Babylon Berlin (17 page)

‘If we knew his name, we’d be a lot further forward, but I’m afraid we’re not making any headway. Although Zörgiebel wants results by the day before yesterday.’

Weinert had been right. The fat man was putting his foot down, he wanted a quick result. The homicide team were the most popular police officers in Berlin, as popular as UFA film actors, and A Division had a fantastic detection rate. No question: Dörrzwiebel, as the commissioner was known amongst officers, on account of his desiccated onion-like complexion, was under pressure. They had given him the nickname when Karl Zörgiebel was still commissioner in Cologne.

‘I thought A Division was concentrating on the May fatalities.’

She shook her head. ‘1A are taking care of that on their own. The politicals haven’t had so many deaths to deal with for a long time. It’s mass processing like you wouldn’t believe. It would be easier for us to investigate a May corpse, as the details are usually easy to establish. Even if it wouldn’t make us many friends on the force.’

‘What do you mean? ’

‘Let me put it this way. Obviously there were too many police bullets fired during the skirmishes. And too few communist bullets.’

She seemed to be well informed.

‘In that case 1A is the best department for the job,’ he said. ‘Their officers are used to being a little unpopular.’

The waiter placed a pot of coffee on the table and poured.

‘Is the coffee in E Division as bad as it is in Homicide?’ she asked.

‘You know that I work in Vice?’

She laughed and her dimple almost knocked him off his feet. A good thing he was already seated.

‘When someone frequents the same corridors as Parabellum Wolter,’ she said, ‘then he probably works with him too. Powers of deduction are a pre-requisite for a job in Homicide, even for stenographers.’ She sipped cautiously from her coffee.

‘Parabellum?’ It was the first time he’d heard the nickname.

‘The guy used to be an instructor on the range. One of the best marksmen the Berlin police have ever had.’

‘Seriously?’ He wouldn’t have thought that Bruno had it in him. Rath realised he’d never seen him fire a gun. Working in Vice, you seldom had recourse to use your weapon.

‘You should spend more time in the canteen. You hear interesting things about your colleagues there. About you too.’

‘About me?’ He was surprised. ‘Do you know my name then?’

‘Oops,’ she said, placing her hand over her mouth so conspicuously that he knew it wasn’t meant seriously. He couldn’t help but smile. ‘Don’t sit here playing the innocent,’ she said. ‘You already knew that I was a stenographer yesterday. Which means you’ve collected more information about me than you’re letting on, and I sincerely hope that includes my name.’ She sighed theatrically. ‘What can you do? It’s a small world, and an even smaller Castle.’

‘One of the best marksmen the Berlin police have ever had. Old Bruno!’ Rath shook his head. ‘How does someone like that end up in Vice?’

She stirred her coffee and smiled at him. ‘How did
you.
’

‘That’s a long story. Much longer than a cup of coffee, I’m afraid. You’d be better off asking in the canteen.’

‘There might be a lot of people talking about you, but they don’t
say
very much.’ She pointed to the table in front of her. ‘Besides I’ve got a whole pot of coffee here.’

‘My story’d take longer than a whole coffee morning.’

‘Does that mean I have to invite you for coffee and cake if I want to hear your story, Herr Rath?’

‘At the very least.’ Then after a moment’s thought, he came out with it. ‘And what do I have to invite
you
to, if I want to hear
your
story?’

‘I think dinner should suffice.’

He was still thinking of her as he drove aimlessly through the city, relishing the empty early Sunday afternoon roads. What had she been looking for at Aschinger’s? She could just as easily have had coffee in A Division. There was even an ample supply of cakes there, the cake-addicted Chief of Homicide Ernst Gennat would see to that. Was she sounding him out on Böhm’s behalf, because of their meeting at Möckern Bridge? Was her flirting part of the plan?

It was time to go home. The stretch of road he had just driven would have been something for his father, if he ever came to visit, that is. It was ideal for provincial tourists such as Engelbert Rath, from Alex to Königstrasse, past the town hall and the City Palace, over the Palace Bridge towards Unter den Linden, past the armoury and the guardhouse, left onto Charlottenstrasse, a lap of the Gendarmenmarkt, then via Leipziger Strasse and Wilhelmstrasse past the government departments, back onto Unter den Linden and through the Brandenburg Gate.

A slice of Prussia for that model Prussian officer Engelbert Rath, pride of the Cologne police force, and a much more enjoyable drive in Weinert’s Buick than in one of
Käse
’s tour buses. Still, Rath wasn’t expecting a visit anytime soon. His father had only called him twice in Berlin, both times at the station, and had only ever asked how his son was getting on in E Division. That was how it had been with his old man for as long as he could remember. He was never off duty. His mother had dialled his private line in Nürnberger Strasse on several occasions, but Rath could do without her worried calls. His father’s indifference was preferable.

At Potsdamer Platz he was obliged to wait at the crossroads. Quarter past three. The lights had just changed to green when he saw the poster on the advertising pillar. Behind him a taxi driver beeped his horn. Rath let him pass and turned into Potsdamer Strasse. Behind
Josty
he turned right, parked the car and ran the few metres back to the corner.

The advertising pillar stood in front of a house-high billboard that shielded a building site from the pavement below. Its letters may have been considerably smaller and more unassuming than the monstrous script on the billboard behind it, but he had read it correctly.
Ilja Tretschkov live
, proclaimed a poster for the
Europa-Pavillon.
He noted the time and returned to the car cheerfully. Could be just the thing for Charlotte Ritter. Besides, there was a cinema in
Europahaus
too. All in all, the day had been a real success. Time would tell what the evening might bring.

Weinert was waiting when Rath returned to Nürnberger Strasse. It was five to four. He coasted to a halt in front of the journalist, applied the handbrake and climbed out.

‘Bang on time,’ Weinert said appreciatively, and took his place in the driver’s seat. ‘How did you like the car?’

‘Better than Berlin public transport, at any rate.’

‘You can say that again.’ Weinert took off the brake and engaged first gear. ‘Have fun at your officers’ meet.’ He sped away.

Rath couldn’t make sense of what he had just said, but when he opened the door to the flat, he heard voices from the kitchen. Elisabeth Behnke had a male visitor.

He went to his room and hung up his coat. His gaze fell on the Pharus-map he had hung next to the broken wardrobe, a box of pins in his hand. The first he had placed by the Landwehr canal, right next to Möckern Bridge, where they had fished Boris’s body out of the canal; the second by Nürnberger Strasse 28, where Boris had come looking for Alexej Kardakov shortly before his death. He had placed further pins by Luisenufer, by the zoo level with
Café Berlin
, and by
Eldorado
in Lutherstrasse. Kardakov’s trail. It led to Küstriner Platz. The
Plaza.
And the man from whom Kardakov obtained his cocaine.

Rath came a step closer to the map and removed the pin that marked the abandoned
Delphi Palace
on Kantstrasse, pricking a spot next to
Anhalter Bahnhof
instead.
Europahaus
on Königgrätzer Strasse, the place where Ilja Tretschkov had found a new engagement. Hopefully, Lana Nikoros too.

Rath removed the photos of the two Russians from his pocket, the noble print of Kardakov and the newspaper cutting of the dead Boris, and pinned them next to the map. He added the
Delphi
programme with the portrait of the singer.

What did these three have in common? The singer was Kardakov’s girlfriend, and she was Russian. Was she perhaps married to Boris? Had the lovers killed the husband and fled? Rath shook his head. Next he took Josef Schneid’s business card from his wallet and clipped it onto the programme.

He took a step back and contemplated the Pharus-map, like an artist contemplating his work. Sometimes he seemed to spy a pattern, a connection, a proximity between places or a correlation of some other kind, but the pins were spread indiscriminately across the city. The trails of Boris and Kardakov converged at a single point: Nürnberger Strasse 28. For years Rath had been in the habit of indicating important places in an investigation on a map, but in all that time he had never had cause to mark the location of his own flat.

There was a knock on the door. Weinert surely wasn’t back yet. Perhaps it was Elisabeth Behnke requesting that he joined them in the kitchen? He opened a door of the wardrobe whose gothic carvings concealed the photos on the wall as well as a small part of the map. ‘Yes?’ he said. The door opened.

‘Surprise,’ said a male voice.

Rath was indeed surprised. ‘You?’ he said.

Bruno Wolter stood laughing in the doorway.

‘You can close that mouth of yours,’ he said. ‘I thought, if I’m paying Elisabeth a visit, I should check if my colleague’s at home too. Just wanted to see how you’re settling in.’

Bruno had arranged the flat for him because he knew the widow Elisabeth Behnke, having served with her late husband during the war. In fact, he had notified the young widow of her husband’s death. Rath had repressed the details – just as he had everything connected to the war.

‘I didn’t see your car,’ he said. ‘You’ve been visiting E… you’ve been visiting Frau Behnke?’

Wolter took a step inside the room. He was already in his coat, carrying his hat in his hands. ‘I bring her flowers every year on the anniversary of her husband’s death. Helmut Behnke was the best comrade a man could have wished for.’

Rath swallowed. So that was why she was drunk last night, her husband had fallen twelve years ago. She had been drunk, looking for a little human warmth when he strolled through the door.

Uncle looked around the room. ‘Very cosy,’ he said. Then his gaze fixed on the map. ‘Only, this corner looks almost like a superintendent’s office.’

‘Or a confessional,’ Rath said. He thought the wardrobe was far more conspicuous than the map. It had nothing to do with Bruno anyway.

‘Did the Russian kick that in?’ Wolter gestured towards the side of the wardrobe.

Elisabeth must have been talking. ‘Just some drunk.’

‘Has he turned up again?’

Yeah, as a corpse
, Rath thought, but shook his head.

‘I told Elisabeth that she shouldn’t take on a Russian as a tenant. They only cause trouble. Doesn’t matter if it’s a Bolshevik, a Tsarist, or whatever.’ Suddenly he was looking Rath straight in the eye. ‘That’s why I recommended a colleague to her. Hopefully
he
won’t cause her any trouble.’ It sounded like Elisabeth had kept on talking. The question was what had she said.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Rath asked, and took a step towards the door. He wanted to get Bruno out of his room before he saw the map. ‘Perhaps we should go into the kitchen…’

Wolter waved his hands dismissively. ‘Don’t put yourself out on my account. I’ve been very well looked after. I’m about to go anyway, I just wanted to pop in.’ He considered for a moment. ‘Perhaps we could have a beer together tonight? At my house in Friedenau? Emmi can make us something to eat.’

‘That’s very nice, thank you. I’m afraid I can’t tonight though…’ Rath shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m going to the theatre.’

‘I understand,’ Wolter said and a little grin spread across his features. ‘It’s about time you emerged from your cell. I hope she’s cute!’

A car beeped outside.

‘I have to go,’ said Uncle. He put on his hat. ‘See you tomorrow then.’

Rath went to the window and peeked out carefully from behind the curtain. In front of the main door there was a black Ford by the roadside, Bruno’s Ford Model A. At the wheel was a young man whom Rath didn’t recognise. Did Bruno have a son? He realised he still didn’t know a great deal about his colleague. Bruno climbed in and the vehicle drove away, essaying a rapid U-turn before disappearing off towards Tauentzien. Friedenau was in the other direction. Obviously Bruno didn’t want to head home yet.

He instinctively turned up the collar of his jacket as he alighted from the city railway at
Schlesischer Bahnhof
. Hopefully it wasn’t immediately obvious he was a cop. Wearing a police badge here was not a good idea. Today his Mauser was sitting loaded in a shoulder holster under his jacket. Its presence reassured him. In this part of town, you never knew what might happen.

Indeed, that was precisely the attraction for many revellers: a night in Stralau alongside rakish criminals and beautiful women, stealing furtive glances at them from the neighbouring table. This was more exciting than being out and about in mundane West Berlin. On Kurfürstendamm you ran the risk, at most, of being beaten up by a horde of SA stormtroopers for not looking Aryan enough, while with a bit of luck here in the east you could actually watch a shoot-out between real-life hoodlums.

It was already dark when Rath reached Küstriner Platz, where even the street-lighting was dimmer than in the city or in Charlottenburg. It almost seemed as if the streetlights were ashamed of what they were obliged to illuminate. The neon letters outside
Plaza
cast further light into the darkness, while the three floors up to the roof balustrade and the old station clock were bathed in spotlights.
Plaza
glowed like a small, bright island in this murky district.

Taxi after taxi paused in front of the entrance to spew out well-dressed patrons, adventurous tourists from the west. People from the neighbourhood who had saved to attend a performance arrived on foot or by bike. Rath mingled with the motley assortment of guests, drifting along with the crowd past the box office, through the foyer and cloakroom and into the vast auditorium.