‘That was self-defence, as I’ve already explained to police in Lyck and Gumbinnen. As well as your good self.’
‘You know how we like to hear things again and again. What I’m interested in, is how this situation came about.’ Gennat leafed through Rath’s report. ‘You went down to the lake alone, leaving the police constable up in the forest, unarmed . . .’
‘That’s correct, Sir.’
‘There you came upon Jakub Polakowski . . .’
‘ . . .who was lying in wait for Gustav Wengler. There was a blackmail letter in Wengler’s car.’
That much was true. Perhaps Polakowski had drawn inspiration from Riedel and Unger, of whose endeavours in Haus Vaterland he must surely have been aware. At any rate, he had threatened to expose Gustav Wengler not only as a moonshiner, but a killer to boot. Having tortured every one of Wengler’s trusted allies to death, there was no doubting what he knew. Even so, he didn’t want simply to destroy Wengler’s reputation, built as it was on lies. He wanted to destroy the man entirely.
‘Then,’ Gennat continued. ‘You were about to arrest Polakowski . . .’
‘Correct. There was a warrant out. An alleged mass murderer . . .’
‘A warrant that is still current, since apparently you let this alleged mass murderer escape.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir.’ A little contrition couldn’t hurt.
‘Back to the lake: you were keeping Polakowski in check with Grigat’s Luger . . .’
‘Everything was under control until Gustav Wengler appeared.’
‘It was he who felled Grigat from behind, up in the forest . . .’
‘That’s what we assume, Sir.’
‘Why? If Wengler had the police in his pocket, as you’ve always maintained?’
‘That was an error. Chief Constable Grigat is a loyal representative of the Prussian police force, a man of integrity.’
‘Wengler threatened you with a pistol?’
‘Yes, Sir. He meant to kill Polakowski. I’d interfered with his trap. I instructed him to lay down his weapon.’
‘An instruction he refused to carry out.’
Rath took a drag on his cigarette. ‘As you can see from the report, he then demanded that I lay aside my weapon. That’s when I informed him that he, too, was under arrest: that he had knowingly sanctioned the death of his former associates, including that of his brother, and was responsible for the deaths of Maria Cofalka and Dietrich Assmann.’
‘Which was enough to make him shoot.’
Rath’s left shoulder hurt. ‘Clearly.’ He stubbed out his cigarette with his right hand. ‘I didn’t think that was in any doubt.’
Gennat again glanced at the file. ‘I can understand your first shot,’ he said. ‘A classic case of self-defence, but why did you shoot Wengler in the eye after you’d immobilised him with a shot to the neck?’
‘I don’t know, Sir. I pulled down on the trigger twice. I realise it was an error, but it happened. Perhaps it was a reflex after Wengler hit me, mortal terror, whatever . . .in situations like that you don’t always think clearly. You react . . .’
‘But you should. Think. It’s what police officers are trained to do. Especially before using their weapons; before having recourse to fire!’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘The weapon used to shoot you . . .could it have been a Luger too? Our colleagues were unable to trace the bullet.’
‘I don’t know, Sir. It’s possible.’
‘Your wound would suggest as much.’ Gennat sighed. ‘Shame we don’t have it.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Rath appeared contrite again. ‘I’m sorry I let Polakowski give me the slip, but he threatened me with Wengler’s gun, which he had claimed for himself.’
‘You were armed too. Why didn’t you take up the chase?’
‘I had to see to Gustav Wengler first. He was still alive at that point.’
‘And, of course, Chief Constable Grigat was no longer armed.’ Gennat struck the file with the flat of his hand. ‘Rath, my good man. I’m having trouble believing even half of this outlandish tale.’
‘I can’t help it if the truth is outlandish, Sir.’
Gennat fixed him in the eyes, so deep that Rath grew uneasy. ‘I guess we’ll never know what really happened at this lake in Masuria.’
Let’s hope so, Rath thought. Otherwise they’ll make Artur Radlewski’s life hell, and he deserves it least of all.
‘I’ve told you everything I know, Sir.’
‘Let’s put it this way: you haven’t once contradicted yourself and, as your statement tallies with that of Chief Constable Grigat, there’s an end to it.’
Dealing with Grigat had been easier than Rath anticipated. The fact that Gustav Wengler was dead, and the bullets in his corpse came from the constable’s service Luger, made it a damn sight easier to win the man over, and cook up a halfway credible explanation for the whole shemozzle.
Gennat tapped Rath’s report with the flat of his hand. ‘This won’t be the last time you’re questioned on this. Investigation proceedings aren’t over, not by a long shot.’
‘I’m aware of that, Sir.’ Rath tried not to show discomfort at Buddha’s stern gaze.
‘I hope that killing a man and allowing a mass murderer to escape can be squared with your conscience.’
‘Forgive me, Sir.’
Gennat shook his head. ‘Sometimes, Herr Rath, you’re a little too Catholic for your own good.’
‘What do you mean, Sir?’
‘The fact that you’re constantly seeking forgiveness. How many times is it you’ve sat here now? I’m neither your confessor, nor the dear Lord himself. Go to confession to have your sins absolved, not my office!’
‘I haven’t been to confession in a long time, Sir.’
‘Perhaps you should.’ Buddha snapped the file shut. ‘You’re lucky, Herr Rath, that alongside Chief Constable Grigat and Assistant Detective Kowalski, both Fräulein Ritter and Wilhelm Böhm have put in a good word for you. And that, right now, I need people like you. People who aren’t interested in politics, but in solving crimes.’
Rath stubbed out his cigarette, safe in the knowledge that, whatever investigation proceedings were still to come, he’d survive. As for his conscience and visiting confession, Buddha need have no worries there. He was at peace with himself – for the most part.
He looked at his watch and stood up. ‘Might I remind you, Sir? We have an appointment.’
100
Though it was mid-August, an uncomfortable chill rose from the harbour basin, a biting wind. Rath parked the Buick outside the warehouse and opened the passenger door. Having squeezed himself into the vehicle, Gennat only barely made it out.
Rath turned up his collar and looked around. At the opposite end of the basin a ship was being loaded, otherwise all was quiet. With his arm still in the sling he felt vulnerable. Driving had been a challenge in itself but, having now arrived, he was certain they had nothing to fear. The Westhafen was Concordia territory; no one from the Pirates would show his face here. Even if there was a traitor in Concordia ranks, as Rath suspected, their chief was the only one who knew of this arrangement. That much had been guaranteed by Marlow.
Rath had met Marczewski on one previous occasion, in Marlow’s office at Ostbahnhof, shortly after returning from East Prussia. ‘So, you’re from Königsberg?’ he’d asked, and Paul Marczewski had shaken his head.
‘Rastenburg. Like many Masurians, I moved west for work.’
‘You’re Masurian? Then why is your nickname Polish-Paule?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. We Masurians are caught between two stools: too German for the Polish, too Polish for the Germans. Believe me, though. The majority of people decried as Polacks here in Berlin or the Westphalian mines have Prussian passports.’
Gustav Wengler had indeed known about Polakowski’s vendetta, and done nothing about it. It seemed that, meaning to go legitimate and make his position unassailable, the time was right t
o get rid of his former partners in crime. Lamkau, Simoneit, Wawerka, and his own brother, Siegbert.
‘It was the strangest thing,’ Marczewski said. ‘The man appearing like that, and asking about the very people we do business with. Did business with.’ Needless to say the former Königsberg gangster had informed his business associate Gustav Wengler. ‘Had I known the bastard would leave me in the lurch, I’d never have warned him. It’s a good thing you dealt with him.’
Rath didn’t know how to take this compliment, but he did know that he didn’t mourn Gustav Wengler.
Buddha wheezed as he climbed the small staircase to the concrete loading ramp. Rath followed behind. No sooner had they reached it than a door opened and a man stepped out. ‘May I introduce Paul Marczewski, Sir.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
Rath was surprised at Buddha’s easy manner. The pair shook hands, the chief of the Concordia Ringverein and the head of Berlin Homicide.
‘Come in,’ Marczewski said. ‘It’s warmer inside.’
The warehouse really was just a warehouse, bearing no comparison with Marlow’s office at Ostbahnhof, which called to mind the fireplace room of an English country house. Marczewski was less assuming, contenting himself with a table and a few chairs. They sat down. On the table stood three glasses and a bottle of Mathée Luisenbrand. Marczewski poured. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’s the real thing.’
The Luisenbrand tasted as Rath knew it from Treuburg. This was no rotgut, though nor was it as tasty as Rammoser’s homebrew.
‘It seems,’ Marczewski began, lighting a cigarette, ‘that the Berlin Police and Concordia have a mutual problem . . .’
‘Indeed,’ Gennat said. ‘Inspector Rath tells me you’d be willing to help bring it to a resolution.’
‘The Phantom, as the papers have dubbed him, has been responsible for the deaths of five of my men. With each killing he has sought to weaken my organisation. From what I understand . . .’ he drew on his cigarette, ‘ . . .I’m next.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Since the operation at the Westhafen, seven of my men have been detained in custody. If they take me now, Concordia will be finished. Why do you think I’ve gone into hiding?’
Gennat looked at him pensively. ‘You’re saying the Phantom will strike as soon as you show yourself in public?’
‘You can bet on it.’ Marczewski sipped on his Luisenbrand and recharged their glasses. ‘Am I right in thinking the Phantom always takes aim at his victims’ chests?’
‘You are indeed.’
‘What about these bulletproof vests I’ve been reading about in the papers? Do you have something like that?’ Buddha nodded. ‘Our founder’s day celebration is in two weeks, at the Habsburger Hof ballroom on Stresemannstrasse. We’d be delighted to have the pleasure of your company, Superintendent.’
Gennat looked at Marczewski out of narrow eyes. ‘The Habsburger Hof? That’s right opposite Europahaus, isn’t it?’
‘The perfect location for a sniper, but perhaps preparations can be made.’
Gennat nodded pensively. ‘I’m quite certain they can be, Herr Marczewski. And thank you for the invitation.’
‘Then you accept?’
‘I accept.’
Paul Marczewski shook Gennat’s hand and took his leave. Rath noted his laughter lines. Marlow was right, he was a charming fellow, even if Rath was loath to consider how many men’s lives he might have on his conscience, and precisely what Marlow understood by ‘charming fellow’.
Still, that didn’t matter. Marczewski was helping them lay a trap for a dangerous contract killer, the last remaining member of the Weisse Hand.
‘What do you say, Rath,’ Gennat said, when they were back among themselves. ‘Care to join me at Concordia’s celebrations?’
‘Perhaps from across the street. Europahaus is, in fact, the ideal location for a sniper.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘It would be my pleasure, Sir, to arrest Harald Dettmann in person.’
Gennat smiled, and they went silently into the clear night. The stars twinkled bright in the dark water of the harbour basin, above the sickle of a crescent moon. Perhaps everything would turn out just fine.
Epilogue
Monday, 30th April 1945
The four men pay him no heed. Instead of guarding him, they drink and smoke and laugh and play cards.
Tokala doesn’t stir, doesn’t move a muscle. His face is devoid of emotion. He sits with fixed gaze, dignified in his captivity, like his heroes.
Captured at last. He had always expected it, ever since the day he killed the wicked man at the little lake. How many years have passed since? In all that time they haven’t once come looking for him, have kept away from his forest. Despite his violating the agreement and meddling in their world.
He expected the men from the surrounding villages and town to come and fetch him, but in fact it was these soldiers, who have suddenly sprouted everywhere in their strange uniforms. They treat him like a murderer, even though they cannot know he has killed.
All these years Tokala has hated himself for not having prevented Niyaha Luta’s death. Even today he can still hear the splash of her arms and legs as they writhe against the shallow water; still see the wicked man shift on top of her as he submerges her again and again . . .
Tokala never thought he’d see him again, but then, many summers later, the wicked man stood at the lake once more. Tokala sat tight in his hiding place, in the same bush where he had witnessed Niyaha Luta’s murder all those years before. The wicked man had grown fatter, but Tokala recognised him and stayed where he was, watching everything.
He saw another burst forth from the forest and jam something in the wicked man’s neck, not a knife, but a glass arrow; saw how the wicked man collapsed, sank to his knees, and was dragged into the water; how the policeman now appeared, the one who had almost perished on the moor.
Tokala didn’t understood why the two men were suddenly fighting, rolling about as they wrestled on the floor.
Then the wicked man got up, knocked his assailant out and threatened the policeman with a pistol.
And Tokala felt the same old impotence return.
The wicked man meant to escape. Again.
This time Tokala wouldn’t allow it, and reached inside his quiver. He couldn’t help it, even though he knew the arrows would betray him, that the police would come for him, the people from the town.
There was no other way, it had to be done.
He didn’t understand what happened after. The police officer pulled the arrows from the dead man’s neck and left eye and threw them far into the lake, where they sank. Then he took the pistol and fired twice, one bullet for each hollow.
Tokala didn’t understand, and eventually withdrew to his forest. Sat with Odakota and waited, but neither the police nor anyone else came looking for him. After a time, he began to venture out again.
Soon after, flags had fluttered from the houses of the town, red and white, with black swastikas; and Tokala saw men in uniform, so many uniforms, more than there had ever been under the Kaiser. Some change had occurred. Even a man who dwelt on the moors couldn’t fail to perceive it.
Winchinchala no longer wrote, or laid books out for him, and Tokala looked for her and found her grave down by the lake. One last time he ventured into town with flowers from the moor, but since then he has never returned among men, not even to fetch his books.
Then, the uniforms hadn’t lied, war broke out. Tokala thought it didn’t concern him, like the first war, during which he’d avoided the soldiers in his forest as he did all others. They didn’t find his hut, since no one was familiar with the moorland on which it stood, no one apart from himself and Odakota, his black dog friend.
It needed a second war and new soldiers to catch him. He was careless. He had thought the fighting was over because the shooting had stopped. And perhaps it had – but the soldiers were still there.
They picked him up.
Th
ey must be Russian. He can just about understand them. They don’t know what to make of him, of that much he is certain. They almost shot him, just like that, but at the last minute an officer had pushed the soldier’s machine gun to one side, and the wild face and slit eyes had stood and followed the salvo as it was swallowed by the moor.
Tokala had already closed his eyes in anticipation of death, but this is no deliverance. The worst possible thing has happened. They have locked him up.
These are evil men. They shot Odakota in front of his eyes, he had to watch his beloved pet die while tied to a chair. He pulled hard on his shackles, but all it achieved was to tip the chair, to the raucous amusement of the soldiers.
They say he is a spy, a lone fighter, a werewolf; they have offered him any number of possibilities to which he might say ‘yes’. Have spoken to him in Russian, Polish and German, and he has met them with silence in all three. He bore his suffering like a man. Not a single cry of pain came from his lips.
Now they have put him in this crate, which roared skywards no sooner had they thrown him onto the worn leather of his seat. They are taking him to specialists in Moscow, the officer says, who also speaks German, very good German in fact, they would get it out of him, see what kind of man he was.
Clearly they have never seen his like before.
He sits by the window as the aeroplane gently shakes, listens to the hum and roar, and looks out, sees the country spread out beneath him, the forests and lakes, the land of his forefathers. He sees how beautiful it is. And suddenly he is overcome by an immense love for his homeland. He has always loved this country, but never before has he appreciated it so clearly as now.
All of a sudden, he knows what he must do, knows how he can recapture his freedom.
He looks around. Four soldiers sit with him in the cabin, smoking and playing cards. They are not watching him, thinking him safe, up here in the air.
He is still bound, but only by the arms, which they have tied in front of his chest so that he may sit.
The Fatherland Files Page 47