‘I’m afraid the SA couldn’t care less. The fact is, Long Leo was arrested, and it’s been three days since anyone saw him.’ Marlow pressed a sheet of paper into Rath’s hand.
‘Leopold Juretzka. One of Berolina’s?’
‘The new head, as a matter of fact. Smart guy.’
‘Not smart enough to evade capture.’
‘The SA had no grounds for bringing him in. Dr Kohn hasn’t even established where they’re holding him.’
‘You’re certain it was the SA?’
‘They dragged him out of his flat in the middle of the night and beat him while his girlfriend looked on.’
‘There isn’t a great deal I can do.’
‘The SA calls itself auxiliary police, and it is precisely in this capacity that they are making our lives difficult.’
‘Even the Nazis have their plus points.’
‘Have you any idea what happens in these SA basements? They make my men look like choir boys! Find Juretzka before they beat him to death!’
Find Juretzka! As if it were that easy. The peremptory tone Johann Marlow used was getting on Rath’s nerves, but the man had him by the balls. Still, at least he showed gratitude, unlike the police, who had been stalling his promotion for years. The most he could hope for from Böhm was a misanthropic grunt.
Rath wondered if Charly might be right. Perhaps this business with Böhm was political. After the purge of the police executive last year, he’d heard that Social Democrats in mid-level positions were having a tough time. Even so: Böhm, a Social Democrat? No, there must be other reasons. Weinert’s article, Böhm’s refusal to cooperate fully with the Reichstag task force . . . Whatever, it was hardly his problem.
Too early for work, he parked in Dircksenstrasse. He took Kirie for a turn around the block but, even so, they were first in the office. He fetched a bowl of water for Kirie, and hung his things on the stand before taking Roddeck’s statement and the list of names from the desk and going through to his room. It was a shame Erika Voss wasn’t there; he could have used a cup of coffee. Instead, he lit an Overstolz and skimmed through the transcript. He wanted to be prepared for briefing; wanted to show Gennat he could work well in Böhm’s absence.
He was trying to recall the complicated series of events that had led to the murder of two civilians and a German recruit, when he gave a start. Reinhold Gräf was standing in the doorway, looking as surprised as Rath was himself. Unpleasantly surprised. ‘Gereon, you’re early.’
‘Looks that way.’
It felt strange to be alone in a room with Reinhold Gräf. He hadn’t given what had happened much thought, but now the images returned with a vengeance: the blond Nazi, freshly showered, the strange looks, the breakfast table, the second toothbrush.
‘Is it true about Böhm?’ Gräf asked, as he hung his coat and hat. ‘Erika says it’s as if he’s disappeared from the face of the Earth.’
‘He was summoned by the commissioner yesterday. Seems serious, two auxiliary officers came to fetch him.’
‘What?’
‘SA types with white brassards. Our new colleagues.’
‘Don’t be so disparaging, Gereon. The SA and Stahlhelm help out as best they can. You can’t expect fully-trained police officers. I’m just happy we have their support against the Reds.’
As well you might, Rath thought, all those pretty SA youths. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘right now we’re hunting a killer.’
‘Without the auxiliary police, even more of our colleagues would be forced to help out against the Communists.’
Why was everyone so interested in politics these days? ‘Anyway, Böhm hasn’t been seen since.’
‘We’ll catch up with him soon enough, in twenty minutes at the latest.’
‘I fear you could be right.’
But there was no sign of him in the conference room, and it wasn’t until briefing was underway that Rath learned why. Ernst Gennat hadn’t finished his introductions when an unannounced guest burst in and requested the floor. Erich Liebermann von Sonnenberg had been one of CID’s clandestine Nazis, and was now a personnel officer in the Interior Ministry.
‘I am here to inform you,’ he began, looking around the room, ‘that Detective Chief Inspector Böhm has left A Division, and will be discharging his duties from Köpenick until further notice.’
A murmur passed through the room as Liebermann continued. He spoke of Böhm’s transfer as if it were a kind of decoration, even though it was abundantly clear he was being put out to pasture. Köpenick was the Siberia of the Berlin Police and this was a form of banishment. Liebermann said nothing about how long Böhm would be gone.
All sorts of emotions could be read on the faces of Rath’s colleagues, from indifference and dismay to undisguised schadenfreude. About his own feelings, he was unsure. Yesterday schadenfreude had been uppermost, but today he felt something more akin to pain or shock. The man must have fallen seriously out of favour to suffer a fate like this.
Buddha, too, had been shocked, even if he wore his usual stoical face. Liebermann whispered something in his ear before leaving, at which point the murmuring started again.
‘Gentlemen, you have heard the news,’ Buddha began. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Böhm will be unavailable for the foreseeable future. The Nollendorfplatz team will be dissolved, and its remaining members, Detective Inspector Rath and Detective Gräf, assigned to the Reichstag task force . . .’
‘With respect, Sir.’
Gennat furrowed his brow. His gaze fell on Rath, who had stood to speak even though he knew Gennat couldn’t abide being interrupted. For a moment the small conference room was eerily quiet.
‘My apologies for interrupting, Sir, but with respect, there have been new developments since yesterday in the Wosniak investigation, and I think I should have the chance to present them before the case is shelved.’
‘Have you found the trench dagger?’
‘No, but as a result of the press coverage a witness has come forward, who identified the dead man and advanced a motive for his murder.’
‘Go on.’
Rath related the strange tale of Lieutenant von Roddeck with fluency, having practised it earlier on Charly. He was greeted by sceptical faces. ‘It sounds pretty far-fetched,’ Gennat said.
‘True, Sir, but we’ve checked a number of his claims, and so far they’ve all been borne out. Though this Captain Engel was in fact declared dead by his wife, his body was never found.’
‘The witness requested police protection?’
‘Indirectly. He takes himself rather seriously.’
‘A stuffed shirt then? A busybody?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘This is something we need to decide here and now,’ Gennat said sternly. ‘If we are to pursue this case against the instructions of the Interior Ministry, I need to say why. So, I would ask again: is this lieutenant a serious witness, or simply vying for attention?’
‘Possibly both.’
‘You decide, Inspector. You’ve seen and spoken with the man.’
Rath wasn’t so much concerned about Achim von Roddeck’s character as the circumstances of the case. Pursuing an investigation that had already seen off Böhm, with only Gräf as back-up . . . Was that something he wanted? To go against the instructions of the Interior Ministry and engage in the potentially futile search for a trench dagger, a phantom, a dead man who might not have fallen after all? For what? To get summoned by the police commissioner and exiled to Köpenick?
It seemed more sensible to join the hunt for Communists. To put his career first and make a good impression on the new commissioner. To avoid attracting the suspicions of the Daluege Bureau.
‘He does seem a little paranoid, Sir, and he’s certainly a busybody.’
‘Thank you,’ Gennat said. ‘Then for the time being, the case is shelved. Collate and file everything you have. After that you and Detective Gräf are to report to Section 1A. Dr Braschwitz is expecting you.’
&nbs
p; ‘Yes, Sir.’
Another murder investigation placed on the back burner. These days the only cases being worked were political. Take a Nazi murdered by a Communist, and the manpower was guaranteed, but as far as regular cases went, suicides, crimes of passion, quarrels ending in death, Gennat was operating with a skeleton staff. Even Buddha, respected though he was, could do little about it. The new commissioner and his fellow party members in the Interior Ministry held the whip hand.
So, shortly after two o’clock, Rath climbed the stairs to Section 1A. The Political Police and CID were separated by a single floor, but it was rare for Rath’s colleagues to stray up here. CID didn’t think much of the Politicals, and the Politicals didn’t think much of CID. The two departments had been locked in mutual antipathy for as long as anyone could remember.
He knocked on the door assigned him by Gennat, not knowing if Gräf had already reported for duty since, after ducking out of lunch together, he had driven back to Charlottenburg to collect Roddeck’s manuscript. That, too, was part of the Wosniak file being compiled by Erika Voss. Reaching Carmerstrasse he had considered calling Charly in G, but thought better of it. It was strange being alone in the flat after this morning. Soon his guilty conscience would steal a march on his pride – but not yet. Rudolf Braschwitz was in charge of the task force established by Göring on the night of the fire.
‘In essence the Reichstag task force comprises only four officers,’ Braschwitz said, ‘and that’s how it will stay. Nonetheless, your support will be vital in carrying out accompanying measures.’
‘Accompanying measures?’
‘The question of whether there is a Communist conspiracy underlying the attack and, if so, how far does it reach.’ Braschwitz leaned over a handwritten duty roster. ‘I’ll be assigning you to Detective Zientek. He’ll fill you in. I see you have plenty of interrogation experience. That’s good.’ He wrote down the name and office number.
Paper in hand, Rath scoured around for the correct office, feeling like Kaspar Hauser searching for home. At least working for the Political Police he wouldn’t have to do any overtime, or so he thought.
‘Gear yourself up for duty on Sunday,’ Detective Zientek said, no sooner than Rath introduced himself.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Braschwitz didn’t mention anything about that.’
‘I’d be glad to make things more formal if you wish. Take Saturday night off. It isn’t so important.’
Erwin Zientek struck Rath as unpleasant, confirming all his preconceptions about the Political Police. Even his face, with its thin moustache and balding head, was apt somehow. The man was as smarmy as an insurance agent.
‘We have hundreds of Communists in custody, if not thousands,’ Zientek continued. ‘They all need to be interrogated. As a CID officer you’ll know how an interrogation works.’
Of course I fucking do. ‘But Sunday’s polling day!’ It was also Rath’s birthday, but he wasn’t about to get started on that.
‘Precisely.’ Zientek winked as if letting him in on a secret. ‘The polling stations open at eight. Cast your vote and get yourself down to Alex. No use in complaining, everyone else is on duty too. Braschwitz won’t be making any exceptions and, believe me, we’ll need every man. You’ll see.’
30
They had been interrogating these youths for days, directing the full force of the state on a bunch of kids for – what? An isolated piece of graffiti. On two occasions now Charly had sat facing boys, one seventeen, the other nineteen, apparently members of the Red Rats, who’d found their way to police headquarters via some SA basement. Charly had left the questioning to Karin van Almsick, preferring to transcribe, but even that was too much. Was she, Charly, too soft for police work? Was this even police work? She couldn’t get them out of her mind. Worse than the bruises and blood-encrusted wounds were the empty eyes gazing back.
After each interrogation, Karin van Almsick would make for the tea kitchen as if nothing had happened, gossiping about her latest admirer, a dashing SA auxiliary officer, and salivating over the new Germany. Charly had to be careful not to send her cup flying . . .
‘What do you think?’ Karin asked. ‘Is it an administrative headache? How long would it take?’
‘How long would what take?’
‘Changing my surname.’
‘You just have to say ‘yes’ in front of the registrar and bang: your husband’s name will be yours.’
‘That’s one way, I suppose, though Rudi hasn’t asked me yet. I just want to get rid of this van as soon as possible.’
‘Come again?’
‘The van in my name. It’s what I’ve been saying this whole time. I want to be Almsick, not van Almsick.’
‘Why? You’ve nothing to be ashamed about. Dutch settlers have contributed just as much to Prussia’s rise as the Huguenots, Jews, Poles, Salzburgers, and all the rest.’
‘I don’t have anything against the Dutch.’ She gawped at Charly. ‘Still, I’d prefer if you . . . Look, if you need to use my surname, just call me Karin Almsick, all right?’
‘But why?’ Charly was losing patience.
‘Why do you think? Because of van der Lubbe, of course.’
Charly couldn’t believe it. Karin was actually being serious. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Why, oh Lord, must you punish me with this woman? With that she reached a decision. The Ritter family had provided generations of loyal service to the Kingdom and Free State of Prussia, never once missing a day of work. As for feigning illness to do so . . . Her father would be turning in his grave, but this was no longer his Prussia or hers. The land of her forebears was being transformed into something she couldn’t abide.
‘I don’t feel good. Must have caught something on the night of the fire.’
‘It can happen at this time of year. I have a sore throat myself.’
‘We can’t both succumb . . .’
‘I’ll be OK. Tea helps, but if you don’t feel well, you should rest. It’s no good you giving us all the lurgy.’
‘Can you can manage the rest of the day without me?’
Karin nodded. ‘I’ll ask Wieking for a stenographer.’
There, you’ve sunk so low that a stenographer can take your place.
She’d have been better off staying with Gennat in Homicide. Even as a stenographer she’d been able to perform meaningful work there. More meaningful than anything she’d done since. She took her leave.
Emerging onto Grunerstrasse, in front of the vast brick building that was police headquarters, she lit a Juno and took a deep breath. Weekend! She wouldn’t have to set foot here again until Monday. Sunday was polling day. She was pinning her hopes on the Nazis haemorrhaging more votes, and this farcical episode with Hitler as Chancellor drawing to a close. The prospect of a working majority in the new parliament might be a distant dream, but if the brownshirts continued their downward spiral, Hindenburg would surely withdraw his confidence in the loudmouth ‘Bohemian private’. Better to have a man like Papen or Schleicher installed as Chancellor; but best of all someone who might put the brakes on the SA, who now behaved as if they owned the city.
The world might seem more normal on Monday, and she could enjoy her job again. She might even be able to put up with Karin, with or without the van.
The S-Bahn was more or less deserted as she took her seat. She gazed out of the window as the train rolled out of Alexanderplatz, thinking back to the morning and realising she had gone too far. She had more or less called Gereon an idiot, but how could he be so naive? Granted, she shouldn’t have said certain things, but he shouldn’t have flounced out of the flat like a petulant child. She couldn’t help but smile. They were each as pig-headed as the other, which made any reconciliation needlessly fraught. She’d hoped he might call to apologise, but he hadn’t been in touch.
The last few days were for the rubbish bin. Chuck ’em and forget they ever happened. It was high time they embraced and went to bed together, which they hadn’t manage
d since his return from Cologne. The day before yesterday she’d slept at Greta’s, yesterday he was back late. Perhaps he was just tired this morning – and she was in her usual bad mood, the source of which was the Castle, police headquarters, a place that had once been like a second home.
Someone had left a newspaper on the wooden seat opposite: Der Tag. Not exactly her preferred choice, and it was yesterday’s edition, but the first paper she’d seen in a while.
There was a twenty thousand mark reward for anyone with information about the Reichstag fire. She doubted the appeal would be of much use to the task force but, all at once, her eyes fell on a different article. Though it was the byline that grabbed her attention, she soon stumbled upon the words homeless man and Nollendorfplatz in the title. She read on, and by the end, realised that she, Charlotte Ritter, was the biggest fool ever to have carried a police badge.
31
She was smiling again, she was even smiling at him, and that was worth whatever the evening might cost. Rath knew it wouldn’t be cheap. Horcher, small but perfectly formed, was one of the most atmospheric restaurants in the city, and one of the most expensive. If your luck was in, you could rub shoulders with the great and the good. Charlie Chaplin had called in during his Berlin visit, and more than one UFA star was known to dine regularly here on Lutherstrasse, as well as political notables of every persuasion. It hadn’t been easy switching their table reservation from Sunday to Saturday, but Rath knew just the man to call.
He opened the passenger door and held out his hand, earning himself another smile. Twenty-four hours ago the smart money was on their weekend passing in silence; forget about going out, or eliciting a smile. In point of fact he hadn’t even reckoned on seeing her, thinking he’d driven her back to her mother, or at the very least to Greta. Yet here he was helping her out of the car on Lutherstrasse, and delighting in that smile.
He hadn’t told her where they were going, only that she would need to dress for dinner, and so he enjoyed her wide-eyed stare all the more when she realised where they were. No doubt she was wondering whether a place like this wasn’t too expensive for a police couple. He hoped his inheritance from Uncle Joseph might still serve as an explanation. Once they were married, things would be trickier. Charly might not be the perfect housewife, but in financial matters she was by far the more careful, and had even started a housekeeping book.
The March Fallen Page 14