The March Fallen

by volker Kutscher

  ‘If that’s what you think, you ought to have contacted the police sooner, then perhaps your faithful Heinrich would still be alive.’

  ‘You think I don’t blame myself? But that doesn’t mean the police should make the same mistake. See that there are no more victims, Inspector! Find Wosniak’s killer.’

  ‘It isn’t so easy to find a dead man. No doubt your Captain Engel goes by a new name.’

  ‘Then protect me and my men.’

  ‘You want police protection?’ Rath gazed at Roddeck in disbelief. ‘Don’t you think that’s a little . . . over the top? I wouldn’t hold out much hope given the current situation. The sort of manpower that would entail . . .’

  ‘I believe my former comrades are in danger, as am I.’

  ‘Some of these men aren’t even from Berlin.’

  ‘Captain Engel wasn’t from Berlin either. He was from Bonn.’

  Rath gave in. ‘Perhaps I can assign you a little protection today. If you tell me where your meeting is, I’ll take you there myself.’

  Lieutenant von Roddeck appeared offended, but nodded all the same. ’Friedrichstrasse,’ he said. ‘Café Imperator.’

  23

  Including the walk and the number nine autobus, Wilhelm Böhm needed approximately twenty minutes to get from Alexanderplatz to the Prussian Interior Ministry on Unter den Linden, just by the Brandenburger Tor. Who did these upstarts think they were? God knows he had better things to do than justify his methods to the new heads. All this time being passed from pillar to post meant his work was left undone, which was no doubt what they wanted, and how would Rath and Gräf manage without him?

  At least he had been allowed to make his way to the Interior Ministry without brown-shirted accompaniment. In the corridors of the Castle he had felt like a prisoner. He remembered Grzesinski, the former police commissioner, who had been frogmarched out of his office by Reichswehr soldiers last year. Back then the protests had been vocal, but all he had received, sandwiched between two SA auxiliary officers, was the odd sympathetic glance. He felt like a pariah and perhaps that’s what he had become. Certainly the new police commissioner had done nothing to dispel him of this notion.

  ‘You do understand that the police can ill afford such headlines,’ Magnus von Levetzow had barked in the brisk tones of a one-time naval officer. The Berlin police chief tapped the pile of newspapers on his desk, everything from the Kreuzzeitung to Der Tag, the latter having upped the ante again this morning.

  ‘With respect, Sir, I’m not responsible for the headlines. I don’t know how these muckrakers got hold of my name.’

  ‘But you are responsible for the methods which are making our police force a laughing stock! We have an important role to play in the new Germany, where we must fight in the national revolution alongside our national forces, and against the enemies of the Fatherland!’

  Levetzow banged his fist on the table, but Böhm refused to be intimidated. He had encountered worse drill sergeants during the war. ‘With respect, Sir, I have a different view of police work.’

  ‘Your view of police work is detailed right here in Der Tag. Do you know how many complaints there have been about the methods employed at Nollendorfplatz? Rightly I might add! You, Detective Chief Inspector Böhm, are making a comedy troupe of the Berlin Police, and the whole city is in stitches. Worse, you are wasting valuable resources. Men who are needed to fight the enemies of the new Germany stand guard over canvasses covered in pigeon dung!’

  ‘There is a perfectly good reason, Sir. The death of . . .’

  ‘The death of an urban vagrant should have been shelved long ago. We have other priorities, or did I not make myself clear?’

  Böhm stopped listening. However he might respond the outcome was fixed. The commissioner didn’t want any arguments. All he wanted was to give a troublesome officer a good bawling-out. The surprise came at the end, when Levetzow packed him off to the Interior Ministry. They weren’t finished with him yet. ‘The Daluege Bureau would like to see you.’

  So it was that Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm sat wasting his time in an outer office of the Prussian Interior Ministry with his bowler hat in his hands, waiting to be called. He had heard of the Daluege Bureau. Once they had your number the odds were stacked against you. A few months earlier, Kurt Daluege, then working for the Berlin Refuse Department, was appointed by Göring himself to ‘Special Commissar’, tasked with purging the Berlin Police of its politically unreliable elements. So, that was the name given these days to a distinguished officer such as Wilhelm Böhm, who had neither belonged to a party nor politicised on duty in his life. A politically unreliable element.

  At last the door opened and a man emerged with sweaty hair clinging to his forehead. He didn’t appear to see Böhm or the secretary sitting behind her desk, and left the room without a word.

  ‘You can go in now,’ the secretary said.

  Kurt Daluege, a flashy greenhorn with a high forehead and arrogantly curved lips, barely over thirty, sat behind a desk stacked with files. Personnel records, Böhm thought, and inside every one is a poor sod whose career with the Berlin Police is going to hell in a handbasket. The new regime was determined to create as many faits accomplis as possible before the vote on Sunday. Daluege was probably taking these files home at night, scouring officers’ biographies for weak points. Böhm couldn’t believe it. A binman was to pronounce judgement on him.

  ‘Take a seat, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  Daluege spoke without looking up from the file he was writing in. Böhm sat on an uncomfortable visitors’ chair that might have come from the interrogation rooms at headquarters. At length Daluege snapped the file shut, set it to one side and reached for the next.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm, A Division?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a Social Democrat?’

  ‘No.’

  Daluege made a tick in the file.

  ‘Nevertheless, you are interested in their election programme. Why else would you attend a Social Democrat hustings?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘You’ve been seen at Social Democrat conventions.’

  Böhm wondered who had seen him at the rally on Sunday and deemed it cause for denunciation. A colleague? An ex-con out for revenge?

  ‘I am a responsible citizen of this Republic, and democrats have a duty to keep themselves informed. Since when do I have to justify attending a campaign rally?’

  ‘You call yourself a democrat – but claim not to be a Social Democrat.’ Daluege furrowed his brow and threw Böhm a disapproving glance. ‘No doubt you are one of those who hasn’t understood the significance of the national uprising. Wake up, Detective Chief Inspector, the Republic is history! The new age begins now. Germany is on the up!’

  The former waste engineer’s triumphalism was starting to get on Böhm’s nerves, but he checked himself and pretended to listen.

  ‘In times like these there are two types of German,’ Daluege continued. ‘Those who help build the new Germany and those who don’t. The question is: which type are you?’

  ‘The old Germany will do me just fine, I don’t need a new one. As a police officer I work to make things better, or at least ensure they don’t get worse.’

  Daluege wrote a few sentences in Böhm’s file. ‘If you desire a better Germany, your priority should be to thwart the Communist pillagers who burned down the Reichstag and are laying waste to our country. Instead you are withholding your cooperation . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. All I did was explain to the commissioner that I am a homicide detective, and murder investigations take precedence over arson attacks in which there are no fatalities. I was only too glad to have Cadet Steinke transferred to the Reichstag task force.’

  ‘You make it sound like an act of mercy.’ Daluege shook his head. ‘Do you know why you are here, Detective Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Evidently because I attended a campaign hustings.’ />
  ‘You are here because the German Police must ensure it can rely on its officers to play their part in the construction of the new Germany. As matters stand, Detective Chief Inspector, I’m uncertain whether you are playing yours.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That you’re in luck. For the time being I will refrain from suspending you. Instead you will have the opportunity to prove yourself.’

  Daluege seemed to expect gratitude, but Böhm refused to play ball. He held the binman’s gaze and waited for him to continue. ‘Your case has been reassigned, and you will no longer be working at Alexanderplatz.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You are being transferred to Köpenick, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘When . . . when does this transfer take effect?’

  ‘Immediately, of course. What did you think? Get used to the pace of the new age! Now back to headquarters with you and clear your desk. Tomorrow morning, you’ll report to Inspector Brenner.’

  ‘Brenner?’

  ‘He’s head of operations at Köpenick.’ Daluege wrote another sentence in Böhm’s file. ‘You can go now.’

  Böhm’s legs felt like jelly, but soon the old spirit returned and filled him with resolve. He wouldn’t let himself be ground down. They had no cause to remove him from office, and for as long as he was a Prussian police officer he would conduct business as he saw fit. These Nazi upstarts could go hang.

  Nothing lasts forever, he thought, let’s see what the elections bring. He left the office without another word.

  24

  Café Imperator was slightly out of the way, towards the southern end of Friedrichstrasse. Two gentlemen rose when they spied Roddeck. Rath had never seen the gaunt man, but recognised the fat man with the glasses.

  Roddeck made the introductions. ‘Martin Frank, Neue Preussische Zeitung, and Gregor Hildebrandt, my publisher – Gereon Rath, Criminal Police.’

  ‘Hildebrandt?’ Rath asked, shaking the fat man’s hand. ‘Didn’t you publish Herr Roeder back in the day?’

  ‘Some time ago,’ Hildebrandt said, evidently flattered that Rath should recognise him. ‘Nibelungen is famous for its true life stories.’

  ‘Or true war stories.’

  ‘War is life, life is war,’ Hildebrandt said seriously. ‘How are you getting on, Inspector? Ever considered putting pen to paper yourself?’

  ‘God forbid!’ Rath raised his hands. ‘No one’s interested in my life.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  Rath and Roddeck took their places at the table.

  ‘We’ve just come from the morgue,’ said Roddeck. ‘It really is my faithful Heinrich.’

  Hildebrandt shook his head. ‘What do you think, Inspector? Is the murder linked to this poison-pen business?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘I advised Herr von Roddeck to go to the police.’

  ‘Advice you should have given two weeks ago.’

  ‘I only told Herr Hildebrandt this morning,’ Roddeck said.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Hildebrandt asked. ‘Will Herr von Roddeck receive police protection?’

  ‘That’s not my decision. Besides, it’s still a little early . . . First we need to examine the facts.’

  ‘Too early? Don’t you think it might be too late, unless you act?’

  ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ Rath lit an Overstolz. ‘How about you? What steps are you taking?’ He turned to Martin Frank, the editor. ‘The easiest thing would be to pull the advance print. You could announce it in tomorrow’s edition.’

  ‘We’ve spent the last few weeks publicising it,’ Frank said. ‘Our readers are expecting the first instalment. If we postpone it, we’ll need a replacement, and negotiations are still ongoing for our next serial.’

  ‘But it isn’t completely impossible? I mean, it’s still two weeks away, and if a human life really is at stake, then . . .’

  Frank looked uncertainly towards Roddeck and Hildebrandt. ‘Assuming it met with the wishes of Herr von Roddeck and Herr Hildebrandt, then, yes, postponing is something we might consider. If the police recommended it.’

  Roddeck cut in. ‘The police should focus on catching the killer. For my part, I will not submit to threats.’

  ‘The same goes for the Neue Preussische Zeitung, of course,’ Frank interjected hurriedly. ‘I just thought that since the Criminal Police . . .’

  ‘Yielding to blackmail can’t be in police interests,’ Roddeck said.

  ‘We only have to be seen to be yielding,’ Rath said. ‘Forbearance is not acquittance. It would ease the pressure, that’s all, and give us a week to search for this missing captain. If he is still alive, that is, and responsible for Heinrich Wosniak’s death. To be honest I have difficulty believing someone would kill in order to prevent a book from being published.’

  The publisher looked astounded. ‘Hasn’t Lieutenant von Roddeck explained to you what this is about?’

  ‘Operation Alberich, Captain Engel, the murder of two French civilians . . .’

  ‘ . . . and a German recruit,’ Hildebrandt added.

  ‘This business with the gold. What can I say, it all sounds pretty convoluted.’

  ‘Herr von Roddeck expresses himself better in writing.’ Hildebrandt said, reaching for his briefcase. He removed a thick wodge of papers held together by cord. ‘Here,’ he said, passing it across. ‘Märzgefallene proofs. Read the book and you’ll understand.’

  Rath looked at the wodge in horror. ‘How many pages?’

  ‘Five hundred and eighty, but you don’t have to read everything. I’ve marked the most important sections. You’ll realise soon enough that our fears are justified. Captain Engel is cold-hearted and devoid of scruples.’

  ‘A Nazi?’

  ‘What are you saying? The exact opposite.’

  ‘A Communist?’

  ‘No.’ The publisher looked piqued. ‘A Jew.’

  25

  When Rath returned to his office, Erika Voss was sitting at her desk in her hat and coat writing something on a piece of paper. She crumpled it when she saw him.

  Rath looked at his watch. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ She passed him Kirie’s lead. ‘I was all set to take her home.’

  ‘Sorry, Erika,’ he said. Kirie wagged her tail contentedly. ‘Traffic.’

  He released Kirie’s collar and she made straight for her favourite place under his desk. Rath followed her into his office and set down the thick stack of papers he was carrying. ‘Any sign of Gräf?’ he asked through the door.

  ‘Finished for the night. Your fiancée was asking for you on the phone just now.’

  ‘She was?’ Rath hung his hat and coat on the stand. ‘Did Gräf have any luck?’

  ‘None. No trace of our dead man.’ Erika Voss could no longer hide her curiosity at the wodge of paper. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Märzgefallene. Our baron’s novel about his wartime experiences.’

  ‘All that shorthand was for nothing?’ Erika Voss presented him with a neatly stapled file. ‘Interview transcript, freshly typed.’

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘Speaking of which . . .’ She opened a second, thinner file. ‘Captain Engel was reported missing in March ’17, and declared dead seven years later. At his widow’s behest.’

  Many war widows refused to accept their missing husbands’ deaths, even if it brought them financial difficulties, but Captain Engel’s widow had prioritised inheritance over hopes of a miracle. Perhaps the woman was simply realistic, but how would she react when she learned her husband might not have been killed after all?

  ‘Do you have her address?’

  Erika Voss pushed the file across the table. ‘This is everything I’ve been able to find.’

  Rath skimmed the list, which also contained the addresses of some of the men Roddeck had mentioned. Eva Engel still lived in Bonn, but went by a different name. ‘Looks like she remar
ried?’

  ‘I don’t know, but she’s called Heinen these days.’

  ‘Our colleagues in Bonn should pay these men a visit. The widow, too, of course. Is the press appeal ready?’

  Erika Voss removed a letter from her folder. ‘You still need to sign.’

  ‘It’s Böhm who needs to sign. Has he been in touch?’

  ‘It’s as if he’s disappeared from the face of the Earth. Fräulein Ahrens isn’t answering either.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Rath. ‘We’ll just have to keep trying. I’ll fill him in tomorrow at briefing.’

  He took out a pencil and signed the document, which contained a precise description of Wosniak and appealed for witnesses who had seen anything unusual at Nollendorfplatz between the 21st and 25th of February.

  ‘Pass it on to Gennat. I’d rather he approved it, if Böhm’s nowhere to be found. Otherwise I’ll just be accused of going it alone again.’

  Erika Voss reached for an internal mail envelope. ‘I’ll take this and be on my way.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Rath said.

  He had a hunch she was meeting someone, and was pleased at her startled face. Fetching his brown leather briefcase he stowed the Roddeck novel and interview transcript inside.

  ‘Homework,’ he said, attaching Kirie’s lead and reaching for the coat he had only just taken off. Erika Voss looked at him quizzically. ‘Can I drive you somewhere?’ he asked, and her face was transformed by a smile.

  He had parked the Buick on Dircksenstrasse, and started when he saw a familiar Adler sedan tucked in behind. ‘Get in, Erika,’ he said, opening the passenger door. ‘I need to do Kirie’s seat.’

  Before Rath unfolded the dickey he went across to the black sedan, the window of which was lowered in the same instant. ‘New girlfriend, Inspector?’ Johann Marlow asked from the back. In the rearview mirror Rath recognised a pair of narrow eyes. Marlow’s closest confidant Liang was behind the wheel.

  ‘My secretary,’ Rath said. ‘Better for both of us if she doesn’t see us together.’