, not so much for their sharpness of tone as their ambiguities. Despite reading no more than two or three, she had noticed straightaway that they weren’t letters of complaint. They were letters of extortion.
34
The lounge was filled with smoke despite the early hour. Two men stood at the bar speaking in hushed tones; three others sat at a table playing skat, noisy only when they revealed their hands. By the window, a solitary old man in hard-wearing corduroy slacks and woollen pullover crouched over a glass of schnapps. A wiry, bespectacled man in his mid-thirties dressed in a coarse linen suit with elbow patches ate a light supper on his own. Rath nursed his beer at the only other table, hoping that Chief Constable Grigat avoided this dive, and that no one else decided to stand him a Pillkaller.
The risk seemed slight as, so far, the patrons had scrupulously ignored him. Only the man in the linen suit had looked up as he entered the lounge, appraising him openly through wire-framed spectacles. The most from anyone else was the occasional stolen glance. He had planned to have a drink at the bar and engage in conversation with the landlord and his locals, but the suspicion he’d met on entry made him plump for the window instead.
Assistant Detective Kowalski had offered to accompany him, but, after releasing him from the district archive, Rath had sent him on a bar crawl of his own, to do a little nosing around his compatriots, and to leave the ‘Herr Inspector’ in peace.
The wall of silence since he’d started asking about Lamkau, Simoneit and Wawerka made him suspicious. This wasn’t simply East Prussian reticence, more like a conspiracy everyone was in on. The contents of Grigat’s police file were sketchy at best, and Kowalski had spent the afternoon trawling through the archives in vain. Rath didn’t know if he should trust him.
There was nothing for it but to keep chivvying the stubborn fools until one of them offered more than a shrug. There was no doubt his mere presence was getting to them. He didn’t have to ask any questions.
He lit a cigarette and raised his by now empty glass. At least the landlord wasn’t ignoring him, and began tapping out a fresh beer. That was the kind of reserve he could deal with. He had taken his evening meal in a pretty little restaurant by the lakeshore, eschewing the Salzburger Hof, and with it Chief Constable Grigat. Kowalski had given him the name of the bar here; ‘Pritzkus’s is where the ordinary folk meet,’ he had said, and it was true. Ordinary folk, who didn’t take kindly to strangers.
He placed the photos of Lamkau and Wawerka on the table as the landlord approached with his beer. ‘Do you recognise either of these men? Herbert Lamkau, Hans Wawerka. Or does the name August Simoneit mean anything to you?’
‘It’s possible they drank here from time to time. Must’ve been a good while ago though.’
‘Eight years.
’
‘Back then my father was still in charge.’
Rath dared to hope. ‘Would it be possible to speak to him?’
The landlord shook his head. ‘I’m afraid we buried him two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ but the landlord had disappeared to take the skat players’ latest order.
He stood up and took the two photos over to the old man, who sat alone with his schnapps and a fat cigar that didn’t seem to get any shorter. The man didn’t look like he was expecting company, let alone conversation. Rath showed him the photos all the same. ‘Good evening. I’m looking for someone who can tell me about this man.’ The old man puffed on his cheroot. ‘Herbert Lamkau. Does the name mean anything to you? Or this man here. Johann Wawerka.’ Silence. ‘They lived here, eight years ago. You’re old enough to remember them. How about August Simoneit? I don’t have a photo of him, unfortunately.’ The man mumbled something incomprehensible without removing the cheroot from his mouth. ‘Pardon me?’
The man removed the cigar and repeated what he’d just said. He spoke loudly and clearly, but Rath didn’t understand a word. Whatever language he was using, it wasn’t German.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rath said, taking his photos and standing up. ‘I didn’t realise you were Polish. I thought you were from here.’
The man glared at him, and conversation at the surrounding tables ceased. Suddenly, he started so violently from his chair that his drink overturned, his eyes sparkling with rage.
‘Ne jem Polak,’ the man said, genuinely outraged, ‘jestem Prußakiem.’
Rath raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Easy now, easy! I’m not sure what you thought you heard, but I don’t have anything against Poles.’
The man wouldn’t be appeased. Already alarmingly close, he took another step towards Rath and emitted a Babylonian torrent of words, accompanying the outburst by slamming his fist on the table. Rath took a step back. He’d never have guessed the residents here, whether Polish or German, could say so much in one go.
The Fatherland Files Page 18
