Not a moment too soon he reclaimed his seat in the Buick to see the murder wagon shooting along from the direction of Kantstrasse. Rath slipped down and waited until the black vehicle had turned onto the exhibition grounds.
33
Lange and a few others were holding the fort. Otherwise, nearly all of Homicide had flown the nest. One of the uniformed officers Weinert had alerted must have recognised the dead man and reported back to Alex, as Böhm had driven to the exhibition grounds himself. Erika Voss passed on the news before Lange could say anything. Rath pretended to be surprised.
‘Krempin? Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Looks that way. Seems like he jumped from the Funkturm.’
‘Suicide? Has that been confirmed?’
‘I’m just telling you what everyone’s saying.’
‘What else could it be?’ Lange asked.
‘Murder,’ said Rath.
‘Who would want to kill Krempin?’
‘Half of Berlin, I’d say. Since the whole world’s decided he’s a serial killer.’
‘That makes suicide just as likely. Imagine your picture’s in all the papers and the whole city’s hounding you – how long can any one person stand it?’
‘If he’s got a good hiding place, I’d say quite a while. Until now, Krempin always had a good hiding place.’
‘Yes, but Gräf and his men were closing in on him all the time.’
‘By the way, Inspector,’ Erika Voss said. ‘Frau Kling called. You have an appointment with the commissioner.’ She looked down at her pad. ‘Monday, three o’clock.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘She didn’t say. You’ll have it confirmed in writing. She just wanted to arrange the appointment.’
Rath nodded. ‘What’s the latest with our case?’ he asked Lange. ‘Did our artist produce anything worthwhile?’
Lange handed him a drawing of a gloomy-looking man who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the actor Ziehlke had picked out from Oppenberg’s collection of photos. If anything he looked like…
‘Lange, that could just as well be you!’
‘That’s what Fräulein Voss thinks, but it wasn’t me, I swear!’
‘I hope you have an alibi,’ Rath said sternly, before breaking into a laugh.
‘If you ask me, that taxi driver would be incapable of giving a recognisable description of someone with three eyes and two noses.’
‘Perhaps it’s our sketch artist who’s not up to the job.’
‘I don’t think it’s his fault. He did what that Ziehlke told him, as far as possible. It’s just that our witness kept contradicting himself.’
‘Doesn’t look like the sketch is going to be much help then.’
‘No,’ Erika Voss said. ‘If we go to the press, poor Lange will be denounced and arrested by tomorrow morning.’
Lange was about to throw the picture in the waste-paper basket when Rath stopped him. ‘Leave it! Perhaps we might be able to use it after all.’
Lange hunched his shoulders. ‘If you think so. How about you? Did you find anything out?’
Rath described his trip to the corner of Hohenzollerndamm on Sunday. The Chinese restaurant, the menswear store, the wine dealership.
‘Not very fruitful then,’ said Lange.
‘No,’ Rath said. ‘And yet that corner is precisely where we need to start. That’s where she met our stranger. Roll the drawing up and fetch your coat. We’re heading there now.’
‘With this picture?’
‘First we’ll show people the picture of Vivian Franck. We’ll canvass the shops, and if that doesn’t yield anything, the flats too. Perhaps someone saw her. Perhaps even together with our phantom.’
The salespeople in the menswear store only knew Vivian Franck from the screen.
‘Women don’t often shop here,’ said one. ‘Or did old Franck play for the other team?’ The sketch didn’t yield any results either, just confused glances at Lange.
It was a similar story in the wine dealership, only the owner spared them the stupid remarks and, indeed, was rather taciturn for a Berliner.
The Chinese restaurant was still closed, but after they knocked loudly against the roller shutters someone opened. The man who poked his head through the door didn’t speak a word of German, but understood the two police IDs well enough. He bowed and bade them enter. Inside it smelled of beer and exotic spices; they were preparing for an onslaught of guests and things were suitably chaotic. Nevertheless, the whole team looked patiently at the picture of Vivian Franck.
The Chinese didn’t appear to go to the cinema; Rath and Lange received only shakes of the head. Nor did anyone recognise the stranger. The manager was the only one who spoke German. Rath pointed towards a green fruit with brown skin that a kitchen hand was currently slicing in two. ‘Yangtao?’ he asked.
‘Yangtao!’ the manager said, smiling broadly. The fact that Rath recognised the fruit seemed to impress him. ‘Very good. Want to try?’
The bright green flesh was juicy and sour and didn’t taste bad at all. So that was what Betty Winter had eaten just before her death.
‘Good for health,’ the manager said.
Rath rummaged in his pockets, eventually finding the photo he was looking for. He didn’t know why, but suddenly he felt feverishly excited. A thousand intangible thoughts raced through his mind, as always when he spotted something, some lead, some connection that he still couldn’t quite make sense of. He showed the Chinese the high-resolution print of Betty Winter. ‘Do you know this woman? Was she ever here?’
To his surprise the man nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Nice lady. Liked yangtao a lot.’
Rath stared stubbornly at the traffic, immersed in his thoughts.
‘How strange,’ Lange said. ‘There we are conducting a fruitless investigation into the Franck case, and we stumble upon a restaurant where Betty Winter used to eat.’
Rath’s head was spinning with ideas. The two dead actresses had worked for rival producers, which was enough for Fink to cook up his nonsense about a serial killer, and now there was a second, more puzzling, connection: Betty Winter had eaten in the restaurant outside which Vivian Franck had been met by her suspected killer. It could be coincidence, but against that was a tingling sensation in his veins, and a hollow feeling in his stomach. He was onto something, he could feel it, even if he still didn’t know quite what.
It was already late and he didn’t want to go back to the station, where they would only run the risk of Böhm saddling them with overtime, or asking about Oppenberg’s private detective. He set Lange down at Gleisdreieck to catch the Prenzlauer Berg train, and drove home. If he wanted to pick up Charly promptly at half past seven he’d have to get his glad rags on sharpish.
At home he started up the boiler and showered. As the water ran down his neck, he couldn’t help thinking about Krempin plunging to his death before his eyes.
What would Böhm say about the case at briefing tomorrow? And how would Oppenberg take the news of his friend’s death? Had the producer pushed him himself, out of fear that Krempin might implicate him? It was hard to imagine how someone with a heart condition like Oppenberg could make it down all those steps, but who else could have known that Krempin was at the Funkturm? And that he meant to use the viewing platform as a lookout before going to his secret meeting in the restaurant? Rath wondered whether Oppenberg could have sent someone to silence Krempin.
Tomorrow he’d have to start looking for the toupee; it was possible that it belonged to the murderer. If, indeed, there was a murderer. His instincts said yes, and they had served him well enough in the past.
When the water grew cold he climbed out of the shower. He was getting nervous. Thoughts of Charly banished all others from his mind. Soon he would be seeing her. Going out with her. For the first time in more than half a year. He didn’t want to think about how their last evening together had ended in a huge fight.
34
The neon letters on the P
laza façade burned brighter than the dim gaslights around Küstriner Platz. Rath found a space near the entrance and parked the Buick. Charly smiled when she realised where he was taking her. He hadn’t revealed their destination even as they journeyed ever deeper into the forbidding Stralau quarter.
Rath was relieved, she seemed to like variety theatre. He didn’t have happy memories of the Plaza, and not just because of the indifferent programme with which the theatre had opened the year before. The complex had been built inside the station concourse of the former Ostbahnhof, whose goods station, in contrast to the passenger terminus, was still in use. It was here, in an unprepossessing warehouse, that Johann Marlow had his office: a room seemingly lifted straight from an English country house, complete with fireplace. It was less than a year since he had met Marlow here for the first time, the secret ruler of the Berlin underworld, the only Berlin underworld kingpin yet to see prison from the inside. Rath often thought about that night, which had ended with a dead man who, to this day, still haunted his dreams.
He didn’t want to have to go through anything like that again, but Charly made him feel like a different man. Not the man from that night, but the Gereon Rath currently strolling across Küstriner Platz with a beautiful woman at his side.
As they entered the foyer he gazed round instinctively. Marlow probably wasn’t here, but was almost certainly having him watched. Rath didn’t see any familiar faces, but then he didn’t know all of Marlow’s people. Not by a long shot.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ Charly asked.
‘Just the box office. Ah, there it is.’
They took their places at the back of the queue. Rath was a trifle nervous, but when he gave his name to the cashier it transpired that Marlow had set aside two box tickets for him.
Charly was astonished, but Rath behaved as if acquiring box seats for Charlotte Ritter was the least he could do. Hopefully, the programme would be better than last year. In truth, he was no fan of variety theatre but Charly seemed to like the idea. In the cloakroom queue, she recounted how she had once been at the Wintergarten with her family to celebrate the end of her school exams. ‘The first student in the family.’
Although Plaza wasn’t quite as glamorous as the Wintergarten, box seats weren’t exactly cheap. Gradually they advanced towards the cloakroom attendant. Rath wanted to take Charly’s coat, but she refused. ‘If you want to play the gentleman I can think of better ways.’
‘Such as?’
‘All in good time.’
‘Very well. A gentleman never tells.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ At last it came to their turn. ‘What’s the latest news at the Castle?’ she asked.
Rath told her about Krempin’s death, neglecting to mention that he had been an eyewitness.
‘You think he couldn’t cope with the pressure? A murder on his conscience, the whole city looking for him?’
‘I was in Wilmersdorf almost all day working on the Vivian Franck case. Let’s see what Böhm says at briefing tomorrow morning.’
‘I do miss it sometimes,’ she said. ‘I’ll be glad when I have these stupid finals behind me.’
‘Will you come back to Alex?’
‘Even if I didn’t enjoy the work, I’d still come back. Out of necessity. A girl’s got to live.’
‘And it’s that easy? You can come back whenever it suits you?’
‘That’s what Böhm promised, and he’s a man you can rely on.’
Rath said nothing. There’d have only been trouble otherwise. There was always trouble when they discussed Böhm.
Both of the other seats in their box remained empty. Marlow really had pulled out all the stops. Even if he didn’t actually own the theatre he obviously held considerable sway. The view from up here was outstanding.
‘Strange,’ Charly said as she peeped over the balustrade, watching the stalls fill. ‘Looks like it’ll just be the two of us. Tell me you didn’t arrange this? Book a whole box to seduce a defenceless girl!’
‘Certainly did,’ he said and laughed. ‘You know me.’
‘Quite.’
She looked at him with her dark eyes. He couldn’t avert his gaze, but she didn’t look away either.
Oh God, he thought, drawing gradually closer to her suddenly ever-so-serious face. He felt her breath and closed his eyes, tasting her soft lips as she surrendered to him open-mouthed and he took off and flew and flew, before landing, after what seemed like half an eternity, back in the box.
They gazed at each other as if they had awoken from a dream. ‘God, I’ve missed you!’ he said, stroking her cheek.
‘I don’t know if this is a good idea, Gereon,’ she said.
‘You mustn’t think I wanted this – that is, of course I wanted it, I mean, you mustn’t think I planned it…that I’m only going out with you to…’
She pressed a finger to his lips with a soft ‘shhhhhhhh’ and smiled, revealing her dimple.
‘Don’t talk so much,’ she said, kissing him again. It took them some time to realise the bill had long since begun.
‘This is all wrong,’ Rath said. ‘Normally you watch the show together, eat and drink something, maybe go dancing, and only then do you kiss. On the way home, just before you decide who’s sleeping where.’
‘Then we need to rearrange ourselves,’ she said. ‘The tickets must have cost a fortune and we’ve barely seen half the show.’
‘What do you mean, barely half? I haven’t seen anything at all.’
‘That’s even worse.’
‘So where do we go from here?’
‘How about we watch and applaud? Then we’ll see.’
‘Rearrange ourselves it is.’
She looked on at the show, and he looked on at her looking on at the show, which was better than last year’s. Less glamour, perhaps, but more to laugh about, and people who lived in this part of town needed that. Rath didn’t get a single one of the punchlines but laughed along with Charly and the rest in all the right places. How he loved seeing her laugh.
The closer the interval came, the more he found himself thinking about Marlow. He still didn’t know how he would steal himself away without Charly noticing.
At length the curtain fell for the interval and she linked arms with him as they went downstairs to the foyer. Rath could see neither Marlow nor Liang anywhere in the crowd but knew that Dr M. would keep his appointment. He wouldn’t have taken care of the tickets otherwise.
‘What are you looking for this time?’ Charly asked.
‘I’m just wondering if we can still get a seat at the bar.’
But it was hopeless. They were all taken.
‘That ought to answer your question,’ Charly said. ‘Now what?’
‘I’ll get us something to drink all the same.’
‘Then do your gentlemanly duty. I need to go to the little girls’ room anyway.’
She started towards the toilets. When she had gone a few steps, however, she turned around.
‘Food as well,’ she called to him. ‘I could eat a horse.’
Once she was out of sight Rath looked again for Marlow, but he was at neither the bar nor one of the little tables, and Rath could scarcely imagine him standing in line for sticky champagne.
‘Inspector Rath?’
It was a slim man in a fitted suit. He wore no dinner jacket and looked more like a businessman than a theatregoer.
‘That’s me,’ Rath said.
‘Herr Marlow sends his apologies. He’s running a little late.’
Rath couldn’t remember having seen the man in Marlow’s entourage before. ‘But he still wants to meet?’
‘Of course.’
‘Listen, I’ve got company here. There’s no need for the lady to know I have a meeting, or who it’s with. I’m sure that’s in accordance with Herr Marlow’s wishes too.’
‘Herr Marlow sets great store by discretion.’
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to order food, as well as so
mething to drink.’
‘It would be Herr Marlow’s honour. I’ll have something sent up.’
The man disappeared before Rath could say anything. He was about to call after him when he saw Charly’s green dress. It seemed the queue for the Ladies was shorter than that for the bar.
‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘The man just then? Someone from the house.’
‘He didn’t look like a waiter.’
‘He wasn’t. It’s taking far too long to get a drink, so I complained.’
Rath took his place at the back of the queue for the bar but when he finally got hold of two glasses of champagne the interval was almost over. He raised his shoulders as he handed Charly a glass, and she smiled at him.
‘Let’s go then,’ he said. They clinked glasses and drank, before making their way hurriedly back to their seats, losing some of the champagne in the process.
‘What a shame,’ she said. ‘We won’t get anything else for over an hour.’
‘Next time I’ll get a bottle.’
The first act had already started by the time they returned to their seats. A man in a turban speaking in Saxon dialect was telling people how old they were and what job they had despite having his eyes blindfolded, while his assistant moved around the stalls holding up the identity papers of their victims. The Saxon fakir was taking his bow when there was a polite knock and two friendly waiters wheeled in a large trolley. Charly’s eyes widened in delight as they laid out the spoils: half a dozen bowls and plates, and a bottle of champagne enthroned, centre stage, in a cooler.
‘So that’s what you were discussing. And there was I thinking a glass of champagne was all I’d be getting.’
Praise be to Marlow, Rath thought. ‘I hope it’s to your liking.’
Marlow’s errand boy had put together a nice mix, just the thing for a cosy evening alone with a hungry woman. There were lovingly prepared canapés, roast beef, smoked salmon, a cheese plate, devilled eggs and even a little caviar.
The Silent Death Page 28