‘What kind of letter?’
‘It was the letterhead . . . A communiqué from Krefeld District Court. What can I say? The letter contained details about his past.’
‘He’s from Krefeld?’
‘He certainly lived there for a few years. It seems Achim von Roddeck made a different woman exactly the same promises he was making me. Promises of marriage, which he never kept as it transpired three years and forty-five thousand marks down the line . . . The wretch!’
‘He’s a convicted marriage swindler? With a police record?’
‘He was never sentenced. The silly goose withdrew her statement when she came face-to-face with him in court. Proceedings were discontinued.’
‘But you had reached your own verdict?’
‘The letter might have confirmed his innocence, but my mind was made up.’
‘You took him to task . . .’
‘I threw him out. I didn’t want to see him, for him to bring me round. Seduce me, even. As you say, he can be incredibly charming.’
61
The court files arrived from Krefeld on Friday morning, leaving Rath just enough time to glance through them before meeting Roddeck. What Charly had uncovered was true: proceedings had been discontinued when Roddeck’s accuser refused to testify. It was hardly convincing. In the absence of an acquittal, the lieutenant’s reputation was tarnished by implication. A man like Roddeck would struggle to live with such a stain. Was that why he had moved to Berlin, where no one would give a damn? But . . . what if his past had caught up with him, and someone had tried to blackmail him? How would that fit with the murders?
He had spent almost all of Thursday reading Roddeck’s novel for a second time, comparing its account with the statement made by the demolition expert, Grimberg. The lieutenant left the reader in no doubt that Captain Engel had died at the hands of his own boobytrap, just as he was now equally convinced Engel had survived. Though the events of March 1917 formed the novel’s central episode, the account limped on through another year and a half of conflict.
The story did have a moral, if you could call it that, and Roddeck wasn’t shy in hammering it home: Jewish officers, whether baptised or not, have no place in the German army. Unbaptised Jews were precluded from joining the Prussian officer corps anyway, while Prussian Jews were obliged to enlist with the Bavarian army, as Bernhard Weiss had done.
Achim von Roddeck arrived at the Castle without a lawyer, but in the best of spirits, cracking a joke that made even Christel Temme laugh. Rath wondered how this man, whom he had disliked from the start, could have such an effect on women. Perhaps he should ask Charly.
‘Let’s get started, Inspector,’ Roddeck said. ‘Otherwise your charming stenographer will be bored to tears.’
Rath made a start.
‘Can you account for your whereabouts on the twenty-first and twenty-second of February?’
‘You’re not seriously asking for my alibi, Inspector?’
‘It’s purely routine.’
Roddeck fetched a little black book from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Lucky I keep a diary,’ he said. ‘The twenty-first and twenty-second . . . So, there’s nothing on the Tuesday. On Wednesday, I had a meeting with my publisher at three o’clock.’
‘Afterwards?’
‘I think we had dinner. I’d have to ask Hildebrandt.’
‘It would be good to know what you were doing on the Tuesday. Were you alone?’
‘I don’t think so, but it was a few weeks ago and I’d have to think about it.’
‘Please do, and give me the names of the people you were with.’ Rath made a tick in his notebook. ‘How about the ninth of March? Where were you in the early afternoon?’
Roddeck leafed through his diary again. ‘Kreuzzeitung at eleven, otherwise nothing.’ He snapped the diary shut. ‘I had lunch with the editor, Frank, and was home around one.’
‘Alone?’
‘For the most part, yes.’
‘It’s hardly water-tight.’
‘If I was your killer, I’d certainly have an alibi!’
‘Benjamin Engel: when did you come to the view that he survived the war?’
‘When I realised that poison-pen letter was no joke.’
‘It’s unsigned. It could be from anyone.’
‘There is no one else! God knows, I’ve racked my brains but, believe me, Inspector, there’s no other explanation.’ Achim von Roddeck was on the verge of losing his self-control. Perhaps Christel Temme wouldn’t be bored after all.
‘Let’s change tack.’ Rath took the Krefeld court file from its folder. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what you were doing on the seventeenth of February 1927?’
‘That was ages ago.’
‘Allow me to jog your memory. The main hall of the Krefeld District Court. You were sitting in the dock accused of being a marriage swindler, when . . .’
Roddeck jumped up, his face red. ‘How dare you? What does this have to do with anything? Do you wish to slander me?’
‘Had you allowed me to finish, I’d have said that shortly before the public prosecutor gave his final statement, the chief prosecution witness, one Eleonore Weber, retracted all her accusations.’
Roddeck glared at him angrily. Christel Temme had ceased making doe-eyes, and was fully focused on her stenographer’s pad and pencil.
‘Tell me what you know!’ Roddeck demanded.
The pencil scratched across the page. Fräulein Temme was taking everything down.
‘Just what’s in here,’ Rath said, tapping the court file.
‘I have a clean record.’
‘No one’s suggesting otherwise.’
Rath was about to confront Roddeck with the issue of the missing gold, when the telephone rang. Roddeck was obviously grateful for the interruption. He sat down, suddenly charming again, but there was no way back with Christel Temme. ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ he asked.
Rath picked up. It was Gennat. ‘I’m in the middle of an important interrogation, Sir.’
‘This is more important. We’ve found another corpse. In Magdeburg. Hermann Wibeau.’
‘Warrants were supposed to be watching his flat.’
‘They were.’ Gennat cleared his throat. ‘His body was found on the train.’
62
A passenger in second class had failed to alight when the Hannover-Magdeburg express pulled into the depot for cleaning. Still at his window-seat, head to one side, paper in his lap, the man couldn’t be roused. His sample case held company identification belonging to the Deisler firm, and when police officers saw the name Wibeau the penny dropped. Gennat had been informed immediately, and less than two hours later Gereon Rath was on his way with Alfons Henning as back-up, the latter torn away from his partner Czerwinski.
An official led them to a siding at the far end of the station. Gennat had told the Magdeburg Police to leave everything as it was, so that Berlin could form its own impressions.
Hermann Wibeau wore a grey suit, his eyes were closed and he looked as if he were sleeping. Only the blood, which had trickled down his mouth and chin and seeped into the padded seat, suggested violence. In the luggage rack were two suitcases. One held mostly dirty washing and used socks, extra shirts and a sponge bag, the other was full to the brim with clean, pristine-white ladies’ underwear. At least now they knew how Hermann Wibeau made his living.
All the duty staff, from drinks attendant to driver, had been gathered together in a third class car to await dismissal. Most hadn’t noticed anything suspicious.
‘The gentleman had company most of the way,’ the conductor said. ‘I can’t fathom how anyone . . .’ He broke off, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say what it was he couldn’t fathom. That someone had driven a long, sharp object up the passenger’s nose and into his brain, a simple, efficient kill.
‘How often do you check the compartment during the journey?’
‘After each station. For new passengers.’ The con
ductor listed the stations on the fingers of his hand: ‘Lehrte, Peine, Braunschweig, Königslutter, Helmstedt . . .’
‘No need to be so precise,’ Rath interrupted. ‘When was the last time you saw the deceased alive?’
‘When I checked after Eilsleben.’
‘Who was with him?’
‘By that stage he was alone.’
‘You’re certain he wasn’t already dead?’
‘He looked up from his paper and smiled.’
‘Then his killer must have got off here in Magdeburg.’
‘There was no one left in the man’s compartment.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘I’ve a good memory for faces. You have to in our line of work.’
‘Then did you notice anything suspicious here, at the train station?’ Rath looked around, so that staff could see he was addressing everyone, not just the conductor.
‘What kind of thing are we talking about?’ the chief of staff asked.
‘Perhaps someone was in a rush, or elbowed other passengers to get off the train. Something like that.’
All fell silent and made helpless faces. Rath fetched the photograph of Benjamin Engel from his pocket.
‘What about this man? Could he have been on board?’ The picture elicited a few shrugs and shakes of the head. ‘The man looks different these days, of course. This photograph was taken almost twenty years ago, his hair will most likely be grey, and it isn’t known what injuries he sustained in the war. Only that they were serious.’
‘He was in the war, you say?’ The conductor, who had just passed the photograph on, hesitated. ‘I had a disabled veteran in car fifteen. Boarded at Braunschweig.’
‘Could it be the man from the photo?’
The photo was passed back and the conductor examined it once more. ‘Hard to say. At first glance, I’d say no, but he was pretty badly disfigured, with nasty facial scars and he dragged his leg. Well-dressed though.’
‘He wasn’t in military dress?’
‘No, a lounge suit. Simple and dark, wore a bowler hat.’
‘How do you know he was a veteran?’
‘I know a veteran when I see one.’
‘Where did this man get off the train?’
‘Here, in Magdeburg.’
63
Hermann Wibeau’s corpse consigned Rath to weekend duty for the third Saturday in a row. Despite this he decided to take Charly out. It wasn’t that she resented his overtime, in fact she envied his work, but he wanted to treat her all the same. And himself.
The Gloria-Palast was showing the latest Hans Albers film, Heut’ kommt’s drauf an, a perfectly ordinary comedy set in a world with no Nazis, swastikas or politics of any kind. Just the ticket to persuade her that the world outside could still be normal, and to assure himself that, although the Nazis proclaimed a new age, little had really changed.
Arriving home last night from Magdeburg, he had crawled into bed beside her and inhaled her scent. In the morning he told her what had happened, that her suspicions were unfounded now that Achim von Roddeck had an alibi. ‘He was with me in the interrogation room.’
‘But in Magdeburg, it was the same perpetrator as before . . .’
‘It looks like it.’
Confirmation came from Dr Schwartz a few hours later. The same weapon, the same method. Brief and painless, and the disabled veteran the conductor had seen might just be the killer. A former soldier putting his trench dagger to use once more. Had Benjamin Engel risen from the dead?
Rath had sent a police sketch artist to Magdeburg, but the result was next to useless. All the conductor could see were the suspect’s many scars. It was possible, of course, that it was an accurate depiction of Benjamin Engel following his injury, but it might have been anyone else. The most striking thing was the nose, which thanks to the suspect’s pitted complexion had morphed into a kind of indeterminable clump in the middle of his face, almost a caricature.
When Rath got home, tickets at the ready, Charly had on her green dance dress. So she did want to go out, to dance, to enjoy herself. After the trials of the last few weeks, she seemed to have recaptured some of her zest for life. He changed and they went on their way. The cinema was within easy walking distance and they strolled there without Kirie, whom they had left with the porter.
The swastika flags were less visible in the darkness, and the city looked much as it always had. Rath offered Charly his arm and she slipped her own through, smiling. There, you see? Just like old times.
Soon, with the spires of the Gedächtniskirche above them, they reached the cinema. The new Albers film was a big draw with the foyer full to bursting, but with his police identification casually placed on the counter Rath had acquired prime seats for the Saturday screening.
With its marble foyer and thick, soft carpets, pastel-green and gold theatre walls and bulky, red easy chairs, the Gloria-Palast was one of the most magnificent cinemas in Berlin, a premiere cinema, in which pretty much every Ufa star had made a red carpet entrance. It was also one of the few that still permitted itself the luxury of an orchestra, even though the silent era was at an end. The orchestra opened every screening, making a visit to the Gloria feel more like a visit to the opera.
‘Dr Schwartz sends his regards,’ Rath said, as they queued for the cloakroom. ‘He’s heard we’re getting married.’
‘I thought the whole of Berlin knew.’
‘Anyway, there’s no doubt our killer has struck again. The weapon in Magdeburg was the same.’
‘Do you think it’s Roddeck’s Todesengel?’
‘It certainly seems likely it’s a soldier.’ He told her about the conductor and the police sketch.
‘A disabled veteran?’ Charly looked at him wide-eyed.
‘A man with facial scarring. Unable to walk properly. Not a beggar, but the conductor swears he’s an ex-soldier. He had two brothers in the war, one of whom was killed in action. Says he can see it in their eyes.’
Charly wasn’t interested in the conductor. ‘Sounds like the man who raised the alarm at Bahnhof Zoo after seeing Hannah Singer. A well-dressed, disabled veteran with scars on his face and one leg dragging behind.’
‘I could show you a dozen who fit that description at Bahnhof Zoo alone.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Show me.’
‘What?’
She dragged him out of the queue and towards the exit. ‘We’re heading there now, so you can show me all these men fitting that description. Facial scarring, bad leg, well dressed.’
‘We’ll miss the film!’
‘Show me!’
‘Okay, you’re right. But even if well-dressed veterans are rare, it could still be a coincidence.’
‘You know perfectly well it isn’t. It’s highly likely the man who recognised Hannah Singer and the man who murdered Hermann Wibeau on the Magdeburg train are one and the same.’
‘What if they are?’
‘Then he’s the link to Hannah Singer. Hannah didn’t just know Wosniak, she knew his killer too. That’s why she fled the asylum. Because he’s after her as well.’
Charly looked at him so triumphantly that he knew arguing was futile. He steered her gently to rejoin the back of the queue.
64
‘My gorilla has a villa in the zoo . . .’ Charly sang, dipping the washing brush in the warm water. There wasn’t a lot to wash up; yesterday’s wine glasses, Gereon’s breakfast dishes. He had chosen not to wake her this morning.
‘ . . . my gorilla is happy and never blue . . .’
She couldn’t get the daft song from the film out of her head. The refreshingly silly comedy had put her in the mood to explore Berlin’s nightlife. The Nazis steered clear of the Ku’damm, which meant Charly could enjoy it all the more.
It was good to have the morning to herself at home. They had gone a little overboard last night but it had been fun. At least, as far as she could remember.
After the film their first port of call had been the
Kakadu-Bar, just like two weeks ago when Gereon took her out for dinner and Göring did his best to spoil their appetite. In Kakadu you could forget that people like Göring existed. The few brownshirts who drank there were more worldly than their beer-swilling, march-obsessed comrades.
She danced through the kitchen, holding the washing brush like a microphone, trying to whip up her audience of one dog, but Kirie wasn’t interested. She tilted her head to one side and looked up with pity. Charly couldn’t help but laugh. She had no idea why she was in such a good mood, but why not just run with it?
The doorbell rang, too early for Gereon unless he had followed her lead and feigned a stomach ache. Unlikely, since in the meantime he’d really got his teeth into his case. Three dead bodies was decidedly too many, but what really rankled was that the killer could lead them on such a merry dance – and that Achim von Roddeck was innocent.
She looked through the peephole to see two police officers in blue coats, one wearing a shako, the other a brown SA peaked cap. On opening the door she noticed the little red-haired boy standing between them, grinning up at her in embarrassment.
‘Hello, Aunt Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Excuse the interruption.’
The cop administered a clip to the back of his neck. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to,’ he said, turning to Charly. ‘We picked him up at Friedrichstrasse station, begging from passers-by. He gave us this address and claimed you were his aunt.’
Charly looked down at the boy, who stared pleadingly back. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were full of trepidation. Before she could say anything, Kirie emerged from the kitchen and pitter-pattered towards the door for a closer look.
‘Hello, Fido,’ the boy said, ruffling her fur and floppy ears. Kirie wagged her tail and licked his face.
The cop looked as if he were about to strike the boy again, but cleared his throat instead. ‘Apologies. We thought the little mite had bust out of care.’
The boy was still busy with Kirie, but at the word ‘care’ he looked at Charly even more pleadingly than before. She didn’t know his name, but he seemed to read her mind. ‘Fido!’ he said. ‘You remember your old friend, Erich, don’t you?’
The March Fallen Page 27