The March Fallen

by volker Kutscher

  ‘I hardly had a chance to dance,’ she said, nestling close.

  She told him the rest over dinner. Potato soup, the best thing she’d cooked for him yet. He lavished praise on the food.

  Her information confirmed him in his suspicions against Achim von Roddeck. A calculating sort who had been kept by various women, but had lost his meal ticket and possibly had money troubles of his own. All were avenues he ought to pursue. He told Charly about his visit to the demolition expert, Grimberg, and the man’s low opinion of his former lieutenant, before moving on to the widow Engel, whose description of her husband had been far removed from Roddeck’s lamentable novel.

  ‘It’s an insult to authors everywhere,’ Charly said. He looked at her in astonishment. ‘I had a glance at the Kreuzzeitung.’ She shrugged, as if to apologise for being more interested in his case than her own.

  ‘Then you’re up to speed.’ Rath had to grin. ‘No need to ask Gennat or Wieking for reinforcements.’

  ‘I certainly have some thoughts I’d be willing to share.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘You want me to be honest?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Achim von Roddeck is behind the murders himself.’

  ‘I don’t like him much either, but I wouldn’t go as far as that.’

  ‘He’s the only one who’s benefited. Without these murders, his so-called novel would never have got this much attention. Nor would he. I have the feeling he enjoys playing the role of endangered author.’

  ‘Still, that’s no reason to kill.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s another motive, but I certainly wouldn’t put murder past him. The war would have taught him how to kill.’

  ‘His own orderly though? Wosniak was devoted to his lieutenant. The pair were inseparable. At least, that’s how Grimberg tells it, and he’s hardly Roddeck’s greatest fan.’

  ‘Take a look at the Kreuzzeitung and you’ll see what I mean. The papers are in your briefcase, along with the files from your office.’

  While Charly cleared the table he retired to the living room and topped up his glass. The Kreuzzeitung had certainly pulled out all the stops for the start of their serial. The first lines of Roddeck’s novel were flanked by an up-to-date report on the endangered author and his life under police protection. Rath suspected that people would buy the paper mainly to see if Roddeck were still alive, or whether he, too, had fallen victim to the mystery killer. He examined the Kreuzzeitung’s photo of the author-come-gigolo-lieutenant. Achim von Roddeck gazed resolutely into the camera, flanked by two uniformed cops who escorted him to his car. It seemed almost as if he were a statesman of some kind, rather than an author whose work would most likely be forgotten in a year or two. It was a role he enjoyed; the photo left no room for doubt.

  Charly was right. There was no question the deaths of Wosniak and Meifert had brought the lieutenant and his novel to the public’s attention. However stuffy his prose might be, a sizeable payout was sure to follow.

  The next instalment made it sound as if the outcome of the war remained open and Germany still had a chance of victory.

  Tomorrow: Fateful Slaughter on the Somme

  As far as Rath recalled, the events of summer 1916 hadn’t proved decisive. Meanwhile the details of the episode which the Kreuzzeitung sought to lay bare hadn’t occurred until March 1917. He wondered how many more instalments would be published before then.

  When Charly emerged from the kitchen she was holding a second bottle in her hand. ‘I knew you’d finish it. Do you want to open another?’

  He grinned and reached for the corkscrew. ‘As long as it doesn’t become a habit. We both have to work in the morning.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should . . .’ she took the bottle from his hand. ‘ . . . get ourselves to bed.’ With that, she vanished into the bedroom with the wine and her glass. She didn’t look in the slightest bit tired. Rath examined his almost empty glass and took a last gulp. He picked it up and followed her inside. Kirie was shown the door.

  59

  An Inspector Stresow from 1A was responsible for coordinating Achim von Roddeck’s security arrangements. ‘It’s Hotel Central today, Friedrichstrasse. Ask for Herr Rubens at reception.’

  ‘Rubens?’ Rath asked.

  ‘We use different names each day.’

  ‘Let me guess: yesterday it was Dürer?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I see you’ve got it all worked out.’

  ‘Can’t make things easy for his would-be assassin.’

  When Rath emerged from the lift in Hotel Central, a handful of journalists were grouped outside the mysterious Herr Rubens’s suite. He lit a cigarette and joined them.

  His day had begun in the small conference room. These days, A Division resembled the waiting room of a provincial train station but, with so many CID officers recalled from the Political Police, things were starting to pick up again. Rath noted Gräf’s continued absence with relief.

  It was clear that a number of colleagues already took Hermann Wibeau for dead. There was nothing new from Warrants, but unless they picked him up on his doorstep he was unlikely to fall into their hands. Rath had instructed Henning and Czerwinski to conduct a parallel search, ensuring they were occupied while he stopped by Hotel Central.

  ‘You’re all here to see Herr Rubens?’ he asked the journalists.

  Some nodded, others didn’t react. ‘You’ll need to be patient,’ said a slight man with his press card in the band of his hat, American style. ‘I’m next.’

  Rath reached for his badge. ‘Police ID trumps press. Sorry, but rules are rules.’

  The man didn’t contradict him. Respect for police officers had risen in recent weeks.

  The interviews were coordinated by Roddeck’s publisher, Dr Hildebrandt, who took leave of an outgoing journalist with a cordial shake of the hand. ‘Next, please,’ he said, as if he were a doctor’s receptionist. On seeing Rath, his eyes grew wide, and Achim von Roddeck was equally astonished.

  The author sat with a cup of tea behind a table by the window. A little to the side a policeman sat in an armchair leafing through a newspaper. By his bored expression he must be reading the Kreuzzeitung serial. Roddeck rose to his feet. ‘Inspector! You’re moonlighting as a reporter now? Or are you here on duty?’

  The word inspector jolted the cop awake. He stood up and saluted. ‘Nothing to report, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rath said. He looked at Roddeck. ‘It’s you I came to see.’

  ‘I thought CID were no longer interested.’

  ‘Uniform are certainly making up for it.’ Rath looked out onto Friedrichstrasse and two cops outside the hotel entrance. Another stood in the lobby by the lifts, and a fourth was stationed here in Roddeck’s suite. Commissioner Levetzow had spared neither effort nor expense.

  Roddeck fixed his eyes on Rath. ‘Poor Meifert might still be alive if you’d afforded him the same protection, but you didn’t heed my warning.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Rath lied. ‘Circumstances prevented it. The acute Communist threat . . . Limited resources . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to argue,’ Roddeck said. ‘It’s just, you so feel helpless when a comrade has to die – despite being aware of the risks.’

  ‘Like in war?’

  ‘What do you want, Inspector?’

  ‘To talk to you.’

  Roddeck led him to the table. ‘Can I offer you something? Send for room service?’

  Rath took his cigarette case from his pocket. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it. Staying in places like this.’

  ‘Not when you’re always on the move. Your colleagues say it’s safer. That it makes it harder for him to track me down.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Engel, who else? As long as we keep changing hotels, no one knows where I am.’

  ‘Apart from the police.’ />
  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the press. They have to know how to find you too.’

  ‘What are you driving at, Inspector?’

  ‘The fact that there’s a new story about you practically every day. This endangered author, who, in spite of the threats being made on his life, stands by his explosive revelations.’

  ‘Jealous? You’d rather the focus was on you?’

  ‘I’m just wondering how safe all this is.’ Rath gestured towards the door with his chin. ‘Who can guarantee that your would-be assassin isn’t waiting outside?’

  ‘First, if Benjamin Engel came through that door I’d recognise him, and I’m ready.’ Roddeck lifted his jacket to reveal the leather of a shoulder holster. ‘Second, my publisher is present for every interview, along with a police officer. Right now, there are two of you.’

  ‘It seems things are going well with your novel . . .’

  ‘Demand has increased dramatically since the start of the serial,’ the publisher, Hildebrandt, said, visibly proud. ‘We’ve had to reprint already.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘And we’ve brought forward the publication date.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid you might provoke the killer?’

  Roddeck sat up. ‘Like I’ve said before, Inspector, our decision-making won’t be swayed by these threats.’

  ‘I spoke with the widow Engel,’ Rath said, and Roddeck appeared surprised.

  ‘And?’

  ‘She can’t imagine her husband is still alive. Even less that he’s a killer.’

  ‘She can’t imagine! You’d give weight to the imagination of a sentimental widow who has never seen her husband at war?’

  ‘I’m not giving weight to anything. I’m just wondering how Benjamin Engel could have survived this blast of yours.’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve asked myself the same thing often enough.’

  ‘Could there be someone else trying to prevent your novel from being published?’

  ‘The only explanation I have is that Benjamin Engel is still alive.’

  ‘An explosion like that . . . he’d have been torn to shreds.’

  ‘That’s what we thought too, but British artillery fire meant we couldn’t confirm it. Besides, we were already in retreat. We had to keep moving.’

  ‘Where were you when the explosion occurred?’

  ‘This is all in the book,’ Hildebrandt interrupted. ‘What’s the use in giving you a proof copy if you don’t even read it?’

  Rath glared at the man and he fell silent.

  ‘Like it says in the book, we were already in retreat,’ Roddeck said. ‘Perhaps three or four kilometres behind the front.’

  ‘Did you witness the explosion yourself, or is your account based on hearsay? The book uses the term “we” rather vaguely.’

  ‘I witnessed it, and I heard it. There was an enormous bang. We were all startled, thinking the British were advancing. Then came the news that Captain Engel had set off a boobytrap while inspecting our abandoned trenches.’

  ‘How can a trap like that be set off prematurely?’

  ‘You’d have to ask the man who built it.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’

  Again, Roddeck looked surprised. ‘You’ve been rather more diligent than I anticipated, Inspector.’

  ‘Never underestimate the Prussian Police.’

  ‘I don’t know what Grimberg told you, but I suspected a British grenade landed in the trench at the wrong moment, and triggered the explosion.’

  ‘It happened by chance.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe how often life and death are governed by chance, Inspector. Especially in war.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible that someone from your unit knowingly detonated the charge? Someone who wanted rid of Captain Engel?’

  ‘What gives you that idea?’

  ‘It can happen in war. Hated superiors who fall victim to their men.’

  ‘Not in the German army.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘What are you trying to insinuate?’

  ‘I’m not trying to insinuate anything. I’m just asking questions.’

  Roddeck was on the verge of losing his composure. ‘Don’t sully the army’s honour in the presence of a Prussian officer or I could be forced to take unpleasant action!’

  ‘Surely you’re not going to challenge me to a duel? I thought those days were gone.’ Rath shook his head. ‘Besides, the last thing I want to do is sully your honour, or that of the German army.’

  ‘Then what is this? You’re speaking with a potential victim here, not a killer.’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘What did you say?’ Roddeck turned bright red, and Rath was grateful to Charly for the idea.

  ‘So far you’re the one who’s benefited from these deaths. Who’s to say you aren’t responsible for them?’

  ‘Fanciful! It’s like saying the SA set fire to the Reichstag in order to strike at the Red mob.’

  ‘Then such thoughts aren’t completely alien to you. I just want you to be aware of the various avenues we need to pursue.’

  ‘All these avenues, a man could get lost. I can’t imagine your commissioner will welcome the digression.’ Achim von Roddeck rose from his chair and stood ramrod straight, every inch the humourless Prussian. ‘I must ask you to leave,’ he said. ‘The gentlemen from the press mustn’t be kept waiting any longer.’

  Rath stubbed out his cigarette, and stood up. His attempts to provoke the self-satisfied lieutenant had been an unqualified success.

  ‘This,’ he said, placing a Berlin Police envelope on the table, ‘is a summons. I would ask that you appear at police headquarters in good time on Friday, so that we can turn today’s chat into something a little more formal.’

  60

  Using her police identification would only prompt more questions down the line, and as for the name Weinert . . . no one would link it back to her. Charly posed as a journalist again.

  She asked herself why she was flouting the rule book to investigate on Gereon’s behalf, indulging in the very high-handedness she always reproached him for, but thinking of Karin van Almsick, whom she had left moments before on the flimsiest of pretexts, she remembered that it was to avoid the deadly monotony of her job and feel like a police officer again.

  Marlene de Graaf was resident at the Hotel Belvedere in Tiergarten, where she had made the acquaintance of Achim von Roddeck’s successor, Handsome Sigismund. Sitting opposite her, it was clear how she had acquired the name ‘Countess’: her whole bearing was aristocratic. Judging by her eyes she must be about forty, but seemed younger. Above all she looked like someone who knew what she wanted and how to go about getting it. Charly couldn’t help but admire her.

  ‘Achim von Roddeck . . .’ the Countess said, smoking through a gold-plated cigarette holder. ‘What’s so interesting about him?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Charly pulled out her reporter’s pad. ‘ . . . he’s enjoying great success with his debut novel, and our paper would like to shed some light on the man behind the author.’

  ‘Which paper?’

  ‘Der Tag.’

  ‘You want me to help?’

  ‘I hear you were once . . . intimately acquainted.’

  ‘That’s not something I’d care to read in the paper. As for my name . . . I hope you understand what I’m saying, or perhaps I should get in touch with my lawyer?

  ‘Don’t worry, nothing we discuss will appear in any paper. This is just for background information. I want to get a picture of Achim von Roddeck the man.’

  ‘The man?’ Marlene gave a bitter laugh.

  Before Charly could probe any further a key turned and a door creaked open. The noises came from the vestibule, as did a high-pitched voice. ‘Darling, I’m home!’ A blond youth poked his head through the door and smiled. Handsome Sigismund was at least twenty years younger than the Countess. Seeing Charly, he interrupted himself. ‘You have a visitor . . .�
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  ‘This lady is a journalist.’

  ‘I just wanted to drop off the shopping,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in the lobby if you need me.’ He pulled the door shut.

  ‘Now it’s just us again . . .’ Charly said. ‘I get the feeling you’re not on especially good terms with Achim von Roddeck.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’

  ‘Others describe him as being thoroughly charming.’

  ‘Only when he wants something. Underneath, he’s a depraved character. Don’t be taken in by the glamour and charm.’

  ‘As you were for two years.’

  ‘I’m not complaining. I was happy until I realised.’

  ‘You’re single?’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with your story.’

  ‘I’m just curious. Occupational hazard.’

  ‘Oh, where’s the harm? I’ve been a widow since October ’18. The war, just before it ended, saw fit to take my husband.’ She sounded as if she had made peace with her fate. ‘I swore that I would never remarry. I never wanted to feel such pain again and, thanks to my inheritance, there was no need. As for the rest . . .’ she gestured towards the door. ‘ . . . there are other ways.’

  ‘Such as Achim von Roddeck. Did you love him?’

  ‘Probably, or at least I convinced myself that I did. Which amounts to the same thing. I was beyond disappointed when I found out he was using me.’

  ‘Don’t you always run the risk of being used when you buy men?’

  ‘As long as my plaything behaves like a plaything, and doesn’t pretend to love me, then both parties know where they stand and no one feels used.’

  ‘But with Achim von Roddeck you no longer knew . . .’

  ‘He claimed he loved me, even spoke of marriage. Until at some point I started dreaming of marriage again myself. Against my better judgement.’

  ‘But you were hurt again . . .’

  Marlene de Graaf nodded. ‘It was a letter. I’m ashamed to tell you, usually I respect people’s private correspondence, and their privacy in general.’