‘Inspector Rath?’ Dagmar Kling’s voice returned him to the present. ‘The commissioner will see you now.’
He stood up and entered Levetzow’s office, where the commissioner sat behind his desk. ‘Well, Inspector?’
‘Sir?’
‘Any information you’d care to divulge?’
Well, I found the trench dagger killer, along with his trench dagger, only the man was dead and, being unable to confirm his identity or motives, I preferred to make his corpse disappear. That’ll be an end to the murders, and that’s good news, isn’t it?
‘Nothing, Sir.’
‘As I feared, and precisely the reason I summoned you.’ Levetzow paused, but Rath chose to remain silent and listen. ‘A week ago I asked you to keep me informed on developments in the Engel investigation. Why have I heard nothing?’
‘There haven’t been any, Sir.’
‘You see! That’s your problem right there,’ suddenly Levetzow was pounding his fist on the table. ‘No developments in a week! Damn it, man, I put you on the bastard because I thought you were young and ambitious, and exactly the right man for the job. A Rottweiler, ready to snap.’
‘Sorry if I’ve disappointed you, Sir, but I have reason to suppose this Engel, this trench dagger killer, has gone to ground.’
‘What makes you suppose that?’
Rath couldn’t pretend the killer was still out there, threatening the life of esteemed ex-lieutenant and author Achim von Roddeck. ‘Let’s call it investigative instinct, Sir. There’s no trace of him anywhere. I’m certain he won’t kill again. Lieutenant von Roddeck need no longer fear for his life.’
‘You presume to dictate Achim von Roddeck’s security arrangements?’
‘That wasn’t my intention, Sir.’
‘These wishy-washy statements. This waffle about feelings and instincts. These positively reckless suggestions of yours . . . They only harden my resolve!’ Magnus von Levetzow turned red in the face. ‘Inspector, I am relieving you of this case. Detective Gräf and Cadet Steinke will take over with immediate effect. I would ask you to pass on all relevant documents and report to Superintendent Gennat.’
Gräf, of all people! Was he being replaced by a lower-ranking officer to humiliate him? He pretended contrition but felt relief. He had blown it with the new commissioner, but experience told him that where commissioners were concerned, the Castle was a revolving door. Magnus von Levetzow was already the fourth since he’d started in Berlin, and Rath was certain he wouldn’t be the last.
‘You can go.’ Levetzow thrust his right arm forward with a brisk ‘Heil Hitler!’
This time Rath was ready for it. He raised his right arm, in a manner similar to Hitler himself, but not as briskly, rather, casually, limply, as if he were saying ‘Hello’, and his ‘Heil’ sounded more like a Hi. The commissioner shooed him away like a disobedient dog. For the time being he was in the clear, and it was unlikely he’d have to return anytime soon. When that day came, he doubted very much that a Nazi would still be in post. Melcher, the previous incumbent, had lasted barely half a year, and Gereon Rath was more than happy to wait his successor out.
They could hardly wait. Before the lunch break had begun Gräf appeared with a cardboard box under his arm and Cadet Steinke in tow. The meeting was an embarrassment for Gräf, but Steinke had no such qualms. ‘We require all documents pertaining to the Wosniak, Meifert and Wibeau investigations,’ he said, as if he were Rath’s commanding officer.
Rath fetched the three files from the cabinet and made a pile of them on his desk, leaving the Bülowplatz file and observation reports from Bonn in his drawer.
‘I’m sorry, Gereon,’ Gräf said. ‘It’s what the commissioner wants. I’d rather we could keep working together.’
‘It’s fine,’ Rath said, returning to the unspectacular case Gennat had assigned him, most likely a suicide, a contemporary for whom the national uprising wasn’t as uplifting as for the majority of his fellow citizens. Shopkeeper Daniel Rothstein had been found dead in his bed in Wilmersdorf and so far there was nothing to suggest foul play, unless, that is, someone had forced him to ingest the bottle of Veronal that lay empty by his bedside table.
Gräf unloaded the contents of his cardboard box into his desk drawers while Steinke moved the files from Rath’s desk onto Gräf’s and reached for the visitor’s chair.
‘What the hell is this?’ Rath demanded.
‘We’re merging the three files into a single dossier,’ Steinke said. ‘The Alberich file, the commissioner suggested. I think that’s what we’re calling it, right, Sir?’
‘You can call it the Arsehole file for all I care,’ Rath glared at Steinke. ‘What I want to know is why you pair of jokers think you can spread yourselves around my office.’
Gräf rediscovered his voice. ‘This is my desk. We have to work somewhere.’
‘And this room is my office. It says so on the door. If you want to take up with a new . . . partner, you’ll have to find somewhere else. With the Politicals for all I care. That’s where you two sweethearts have come from, isn’t it?’
Gräf packed his things back into the cardboard box. Steinke, however, wasn’t prepared to go down without a fight. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘your tone ill becomes you . . .’
‘Zip it, Steinke,’ Gräf shouted. ‘Take your goddamn files. You heard what he said. We’ll find somewhere else.’
The smirk disappeared from Steinke’s face. He took the files from the desk and followed Gräf outside. Rath knew Gräf was no fan of the Nazi careerist, and was all the more tickled by the commissioner’s decision to lump them together. The pair had distinguished themselves as avid supporters of the national uprising during their stint with the Politicals. How nice to see these spiritual comrades at loggerheads despite their common ground.
‘Shut the door!’ Rath yelled, and Steinke’s wobbly pile of files almost toppled to the floor.
81
Charly drew on her cigarette. ‘Perhaps it was the boycott,’ she said.
Gereon was focused on the traffic. It wasn’t yet five but already they were driving out of town on Landsberger Allee, one of Berlin’s major arterial roads. She didn’t know what Gereon had said to get off work, nor did she care, her sense of duty being currently at odds with the Prussian gold standard. Which wasn’t to say she had no interest in Gereon’s latest investigation, a suicide with no farewell note. In the three days since Levetzow had taken him off the Alberich case, he had yet to establish a motive.
‘This Rothstein,’ she continued, ‘had a little toy shop on Knesebeckstrasse, didn’t he? Perhaps he killed himself fearing the Jewish boycott would drive him to ruin.’
The papers had been full of it for days. As revenge for, supposedly Jewish, atrocity propaganda in the foreign press, a nationwide boycott of Jewish businesses was to be observed this coming Saturday. By now the Central Committee for the Prevention of Jewish Inflammatory and Atrocity Propaganda had sent its call to editorial offices up and down the land, and the newspapers had printed their text in full, even the Vossische. Reading about it, you’d think a national holiday was being observed, complete with parades and demonstrations. Where the new regime was concerned, parades and demonstrations seemed to go with the territory.
‘Bit much, don’t you think?’ Gereon asked.
‘What?’
‘Killing yourself for something like that. Who takes this sort of thing seriously? It’s just the Nazis shooting their mouths off again. Do you really think Berliners are going to be told where to shop?’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t suicide and the SA have him on their conscience.’
‘You should be careful saying that sort of thing.’
‘Gereon, if we can’t speak freely in your car, where can we?’
‘The man took to his bed following an overdose of Veronal. No external injuries. Doesn’t sound like the SA to me.’
‘You’re right. The SA would be sure to roughhouse any Jew they laid their hand
s on.’ The brick buildings of the Lichtenberg Waterworks flitted past as they approached the city boundary. ‘How far is it to Freienwalde?’
‘About an hour’s drive.’
She could hardly wait to see Hannah again, having known since Monday where she was being kept.
Gereon had sounded like a doctor: ‘She’s lost a lot of blood. It will be some time before she’s healed properly but, all things considered, she seems to be making a steady recovery.’
‘Freienwalde? Why is she in Freienwalde?’
He had hesitated a moment before replying. ‘Because Johann Marlow has a house there. Because there she’ll be safe.’
‘The Johann Marlow? Dr M.?’ She couldn’t believe it.
‘She’s in better hands with him than with your doctor friend.’ That much was true. Dieter was a neurologist, not someone familiar with haemorrhaging and stab wounds.
‘I thought you’d cut all ties with Marlow.’
‘I have, but he still owes me a favour.’
‘There’s a name for that, you know? You’re a police officer, allowing a criminal . . .’
‘Marlow’s no criminal.’
‘Of course he is, just smart enough not to get caught.’
‘That’s why Hannah is in safe hands. He knows how to handle a situation like this.’
‘Right . . . probably because his men are treated for gunshot or stab wounds every day. Gereon, you must realise that a police officer shouldn’t be associating with people like that.’
‘Nor should they be casting murder victims into the Spree by night.’
Charly had no answer there. She’d done things she’d never have dreamed herself doing, but what choice had there been? Little by little the state she worked for had ceased to be the German Republic of old, and become a monstrous ogre, as disfigured as the war-disabled beggars on Berlin’s streets or the man they had cast into the Spree.
It seemed unlikely his death would be linked back to Fritze. Charly was doing everything in her power to keep the boy off the streets and give him a future. She had enrolled him at the parish school on Bleibtreustrasse for the start of the new session. For the time being Friedrich Thormann had a home again. He repaid their kindness by being busier around the house than their cleaner, Lina, and more solicitous with the dog. So much that she feared Gereon might grow jealous.
Dusk was falling as they drove into Freienwalde, a pretty little town shaped by its cure industry and the many villas and country houses which had sprung up in the last half century. Reaching one such house on the outskirts, part of a hidden street that meandered its way slowly uphill, Gereon stopped. ‘This must be it,’ he said, parked and got out.
The house overlooked the street like a small castle; an English-style villa built just before the war when all was right with the world and no one imagined the horrors in store. The place radiated innocent assurance, but looked different close up. The walled estate was sealed by a wrought-iron gate, behind which two men stood guard. Neither elegant clothes nor good manners could disguise that they were goons.
‘Fräulein Ritter, Herr Rath,’ one said, lifting his hat. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’ His partner opened a side-gate. On each of the property’s balconies stood a man with a carbine in his hand. Gereon was right, Hannah was safer here than anywhere. They made their way up the gravel path, escorted by one of the guards.
‘Marlow’s nervous,’ Gereon whispered. ‘His rivals, the Nordpiraten, have made a pact with the Berlin SA.’
Charly asked herself how Gereon knew such things. It was rare for Homicide to deal with the Ringvereine. On the stoop was a man who wore neither coat nor hat, but light-coloured linen slacks, a shirt and tie, and a cardigan. ‘Fräulein Ritter, I presume,’ he said, stretching out a hand. ‘Johann Marlow, delighted to meet you.’
‘The pleasure’s mine,’ Charly said, shaking his hand and immediately vexed by her friendliness. His charm had caught her off guard. He wasn’t especially good-looking, perhaps ten years older than Gereon, heavy-set with thinning hair, and, it seemed, unshakeable inner confidence.
‘How’s the girl?’ she asked.
‘Moving in the right direction after severe blood loss, and eating well. We’ve managed to put a little meat on her bones.’
‘But?’
‘She’s still in a state of shock. She hasn’t said a word since she arrived.’
Charly sighed. Here we go again. Yet, if she’d understood Fritze correctly, Hannah was perfectly capable of speech. In Dalldorf her silence had been a denial of her surroundings, now the same thing was happening here.
Marlow led them to a wing of the house where the entrance was also guarded. How could Hannah trust anyone in a place like this?
‘She’s in here,’ Marlow said, stopping outside a door. Yet another armed guard stood to greet him. ‘As you can see, she’s being well looked after.’
‘I’d like to speak to her alone if I may. I fear all you men are making her nervous.’
82
Rath was glad to speak with Johann Marlow in private, relieved that Charly’s first meeting with him had gone off without incident. She had spoken to Dr M. like a mother to a surgeon discussing her daughter’s treatment, and shown greater respect than he, Gereon Rath, had ever mustered. He hated himself for being so dependent on the man. If, years ago, someone had offered him their informal pact, but with full knowledge of the consequences, he’d have respectfully declined. Slowly but surely he had become so mixed up in Marlow’s business that he could no longer see a way out.
‘Thank you for looking after the girl,’ he said.
For the first time he felt something like genuine gratitude. All the other ‘services’ Dr M. had provided – hand-outs, information, even an overnight car-repair – had felt like tying chains around his wrists.
‘It’s nothing,’ Marlow said. ‘I don’t know why you’re hiding her, but she’s safe here.’
‘Your house is better guarded than a prison.’
‘With the crucial difference that my men make sure no one gets in.’
‘What are you so afraid of?’
Marlow’s smile vanished. ‘I’ve already mentioned how the Nordpiraten are causing problems. Lapke has joined the Nazis, or at least the SA, and is making life tricky for us.’
‘Join the party yourself, and the SA will leave you in peace.’
‘The NSDAP? Like all those good citizens who can’t wait to sign up? Who claim they’ve always been Nazis? If there’s one thing I’ve never been, it’s a good citizen!’
Marlow led him into a wood-panelled library. An MP 18 leaned against the wall next to a man in a chair, leafing through a crime novel. Bookshelves reached to the ceiling, all of them full. Most likely Marlow had bought them with the house. In the middle of the room armchairs were grouped around a table; a desk by the window looked onto the garden. Behind it a man with an eye patch sat playing patience.
‘Leo wanted to thank you, Inspector.’
Leopold Juretzka stood and extended his hand. ‘Usually I don’t talk to cops,’ he said, ‘but for you I’ll make an exception.’
‘That’s your mistake right there, Leo,’ Marlow said. ‘You can’t have enough police friends.’
Leo gestured to his eye patch. ‘Your pig friends couldn’t prevent this.’
‘Without my pig friend – excuse the expression, Inspector – the SA would have beaten you to death.’
Juretzka shrugged. ‘Then . . . thank you, Inspector.’
Rath gazed into the Ringverein man’s remaining eye. Had he really saddled himself with the Wosniak investigation to pry this ungrateful bastard free from the SA? It seemed his good turn had failed to win him a friend. Did the actions of the SA Field Police make Rath, as a serving officer, guilty by association? Juretzka let go of his hand and left.
‘Sorry, Inspector,’ Marlow said. ‘Leo hasn’t been the same since his release.’ He opened a box of cigars and offered one to Rath, who declined.
‘So,
’ said Rath, ‘the SA are putting the squeeze on Berolina at the behest of the Nordpiraten?’
Marlow puffed on his cigar. ‘Not just us. Concordia must also suffer this misfortune.’
‘Polish-Paule,’ Rath recalled. Six months ago, Paul Marczewski had helped arrest a black sheep on the force, a police inspector killing off unwanted competition on behalf of the Nordpiraten chief. Lapke eliminating his enemies with the help of the state was nothing new.
‘Marczewski went to ground just in time,’ Marlow said. ‘I don’t know where he is, and I’m taking that as a good sign. Even so, Concordia are temporarily missing their leader, and some of Marczewski’s men have gone across to the Pirates.’
‘What about Berolina?’
‘They’ve had similar problems since the SA arrested Leo. It hasn’t impacted too much on my business, most of which is no longer conducted through Berolina. I doubt Lapke is aware of even half of my revenue streams.’
‘A proportion that might have increased had Leo talked?’
Marlow hunched his shoulders. ‘Leo doesn’t know everything, just a damn sight more than Lapke.’
‘Which is why you’re holding him here.’
Marlow looked onto the garden. ‘I bought this place about a year ago. Far from Berlin and its distractions, yet close enough if my presence is required.’ He drew on his cigar. ‘A lot of rich Berlin Jews spend their summer holidays here, which keeps the local SA occupied. They’re happy to leave us be for now.’
‘You plan to stay away a long time?’
‘This is a good place to wait and see how things settle.’
‘You think they will?’
‘Lapke can’t have the upper hand for ever.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘To keep you informed. It’s always good to know who your friends are. And your enemies.’
‘You don’t have many friends left.’
‘The speed of change has caught me by surprise, but the Nazis are interested in certain things I can provide.’
The March Fallen Page 33