The shops, however, were still closed. Stave looked around. Would the disappointed citizenry smash the windows and storm the shops? It doesn’t look like it, he thought. Everyone seemed somehow intimidated by the riches glittering before their eyes, separated by just a pane of glass.
That's the end of the black market for sure, the CID man realised. I need to hurry up.
He arrived punctually at the street adjoining Goldbekplatz. Ruge was already waiting for him. The chief inspector only recognised him when he nearly bumped into him. Out of uniform he looked like a schoolboy.
‘Obviously I’m not carrying a weapon,’ Ruge whispered.
‘I only asked you to come so you could look after my bicycle when I pounce,’ Stave hissed back. Ruge's face fell. The CID man clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I was only joking,’ he assured him. ‘You needn’t worry about this old “Gazelle”, and we won’t need a weapon either.’ For a moment he remembered his own gunshot wound, but quickly dismissed any fear. Don’t make yourself go crazy.
Stave had brought a rusty padlock and some thick cable from his cellar and used it to chain his bike to a lamppost.
‘Even my granny could break that,’ Ruge said.
‘Well let's hope your granny isn’t on her way here to do some black market business. I’ll buy a new lock tomorrow.’
‘Or a new bicycle.’
‘One way or another, I don’t need anything from there,’ the chief inspector said, nodding towards Goldbekplatz.
‘The black marketeers are running around as if a hand grenade has just gone off,’ the young policeman joked.
Stave wondered for a moment if Ruge had also been a soldier at the front, but said nothing. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘About a quarter of an hour. Same as ever actually, black marketeers, a few little squirts, men with briefcases, lookout boys, mothers with shopping bags. Cigarettes, coffee, a bit of butter. The shops are still closed. But you can feel how nervous everybody is. Tomorrow the shops will open and all this will collapse, everybody knows that. The black marketeers are trying for one last big deal but nobody really knows whether it's better to hold on to the last few things they have or on the other hand to buy up whatever is still available.’
Stave and Ruge strolled casually out on to the square. Prices were being whispered, jackets rapidly opened and closed. But canny glances this way and that, fingers being rubbed together, laughs that were that bit too loud. Tomorrow you’re all finished, the CID man thought. I wonder what job you’ll switch to the day after. I bet you’ll still be CID customers.
‘Who are we looking for?’ Ruge asked impatiently.
‘An acquaintance of mine,’ Stave replied. ‘Be patient, the man is harmless. In fact I feel sorry for him.’
Suddenly he nudged the young policeman in the ribs and nodded straight ahead: ‘There's our man.’
‘He certainly does look harmless,’ Ruge replied, clearly disappointed.
Kurt Flasch. Small, thin, half blind because of the raindrops running down his soldered-together nickel-framed glasses, zigzagging across the square. Distracted, jittery, an unhappy expression on his face.
‘Are you sure he's the forger?’ hissed Ruge.
‘He's never forged a note in his life,’ the chief inspector replied and walked up to his neighbour from behind. ‘Herr Flasch, you’re under arrest,’ he said softly. ‘If you don’t do anything silly I’ll save you the embarrassment of being handcuffed here in the square.’
Flasch turned around in shock, stared at Stave, shot a glance at Ruge, then turned back to the CID man. His pale skin turned ever so slightly paler. ‘I’ve broken no laws,’ he stammered.
‘The Allies would see that differently,’ the chief inspector replied, laying his right hand on Flasch's shoulder. He could feel the man's collarbone through his thin raincoat. When he worked in Homicide he had never felt sorry for the people he arrested. After all, they had taken another human being's life. Now he was thinking of Flasch's overweight wife, his rowdy children, and felt what he was doing was almost shabby. ‘Maybe you’ll get away with a fine,’ he said, only half believing it.
‘What are you accusing me of anyway?’ But the eyes behind the glasses made it quite clear to the chief inspector that Flasch already knew.
‘You sold some of the new pfennig notes on Goldbekplatz,’ the CID man replied. He had by now led the man over to the wall of the abandoned chemical factory and pushed him into the broken-open doorway of the building. They could have been taken for three men doing a run-of-the-mill black market deal.
‘Herr Ruge is going to search you. It won’t take long and nobody will pay any attention,’ Stave reassured him.
Ruge set to and hand-searched the arrested man. His hands were deft. This is no longer the kid I met last year, wet-behind-the-ears with just eight weeks’ training. He may well join CID soon. Ruge produced a wallet, a few cigarettes and a load of Reichsmarks – along with a dozen of the new five-pfennig notes, held together with a paperclip.
‘You were sitting right at the source,’ Stave growled, looking at the notes.
‘I got my pro capita allowance this morning, just like everybody else,’ Flasch said defensively.
‘Everyone was given four five-pfennig notes, not twelve.’
‘I’ve already bought something and got change,’ Flasch said in his own defence.
The chief inspector held one of the notes up to the light. Yellowish-green colour. The pattern just slightly to one side. He opened his briefcase and took out a five-pfennig note. The same colour, but the design wasn’t to one side. Flasch slumped his shoulders and stared down at the dirty ground. ‘You owe me an explanation,’ the chief inspector said.
‘How did you find out?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. A few questions and pretty soon I was sure these weren’t forgeries, but real banknotes. The new currency. Who could get their hands on these notes before the day they were to be issued? One of the Allies. But why would one of them be down selling them off on the black market? What would anybody paid in British pounds have to gain? So it had to be a German. That meant somebody from the Landeszentralbank. The notes first turned up on Goldbekplatz. You’re a regular at Goldbekplatz. It was absurdly simple.’
‘It was pure chance I was there that day.’
‘You were the one who warned me about the dealers who sold poisonous torpedo oil as cooking oil. That was something only someone who traded here regularly would know.’
‘Just shows that no good comes from doing good,’ Flasch muttered resignedly.
Stave shook his head. ‘Even if you’d said nothing, you still wouldn’t have got away with it.’
‘In that case why didn’t you arrest me sooner?’
‘Because there were two things I didn’t understand and I thought I’d better clear them up before pouncing. But now that the new currency is out I have to arrest you, but I still don’t understand everything. Why did you sell these notes before X-day? If you had waited until today, nobody would have been able to accuse you of anything. And why take such a risk for pfennig notes rather than mark notes?’
Flasch made an anguished face. ‘I wanted to wait for the right moment,’ he admitted. ‘When they brought the new currency into the bank in wooden boxes, we sorted them into bundles. We very soon noticed that there were some five- and ten-pfennig notes where – you saw yourself – the colours and patterns aren’t quite in perfect alignment. That always happens. It was the same with the old Reichsmark, but it happens in particular with new issues, until they’ve got the printing blocks sorted out. The “misprints” end up in the drum.’
‘The drum?’
‘A sort of waste bin. The misprints are shredded down to the size of grain. Two employees deal with the drum, throwing bundles of notes in and watching over the whole process until there's nothing but the tiniest of shreds remaining. The drum looks a bit like a washing machine, one that only opens at the top. You can look down and watch the notes being
shredded.’
‘Not just “look” down, but reach down too,’ said Stave, beginning to understand.
‘That's why there's always two of us. One to watch the other. But my colleague had a cold. He was coughing and blowing his nose noisily, and he turned away when he did so. Only a second or two. But I took the chance to stick a hand into the drum and pull out as many as I could.’
‘How many notes?’
‘Eight ten-pfennig notes, about twenty fives.’
The chief inspector closed his eyes and tried not to laugh. All this fuss for a few pathetic pfennig notes!
‘I shoved the notes into the belt of my trousers,’ the bank employee went on, ‘and waited until the end of the work day. Then I went to Goldbekplatz, where I’d done a bit of business before. Honest business.’
‘Nothing on the black market is legal,’ Ruge commented.
Stave preferred to say nothing, just looked at the arrested man. ‘But you of all people knew that the new currency was about to be released. Why not wait a few days more? Why get rid of the notes straight away?’
‘I have a wife and children,’ Flasch whined. ‘If I’d waited until today then I’d only have been a few pfennigs richer. That's a joke. Not worth the risk. I told myself, sell the notes first and you’ll get a better price. Maybe a pair of children's shoes. Or even,’ he blushed, ‘ladies’ stockings.’
Flasch dropped his head and stared at the ground.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ the chief inspector muttered consolingly. ‘In any case the British got hold of the notes soon enough and made a huge fuss about it.’
‘I never thought of that. I never thought they would become widespread. Just a few pfennigs. Now nobody would pay any attention.’
‘Now is too late.’
‘Let me go, please. It was just a few pfennigs,’ Flasch begged.
Stave hesitated ever so slightly. Remand in custody. Trial. An English judge would pass sentence. A year in jail? In any case he would lose his job at the bank. No job and a family at home. All of that for just a few pfennigs? Then he glanced at Ruge, who had witnessed the arrest. ‘I can’t let you off the hook,’ he said apologetically, wondering whether or not to handcuff Flasch after all. Not because he thought he would try to escape, but because he might throw himself underneath a car or a tram. In the end he decided against.
‘Let's take a walk down to CID headquarters,’ he said.
‘A pleasure I’ll try to avoid in future,’ Flasch replied and trotted obediently alongside the two policemen.
Later Stave sat alone in his office; Flasch was already in custody and Ruge had gone home. He reached for the telephone receiver. MacDonald would be pleased, he thought. As it was a Sunday he called the lieutenant's private number. ‘Hallo?’ A female voice. For a moment Stave was so taken aback that he couldn’t get a word out. Then he recognised the voice.
‘Frau Berg!’ he exclaimed. ‘I mean, Frau MacDonald,’ he hastily corrected himself.
‘Too late, Herr Oberinspektor, I recognised your voice. Still in the office, as ever?’ Her light-heartedness. Suddenly Stave felt his heart ache with nostalgia. Nostalgia for the good old days, Homicide, Erna's irrepressible optimism. Sentimentalism. You’re getting soft, he told himself. But there remained a twinge of longing. A nostalgia for a Sunday afternoon at home with a woman laughing down the telephone.
‘How's Iris?’
‘She's sucking me dry, cries all night, gives off more wind than a company of soldiers with dysentery. Everything as it should be.’
Stave would have liked to ask about her son, about their plans. What they would do after their imminent move. Whether or not she knew yet where they were going? But it felt indiscreet. ‘Is Lieutenant MacDonald at home?’ he asked instead.
‘You’re not going to drag James away from me on a Sunday, are you?’ He could hear an inkling of concern in her voice.
‘Quite the opposite: I’m going to make his weekend better.’
‘In that case the answer is yes, James is at home.’
‘Old boy, not at church?’
Stave was confused for a few minutes. ‘I’m going later. To stuff a few notes into the collection box,’ he answered at last.
‘Five- and ten-pfennig notes? You’ve got our man?’
‘The King of England and the President of the United States can sleep quietly at night again. The saboteur of the new currency is safely behind lock and bars.’ Stave told him how the case had unfolded.
‘Eight ten-pfennig notes and twenty fives,’ MacDonald summed up, bursting into laughter. ‘A total of 1.8 Deutschmarks and the British Empire quakes in its boots! Obviously you’re not surprised. I’m just pleased there aren’t any much larger holes in the system. Imagine if it had been one of the Allies. Or the bogeyman: Uncle Joe Stalin, who is very “not amused” that the Deutschmark has been introduced in the western zones and might have sent some NKVD saboteur to dig into our skin like a tick. What would we have done if Stalin had really been behind it? Been marching to Siberia? Good God, I’m relieved it's such a pathetic individual.’
‘Pathetic is right,’ Stave mumbled.
‘You know him?’
‘He's a neighbour. A poor devil.’ He told him part of the background.
‘Come on, out with it,’ the lieutenant demanded when he had finished.
‘Out with what?’
‘Old boy, I know you as well as your bathroom mirror. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. You want me to intervene on behalf of this Flasch.’
‘You do have certain connections.’
‘But you’ve already arrested him and put the thing in the hands of the prosecutor.’
‘I had no choice. I wasn’t on my own.’
‘I see.’ There was a long silence on the end of the line. ‘You know what? The case will end up before a British summary court. I can see to that. As a standard black market offence. Your files doubtless leave no loopholes, but happily they are written in German. I will translate it into an English case for prosecution. Something like “Apprehended during a raid in possession of an unusual amount of cash, but no rationed goods.” A ten-minute case. Sentence: two weeks in jail. Next, please! Not exactly pleasant but routine. It's almost the truth. Flasch will suffer some disciplinary measure at the hands of the Landeszentralbank. But they won’t fire him.’
‘If I hadn’t promised Erna otherwise, I’d get on my bike and ride over, grab you by the arm, drag you into the nearest pub and have the pair of us drink our fill.’
‘I have to say I wonder why our two countries ever fought one another. Problems can be so easily solved. I’ll remind you of that offer another time.’
Stave was sitting at his desk putting his files in order. It was quiet in the giant building save for the fine hissing sound of the rain on the windows. He pushed pieces of paper here and there, but it was no good. He was bursting with energy. Maybe he should just jump on his bike and cycle around Hamburg for the sake of it. Pointless. Just go home? But there was nobody waiting for him. Eventually he realised that there was only one thing for him to do. Just don’t make a mess of it this time, he told himself.
Seconds later he was cycling down Holstenwall towards the Elbe. Past the Bismarck monument, high as a tower and dark with rain, right into Hafenstrasse, then Palmaille. There was hardly a car on the street, the pavements were empty, except for in front of the shop windows, where there were still crowds of people, knots of umbrellas, overcoats, rain capes. As he cycled past, the chief inspector saw only the rear of people's heads; everyone was staring at the displays, their amazement almost like a strange smell over the tarmac.
The further he went, the heavier he trod on the pedals. Past the large shared family house on the left. Its central entrance, which looked like a gate into a courtyard, actually led into a small cul-de-sac: Röperstrasse. Stave was hurtling along and grabbed the brake so sharply outside house number 6 that the wheel nearly grated the rubber off the brake block. So what, he thoug
ht, I can buy a new brake block. Hastily he fumbled with his own home-made lock until he had fastened up the Gazelle. He took a deep breath to stop his heart hammering in his chest, before knocking on the shabby door to the basement apartment. Please be in, he prayed. He could hear steps behind the door, the scratching sound of a bolt being pulled back. Anna.
‘You,’ she said simply. She opened the door wide.
Stave didn’t know how to reply. She had her hair tied back in a loose bundle, but strands fell over her face. She was wearing a light-coloured dress he hadn’t seen before. He should have brought flowers, or something. He walked in, feeling rather embarrassed. He inhaled her perfume as he walked past into the hallway, while she carefully closed the door behind him. The flat consisted of the one basement room plus an old laundry room. The brick walls were painted chalky white and pictures Anna had salvaged from the rubble were hanging on nails that had been hammered into the grouting. A table, two chairs, a little living room cupboard, without doors, below the high basement window. On the shelf on the wall a few old books lying flat and a couple of tatty weekly subscription novels. Another table with an oil painting on it, the frame loose and the canvas torn. More booty from some ruin, a piece in the process of being restored, and the big square basin from the laundry room. The walls were wet with damp. It felt like paradise to Stave.
‘I surprised myself,’ he admitted. And then he did what he should have done months ago. He took one step towards her, took her in his arms and kissed her.
The final clue
Monday, 21 June 1948
In the grey light of dawn Stave slid out of the narrow bed without waking Anna. He got dressed, took a key from his lover's purse and carefully closed the door of the apartment behind him. He didn’t want the neighbours to hear. It was foggy but there were people on the street. More than he had expected so early in the morning. He pulled the collar of his coat up high and walked the few paces to the bakery he knew from previous visits was nearby.
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