Charly really did seem to be hungry, loading her plate in a most unladylike manner. Rath was a little more restrained, though pleased at her appetite. He had just poured them another glass of champagne when there was a second knock. The man in the grey suit poked his head around the door. ‘Everything to your satisfaction?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Rath said, and Charly nodded with her mouth full.
The man leaned towards Rath and whispered: ‘Herr Marlow will see you now.’ Given the orchestra in the background, there was no chance Charly could’ve picked up the name.
‘Telephone,’ Rath said, apologetically. ‘The Castle. You know how it is.’
‘Well, let’s hope it’s not an operation.’
‘Statistically speaking, A Division’s death quota has already been achieved this week.’
Rath followed the suit downstairs. A single patron sat at the deserted bar, a powerful yet lithe-seeming man in an elegant dinner jacket who had just lit a cigar and was sipping occasionally at his whisky, gazing absently into the mirror in front of him. Still, Rath was certain nothing in this room escaped those eyes. Johann Marlow hadn’t even brought his Chinese shadow, so safe did he feel here. It was almost as if he took a drink at the bar most days after work. Rath sat on the stool beside him.
‘Good evening, Inspector. I hope you haven’t been too bored.’
‘I’ve been very well looked after.’ Rath took his new cigarette case from his pocket and lit an Overstolz. ‘I’m afraid I can’t leave my companion for very long; she thinks I’m taking a call from the station.’
‘We’ll be finished by the time you’ve smoked your cigarette.’
‘What have you discovered?’
‘There was a case where an actress was abducted on behalf of the competition. A man named Steger was responsible, a piece of shit from the Nordpiraten, together with a friend. They kept the poor woman hidden in a cellar for two weeks and had their fun with her. She was no good for film after that, a nervous wreck. They even made a few cuts to her face for good measure.’
‘There are some lousy bastards out there.’
‘A thing like that goes against the code of honour. The Nordpiraten ended up cancelling this Steger’s membership, even though he’s a passable safe-breaker. The pressure from the other Ringvereine was simply too great. Since then, the guy’s had to make do on his own.’
‘Doesn’t sound like he’s the one. Vivian Franck only had her vocal cords cut. Her face was intact when she was found, made up in fact. And she wasn’t raped.’
‘You’re right, it wasn’t him. My people have already paid him a little visit. If he was the one you’d have been able to take him back to Alex all nicely wrapped.’
‘Hardly. I’m here privately.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you this time.’
‘You’ve helped me more than enough already.’
‘Come now, Inspector. I’m indebted to you, just as you are to me. You just don’t want to admit it. I can understand why you don’t want to be seen with me in public, but don’t worry, that’s not going to happen.’
‘That’s me reassured. You mean you won’t be visiting me tomorrow in my office?’
‘I have never once tried to tap your professional connections for my own ends…’
‘You wouldn’t get anywhere if you did.’
‘…but I live by the motto that one hand washes the other. The time will come when I ask for a favour, and you won’t turn me down.’ Marlow’s voice was suddenly cold.
‘Don’t be so sure. I certainly won’t be divulging any police secrets.’
‘Inspector, don’t pretend you don’t have any skeletons in your closet. Or should I say: encased in concrete!’
Rath felt as if Marlow had rammed his fist into his stomach. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’
‘No? Allow me to be more plain.’ Marlow blew a cloud of smoke across the bar. ‘I know it was you who killed Josef Wilczek.’
Rath tried not to betray any emotion. ‘Why are you being so friendly to me if I eliminated one of your men?’
‘Luckily for you, only two people know about it, otherwise I’d have had no choice but to take action. I can’t allow someone to gun down one of my men and get away with it, even a police officer.’
‘I didn’t gun anyone down; someone’s been talking nonsense.’
‘I have something else for you. My people came across something that might be of interest. Deutsche Kraft have got their paws on a film company. It’s called Borussia and is based over at Weissensee.’
‘Thanks, but right now I’m not interested in whether a Ringverein is involved in the film industry.’
‘Oh, I think you will be,’ Marlow said sharply. ‘Pass the tip on to your colleagues. There’s bound to be something in it for you. Otherwise Kraft wouldn’t be involved.’
‘We’ll see.’ Rath took a final draw on his cigarette and stubbed it out. ‘Time to go. Thanks for your help.’
‘Anytime,’ Marlow smiled.
There was no escort for the return journey. The suit remained at the bar. As he climbed the steps, Rath could feel his body slowly relaxing.
Marlow knew.
Someone had seen how Josef Wilczek had died. Rath recalled the beer bottle shattering against the courtyard paving, and the window that had slammed shut after the shot was fired from his service weapon. In the Stralau quarter no one went to the police with information like that. They went to Johann Marlow, who knew how to make capital from it. Pass the tip on to your colleagues. That was an order, not a good turn. Dr M. wanted to pull one over on the competition.
Rath cursed the day he had met Johann Marlow. Suddenly tonight, with all its fake lustre, seemed worthless, poisoned and dirty: the box seats, the food, the champagne.
At least Charly hadn’t noticed anything. ‘Well?’ she asked. He had been away less than ten minutes.
‘Lange,’ he said. ‘Nothing important.’ The assistant detective from Hannover was the only person in A Division Charly didn’t know. ‘I had to remind him that he needn’t call me about every last thing.’
‘What do you mean, nothing important?’ She could be damn stubborn.
‘About the duty roster.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Completely unimportant. Come on, we’ve spoken too much about work already this evening.’
‘Let’s talk about us then.’
‘How about a drink first?’ he said, filling their glasses again before drinking her health.
‘With a proper toast!’ She raised her glass. ‘Let’s drink to the fact that we’ve been together for more than two hours without having a single fight.’
They managed not to fight for the rest of the evening too, but the magic had passed and Rath was no longer entirely there. While she followed what was happening onstage, clearing enjoying the box seats, he couldn’t tear his thoughts away from the conversation with Marlow. He was still in shock that someone knew, and that it was Marlow of all people.
He had felt that he was being watched during the struggle with Wilczek, but there was no way his face had been visible in the dark rear courtyard. Absolutely no way! Someone had seen the fatal shot and the body being buried in the concrete, and then told Marlow, who must have figured out the rest. Because he had discovered in the meantime that Wilczek had followed the inspector from Ostbahnhof that evening.
Charly turned to face him. ‘Hello, anyone there?’
‘Sorry, I’ve just got so much on my mind…’
‘Me too.’ She smiled and her dimple finally hauled him back to the present. ‘Today was something of a surprise, wasn’t it?’
‘You can say that again.’ He tried a smile too, but didn’t manage half as well. ‘Come on, let’s go to the car.’
‘Can you still drive?’
‘All the better after a glass or two.’
She linked her arm in his again and they descended the stairs in silence, mingling with the other three thousand leaving the theatr
e.
When they emerged onto Küstriner Platz, the parking lot was bedlam. Some cars had had their wheels removed and were now resting on bricks, looking like clumsy insects on spindly little legs. They moved along the row, passing one wheelless car after another.
‘That’s all we need,’ Rath said, but the tyre thieves hadn’t made it as far as the Buick. They had stopped at the car next to it, a Horch. This time, however, they had taken only the rear wheels and jacked up the bumper.
‘They must have been interrupted,’ Charly said. ‘A patrol probably.’
Rath shook his head and gestured towards the square. ‘The police don’t have much say in this quarter. There must be another reason.’
He persuaded himself it was coincidence that the car thieves had stopped exactly in front of his Buick, but his gut told him that he had Johann Marlow’s protective hand to thank for not having to take the train home.
On the journey west both were immersed in their own thoughts. Only an hour before, Rath would have done anything to prevent the evening from ending so soon, but now all he wanted was to be alone in the silence of his flat with Coleman Hawkins and a glass of cognac. He drove her straight to Spenerstrasse and accompanied her to the door, not knowing how he should say goodbye. ‘So, what now?’ he asked.
She shrugged.
‘Sunday’s supposed to be nice. We could take a drive out to the countryside if you like.’ She nodded. ‘I could pick you up in the car. Then perhaps we could…’
This time she didn’t press a finger to his lips to silence him. She kissed him.
35
Saturday 8th March 1930
He awoke at five in the morning, heart pumping, staring at the ceiling, but it wasn’t Charly who had kept him from sleeping. It was the dead Josef Wilczek haunting his dreams, and Felix Krempin gazing at him through the window glass of the Funkturm restaurant with those rigid, terrified eyes.
Rath couldn’t sleep, and didn’t want to. He decided to pay the exhibition grounds another visit before heading out to Alex.
In the first light of dawn the Funkturm was even more imposing. Someone must have given the area a good scrub, as the bloodstain Felix Krempin had left on the concrete was now scarcely visible. The pay booth was still closed and there wasn’t a soul on the grounds.
The shrub was a good distance from the Funkturm and hadn’t been searched by ED. Its branches were full of morning dew, so that Rath’s coat was soon wet and glistening, but at least they were bare. The search would have been a lot trickier in summer. He bent the branches apart with a stick, trying to locate something furry in their midst, and was on the verge of giving up when he found the toupee on the ground. Reaching with the stick he pulled it through the mud towards him and finally managed to catch hold, before picking it up gingerly and returning to the car.
When he passed the Funkturm on the way back, the lights were on in the pay booth. The exhibition grounds were coming to life and it was time for him to disappear. He threw the wet and slimy toupee, which somehow reminded him of a drowned guinea pig, onto the leather of the passenger seat, started the engine and drove off.
He got through the morning traffic on Kantstrasse quicker than expected and stopped on Savignyplatz by a telephone booth. Weinert was eating breakfast. ‘How did you fare yesterday?’ he asked.
‘Your colleagues kept asking if I knew the man who was with me by the corpse. The one who went back up the Funkturm.’
‘You didn’t, of course.’
‘Several witnesses saw you, Gereon.’
‘Still, the fact remains: I wasn’t at the Funkturm. A detective inspector meeting with a murder suspect in secret – how do you think that looks?’
‘Just as lousy as a journalist meeting with an alleged killer. Especially when he uses the occasion to jump to his death.’
‘Are you going to write it up?’
‘I don’t know. As long as your lot don’t broadcast the fact that the Funkturm suicide was Felix Krempin, the other papers won’t carry anything. A suicide report at most. First I need to think about how I sell the fact that I was there to my boss.’
‘As coincidence.’
‘He isn’t stupid.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t write everything you know. If people think Krempin flung himself from the Funkturm out of guilt, they’ll also think he killed Betty Winter and Vivian Franck, and that is total nonsense. Krempin didn’t commit suicide.’
‘Are you sure? Your colleagues seem to think he did.’
‘He didn’t agree to meet us, only to plunge to his death before our eyes!’
‘He wouldn’t be the first.’
‘Someone pushed him, and that same someone lost something that I found.’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘A toupee.’
‘Pardon?’
‘A hairpiece, a toupee, you know.’
‘You’re serious? That’s your evidence?’
‘There was someone else on the viewing platform when Krempin fell. He exited via the stairs while I was in the lift. I went after him but he had too big a start. Did you see anyone emerge from the Funkturm after the others?’
‘Only you. But you don’t wear a wig, do you?’
‘Leave the jokes, this is serious. Someone up there pushed Felix Krempin, and if I find him I find Betty Winter’s killer too. I’m certain of that.’
‘Then good luck. I’ll help as best I can, but you’ll need to supply more facts.’
‘Officially I’m off the case, but perhaps you can help me. Could you find out who made this hairpiece, and where it was bought?’
‘You made off with the toupee?’
‘Yes, this morning. It looks a little worse for wear. More something for forensics than your follicles.’
‘If there’s a story in it, I can always try my luck. I’ll be over your way later, why don’t we meet? In that Nasse Viereck…’
‘…Dreieck.’
‘Right. Around nine?’
‘Sounds good.’
Rath hung up and returned to his car. The toupee on the passenger seat still looked like a drowned guinea pig, albeit one that had half-dried in the sun. He stuck it in the glove compartment and drove to the Castle on time. His coat had more or less dried by the time he climbed the steps to A Division but, before entering the conference room, he gave his hands a thorough wash and removed a few traces of mud from his clothes.
Böhm had asked both teams to attend morning briefing again. It was only in the eyes of the press that the Winter and Franck cases were linked, but that was why it was so important for both groups to know exactly what was going on. Today, the focus was on the death of Felix Krempin. Böhm started to reconstruct the fatal fall as Rath entered the room. At most he was a minute late, but it was enough to elicit an angry glance. Rath listened, for once not having to feign interest.
According to Forensics, Felix Krempin had plunged almost a hundred metres from the railings on the north side of the viewing platform onto the roof of the restaurant. He was most likely killed on impact, and would not have felt his body slide across the surface of the roof and thud into the concrete slabs at the foot of the Funkturm.
‘The man was heavily made up, had bleached his hair and was wearing a false moustache,’ Böhm said, ‘but we have nevertheless been able to identify the deceased beyond any doubt as Felix Krempin.’
‘Case closed,’ Czerwinski said. ‘And the Free State of Prussia gets to save on prison costs as well.’
‘Despite the wishes of Herr Czerwinski here,’ Böhm continued, and the laughter that had accompanied Czerwinski’s outburst evaporated, ‘we will not be discontinuing our investigation.’ Czerwinski mumbled something into his beard.
Böhm announced that Kronberg would make a full report. A few officers yawned as a preventive measure. ED had been on the roof and managed to locate both the exact point of impact and the trail the body had left on the roofing felt. They had also taken photos, some of which Kronber
g would presently show. Before they could hear what else would make up Kronberg’s monotone report, however, the door swung open and Kleinschmidt, a colleague from Missing Persons, burst in.
Böhm didn’t grumble. He had asked to be notified at once of any missing actresses, and that was exactly what Kleinschmidt was doing. The missing woman’s name was Jeanette Fastré. She hadn’t turned up to the premiere of her new film yesterday evening, and her producer had notified police this morning.
‘She’s not at home; we’ve already checked. Nobody’s opening, but there’s a dog barking behind the door.’
‘And that’s why you haven’t gone in?’
‘With respect, Sir, the flat might still be of interest to Forensics. It was you who asked us for help.’
‘OK,’ Böhm said, ‘I’ll send two of my men out.’ He looked around. ‘Rath, Lange,’ he barked, ‘take a look at this Fastré’s flat, and make sure the press doesn’t get wind of it. Report back immediately upon return.’
Rath would have preferred to listen to Kronberg, but clearly Böhm meant to punish him for not being present yesterday when news of Krempin’s death reached Alex. The DCI was passing the buck. If anything about this case should make the papers, they’d have a scapegoat in Gereon Rath. That was the real reason Böhm wanted all cases with missing actresses on his desk. Not because he imagined a serial killer to be at work, but because he didn’t want to provide the press with any further ammunition for their theory.
Rath and Lange left the conference room like pupils condemned to sweep the schoolyard. At least now the bulldog couldn’t ask him about Oppenberg’s sleuth. Rath still hadn’t managed to think of a credible story.
Jeanette Fastré lived in Friedenau, a little away from Kaiserallee. Two officers from Missing Persons were sitting in their car outside the door. Rath, who had made out the green Opel straightaway, went over and knocked on the windscreen.
‘You can go back to the station,’ he said, showing his identification. ‘Homicide are taking over.’
‘Kleinschmidt didn’t say anything about that,’ the driver said.
The Silent Death Page 29