‘Go on.’ Lange took out his pencil.
‘He knows Riedel, he says. The spirits man Unger is most likely in cahoots with. I’ve arranged to have a drink with him, tomorrow after work.’
‘With Riedel?’
‘No, with this waiter. A Negro from German East Africa.’
‘A Negro? I hope you’re not taking any unnecessary risks. Should I have someone tail you?’
Charly shook her head. ‘If you really want to help, you could always chop some onions yourself!’
40
Yippee, yoohoo. Run, Julius, run and I’ll catch you! I’ve got you! Julius, I’m faster than you. I’ll run, I’ll race, I’ll zoom. And I’ll catch you all. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch a tiger by the toe . . .
Rath stared at an image of two happy children with satchels playing tag. A textbook, clearly. A primer. He tried to order his thoughts, but only when he sat up and rubbed his eyes did he realise where he was.
Morning sunlight filtered through a small window onto a skeleton hanging beside a desk. But for the rolled-up maps in the corner and a portrait of Hindenburg on the wall, it could have been a doctor’s surgery. The Wielitzken village school staffroom, he remembered now. A woollen blanket slid to the floor as he rose from the sofa.
The primer was open on a side table. He snapped it shut and looked at the cover. Der fröhliche Anfang. Happy Beginnings. He recalled a similar book from childhood and reflected that some things never change. The smell of coffee wafted into the room, and he traced the aroma back to the teacher’s apartment, where Karl Rammoser sat at breakfast, reading the paper. The Treuburger Zeitung. Of course.
‘Morning, Inspector.’ Rammoser was full of beans. ‘Coffee? Erna’s just brewed some fresh.’
Rath nodded. ‘First I need to pee.’
‘You know where.’
He made his way across the yard.
Erna. By the time the housekeeper had served supper last night, he was already experiencing problems with his balance. Their aperitif had stretched to half a bottle, and Rammoser’s pear schnapps packed quite a punch. ‘I don’t think you should drive again tonight, Inspector,’ he had said. ‘Erna can make up the sofa in the staffroom.’
Erna proceeded to do just that, while the pair resumed their discussion. The problem was that Rath couldn’t for the life of him remember what they had discussed. With the reappearance of the bottle, the real drinking had begun. Incredibly he didn’t have a hangover, though the gaps in his memory troubled him. In the outhouse he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face.
Coffee awaited him on return, and it did him the power of good. He would have liked a cigarette, but, out of consideration for Rammoser, made do with the bread basket. ‘Late one last night . . .’ he said.
The teacher shrugged. ‘You had a lot of questions.’
‘Occupational hazard.’ A loud gong sounded behind him. He turned and saw a magnificent grandfather clock, then the dial, and hands. ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘Half past eight already. Is that clock right?’
‘I hope so. We use it to set the school bell.’
‘I need to make a telephone call.’
‘Then you’ll have to go to the post office.’
A little later Rath stood in the small, shadowy post office and waited as an old man conducted an important, or at least lengthy, telephone conversation. The branch had only one booth.
After two minutes it didn’t look as if the conversation would ever end. He returned to the counter and gestured towards the black Bakelite device on the desk. ‘It must be possible to make an outside call on that.’
‘Not without authorisation.’
‘Here’s my authorisation.’ He showed his identification.
The girl from Salzburger Hof came on the line. ‘Hella? Hello!’ he said, not realising how stupid he sounded until it was too late. ‘Inspector Rath from room twenty-one. Is Assistant Detective Kowalski with you?’
‘Herr Kowalski has been here over half an hour. You weren’t in your room this morning.’
‘Take the man a coffee and tell him I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour.’
When he returned to the school Rammoser stood outside the building, a leather bag under his arm. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You need to go into town.’
‘I’m sorry. No time for breakfast.’
‘All is forgiven,’ Rammoser said. ‘So long as you take me with you.’
‘How will you get back?’
‘By train.’
Rath opened the car door and cleared the case files from the passenger seat. ‘Take a seat.’
Rammoser gestured towards the folder. ‘Anything on Marta Radlewski’s death in there?’
‘Only the circumstances; nothing on her life, or why she turned to drink.’
Rammoser climbed in with his leather bag. ‘A tragic irony, don’t you think? No sooner is she rid of her drunk of a husband than she takes to the bottle herself.’
‘What a life . . .’ Rath started the car. ‘I mean, what choice did she have? When you consider how her husband died; and her only son vanishing to live like an animal in the forest.’ He accelerated onto the road.
‘Like an Indian in the forest,’ Rammoser said. ‘You think that Artur Radlewski is avenging his mother’s death? Because he believes she died as a result of the tainted Luisenbrand? Even though it happened years ago?’
‘I don’t think anything, but I’d like to speak to him.’
‘That could prove tricky. I’d be willing to bet Artur hasn’t spoken a word to anyone since vanishing.’
‘Then he’d better start once we find him.’
‘Finding him could prove trickier still.’
‘We’ll see.’ On Bahnhofstrasse in Treuburg, the fire brigade were using ladders to put up black-and-white garlands. ‘What’s going on here?’ Rath asked.
‘Preparations for Monday.’
‘For the marksmen’s festival?’
‘Plebiscite anniversary. The most important celebration of the year.’
‘You mean the plebiscite of 1920.’
‘Yes. You’ll be aware of the result, above all here in the Oletzko district.’
‘Yes, sir. Two votes for Poland.’
‘Very good.’ Rammoser smiled, but it was a pensive smile. ‘Two out of almost thirty thousand counted. The young Polish state did its best to win the Masurians over. It even established an Agitation Bureau here in Marggrabowa, all in vain. The only upshot was that the Heimatdienst knew whose windows to smash at night.’
‘Who?’
‘The Marggrabowa Homeland Service. I told you last night. They campaigned for Prussia.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Rath searched his memory but found nothing. ‘You don’t think much of them?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I voted for Prussia too, but even then I didn’t like the way the Homeland Service sowed hatred against anything foreign, hatred against anything Polish; hatred and violence.’ Rath pulled over by the Salzburger Hof. The schoolmaster wasn’t finished. ‘For hundreds of years,’ he said, ‘people in Masuria co-existed peacefully alongside one another. Then suddenly, after the war, hatred was all the rage. Not least because of people like Wengler and Lamkau.’
‘Were they part of the Homeland Service?’
‘Stick around until Monday, and you’ll see Gustav Wengler in his element as Homeland Service Chief and acclaimed keynote speaker.’ Rammoser looked around as if someone might be listening. ‘As for Lamkau, you already know what I think. He and a few others did Wengler’s dirty work for him.’
‘By smashing Agitation Bureau windows.’
‘Worse. Countless people were injured. I’ve already mentioned the beatings, but don’t go thinking it stopped there. On one occasion a barn was set alight, over in Kleszöwen. It was a miracle there were no fatalities.’
‘Are you telling me Lamkau waged a systematic campaign of fear and terror against Polish sympathisers here in Oletzko?’
‘I ju
st want you to know what kind of man you’re dealing with.’
‘A Nazi?’
‘There weren’t any Nazis back then, but brutal bastards who thought human life was worthless . . .they existed all right.’ Rammoser opened the car door. ‘Thanks for the lift, Inspector.’
With that, Karl Rammoser was gone. Rath gazed after him a time before exiting the vehicle himself. Entering the lounge he found Assistant Detective Kowalski sitting dutifully before his coffee. ‘Morning, Sir.’
‘Morning, Kowalski.’ Rath took a seat and waved Hella over. She approached with the coffee pot and poured, even offered a smile as their eyes met. He lit a cigarette.
Kowalski seemed restless. ‘What is it?’ Rath asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen the Kaubuk. Or perhaps you’ve caught him already?’
‘We have a witness, Sir.’
‘A witness?’
‘Someone who knows the Kaubuk.’
‘Personally?’
‘My uncle claims old Adamek saw the Kaubuk last year. Out in the forest somewhere.’
‘A taciturn sort, isn’t he, this Adamek? Does he even speak German?’ Kowalski looked at him blankly. ‘Doesn’t matter. You can always speak Masurian if need be.’
The journey took less than five minutes by car. Old Adamek lived in a small, one-storey building on the edge of town, more shanty than house. They knocked, but no one answered. Rath realised that the door was unlocked, pushed it open and stepped into the dark hall. ‘Herr Adamek,’ he called. No response. ‘Herr Adamek? CID. We’ve a few questions we’d like to ask.’
Wilhelm Adamek wasn’t home. Rath looked around. The decor was spartan. A table, two wooden stools, a pot-bellied stove. The only decoration on the wall was a framed photograph of Hindenburg, upon which an Iron Cross, Second Class was pinned. He opened a door that led to the back.
‘Shouldn’t we be going, Sir?’ Kowalski seemed uncomfortable with his curiosity.
‘I just want to make sure Adamek isn’t lying dead in his bed. Or sleeping off his hangover.’
The bed was empty.
‘Sir, he isn’t here. We’ll come back another time.’
‘Strange bird, this Adamek, isn’t he? Does he live alone?’
‘His wife died a long time ago, my uncle says. During the war, when the Russians were here. They wreaked havoc in our district.’
‘You were a child back then. Do you remember?’
‘The fighting lasted nearly a year. In Markowsken too. For nights we couldn’t sleep for fear; days were punctuated by the rumble of artillery fire.’
Rath was about to heed Kowalski’s advice and leave, when he saw something that roused his curiosity. ‘Just a moment . . .’ On a stool by the bed was a mound of dirty washing.
‘I thought we wanted to question Adamek. You’re sniffing around like he’s a suspect.’
‘Who knows,’ Rath said, lifting the flannel shirt that had attracted his attention. ‘Perhaps he is.’ He gestured towards the red-brown stain covering almost the entire right side. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, this is dried blood. Lots of it, too.’
The assistant detective opened his mouth to say something when a dark shadow appeared in the door behind him. Rath heard a dull thud as Kowalski hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Seconds later he gazed into the double barrel of a shotgun and the inert, unshaven face of Wilhelm Adamek. The only sound was that of the hammer being cocked.
41
The place smelled of blood. Hardly the ideal start to the day.
An employee in white overalls led Andreas Lange along a cold storage hall, in which bloody, skinned cadavers hung from the ceiling, then through a room in which more white overalls stood at large tables hacking the corpses to pieces. Lange toyed with the idea of choosing a salad at lunch. The office was at the far end of the building. He wondered if there was an alternative access point.
Fehling Foods had its headquarters in Tegel, on the northern outskirts of the city. Franz Fehling was an elderly man with a neat white beard, who appeared more respectable than an evangelical pastor, and spoke just as unctuously. ‘I’m surprised the police are bothering with this. It was over a year ago now. Besides, I thought all disputes between the Fehling firm and Kempinski had been resolved. I am more than surprised that Kempinski think it necessary . . .’
‘Kempinski don’t think anything,’ Lange interrupted. ‘The Berlin Criminal Police are here of their own accord.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t have to. It’ll be enough to answer my questions.’ It was a line he had from Rath. More often than not it had the desired effect. Clearly, Franz Fehling wasn’t immune. Arrogant and upstanding moments before, almost imperceptibly the man’s shoulders began to drop. ‘How long have you supplied Kempinski?’
‘Almost ten years, and our turnover is constantly increasing. Wild game is becoming ever more popular, at least where fine dining is concerned.’
Lange made a few notes. That, too, could put an interviewee on edge. Especially when you took your time. ‘Did you receive any similar complaints before May 1931? From Kempinski? Or other clients?’
‘Every so often one receives complaints . . .’
‘Of course.’
‘But not as grievous as these . . .’ Fehling shook his head vigorously. ‘Twenty kilos of fallow deer, and the whole lot crawling with maggots. To this day I can’t explain how it happened.’
‘I’d think it was the flies laying their eggs.’
‘Oh, knock it off!’ Fehling was shouting now. ‘Have you any idea how strict the regulations are? We take a sample from each batch. There wasn’t the slightest contamination. It wasn’t until Haus Vaterland that the problem showed, and then the sheer scale of it . . .an absolute catastrophe.’ He shook his head.
‘Did you trace the origin of the fallow deer?’
‘The meat came from a breeding farm near Soldin. In the New March.’
‘A breeding farm? I thought you shot game in the forest.’
Fehling seemed put out. ‘It stands to reason that in a city of four million the demand for game cannot be met by local hunting preserves alone. Besides, it’s easier to treat the meat, and you don’t have to pick out shotgun pellets before you start.’
Lange made several more notes. Fehling squinted nervously at the pad, but unless he was clairvoyant, he might as well give up. No one could read Andreas Lange’s handwriting, sometimes not even Lange himself.
‘Is that how it’s usually done? Keeping game as livestock and then slaughtering, rather than shooting it?’
‘Define “usually”. The end customer shouldn’t necessarily be aware.’
‘What about the intermediate customer?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Kempinski.’
‘The kitchen would know. There are no issues there. Our meat isn’t any worse than wild game. If anything, it’s better.’
‘Except when it’s overrun with maggots.’ Fehling fell silent. The subject clearly made him uncomfortable. ‘How,’ Lange continued, ‘did you manage to persuade the Haus Vaterland kitchen to keep using your firm as a supplier?’
Fehling’s eyes flitted this way and that. ‘Naturally we . . . Well, naturally the first thing we did was recall the spoiled product. And waive our fee.’
‘I should think so.’
‘Even though we weren’t aware of any fault!’
‘You never considered that the maggots might have got into the meat at Haus Vaterland?’
‘Yes, but . . .it doesn’t usually happen that fast. They take a while to hatch. Someone would’ve had to deliberately . . .’ He waved the idea away. ‘They noticed the next day.’ He looked at Lange. ‘So the buck stops with us.’
‘I assume that Kempinski is an important client?’
‘Of course.’
‘A client you wouldn’t want to lose, and no doubt it was important that news of the scandal didn’t reach the public.’
‘I don
’t know what you’re driving at.’
‘I’m just trying to work out how important it was for you that this matter be resolved, discreetly . . .’
‘Of the utmost importance!’
‘ . . .and how much you were willing to invest to make it happen.’
Fehling no longer looked comfortable behind his desk. ‘I don’t know quite what it is you’re insinuating, but I’d like you to leave my office now. I have work to do.’
Lange left his card on the desk. ‘Perhaps you were, how shall I say this, pressured. If you ever want to talk, there’s my number.’
He stood up, turning a final time to see Fehling reading his card. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘Experience tells me that blackmail never ends. Once you’ve been squeezed the first time, it just carries on. The threat lingers in the air, and there’s nothing you can do. A nasty feeling.’ He put on his hat. ‘A simple confession often works wonders.’
42
Rath stared into the darkness of the double barrel, not daring to move. He had raised both hands, one of which still held the bloody shirt. Old Adamek didn’t breathe a word. Kowalski groaned from the floor.
He decided to put an end to the silence. ‘We not intruders,’ he said. ‘We police. Myself and colleague.’ He gestured towards Kowalski with his chin. The assistant detective was slowly coming round.
Adamek opened his mouth, and this time didn’t speak Polish, or even broken German. There was a light, sing-song quality to his Masurian accent. ‘What are you doing in my home? Do you have a search warrant?’
Rath forced a smile. ‘We wanted to question you. The door was open and we . . .’
‘Have you been sniffing around?’
‘I just wanted to check you weren’t in bed.’
‘You’re trespassing.’
He hadn’t expected old Adamek to have such command of the Penal Code, or, for that matter, the German language. ‘I’ve explained why we’re here. Now, perhaps you could explain why you floored my colleague and are holding me at gunpoint.’
The Fatherland Files Page 23