Schmieder gasped for air and nodded.
‘I hope I’ve made myself clear, for your sake. Because next time, it’ll be people who are far better at this sort of thing than I am.’
Schmieder said nothing. He just nodded, again and again, his whole body shaking.
Rath hadn’t realised he was capable of inspiring so much fear. He let go of the man’s collar and stood up.
Schmieder started sobbing. ‘I just wanted for everything to stay the same,’ he said. ‘What am I supposed to do if Ford closes? When they hired me three years ago, I thought this is it, this is my life really starting. I’ll be earning a decent wage. Now you’re telling me that’s over? Do you know how many unemployed people there are in this city? What am I supposed to do if there’s no more Ford?’
‘I wouldn’t try your hand at blackmail, anyway,’ Rath said. ‘You don’t have the talent.’
He exited the flat, got in his car and drove off. All he wanted now was to get out of Moabit. Out, out, out. He was still beside himself with rage.
Driving east via Invalidenstrasse, he came to a halt at Stettiner Bahnhof in front of a telephone booth. Before getting out he smoked a cigarette to calm himself down. Then he looked for twenty pfennigs and called Ostbahnhof. To his surprise he got Marlow on the line.
‘Inspector!’ Dr M. sounded pleased. ‘Good of you to call. How are you getting on with Deutsche Kraft?’
‘Things are moving along,’ Rath lied. ‘Perhaps you can do me a little favour.’
‘So long as you don’t demand the impossible.’
Rath gave Anton Schmieder’s name and address. ‘Nothing too heavy,’ he said. ‘The man just needs a little scare. Have him tailed by the most frightening men you have, and tell them to bump into him now and again and give him a dirty look.’
Marlow laughed. ‘You don’t have to tell me how to go about it. How far can my men go?’
‘A scare, no more. No physical violence. Under no circumstances!’
‘Supposing your man becomes violent, my people have to be able to defend themselves. I can’t forbid them that.’
‘Don’t worry, he won’t. He’s just a poor soul.’
‘If you say so.’
Rath didn’t feel good about his pact with the devil, but he was already too involved with Marlow for another favour to make much difference. He found himself feeling a little sorry for Anton Schmieder, the blackmailer of the rueful countenance, but a blackmailer deserved no better. He could count himself lucky not to face criminal charges. Indeed, all parties involved had come out of the matter rather well: Adenauer had his peace, Schmieder wasn’t going to the clink and Inspector Rath would soon be Chief Inspector Rath.
If there was something in the Deutsche Kraft affair, then he would be doing not only Marlow a favour, but his colleagues too. He thought about why a Ringverein should be involved in a film company, and realised he only knew one type of illegal film. Perhaps he should alert Superintendent Lanke from Vice.
There was an Aschinger at Stettiner Bahnhof too. Rath ate a Bulette on the hoof and drove towards Hannoversche Strasse. He was late. He would have to throw himself into his work to avoid thinking about Charly, and what that cowboy was still doing rattling around her flat.
44
Dr Karthaus had already begun when Rath swept into the autopsy room. Böhm glanced reproachfully at his watch, but Gennat continued listening to the pathologist.
‘…your suspicion has been confirmed,’ he said, giving Rath a nod of greeting. ‘The vocal cords have indeed been removed.’
‘Just like Vivian Franck,’ said Rath.
Gennat sounded as if he had been expecting the news. ‘Whether we like it or not, we should get used to the idea that we’re dealing with a serial killer.’
Böhm grunted at the phrase.
‘To avoid a second Düsseldorf and a fresh wave of hysteria,’ Gennat continued, ‘we should keep this to ourselves and continue to handle things as you have done so far, Böhm. The press has done enough damage already. If we were to confirm the serial killer theory now…’
‘What do you mean, confirm?’ Böhm said. ‘The press is on completely the wrong track. They’ve thrown together two cases that have absolutely nothing to do with one another.’
‘Apart from the strange coincidence of the Chinese gooseberry,’ Gennat said.
‘You know what I think of that nonsense.’
‘On that note. Did you find anything, Herr Rath?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ Rath cleared his throat, only to be cut off by Dr Karthaus.
‘Far be it from me to interrupt CID business, but aren’t you gentlemen here to listen to me?’
‘Of course, Doctor. Rath, come to my office immediately afterwards to make your report.’
‘I…uh, at three…my appointment with Zörgiebel.’
‘In that case come straight after your appointment.’
‘Might I continue?’ Karthaus asked, sounding slightly agitated.
‘On you go, Doctor, on you go,’ Gennat said.
Karthaus cleared his throat. ‘Seeing as you’ve mentioned these yangtao that Dr Schwartz found in Betty Winter’s stomach…’ He made a dramatic pause so that the three CID officers realised he had read the Winter case notes as well as the Franck file. ‘…I have examined the contents of the deceased’s stomach and can only say that she didn’t eat very much before her death, fruit mostly. There is nothing to suggest the presence of Chinese gooseberries…’
‘I’ve brought a few along with me,’ Rath said, reaching in his pocket for the yangtao the Chinese man had given him.
‘Looks like a furry potato,’ Gennat said.
‘You have to cut it open,’ Rath said to Dr Karthaus. ‘That’s your area of expertise.’
Karthaus took the scalpel, and parted the unremarkable-looking fruit to reveal a bright green centre with small black seeds arranged in a radial pattern.
‘Looks very pretty from the inside,’ Gennat said.
‘Tastes good too,’ Rath said. ‘And it’s healthy.’
‘As I said,’ Karthaus continued. ‘I didn’t find evidence of any such fruit in her stomach, but she had eaten other kinds of fruit, albeit many hours before she died.’
‘The cause of death? Drugs? Poison?’
‘Wrong on both counts,’ Karthaus said. ‘Ultimately, I can’t tell you what she died of.’
‘Just like Franck,’ Böhm growled. ‘Can you at least venture a guess?’
‘The examination revealed an excessive acidity of the blood. That’s normal with dead people, but the results were uncommonly high…’
‘Get to the point, Doctor. You must have a hunch.’
‘That’s really all it is, and I have no other explanation. She could have died of hypoglycaemia, but I can’t prove it.’
‘Never heard of it,’ Gennat said. ‘What is that?’
‘Extremely low blood sugar.’
‘And it can be fatal?’
‘Absolutely. However, it usually only occurs in diabetics who treat their illness with insulin. If the insulin dose is too high or the body isn’t supplied with enough sugar, then it can lead to low blood sugar.’
‘Was Fastré diabetic?’ Gennat asked.
Karthaus shook his head. ‘I requested her files from her doctor. She was fit as a fiddle, but there are these injection sites. On closer inspection, I found a number of subcutaneous injections, not so easy to uncover.’
Gennat nodded. ‘But this stuff…’
‘Insulin…’
‘…is something only diabetics take?’
‘That’s right.’ Karthaus nodded. ‘It’s saved the lives of many people. If I may, I should like to propose a little theory.’
Gennat grinned. ‘So, you’re finally letting the cat out of the bag.’
‘Someone administered a number of insulin jabs, either against her will or without her knowledge.’ The pathologist paused and watched the reaction of the police officers. ‘Subcuta
neous injections, as I said. That is, in the subcutaneous fatty tissue, where the active agent slowly enters the bloodstream. She received these injections over several days.’
‘Without her knowledge,’ Gennat muttered thoughtfully.
Karthaus nodded. ‘Nevertheless, her doctor was unable to tell me of any medication she had to take by injection, so it would have been difficult to trick her. Which leaves against her will, although I’ve found no trace of violence. The final dose, at any rate, was so high it was fatal; and the woman must have slowly but surely gone into insulin shock. After that she clearly didn’t get any more sugar.’
‘Sugar?’
‘The only thing that could have saved her life once the insulin was in her body.’
About half an hour later Rath set off again, with Böhm and Gennat remaining to receive Grunwald, Fastré’s producer, who would identify the body. He made good progress and was parked in the atrium by ten to three. Kirie greeted him enthusiastically when he entered the office. He crouched and patted the dog who, in her exuberance, knocked the grey felt hat from his head and started chasing it round the room. Only with the help of Erika Voss and a few cunning tricks did he manage to get it back.
‘Any calls?’ he asked, as he hung it, now moist and slightly misshapen, on the hook.
Erika Voss reached for the list on her desk. ‘Your father said he’d call back. Then a woman who didn’t want to leave her name, probably something private…’ She looked at him expectantly, but Rath’s features were as if chiselled in marble. ‘And Frau Klang…to remind us about your three o’clock. What’s it about, do you know? Why does the commissioner want to speak to you?’
‘Goodness knows…’
‘Is it about Brenner?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ll cross my fingers for you.’
Rath suspected that the whole station knew about his clash with Brenner. The rumour mill in the Castle was working full-steam, and the canteen was its pressure cooker. Erika Voss spent every lunchtime in there, and it couldn’t just be for the food.
Before seeing Zörgiebel, Rath splashed a few litres of water on his face to freshen up. He needed a clear head; just maintain his composure and everything would be fine. He positioned himself in front of the mirror and combed his wet hair into shape. The man staring back at him didn’t look too shabby. He couldn’t be such a bad guy; surely the commissioner would see that.
Brenner was sitting in Zörgiebel’s outer office when Rath entered, holding a magazine awkwardly in his left hand. Reading wasn’t so easy with your right arm in a sling. The plasters on his face were a little much, Rath thought, sitting as far away as possible. Zörgiebel was clearly still busy; the leather-upholstered door to his inner sanctum was closed. Rath examined the old Berlin cityscapes on the wall with interest, and tried to avoid making direct eye contact with Frank Brenner. Dagmar Kling typed unperturbed, as the two men gave each other the silent treatment. It was safe to say that The Guillotine, as Zörgiebel’s secretary was known, had seen worse than two quarrelling inspectors.
The telephone rang and Dagmar Kling answered. She listened and hung up. ‘The commissioner will see you now, gentlemen.’
Brenner jumped to his feet and Rath let him go first. In his eagerness Brenner hadn’t realised it would be difficult to open the massive double door with only his left hand. Rath didn’t come to his aid, even when he fancied Dagmar Kling was staring at him reproachfully. He waited and followed Brenner in at a respectful distance.
Zörgiebel wasn’t alone. Across his brightly polished desk, in one of the three leather chairs, sat Superintendent Brückner, Chief of the Fraud Squad. Brenner had been caught out, Rath registered with satisfaction, although he didn’t realise it yet. He couldn’t have seen his doctor in the past few days. Smiling obsequiously, Brenner gave first Zörgiebel, and then Brückner, his left hand before sitting down. Rath was glad it wasn’t Bernhard Weiss leading the discussion, as that would have been a tougher nut to crack. With Zörgiebel he had no such reservations.
Preliminary greetings over, Zörgiebel didn’t hang about. ‘Gentlemen, you know why you are here, so let’s get to the point. An incident occurred on the evening of the first of March in the Residenz-Casino. Inspector Rath, you are alleged to have struck Inspector Brenner on two occasions. What do you have to say to that?’
Rath made a guilty face. ‘I did strike Inspector Brenner, and I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but it is a mystery to me how he could have sustained such serious injuries. I took a couple of hefty swipes at him, but my blows couldn’t have been that forceful. I’m not Max Schmeling.’
‘We’ll come to that presently,’ Zörgiebel said. ‘So, you are sorry that you struck Inspector Brenner.’ The commissioner cleared his throat. ‘Then I would ask you to stand up, give the inspector your hand and apologise formally for behaviour that is entirely unworthy of a Prussian police officer.’
Rath did exactly as asked. He stood up and stretched out his right hand towards Brenner, who almost met it with the hand in the sling, before switching to his left. Rath likewise switched hands.
‘I apologise unreservedly, Herr Brenner,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘Good,’ Zörgiebel said after Rath had resumed his seat, ‘then let that be an end to this. Inspector Rath, I would like to remind you that one of a Prussian police officer’s most important duties is to conduct himself in a fitting manner at all times. Especially now, with the press ready to pounce on our every error.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. Then I won’t keep you from your work any longer. Please take this matter to heart and…’
‘What?’ Brenner could no longer keep his rage and disappointment in check. ‘That’s it? A half-baked apology and the matter is closed for good old Herr Rath? If that’s how it is, I’m going to have to seriously consider instituting criminal proceedings against my colleague here for assault. You and your distinguished Vipoprä tried to talk me out of it, and, idiot that I am, I agreed. This isn’t the last of it!’
Brenner no longer had himself under control, almost slamming his right hand against the table.
Zörgiebel remained calm. ‘Inspector Brenner, I think you should consider very carefully what you are saying. If you institute criminal proceedings I will have to insist upon an official medical examination. Do you really want that?’
Brenner gave a start. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That is something I’d like to discuss with you and Superintendent Brückner in private. That’s why I was just asking Inspector Rath to leave, before you interrupted me.’
‘My apologies, Commissioner.’ Brenner was kowtowing now. Did he sense what was in store? Rath would have dearly loved to stay in the room and hear what accusations Brenner had to defend himself against.
‘Can I go now, Sir?’ he asked.
‘Of course, my dear Rath!’ Zörgiebel waved him out. ‘Get back to work.’
Rath took his leave with a bow and the friendliest of smiles. This will be hard on Brenner, he thought, strolling past Dagmar Kling’s clattering typewriter and out of the office. Falsification of documents, theft. A number of charges had accumulated. Zörgiebel would probably sweep most of it under the carpet, but Brenner would pay a price. Normally they threatened miscreants with a stint in Köpenick, far outside the gates of the city. Rath’s costume in the Resi would thus take on a prophetic meaning.
He had just begun to feel pleased at this favourable turn of events when he remembered what had caused them in the first place. Charly and her cowboy. The grinning man who’d opened the door that morning was the one he should have beaten up, not Brenner.
It was twenty past three when he opened the glass doors to Homicide and knocked on Gennat’s door. Trudchen Steiner told him that Böhm was still with Buddha. ‘I’ll ask if you can go in.’
He could. Böhm and Gennat were sitting eating cake.
‘Take a seat,’ Gennat said. ‘Would you like a
slice? Trudchen, please bring the inspector a cup of coffee and a cake plate.’
Rath sat down. The fact that Buddha could get stuck into cakes straight after a visit to the morgue testified to a steady constitution. Böhm didn’t look quite so happy, but was forcing himself to eat a slice of nut cake.
‘So,’ Gennat said, ‘take a seat and tell me what you found out about these yangatang…’
‘Yangtao, Sir.’ Rath fished one out of his pocket and divided it with the cake knife. ‘You can use your fork to scoop it out.’
Gennat tried it and nodded appreciatively. ‘It comes from China, you say?’
‘I met someone today who grows yangtao here in Berlin, but that’s the exception. Otherwise I think you can only get it in China. It’s a very exclusive fruit, and not exactly cheap.’
‘Just the thing for film actresses.’
‘Perhaps it’s fashionable in those circles. I still don’t know where Fastré bought hers, but the owner of the Chinahaus in Kantstrasse remembered Betty Winter. Curious as it seems, the matter doesn’t appear to go anywhere after that. You see, Vivian Franck has nothing to do with yangtao. She never even went near Chinese food, I learned today. On the other hand, she was picked up by this stranger outside a Chinese restaurant.’
Trudchen Steiner entered with coffee and a cake plate. ‘Help yourself,’ Gennat said.
Rath looked at the cake plate which, despite having already been plundered, still contained a lavish selection. He left the last slice of gooseberry tart for Gennat, Buddha’s favourite, and shovelled a slice of cheesecake onto his own plate.
‘Well,’ Böhm said, having polished off his nut cake, ‘we can consign this Chinese gooseberry nonsense to the shelves. I thought it was hogwash from the start.’
Gennat helped himself to some German gooseberry tart. ‘Rath has already voiced his doubts,’ he said, ‘but as far as I’m concerned the matter isn’t closed. There remains this curious coincidence…’
The Silent Death Page 37