‘Certainly, Inspector.’ The hotelier gave him that look of obsequiousness he so hated.
‘Just to be clear, Herr Rickert. These are important documents. I hope they turn up, otherwise I might find myself obliged to have your premises searched, and your guests submitted to questioning.’
The hotelier blanched. ‘But, Inspector! This is a house of impeccable repute! I’ve no doubt this will soon be resolved.’
‘Then see that it is.’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’
He returned to his room. Knowing it was futile, he searched high and low, behind every cupboard, in each drawer and under the bed. There was no sign. Hella must have taken it. He wondered why, but there wasn’t time to pursue the thought. Today was the day they entered the forest.
At the bottom of the stairs, he saw that both reception and dining room were deserted, the only sound the clattering of pans from the kitchen. He peered through the swing door, but didn’t recognise any of the staff.
He hoped the threat of a police search would be enough to retrieve the folder. Perhaps Hella Rickert was simply a kleptomaniac, and her father was already taking her to task.
He crossed over to Goldaper Strasse and rang the shoemaker’s bell. The Wanderer gleamed outside; Kowalski must have washed it after collecting it from the site.
Uncle Friedrich opened and bade him enter, looking him up and down. ‘You’re not going into the forest dressed like that?’
He shrugged. ‘How else?’
The answer came in the form of Anton Kowalski, who looked as if he were planning an Alpine crossing with full rucksack, knee breeches, checked shirt and coarse knee-length socks. Sturdy hiking boots completed the ensemble. In brogues and grey suit, Rath was his antithesis.
‘You need good shoes,’ the shoemaker said firmly. ‘The forest is swampy; moorland everywhere.’
‘Our guide will take us round any bogholes.’
‘Even so, you need good shoes.’
‘This isn’t the Sauerland Mountaineering Society.’ Both Kowalskis stared blankly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘My uncle’s right, Sir. If we’re heading into the forest you need something sturdier. We’re not talking about some park. The hut’s out on the moors.’
Rath pointed towards his brogues. ‘That’s the sturdiest pair I own.’
Friedrich Kowalski looked down. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘What’s going on?’ Rath asked.
Moments later Kowalski’s uncle returned carrying hiking boots that looked brand new. ‘Try these on. Finished working on them two weeks ago. They’re from Studienrat Damerau, the teacher next door.’ Amazingly, they were a fit. ‘Of course, I’ll have to pledge Herr Damerau a small loan fee . . .’
‘How much?’
‘One mark.’
Rath rummaged for a coin. ‘Give Herr Damerau my thanks.’
With that they set off. Kowalski drove as Rath tied his shoelaces a second time. He hoped they really were all right; the last thing he needed was blisters. They were certainly sturdy enough, and handmade to perfection.
He bade Kowalski stop outside the Salzburger Hof, and took his brogues up to his room. The bed was still unmade. Hella would be in for it tonight, if the folder still hadn’t turned up.
He made no mention of last night’s incident to Kowalski, who had his mind firmly set on the Kaubuk. Rath had never seen him so excited. No doubt it was the thrill of the chase.
On the Lega bridge, halfway towards Adamek’s house, they ran into Erich Grigat. The police constable tipped his shako in greeting, and the two officers saluted in return.
‘Let’s make a little detour to Luisenhöhe,’ Rath said when they were on Lindenallee, on the road out of town. Kowalski furrowed his brow, but did as bidden.
Outside the estate house, Wengler’s servant was loading a suitcase into a maroon-coloured Mercedes. Rath motioned for Kowalski to park behind the gleaming sedan and got out. The servant pretended not to have seen him, and stalked back inside.
Rath debated what he might say to the man, when Wengler appeared, buttoning his coat. ‘Inspector! Good morning.’
‘You’re going somewhere?’ Rath asked.
‘Berlin.’ Wengler cleared his throat. ‘To settle my brother’s estate, and take care of the funeral arrangements.’
‘Of course. My apologies for disturbing you again. You were going to tell me how to reach your former employees. Assmann, and the others on the list.’
‘I’ve had the addresses collated for you. I’ll send for it now.’
‘Not necessary.’ Rath took out a card and wrote a name on the reverse. ‘Since you’re going to be in Berlin, why not report to Detective Chief Inspector Böhm at Police Headquarters, Alexanderplatz.’
Wengler took the card. ‘I’ll do that, Inspector. Many thanks.’
‘One more thing . . .’ said Rath. Wengler’s eyes were devoid of grief or rage, or indeed of any expression at all. ‘Your brother . . .how long did he serve as a police officer in Treuburg?’
‘He started during the war. Why?’
‘I’m looking for possible motives. Police officers often make enemies in their job.’
‘You can say that again.’
Rath ignored the allusion. ‘The question is, is it possible there are other cases besides the moonshining scandal that your brother could have been involved in?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Anything that could have created bad blood.’
‘I thought you were looking for this Radlewski?’
‘We are. We’re about to head into the Markowsken forest. They say his hideout’s there somewhere.’
‘Then go and find him – and stop harassing me.’
‘Herr Wengler, I’m sorry if my questions are bothering you, but I’m only doing my job. We want to find your brother’s killer and whoever murdered your former employees.’
‘I realise that. I’m sorry.’
‘They’ll ask you the same thing in Berlin. Perhaps you should use the journey to think about your response.’
Wengler nodded. ‘I’ll do that, Inspector. I promise.’
Rath tipped his hat. ‘Safe trip, anyhow.’
He climbed into the Wanderer and looked back through the rear mirror as Kowalski turned towards the driveway. Wengler stared after them until they’d disappeared around the bend behind the avenue trees.
62
Old Adamek waited on the bench outside his shanty, cheroot dangling from his mouth. In contrast to Kowalski, his outfit was unlikely to meet with Sauerland Mountaineering Society Statutes. It looked as if it hadn’t been washed since Christmas, if, indeed, it had been washed at all. His trousers were more patch than original, his jacket bloodstained, and his shoes were tied with wire. He greeted Rath’s suit with a raised eyebrow and snarl; the coarse hiking boots alone appeared to satisfy him.
He was astonished when asked to get into the car. ‘We’re heading into the forest,’ he said. ‘Crate like that’s no good to us.’
‘It’ll take us as far as Markowsken,’ Kowalski said. ‘We’ll manage the rest on foot.’
Reluctantly, Adamek agreed, and Rath guessed the man had never set foot inside a car. A horse and carriage was probably the only means of transportation he’d ever used; perhaps the railways during the war, out of necessity. Either way he was used to travelling on foot. Huddled on the rear seat, he clung to the shotgun wedged between his thighs. Did he mean to go hunting, or did he never leave the house unarmed?
They reached Markowsken via a pretty mountain road, noticeably higher above sea level than Treuburg and its lake. Shortly before the entrance they passed a little grove, with stone crosses between its young trees. ‘Military cemetery,’ Kowalski explained, without being asked. ‘Russians and Germans at peace together.’
On the rear seat Adamek mumbled something. Rath recalled that the old man had fought the Russians in the war. Perhaps some of his comrades were buri
ed here, along with one or two enemies – or former enemies. Rath was reminded, not for the first time, how much the Masurians had suffered during the war. People had died in the Rhineland of hunger and deprivation, but the actual war had largely played out beyond the border. Here in East Prussia, battles had raged, and whole towns and villages were destroyed before Hindenburg finally drove the Russians out at Tannenberg. No wonder the Masurians worshipped the man.
Kowalski parked at the end of the village. ‘This is where you’re from, isn’t it?’ Rath said. ‘Don’t you want to call in on your parents?’
‘They don’t live here any more. My father is with his fellow soldiers, where we came in.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry, I don’t know any different. I was just a boy when it happened. Five years old when my mother told me Papa was dead. You accept these things as a child, you think it’s normal. First you turn five, then your father dies, then you go to school.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘She remarried a few years after the war and moved to America.’ Kowalski looked at him. ‘I didn’t want to go, so Uncle Fritz looked after me.’
Rath fell silent. He didn’t want to probe any further.
In the meantime Adamek had exited the vehicle and started walking, following the village road until he turned onto a path. ‘We’d best make sure we don’t lose our guide,’ Rath said. The old man set a quick pace, but it wasn’t just his head start that made it hard to keep up. With his long legs he covered the ground quickly, and soon Rath was out of breath. ‘Wait a moment,’ he cried, and, surprisingly, Adamek came to a halt. ‘I need a break. Please.’
Kowalski opened his rucksack and took out a canteen along with several smoked sausages. He offered one to Rath. ‘No, thank you. I’d rather have water.’
Kowalski passed him the canteen, and he took a few sips. Adamek declined. ‘Best keep moving,’ the old man said. ‘It’s a long way.’
‘Fine,’ Rath said. ‘But a little slower, please. You’d almost think you were trying to run off.’
Adamek nodded and started out again, slower than before, but still at a brisk enough clip. At least they were still following a path. Upon reaching a clearing, however, it came to an end, and soon they were moving through the middle of the forest, over sandy, grassy terrain, which shifted underfoot, but was held together here and there by moss. Rath was glad of his new shoes. Suddenly they were moving downhill; behind the tree trunks something glistened brightly. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
Adamek turned around. ‘The little lake. It doesn’t have a name, but beyond is the Kaubuk’s domain.’
The little lake. He couldn’t help thinking of Radlewski’s lines. ‘Is that where Anna von Mathée was found?’
Adamek nodded, apparently astonished.
They continued downhill for a time, soon reaching the shore. The bank was relatively steep, but the water so shallow the sandy bottom could be seen twinkling in the sun.
This was where Anna von Mathée met her death, he thought. This was where she was found. If only he could have seen what Artur Radlewski saw twelve years ago . . .
‘We need to keep going, Sir!’ Kowalski said, following Adamek along the shore.
‘Just a moment,’ Rath said. ‘I have to take a look at something.’
He’d spotted a tree trunk or, rather, a thick branch, jutting almost horizontally across the lake, illuminated by sunlight. Something was carved in the bark. He took off his shoes, rolled up his trouser legs and waded the few metres across. The water only reached up to his ankles, but was still decidedly cold.
There was a heart carved in the bark, pitted now and bulging, as if it had been carved a hundred years ago – or maybe twelve. Just a run-of-the-mill heart with initials. He tried to decipher the letters. A.M. and J.P., he read, initials artfully entwined. He tried to mirror the effect in his notebook. Anna had eschewed the von in her name.
J.P.
He snapped his notebook shut. Jakub Polakowski and Anna von Mathée were lovers. Did Maria Cofalka know? He’d have a lot of questions for the librarian when they returned later tonight.
‘Sir? What are you doing? We need to keep moving.’
‘Coming.’
He waded back to the shore, put on his socks and shoes and rejoined the others.
‘What were you doing?’
‘I thought I’d seen something, but it was nothing.’
Kowalski raised an eyebrow, but there was no time for discussion, Adamek had already set off. Reaching the other end of the lake they emerged back into the forest, moving through thick undergrowth where the soil was sandy at first, before it became stony and covered in moss. They had been on the move for an hour by the time they reached a clearing at the end of a pinewood.
‘One of us has to stay here,’ Adamek said. ‘Keep watch for Polish border guards.’
‘Polish border guards?’ Rath asked.
Adamek nodded and gestured back the way they came. ‘The pinewood’s still Prussia.’
‘You realise that beyond this border the Prussian Police have no authority?’
‘Not my problem,’ said Adamek. ‘You wanted to see the Kaubuk’s hut. Well, it’s over there. The Kaubuk doesn’t care whether it’s in Poland or Prussia, and neither do I.’
‘So where is it? Poland or Prussia?’
‘Prussia, if I remember rightly, but no one keeps tabs here on the moors.’
‘Then why don’t we stay in Prussia?’
‘If you want to get as close as possible we need to go through Polish woodland. Going by the moors is longer, and more dangerous.’
‘Very well,’ Rath said. ‘Kowalski, you stand guard, but make sure you stay on Prussian territory. We don’t want an international incident. If you see a Polish border officer, discharge your weapon.’
‘Pardon me?’ Kowalski went pale.
‘In the air! To warn us.’
‘Shooting at the border isn’t a good idea,’ Adamek said. ‘Better to call. Like an owl.’ He demonstrated.
‘Can you do that, Kowalski?’ Rath asked.
Kowalski’s attempt sounded halfway authentic. At the very least it was loud.
Adamek put a finger to his lips. ‘We need to be quiet,’ he said, before disappearing with his shotgun. Into Polish woodland. Rath followed, and after no more than ten minutes the old Masurian came to a halt. Having reached the edge, they gazed out over marshland overgrown with weeds, shrubbery and brush. Dead tree trunks jutted out of the ground.
‘Stop,’ Adamek said, raising a hand. ‘This is where the moor begins. Every step is dangerous.’ Rath nodded respectfully. Adamek pointed into the wilderness. ‘His hut’s over there.’
‘Good,’ Rath said. ‘Let’s go.’ The old man looked at him as if he’d made an indecent proposal. ‘You said you’d take me to the Kaubuk’s hut.’
‘I said I’d show you his hut.’ Adamek pointed towards the marshland, behind which, somewhere, the forest began again. ‘Use the tall pine to take your bearings. Keep going in that direction and it’s another five hundred metres or so, not far. Be careful. You’ll need to watch every step.’
‘Then take me. You know your way around.’
‘Not on the moors.’
‘Do you want money? We should have discussed this before. How much do you want? Perhaps we can come to some arrangement.’
The old man shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘If you’re not brave enough, then get me Kowalski. Get me Prussian CID!’
Adamek was unmoved. He nodded and disappeared back into the woods.
Rath sat on a warm stone and gazed over the moor. Looking in the direction Adamek had shown, he tried to imagine how a hut might appear in the middle of this inhospitable scrub. There was no doubt it was an ideal location for someone wanting to be left in peace. He listened for Kowalski’s warning cry, but none came. The last thing he needed was to be picked up by a Polish bor
der patrol.
It wasn’t just Kowalski’s warning cry that failed to materialise, however. Neither he nor Adamek were anywhere to be seen. Where the hell had they got to? He took the cigarette case from his pocket and lit an Overstolz. Immediately he felt calmer. Not even the thought of Polish border officers could daunt him. Let them come, he’d make his excuses. He was a tourist who’d got lost while taking a stroll. They were sure to believe him, so long as they didn’t find his service pistol and identification.
By the time he stubbed out his cigarette on a stone, there was still no sign. Maybe they were talking and Adamek would take them to the hut after all? Maybe the old man just needed a little persuading in Masurian.
The sun was already low in the west. He headed back into the woods. It wasn’t so far to the clearing where Kowalski was keeping watch. Adamek hadn’t deviated much from the straight and narrow. He trudged on, but needed more than a quarter of an hour to reach a clearing. He wasn’t sure if it was where they’d left Kowalski or not. Either way, neither man was here.
He looked around, recognising the forked trunk where they’d emerged from the pinewood. No doubt about it, it was the same clearing. And those pines were in Prussia, so to hell with the secrecy.
‘Kowalski?’ he cried, as loud as he could. ‘Adamek?’ No response. ‘Kowalski! Adamek? Where are you?’
Nothing. No reaction. No sound. Just a few birds fluttering somewhere nearby.
‘Kowalski! Goddamn it!’
His voice echoed, but the woods issued no response.
The only possible explanation was that Adamek and the assistant detective had taken another route to Radlewski’s hut and they had missed each other. He went back towards the hut, calling their names at regular intervals. No response. By the time he reached the moor, the sun had disappeared behind the trees.
Something wasn’t right. Had they been picked up by Polish guards? Time and again the newspapers were full of border incidents, mostly in Silesia, but why shouldn’t it happen in East Prussia too?
The Fatherland Files Page 32
