The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  She tried not to show her relief. The boy seemed familiar with the machine and got down to work straightaway. Unger was almost smiling, something she had never seen before. He cleared his throat. ‘Fräulein Ritter . . . They’re short of tomatoes in the salad kitchen. Fetch five crates from the store and then you can finish for the day.’

  Finish for the day. How good those words sounded, but she was already thinking like a kitchen maid. It didn’t matter that she’d made no progress on surveillance, it was time to get the hell out of here!

  She threw her dripping apron in the large wash basket next to the time clock, debated whether to put on another apron for the tomatoes, and decided against. Her clothes were due a wash anyway.

  She knew the way, but the store was big and disorganised and the tomatoes hard to find. There were several shelves full of fresh vegetables, as well as a few tins. Next to the entrance were four huge crates of potatoes. The tomatoes were in a dark corner towards the back. At least two dozen crates. She wondered how many needed shifting here every day. Finding a handcart, she started loading the crates when an echo sounded from the concrete walls. She had left the heavy door open, but now heard it click shut.

  Goddamn it, some idiot had closed the door! Whoever it was, perhaps they’d still be on hand to help.

  She loaded the next crate and gave a start. Black-and-white shepherd’s check pants. Manfred Unger had arrived as if by magic, watching her go about her work. She put down the crate and stood up straight. ‘Crikey!’ she said, attempting a smile. ‘You gave me quite a fright.’

  She didn’t say it was the second time already today. Was he checking up on her? Or did he want to speak to her in private about yesterday?

  ‘My apologies,’ he said, smiling his strange smile as he drew closer. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Fräulein Ritter. I just wanted to tell you – privately – how glad I am to have you on board. And how much I value your work.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much,’ she said, feeling uneasy.

  ‘I hope to have some office work for you soon. Then you won’t have to get so dirty. A pretty thing like you.’

  ‘Office work sounds good, thank you, but please don’t think I consider this sort of thing beneath me.’

  ‘And you’re wet . . .’ He looked at her. ‘You need to get that dress dry as soon as possible, otherwise you’ll catch cold.’

  ‘Lucky I’m about to finish then.’ She fetched the last crate from the shelf.

  ‘Yes, lucky.’ He stood next to her now, closer than good manners allowed. ‘But we still have a good quarter of an hour.’ She would have taken a step back, but the shelf was in the way.

  At that moment Unger pounced, so suddenly that she dropped the crate. Seven, eight tomatoes rolled across the floor, but he was unperturbed. He seized her waist and drew her against him. She felt his erection, and then his lips on hers. He tried to thrust his tongue down her throat, but she managed to turn away.

  ‘Herr Unger,’ she said in outrage and disgust. ‘What are you doing? You’re forgetting yourself!’

  She heard him panting, and her disgust rose further still. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘What’s the big deal? The door’s closed, we won’t be disturbed.’ She tried to free herself from his vice-like grip. ‘I’ve had my eye on you from the start, and when I saw you in Linkstrasse yesterday, in that dive, I knew. That Ritter, I said to myself, she’s a good-time girl.’

  ‘Herr Unger, please.’

  So he had seen her yesterday, and drawn the wrong conclusion. The man seemed to think she was some kind of whore.

  ‘You drive me wild,’ he panted. ‘The way you wiggle your backside when you know I’m watching.’

  ‘Herr Unger, I’m afraid your imagination is running away with you. Now let me go!’

  It was no good. He held her firm and began groping her. When he laid his right hand on her breasts, she’d had enough, and gave the bastard a good, hard slap.

  He gazed at her blankly, holding his cheek and breathing heavily. Then suddenly those eyes that had been so full of lust moments before showed only contempt. ‘So, you’re one of those, are you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Drive me wild by the dishwasher. For this!’

  ‘Drive you wild? I was working! No one’s forcing you to stare at my backside.’

  ‘You mustn’t think you’re irreplaceable. There are plenty of people who’d do anything to work at Haus Vaterland!’

  ‘Well, not me!’

  ‘Oh?’ Unger looked as if he were about to spit at her feet. ‘But you put out for a black? You goddamn whore.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You heard me!’

  There was such contempt in the gaunt head chef’s voice that she thought he might actually spit. Instead, he turned around and bolted. She heard the door open again, then click shut.

  Her hands were shaking. After taking a deep breath she squatted to pick up the tomatoes. Unger had trodden on one, and she threw its pulpy remains into the bin by the door. The crates were stacked, but it was some time before she felt ready to return to the kitchen. She pushed the handcart in front of her, fists inwardly raised, but there was no sign of Unger, neither in the kitchen nor behind the glass wall of his office. Was he gone already, too embarrassed to confront her? She took the tomatoes through to the salad kitchen and returned the handcart to the store. Then she went to the bathroom and washed her hands thoroughly. It was still early, but she didn’t care, she left Haus Vaterland as quickly as she could, praying she wouldn’t run into Unger again.

  In the street she inhaled deeply, as if she’d been holding her breath the whole time she’d been inside. Time for a quick shower at Spenerstrasse to wash away the day’s dirt. The U-Bahn steps were on the far side of the building. The Buick was still in Moabit as it didn’t fit her cover story. So far she hadn’t benefited much from Gereon leaving it, meaning she was looking forward to her Wannsee trip all the more. Perhaps she’d take the Avus and vent her anger on the gas pedal. Fucking men.

  There was a build-up of traffic on Stresemannstrasse, apparently stretching all the way back to Anhalter Bahnhof. Less patient drivers turned into side streets or made U-turns; others sought refuge in their horns. The cyclists calmly snaked their way past the cars towards the intersection, until they, too, were obliged to stop. The traffic lights at Potsdamer Platz showed red, and red they stayed.

  Was the officer in the tower asleep?

  Perhaps he was, for just then she saw a traffic cop emerging from Josty and crossing the intersection, where he hastily scaled the ladder leading to the tower. Moments later, the lights on Stresemannstrasse changed to green. An avalanche of metal stirred, and the chorus of horns fell silent.

  She was about to make her way to the U-Bahn when she caught sight of a dark-red Horch parked in the shadow of the traffic tower, two of its wheels encroaching on the grass-covered island in the middle of the intersection. A white coat emerged, and as she wondered what Dr Karthaus was doing at Potsdamer Platz, the heavy black murder wagon raced towards her from the direction of Leipziger Strasse, screeching to a halt behind the Horch. Straightaway she knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere near the Wannsee that afternoon.

  50

  Wilhelm Böhm hated being late. It was ironic, therefore, that he had chosen a profession where he was condemned to appear after the horse had bolted. When, that is, someone had died in unnatural or unexplained circumstances, and an investigation had to be launched. Perhaps it explained his notorious ill temper.

  At any rate, it explained his ill temper that Sunday afternoon. He had only agreed to standby duty because Inspector Rath was gadding about in East Prussia and A Division were short of men, which, come to think of it, was also the reason he’d taken on Rath’s latest case. Someone had to do the work around here. To cap it all, he’d been called out straight after lunch, just when he’d laid his head down for a nap.

  He still didn’t know exactly what had happened, only that a police officer had died during his s
hift in the traffic tower. Probably a heart attack, he thought, as he hauled his heavy frame up the narrow ladder, and being no steeplejack here I am running the same risk.

  It was no use. When a policeman died in the line of duty you were obliged to investigate.

  A helping hand met him as he gained the hatch. Superintendent Kronberg from ED. Böhm pulled himself up and looked around. The narrow room was busier than its architect would have intended. Aside from Kronberg and Dr Karthaus, a uniform cop, wearing the white gloves and sleeves of the Traffic Police, stared nervously out of the window as he operated the lights. On the floor lay a dead man, likewise a traffic cop, though somewhat older and heavier than his colleague. He looked as though he wouldn’t have had long to wait for retirement; just his luck to keel over on duty.

  A horn beeped, and the cop at the controls started cursing. ‘They’re still going crazy on Stresemannstrasse, but I can’t keep ’em on green just ’cause they’ve been stuck on red for the last half-hour.’

  He appeared helpless, as if awaiting instructions. Böhm felt he was agitated by the traffic chaos, rather than his dead colleague.

  Kronberg handed him an identification. ‘Wengler, Siegbert,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Major. Born 1880 in Danzig.’

  Böhm took the identification and nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Still waiting for reinforcements.’

  ‘That’ll make things even cosier.’ He climbed over Dr Karthaus, who was leaning over the corpse, and approached the traffic officer.

  ‘Was it you who found the corpse?’ The man nodded. Operating the lights and answering questions was evidently too much. ‘Did you know the dead man?’ Böhm continued. A shrug. ‘Damn it, man, make your report,’ the DCI barked without warning. ‘Name and rank.’

  The cop stood to attention, clicked his heels in fright. ‘Eckert. Constable Eckert, Inspector, Sir.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector. Yes, Sir.’

  ‘There we go!’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Are you Herr Wengler’s relief?’

  ‘Beg to report: no, Sir.’

  ‘Do I have to drag it out of you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I mean: no, Detective Chief Inspector, Sir!’ The cop halted the traffic on Leipziger Strasse and switched the lights on Stresemannstrasse to green. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. He turned to face Böhm once more. ‘Beg to report: I am not the relief, the shift change was over two hours ago. It should be Constable Scholz on duty, but instead I find Sergeant Major Wengler. Dead.’

  ‘So you did know the dead man?’

  ‘Not personally, Sir. I knew his name and rank. Bit of a lone wolf.’

  ‘Where is Scholz?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, Sir. Headquarters reported issues at Potsdamer Platz and I was sent to investigate. That’s when I found Sergeant Major Wengler.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I submitted my report to headquarters, Sir. Then I set things in order.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t touch anything!’

  ‘Beg to report, no, Sir. I mean: order on the roads. I didn’t touch anything. Apart from the switch for the traffic light signal . . .’

  ‘Well, at least you’re wearing gloves.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  The hatch opened and a prehistoric-looking camera appeared, followed by the head of Andreas Lange. The assistant detective had great difficulty in fitting the camera and tripod stand through the gap.

  ‘Get someone to take over here,’ Böhm said to the cop. ‘I need to talk to you. Downstairs in the murder wagon.’

  ‘With respect, Sir, you’ll have to request relief for me.’

  ‘Can’t you call someone yourself?’

  ‘Beg to report: I am not permitted to leave my post to make telephone calls.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ Böhm gestured towards the telephone attached to the control panel. ‘What do you think that is, an iron?’

  ‘It’s a telephone, Sir!’

  ‘Then why don’t you use it, Constable?’ Böhm was about to lose his temper.

  ‘I had to telephone from Café Josty just now, Sir.’ Constable Eckert pointed at the device. ‘That thing’s as dead as Sergeant Major Wengler.’

  It took less than ten minutes for the relief to arrive, and now five officers stood at the intersection regulating traffic the old-fashioned way – by using their arms. Böhm didn’t want anyone touching the controls until further notice.

  The murder wagon’s soft leather bench had been designed for heavyweights like Ernst Gennat. Böhm felt decidedly more at ease than in the cramped confines of the traffic tower. Constable Eckert sat opposite and explained what had happened again for the record. Next to Böhm, Christel Temme eagerly noted each word, including at least twenty ‘beg to reports’ and even more ‘Yes, Sirs!’

  According to Eckert, it was around half past three when someone noticed that the traffic lights for Stresemannstrasse and Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse had been flashing a continuous red. Traffic Police Headquarters in Magazinstrasse had been informed, and from there they had tried to make contact with the traffic tower. By that stage, however, the line was already dead. Forensics had since confirmed that someone had severed the connection. Headquarters had sent a traffic officer, already on duty in the vicinity, to check that everything was in order – the same Constable Eckert who now sat opposite from Böhm, shako wedged under his arm.

  ‘I climbed back down to call it in, Sir. After that I began dispersing the traffic on Stresemannstrasse.’

  Böhm nodded. ‘Did you mention that your colleague Scholz had failed to appear for duty.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Did headquarters offer an explanation? Is Scholz sick?’

  Eckert shook his head. ‘No, Sir. Constable Scholz’s shift began at two. He’s usually very reliable.’

  Böhm scratched his chin. ‘Albeit he failed to show today . . .’

  ‘Or came and went.’

  ‘You’re saying that Constable Scholz killed his fellow officer?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Eckert shrugged. ‘Perhaps he made a run for it when he saw the body. Lost his nerve.’ The constable paused. ‘That said . . .’

  ‘What do you mean “that said”?’

  ‘The shift change was at two . . .but it wasn’t until an hour and a half later that anyone noticed the traffic tower was unmanned. That’s strange.’

  ‘Strange, indeed.’ Böhm scratched his chin. ‘What happens if the relief doesn’t show? You hold position?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Of course.’

  ‘So it could be that Wengler continued directing traffic after his shift was over.’

  ‘Beg to report: he’d have contacted headquarters to request relief.’

  ‘Not if the telephone line was down.’ Böhm looked at Eckert. ‘What would you have done if you were on duty and the relief failed to show? Imagine the line is dead, forget about why.’

  The constable hunched his shoulders. ‘The same as just now. I’d have gone across to Josty, or found a telephone booth and informed headquarters from there. Then held position.’

  Böhm nodded. ‘Good. That’s all for now. You can go, Constable, but please continue to place yourself at our disposal.’

  Eckert appeared relieved. He put on his shako, saluted, and withdrew at remarkable speed.

  Böhm stepped out to stretch his legs. Any number of people stood outside Josty gawping across the intersection at the murder wagon, which enjoyed a certain notoriety in the city. Besides which, it was rare to see cars parked at the foot of the traffic tower. The grass-covered island in the middle of the intersection was the one place you were absolutely forbidden to stop. The rubberneckers were focused on the tails of a white coat flapping in the breeze, Dr Karthaus descending the ladder.

  ‘Well, Doctor?’ Böhm said, as the pathologist arrived. ‘How’s it looking up there?’

  ‘Do you want the good news or the bad?’ />
  ‘Depends what you mean by “good news”.’

  Karthaus buttoned his coat. ‘There’s no doubt what happened up there was murder. More than that, we know the killer’s modus operandi.’

  ‘And the bad news?’

  ‘The bad news, Detective Chief Inspector, is that the MO fits with a case that remains unsolved.’ He gestured towards the traffic tower. ‘The corpse shows signs of drowning.’

  Böhm reclaimed his seat on the murder wagon’s leather bench. ‘And prior to drowning, he was injected . . .’

  ‘Correct,’ Karthaus said. ‘Which is why I’m going to ask the lab to look for tubocurarine during the blood analysis. That way, we’ll have the results sooner.’

  51

  When Charly arrived at the Castle, Böhm and his men were still not back. She asked what was happening in Homicide, but the duty officer wasn’t forthcoming. Michael Steinke was a fellow trainee, a snot-nosed upstart who had come to the Castle from the legal faculty and thought he was a cut above. He seemed to have difficulty passing information to a female colleague. Or perhaps he really didn’t know anything. Neither reflected well on him.

  ‘Corpse in the traffic tower,’ he had said when asked what was going on at Potsdamer Platz. ‘I saw to it that Böhm and a few others headed out.’

  The idiot just had to go playing the big cheese. As if Böhm would let himself be ordered around by a cadet! Did the man have any idea he was speaking to someone with more than three years’ service in Homicide? With a woman, who, while engaged as a stenographer, had contributed to the resolution of no fewer than seven murder investigations?

  The telephone rang and Steinke fielded the call with an expression of immense self-importance. He didn’t deign to look at her again.

  So, there was a dead man in the traffic tower. She had worked that much out when she saw Böhm emerge from the murder wagon. Even so, Steinke wasn’t about to reveal anything else. He made a show of turning away, speaking so quietly into the device it was as if he were Secret Service, and Charly a kind of Mata Hari.