‘Because I thought you were intruders.’ The man refused to lower his gun.
‘Well, now you know we aren’t.’
Kowalski sat up and felt his head. He needed a moment to grasp the situation, then said something to Adamek that sounded like Masurian-Polish. The man responded in kind, weapon trained as before. There was a brief back-and-forth until Wilhelm Adamek finally lowered the shotgun. Rath put his hands down.
‘Would you like a tea?’ Adamek asked. Rath nodded, and the old man vanished inside the lounge.
‘What did you say to him?’ he asked.
‘That no one cares if he’s been poaching in the Markowsken forest or anywhere else. We won’t be bringing charges for that, or this little episode here.’ Kowalski pointed towards the blood-encrusted shirt. ‘Why don’t you put it back with the other dirty things, otherwise he’ll think we’re collecting evidence against him.’
‘Adamek’s a poacher?’
‘Any five-year-old will tell you that, but no one’s going to report him. Everyone gets something out of it. He supplies the entire catering trade in Treuburg. Besides, he’s a war hero who fought against the Russians; people don’t forget.’
‘Goddamn it,’ Rath said. ‘The things I’m expected to turn a blind eye to. Two days I’ve been here . . .it’s worse than Berlin!’
‘Look on it as an exercise in trust-building.’
‘Is that what they teach you at police academy these days?’
‘Sir, don’t make any trouble, otherwise we won’t get anything more out of him. Don’t forget we’re here for the Kaubuk. Besides . . .’ Kowalski gestured towards the back of his head. ‘I’m the one who’s borne the brunt of our truce.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ Rath inspected the cut, which was still bleeding slightly. ‘That’s going to leave a nasty bump. Make sure you keep it iced.’
Wilhelm Adamek soaked a cloth for Kowalski, which he served with the tea. They sat at the table in the lounge. He didn’t say anything about the bloody shirt, or Kowalski’s bump, or anything that had occurred in the last quarter of an hour. He hadn’t said a single word since his Masurian-Polish exchange with Kowalski.
‘Apologies again for bursting in like that, Herr Adamek,’ Rath began. It took some willpower, but Kowalski was right: they had to win Adamek’s trust if they were to get anything out of him. ‘We were acting in good faith. We’re here because we want to speak to you about Artur Radlewski.’
‘The Kaubuk . . .’ Adamek nodded, waiting for their questions.
A Rhinelander, Rath thought, would have declared himself satisfied with this conversational gambit and talked a blue streak; he would have positively effervesced with information and told them anything that came to mind, and more besides.
Clearly Masurians were more like Westphalians, which was no doubt why they felt so at home in Dortmund, Bochum or Gelsenkirchen. Rath imagined he was dealing with a Westphalian. An East Westphalian, at that.
‘You know something about the Kaubuk?’ he asked. Adamek nodded, but still said nothing. ‘You’ve seen him?’
Another nod.
‘Where?’
‘In the forest.’
Rath could tell this exchange was going to test the limits of his patience. ‘Can you be a little more precise?’
Adamek nodded again. Rath was about to probe further when the old-timer continued. ‘Out by the border. Less than a year ago.’
‘When, exactly?’
Adamek considered. ‘Before Christmas, I think. There was snow lying.’
‘Can you describe the man?’
‘He had a bow and arrow, as usual. Tanned; long hair, dressed in leather and hides.’
‘Like an Indian,’ Rath said, more to himself than Adamek.
‘Like the Kaubuk.’
‘You’re certain it was Artur Radlewski?’
‘It isn’t the first time I’ve seen the Kaubuk.’
‘You’ve come across him before?’
‘He lives out there. Spend enough time in his forest, and you’ll run into him every once in a while. I’m the only one around here who ventures that deep. Most people don’t like to, because of the moors. They can be treacherous if you don’t know your way around.’
Look at the man go! Rath felt proud at having persuaded him to open up like this. ‘But you. You know your way around?’ Adamek gave him a look of reproach, or contempt, perhaps, it was hard to tell. ‘Could you take us to him?’
Now the man’s gaze held plain suspicion. ‘Why?’
‘We urgently need to speak with him.’
‘He doesn’t speak with anyone.’
‘We’ll see about that. The police have their methods . . .’
‘You won’t find him. He isn’t there.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Hasn’t been there all winter.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because there was no smoke from his hut, all winter long.’
‘You know where his hut is?’
‘No.’
‘But you just said . . .’
‘I said, I didn’t see any pillars of smoke over the moor.’
‘But you know Radlewski lives in a hut, and lights fires.’
‘How else would he survive the winter?’ Adamek looked at Rath as if he had taken leave of his senses.
‘And last winter he wasn’t there.’
‘That’s what I just said.’
Adamek must take him for a real windbag. ‘Could you take us there? To this hut?’
The old-timer looked at Kowalski, who shrugged, then back at Rath. ‘Not right there, but I could take you close.’
‘Fine,’ Rath said. ‘Take us close. We’ll manage the rest by ourselves.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it, the area’s dangerous. Lots of moorland. I wouldn’t advise anyone to go there. Besides, you won’t find him. He isn’t there.’
‘Perhaps he’s returned.’
‘He wasn’t there this morning.’
‘This morning?’
‘Where do you think I’ve just come from?’
‘How do you know he isn’t there? He won’t be lighting any fires in July.’
‘I can feel it.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I can feel if there’s someone else in the forest. I can’t explain it.’
Rath gave up. ‘It’s some time since you saw Artur Radlewski. Do you think you could still describe him?’
‘I already have. Long hair, tanned, leather and hides . . .’
‘I mean his face. How he’d look if he cut his hair, or wore a suit.’
For the second time Adamek gazed at Rath as if he were a sandwich short of a picnic. ‘If you think it would help, but I can’t imagine the Kaubuk ever cutting his hair.’
43
The post office was the largest building in the marketplace, diagonally across from an advertising pillar newly covered by Communist posters. Rath didn’t have to wait long for a booth. Grigat had provided him with a desk and telephone in the district administrative office, but he preferred to sacrifice his loose change. Having now dispensed of Kowalski, he had no wish for the company of the meddling police constable.
Overzealous Kowalski had been itching to hunt for the Kaubuk, but Rath ordered him back to his uncle. ‘Go and see to that head of yours. Have a lie-down. You might be concussed; a little rest couldn’t hurt.’
‘Fresh forest air would do just as well.’
‘If Artur Radlewski is behind these murders he’ll be somewhere in Berlin, clean-shaven and freshly coiffed. The one place he won’t be is his forest retreat.’
‘If he’s finished the job, why shouldn’t he have returned?’
‘Old Adamek doesn’t think he’s there, and he was in the forest this morning. Besides, we don’t know that Radlewski has finished the job.’
‘We should still take a look at his hideout.’
‘We will, as agreed with Adamek. All in good time. First I need to call Berlin and submit my report. I won�
��t forget your contribution, Kowalski. You have a good nose.’
Kowalski was embarrassed by the praise. ‘It was thanks to my uncle, really.’
‘Give him my regards.’
After Kowalski was gone, Rath lit a cigarette and thought things through in peace. He did his best thinking alone; in fact, it was something he could do only when free of distraction.
He fetched the two files from the rear seat and skimmed them again. Martha Radlewski was forty-nine years old when she died, and hadn’t seen her only son in over ten years. Had the Kaubuk still cared about his mother and, if so, how had he learned of her death and the circumstances surrounding it?
At length he snapped the folder shut and crossed to the post office, but his mind was still racing as he waited to be connected with Berlin. The library! The district library. What had Rammoser said about the books that had been stolen at regular intervals, and then returned? An idea started to form as the operator returned him to the present. ‘Caller. Your connection with Berlin.’
‘Thank you.’
A switch flicked and the Berlin exchange came on the line. He asked for Reinhold Gräf’s extension. The connection was astonishingly good. Too good, as it proved.
‘Homicide, Detective Chief Inspector Böhm,’ a voice barked down the receiver.
Rath was so taken aback that, for once, he forgot to identify himself. ‘Isn’t that Detective Gräf’s extension?’
‘Who’s speaking, please?’
‘Rath here, Inspector Rath.’
‘Our man in Masuria.’
‘I was hoping to speak with Detective Gräf. Or someone else from the Vaterland team.’
‘If it’s work-related, and I hope very much that it is, then you’ll have to make do with me.’
‘It’s about the Vaterland case, and I . . .’
‘Talk to me. I’m leading the investigation.’
‘I’m sorry, you’re what?’
‘Superintendent Gennat asked me to take over. The Bellevue team has been dissolved, and you requested reinforcements.’
He couldn’t believe it. Gennat had parachuted Böhm in again. Böhm, of all people! If this was punishment for spilling ink over Dettmann, he’d sooner have taken his chances with a disciplinary hearing. ‘I’m sorry, Sir, I’m just a little surprised.’
‘You only have yourself to blame, Inspector. If you’d made contact sooner, you’d have been in the picture long ago. But for Chief Constable Grigat’s telephone call, we wouldn’t even have known you’d arrived safely.’
‘With respect, Sir, I didn’t see any reason to make contact until there’d been a breakthrough.’
‘I’m all ears.’
Switchboard cut in. ‘Caller? Your conversation will be terminated in thirty seconds. If you wish to continue, please insert ten pfennigs.’
He wedged the receiver against his shoulder and rummaged in his wallet for change, cursing inwardly. On top of everything else he had to fritter his money away on Böhm.
‘Are you in a public telephone booth?’ Böhm asked.
‘Yes, Sir.’ At last he’d found a few coins.
‘Didn’t Chief Constable Grigat provide you with an office?’
‘He did, Sir, but I’m out in the field. Do you want to hear this or not?’ He knew he was being bold, but didn’t care. Böhm could shove it up his arse.
‘Tell me,’ Böhm said simply.
So Rath told him, in as few words as possible, everything he’d learned about Lamkau and his dead, bootlegging goons. He finished by listing possible murder motives, and saying which theory he thought most likely.
‘What was the man’s name again?’ the Bulldog barked. No doubt he had forgotten his notepad.
‘Radlewski. Artur Radlewski.’
‘Residence?’
‘No fixed abode.’
‘A tramp?’
‘More like a wood sprite. An Indian. Here, they call him the Kaubuk.’
‘An Indian? What do you mean?’
‘Apparently this Radlewski lives like an Indian out in the forest. He’s read just about every book going on Native Americans.’
‘Hmm.’ Böhm seemed pensive. ‘Is it possible that he’s read somewhere how to manufacture tubocurarine? It’s an Indian poison, after all.’
‘Perfectly possible, Sir.’
‘It looks as if the poison is home-grown. We’ve canvassed all sites in Berlin where it can be obtained. There’s none reported missing, nor has any been procured illegally.’
‘Then we need to find out how to make it.’
‘You don’t say, Inspector. Detective Gräf is currently speaking with a university expert on that very subject.’
‘Either way we should put out a warrant for the man . . .’
‘Inspector,’ Böhm thundered. ‘I’m the one leading this investigation, not you.’
‘Does that mean you’re not going to put out a warrant?’
‘Of course I am. Stop twisting my words. Have you a photo of the man?’
‘Just a description.’ He relayed what Adamek had told him.
‘You think there’s more?’
‘That’s all I have.’
‘I mean, is there anyone else Radlewski could hold responsible for his mother’s death?’
‘Not according to the file.’
‘What about this Luisenbrand business? Could it be that Radlewski has it in for the principal there too?’
‘Director Wengler?’
‘Or others who worked at the distillery in ’24. Get a list together, and listen for rumours connecting anyone else to the scandal. If we know where these people live, we might be able to predict where the killer will strike next.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Rath hung up before having to insert more coins. What the hell was going on? Here he was more than eight hundred kilometres away from Berlin, and Böhm was still ordering him about.
He sifted through his remaining change and asked to be put through to Berlin on two further occasions, once to Carmerstrasse, and once to Spenerstrasse. No one picked up, which was hardly surprising since it was not yet midday. Still, his conscience was eating away at him. Despite meaning to call, something unexpected had come up on both evenings so far. If, that is, you could define ‘something unexpected’ as getting drunk with a village schoolmaster who was on summer holidays and had nothing better to do. Perhaps it was better Charly didn’t find out; at the very least he owed her a decent excuse.
When the time came, he’d have an exciting tale about roaming the forest in search of a Masurian Indian. It might not sound entirely plausible, but the truth rarely did.
Remembering how Charly furrowed her brow when listening, he realised how much he missed her. Yet here he was, holed up in a one-horse town at the arse-end of nowhere; the fringes of civilisation. That was how it was starting to feel, anyway, and not just when people here spoke of their forest, that expanse of woodland that was said to stretch all the way into Russia and beyond.
It was time to clear out. He just had to take care of Böhm’s list and see that he boarded the next train to Berlin.
44
The Oletzko District Library occupied two rooms in the district administrative office: a large room with the bookshelves, and a small room in which a woman of perhaps forty sat behind a desk.
Exactly Rath’s idea of a provincial librarian, she wore glasses and her favourite colour was apparently grey. When she turned her head, he saw that even her dark-blonde hair, combed severely back, was tied in a tight bun. The view from her office window was spoiled by the presence of two massive tenement blocks located on the shore. Rath’s police badge induced a frenzy of activity.
‘Yes, the books . . .though it’s by no means certain it was Artur who took them . . .’
‘I’m assuming he did,’ Rath said. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t plan to charge Artur Radlewski with larceny. Nor am I interested in why nothing was reported. I just want to know what he’s been reading recently.’
She gave a shrug. ‘Well, recently . . .nothing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That he . . . That for around half a year no books . . .have gone missing.’
‘Since December 1931?’ The librarian nodded. That fitted with Adamek’s statement. ‘Is this sort of thing common?’
‘I’ve been working here more than twelve years. Since then he’s . . .it’s only happened twice. On both occasions all the books that he . . .that went missing were returned.’
‘You’re not worried something could have happened to him.’ She shook her head artlessly, blushing when she realised she was giving herself away. ‘And most recently . . .I mean, last December, he returned everything then, too?’ She nodded. ‘You’ve been a great help, Fräulein Cofalka.’ He smiled and handed her his card. ‘I’m staying in the Salzburger Hof. Please notify me immediately if any more books go missing. If Herr Radlewski is anywhere in the vicinity, I need to be told.’
She took the card and nodded again. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong, Inspector. Artur is a good man.’
‘You know him, don’t you?’
She lowered her head in embarrassment, as if he had extracted her deepest secret. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I knew him when we were children. We went to the same school, over in Wielitzken.’
‘With Rammoser senior . . .’
‘That’s right.’ She looked at him in astonishment, surprised a detective inspector from Berlin should know old Rammoser.
‘A final request, Fräulein Cofalka. The books Radlewski was interested in – can you arrange them for me?’
The librarian smiled for the first time. He took it as a good sign. ‘That won’t be too hard. They’re all from the same shelf.’
There were around two dozen books in all. Without exception they were concerned with Indians and their culture. To his surprise the shelf contained considerably more non-fiction texts than adventure novels. Equally astonishing was the variety of titles on offer. No need to embarrass Fräulein Cofalka here, he already knew the reason why. Evidently the librarian had a soft spot for Artur Radlewski. Perhaps the forest dweller was the great, unrequited love of her school days, even of her life, and it wasn’t hard to imagine her thoughts turning to him with each new acquisition. The titles alone gave no indication of whether the books might contain poison recipes. Someone would have to take a look inside.
The Fatherland Files Page 24