Rath wasn’t too worried about Gennat’s parting shot. After all, Wilhelm Böhm was the man in charge of the Winter case. Since taking over, the DCI had been far too focused on Krempin, dismissing Rath’s doubts about the man’s guilt – and finally made sure the case was passed to Gräf, a mere detective who was already overworked. All because he had refused to give it to Rath. That would teach him.
Could Bellmann really have something to do with the death of Betty Winter? Rath had long suspected there were skeletons in his closet, ever since he had threatened him with his lawyers. Sounding the man out, as Gennat had put it, couldn’t do any harm.
After the briefing Buddha took Rath to one side and asked for his thoughts. Rath told him everything Böhm hadn’t wanted to hear: how Krempin’s wire construction worked, and that someone who knew the script had most likely made use of it – only on Betty Winter, rather than an expensive film camera. Which assumed, of course, that same someone had uncovered Krempin’s plan. All of which could certainly have applied to Heinrich Bellmann.
Buddha had listened attentively. ‘I’ll take care of the search warrant for Bellmann,’ he had said. ‘See if you can make any headway with that Chinese lead. See you at two in the morgue.’
Rath sat at his desk leafing through the telephone book for Chinese restaurants. His outburst was irritating him. Even if Gennat had defended him against Böhm, his colleagues hadn’t taken him seriously. Not that he blamed them. Still, in the absence of any tangible leads, this was the sort of thing they were obliged to follow up.
For the time being he couldn’t get hold of anyone at Yangtao. He asked Erika Voss to call the number every five minutes. Shortly before eleven, she got through.
‘Inspector,’ she said. ‘Your Chinese restaurant.’
‘Wen Tian, Yangtao,’ said a soft voice that barely sounded the consonants.
‘Rath, CID. I was at your restaurant recently, with a colleague. Do you remember? I’d like to know where you purchase yangtao for your kitchen.’
‘Want reserve?’
‘No, I’m from the police. I just want to know where in Berlin you can get yangtao.’
‘Monday rest day.’
‘I don’t want to eat.’
‘Better reserve. Yangtao many guests.’
‘I just have a question. I’m not eating.’
‘For two persons?’
Rath gave up. ‘Police here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘Monday rest day.’
He hung up.
‘I have to go out,’ he said. ‘Can you look after Kirie, Erika?’
‘It’s lunchtime soon. Don’t you want to take her?’
‘The place I’m going they might put her on the menu.’
She looked at him in horror. ‘My goodness, where are you going?’
‘To the Chinese.’
Before setting off, Rath made his way on foot to the Zentralmarkthalle, which was only a stone’s throw away from the Castle. Things were at their busiest here at the crack of dawn, long before the rest of the city was awake, but right now it was quiet. The Zentralmarkthalle actually comprised two market halls, separated from one another by Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse. Horses and carts were parked on both sides of the road, and were a constant source of traffic jams in the early hours. Rath found his way by asking; the fruit and vegetable traders were housed in the northern hall. The best goods had long since been sold, only a few lettuce heads wilted away sadly. Rath accosted a red-faced man with a walrus moustache who was stacking cherries under a large company sign.
‘What you after?’ the walrus huffed.
‘I’m looking for a Chinese fruit and vegetable trader here in the market hall.’
‘Does that look like me?’
‘No, but perhaps you know of one.’
‘Who’s asking?’ Rath showed his badge. ‘Leave the poor slit eyes alone! They have it bad enough already.’
‘I just need a little information about a Chinese variety of fruit.’
The man looked at him as if deciding whether he could trust a police officer, then said: ‘Up on the gallery, just by the middle aisle where the wholesale butchers are, there’s a flight of steps. Ask for Lingyuan, he could be the one.’
Rath tipped his hat and made his way through. It was incredible how much food was on sale, even if most traders were only offering what had survived the frenzy earlier that morning. Rath found the steps and climbed to the gallery. This was where the smaller traders were housed, those who didn’t occupy so much space, and to whom fewer customers strayed. He found Lingyuan’s stand without having to ask again. A large Chinese paper lantern jutting into the aisle showed the way. Lingyuan didn’t just offer exotic varieties of fruit and vegetable, but herbs and spices that Rath had never seen before. A few of the smells reminded him of the Chinese restaurant on Hohenzollerndamm. He felt himself transported to another world, a little piece of Asia in the heart of Berlin. The king of this world was a small Chinese man with a green apron over his grey, Western suit, who spoke accent-free German. He didn’t even have trouble sounding the consonants.
‘What would you like?’ he asked.
‘Just some information,’ Rath said. This time he showed his badge straightaway. The Chinese man nodded humbly and smiled. ‘You sell Chinese groceries…’
‘For more than seven years now…’
‘…do you have yangtao?’
Lingyuan gestured towards a stack of crates. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘What’s left of them. Arrived from China two weeks ago.’
‘As long ago as that?’
‘You have to keep yangtao cool, then they stay fresh for a long time. Up to half a year.’
‘Isn’t that expensive? Importing them from China?’
‘Quantity is the key,’ Lingyuan said. ‘Do you know how many Chinese people live here in the city? A few thousand. The poorer ones by Schlesischer Bahnhof, the more prosperous in Charlottenburg, the rest spread across the city.’
‘And they all buy from you?’
‘All the Chinese restaurants, I’d say. As well as two or three Chinese shops.’
‘Do you have the addresses?’
‘Why?’
‘I need to know all the places in the city where yangtao is sold. Are there any other importers?’
‘Not that I know of. At least no one else who grows Chinese fruit and vegetables.’
‘Here in Berlin?’
‘I have a little nursery over in Mariendorf. A few weeks ago I’d have been able to offer you yangtao that I’d picked myself before Christmas.’
‘Business is good, no doubt.’
‘I get by.’
‘How much does a yangtao cost?’
‘Let’s say a little more than an apple.’
‘A delicacy then…’
‘If you like. Something different at least. Very healthy too.’
Rath showed the Chinese man the photos of Betty Winter and Jeanette Fastré. Lingyuan didn’t seem to go to the cinema or read the paper. He shook his head. ‘Never seen them,’ he said.
‘Where could these women have got hold of yangtao?’
‘I’ll give you a few names,’ the man said, reaching for the notepad next to the weighing scales.
Rath left the market hall with the addresses of five restaurants and three shops, but it wouldn’t be worth visiting the former today. ‘Rest day,’ Lingyuan had warned. So, the Chinese shops it was. Two were in Friedrichshain, the third in the west. Rath fetched the car from Alex and drove first to Krautstrasse, which formed the heart of Berlin’s little Chinese quarter. He didn’t have happy memories of the area. His fateful clash with Josef Wilczek had taken place just a few blocks away, at a building site on Koppenstrasse.
He parked outside the first address. Compared with New York’s Chinatown around Pell Street, which he had visited years ago with his brother, this was a disappointing affair: the building fronts a little run-down, barely any cars on the roadside, a few children pla
ying noisily on the pavement, not a single Chinese person. It was a normal street in East Berlin. At least the Chinese shop, in front of whose display he had parked the car, was adorned with red Chinese characters. There were no Latin letters whatsoever; from the outside it wasn’t clear if it was a grocery shop, a clothing store or a laundry.
As it transpired it was a mixture of all three, and much more besides, with an assortment of goods as varied as in KaDeWe, but using only a fraction of the space. Alongside food, tea and spices, there were colourful silk fabrics, porcelain, little soapstone carvings, shelves, paper lanterns, all tightly packed in a wild jumble. The old Chinese lady inside the dark cave, which smelled even stranger than Lingyuan’s market stall, didn’t speak a word of German. Rath tried his luck with sign language, showing her a few photos and pointing towards the floor with his index finger.
‘These women here?’ he asked. ‘Yangtao?’ The old lady gestured towards a crate containing a few miserable-looking yangtao. Rath showed the photos again, this time omitting the word yangtao, but the woman shook her head. During the entire conversation, if you could call it that, her face under the black beehive hair hadn’t displayed an ounce of emotion. Rath was equally unsuccessful in the next shop, just a few houses further along in Markusstrasse. Once again there was yangtao. Once again no one spoke German or recognised the actresses.
When he returned to the car, he found it surrounded by snotty-nosed brats.
‘That yours, chief?’ one asked. ‘Nice wheels you’ve got there.’
‘You can look but you can’t touch,’ Rath said, climbing in. It was a crummy neighbourhood. He couldn’t imagine either of the two actresses setting foot in a street like this. He drove west.
The third shop was in Kantstrasse, and a very different establishment from the previous two. The Chinahaus, this time using the Latin alphabet, was located next to a Chinese restaurant and was bright and elegantly furnished, with fine porcelain vases lining the walls and two stone lions guarding the stairs. The room’s scent came from a shelf full of different types of tea. A slender Chinese man with hair slicked tightly back approached him.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Do you sell food as well?’
‘Of course. If you could follow me.’
‘I’m only looking for information.’ Rath showed the photos and asked his question.
The man reacted to Betty Winter. ‘I think I saw her here a few weeks ago, it could have been her. Usually it’s only Chinese people who shop here. Occasionally a curious German or two.’
‘You don’t have any regular German customers?’
‘You couldn’t call them regulars.’ The Chinese man shook his head. ‘Apart from this one old man, perhaps. Although he hasn’t been here for a long time.’
‘And he comes here often?’
‘To buy yangtao too, yes, but not just yangtao.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Alfred or Albert, something like that.’
‘How about an address?’
A shake of the head.
He gave the Chinese man his card. ‘Please let me know if he comes back. Promptly and without delay, that’s very important! Try, if you can, to get his name and address.’
‘I’m not a policeman. I can hardly interrogate my customers.’
‘Discreetly, of course. You could tell him you need to order the goods first, and ask for a delivery address. You’ll think of something.’
Since he was already in Kantstrasse, Rath decided to pay Oppenberg a visit. He was in luck, the producer was at his desk and had already heard the news about Krempin. ‘Poor Felix,’ he said. ‘A rather unfriendly colleague of yours came by to tell me. Just dreadful, plunging to his death like that.’
Rath looked at him closely, but there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest that he was responsible for Krempin’s death. ‘I’m here about Vivian,’ he said. ‘The underworld lead has come to nothing, but we’re in the process of uncovering new links that could be significant. Do you know yangtao, the Chinese gooseberry?’
Oppenberg considered for a moment. ‘Could be. The name doesn’t mean anything, but I sometimes go to the Chinese along the road. Perhaps I ate it there. You never really know what’s on your plate.’
‘Then you can’t say whether Vivian Franck liked yangtao either?’
‘Vivian?’ Oppenberg laughed out loud. ‘On the contrary. I can tell you that she gave any food that looked Chinese, or at all Asian, a wide berth, and not just because of the chopsticks. I could never persuade her to come to Nanking with me.’
Rath thought about what Oppenberg had said as he made his way back to the car. Betty Winter and Jeanette Fastré adored yangtao, while Vivian Franck despised it. It didn’t look like a correlation now, just a strange coincidence. Or was the fact that Vivian Franck abhorred Chinese food some kind of explanation?
On the way back to Alex, he took a detour by Bernauer Strasse and rang number 110. Hagedorn.
‘The young lady isn’t here,’ a voice said from above. A man in grey overalls was looking over the banister on the half landing.
‘Working?’
‘What else? Think the bank does a night shift?’
‘Perhaps it should. When you think of those bank robbers, the Brothers Sass.’
‘Even if it was the fuzz pulling the night shifts, they still wouldn’t catch ’em!’ The man gave a brief, dry laugh. ‘What do you want from old Hagedorn?’
‘It isn’t important. Strictly private.’
‘See that her fiancé doesn’t catch you. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humour!’
‘Herr Schmieder, you mean?’
‘Ah, so you know him too?’
‘Berlin’s a small place. Didn’t you know? Isn’t Herr Schmieder living here at the moment?’
‘Ha, it’s almost like his second home. And whenever I say to old Hagedorn, that’s enough now, if he’s here a day longer I’ll have to take money for gas and electricity, he disappears again for a day or two, and the whole thing starts over.’
‘Let me guess, you mentioned it to Frau Hagedorn again today?’
‘You’re a bright spark. Spend the night at the Osram plant, did you?’
Osram light bulbs. The visit had indeed shed more light than Rath could have hoped for. Schmieder’s girlfriend or fiancée, or whatever she was, worked in a bank. He hadn’t even had to ask the caretaker which one; he had simply asked which branch. But she didn’t work in a branch, she worked at the central office in Behrensstrasse and had only arrived at the start of the year – from Cologne.
He knew enough to pay Anton Schmieder a little visit. So, why not now? The man would be back on nights after a week of evenings. Perhaps he’d be at home? Besides, there was someone else in Moabit whom Rath wanted to surprise. True, Charly had made coffee for him that morning, but she hadn’t said goodbye. She could hardly turn down lunch. He climbed the steps to her flat in Spenerstrasse and rang the bell, feeling like a little kid, looking forward to seeing her surprised face.
The door opened and a man grinned at him; he hadn’t counted on seeing that face here. Charly’s cowboy. Her dancing partner at the Resi, this time without the fringe. Was he the reason she had to leave so early?
‘Who is it you’re after?’ he asked. ‘Can I pass on a message?’
Rath was speechless, but managed to mumble something like ‘It’s fine’ before turning and allowing gravity to carry him down the steps.
Back in the car he sat teeming with rage, with no recollection of how he had got there. He would have liked nothing better than to let out some steam on the grinning man upstairs, but he could forget about that unless he wanted to spoil things with Charly for good. He revved the engine, screeching away onto the carriageway.
Five minutes later, he was standing outside Anton Schmieder’s flat. ‘A message from Fräulein Hagedorn,’ he cried, as he knocked on the door for a second time.
When he heard steps inside he positioned himself s
o that Schmieder couldn’t make him out through the crack, but the man was more trusting than expected. He opened the door without thinking, only to turn deathly pale when he saw who was there.
Rath got his foot in the crack, pushing the door inwards with all his might, and causing Anton Schmieder to stumble backwards. ‘What do you want from me?’ Schmieder asked.
‘Why so nervous when the police are round? We wouldn’t do anything to an upstanding citizen.’
Schmieder retreated along the corridor, with Rath in pursuit. They wound up in an untidy kitchen.
‘Haven’t been here for a while, eh?’ said Rath. ‘Been shacked up for a few days with your bride-to-be.’
‘What do you want?’ Schmieder seemed halfway composed again. ‘You can’t just come marching in.’
Rath smiled and rammed his right fist into the man’s solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping for air.
‘If you’re going to blackmail someone, then it’s a good idea not to get caught,’ Rath said. ‘You see, now someone’s hurting you and you can’t even call the police.’
‘You are the police!’ the man panted, having caught his breath at last. ‘What you’re doing here isn’t allowed.’
‘This is for my own pleasure. I know you aren’t going to report me.’
‘I still don’t know what you want.’
‘I want you to stop exchanging letters with one of my friends. No more unfriendly missives written in red pencil and delivered to the State Council mailboxes. Blackmail is a serious offence.’
‘Why don’t you report me if you think I’m a blackmailer? I’ll tell you why. Because if you do, your friend can forget about his dirty deals. Adenauer, that Jew lover, that…’
Rath dealt him another blow to the solar plexus. The man was showing far too little respect. He leaned over him as he gasped for air, pulled him up by the collar and spoke directly in his ear.
‘You should take this a little more seriously. At the end of the day it’s your health. No more letters and no more harassment of any kind. If any details of this disagreeable Glanzstoff affair should reach the public I will hold you personally responsible. Time to impress upon your girlfriend how dangerous it can be to divulge official secrets.’
The Silent Death Page 36