Babylon Berlin (11 page)

Rath glanced at the time. It was past midnight, and he hadn’t made any headway. He felt the long day in his bones, having scoured the Russian bars in the neighbourhood as systematically as he had unsuccessfully.

He had thought his night-time operation would be easier when he questioned drinkers in the little Russian pub in Nürnberger Strasse, an establishment for those hankering after a taste of home. In the smoky bar with the low ceilings and Cyrillic menu he would have bet on finding someone who recognised Kardakov. A bet he would have lost, even though the place was barely five minutes from his flat, from the flat where Alexej Kardakov had lived until a few weeks ago. Either the Russians kept mum when someone ventured into their world or Kardakov really never had set foot in the bar. Rath suspected it was the former for, even in the cosmopolitan meeting points favoured by Russian intellectuals, he had only heard the word
njet
when he showed the Russian’s picture.

Yet he felt sure that a man like Kardakov would come to this sort of place when he gave in to his longing for melancholy, alcohol and his fellow countrymen. Charlottenburg was the centre for Russians in Berlin. They had built their own world here with Russian bookshops, hairdressers and bars, a world in which you needn’t speak a word of German to get by. Charlottengrad the locals called it.

He crossed Augsburger Strasse and counted his money. The
Kakadu-Bar
’s neon sign was reflected on the wet pavement. Taxis kept arriving and spewing people out. He had come to know most of the bars in Berlin through work, but
Kakadu
was one of the few he also visited privately, stumbling in after prowling around town unable to sleep. It was situated where Joachimstahler Strasse and Augsburger Strasse intersected with Kurfürstendamm, not far from his flat. Before he returned home he wanted another drink – and not tea mixed with rum. Besides, he liked the jazz band.

The red-gold room was jam-packed when he entered. The band drowned out the babble of voices and a number of couples were dancing. The stools by the long bar at the back were all occupied. Cockatoos and other exotic creatures romped around on glass panels that were illuminated from behind. In front of them quicksilver barmen positioned themselves against the glare to receive customers’ orders with eager smiles.

Most of the drinkers in
Kakadu
had fat purses, the place wasn’t exactly cheap. Rath placed himself between two men who looked as if they might keel over from their stools at any moment and waved a barman over. The man leaned closer to take his order, gazing at him as if he knew him although Rath knew this wasn’t the case. It was how they had looked at him the first time too. It was just part of the service. Everyone should feel like a regular.

‘An Americano please,’ Rath said, leaning on the bar. Although the music went straight to his hips, he suddenly felt very tired. No wonder. He had been on the go since early morning.

The man placed a glass on the counter. Rath dropped a one-mark coin into his hands and pulled out the photo. The barman seemed bored. The smile had disappeared and he shrugged his shoulders. Discretion was part of the service here too.

Although he had hoped to avoid doing it in this bar, Rath placed his ID next to the photo. ‘Have you really never seen this man?’

Another shrug of the shoulders. ‘So many things happen here every day…’

‘He’s Russian,’ Rath discreetly placed another mark on the counter.

The barman made the mark disappear even more discreetly under the palm of his hand and leaned in closer.

‘The Russians usually keep to themselves,’ he whispered. ‘You should ask them.’ He gestured in their direction with his eyes. ‘Try your luck in the corner back there, but don’t say you heard it from me.’

Rath looked round. At the other end of the room ten men were sitting at two adjacent tables. There wasn’t a single woman amongst them. Rath moved slowly across the floor, one hand holding his glass, the other in his trouser pocket. The men took no notice of him whatsoever, as they were engaged in what was obviously a stimulating discussion. They were speaking Russian.

‘A gathering of the displaced?’ Rath asked. The conversation ceased immediately.

‘Please excuse this interruption,’ he said, displaying the metal badge on his jacket. ‘CID. If you would be so kind as to provide some information about one of your countrymen.’

Rath removed the photo from his jacket and held it right under the nose of a blond youth. ‘Do you know this man? Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov.’

The young man gazed at him through big blue eyes as if he hadn’t understood a word.

Two men from the adjacent table stood up. One man’s face was disfigured by a long scar across his cheek. It wasn’t a duelling scar, more like a serious wound. He cast an eye over the large-size photo.

‘No-one here knows this man,’ said Scar Face.

Rath knew the man was lying before he had finished his sentence.

‘Are you sure?’ Rath gestured towards the blond. ‘Your friend here didn’t understand my question. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to translate?’

‘Not necessary. He understood you.’ The Russian puffed himself up. Rath could see his muscles flexing under the fabric of his dark suit. They wanted to do more than flex. ‘Now might I ask you to leave us in peace? We Russians live amongst ourselves. We regulate our own affairs. We don’t like it when Germans interfere in our business.’

‘I’ll weigh in wherever I please,’ Rath replied provocatively.

The Russian’s face turned red, his scar a shade of violet. ‘You’re lucky you’re a police officer,’ he said. ‘We respect the agencies of law enforcement. Otherwise you’d be in trouble.’ He paused theatrically. ‘Big trouble. No-one talks to me like that. I have a good memory for faces. Just pray that you don’t run into me off duty.’

‘I’m never off duty.’

‘A good cop doesn’t drink on the job,’ the Russian said and pointed towards the glass in Rath’s hand.

‘Then maybe I’m a bad cop,’ Rath said. As laughable as this alpha male posturing was, he had no intention of showing this muscled ape the white feather.

The Russian became friendlier. He cast his eye over the photograph, took it from Rath’s hand and feigned interest.

‘We’d like to help you but, as I’ve already said, none of us have seen this man.’

‘I’d like to ask your friends that myself.’ Rath took an Overstolz from the packet.

‘They’d all say the same thing.’ The Russian produced a small matchbook and offered Rath a light.

A quick look around was enough to tell Rath that Scar Face was right. The others
would
all say the same thing.

‘You can keep the photograph,’ he said. ‘Something might occur to you. You never know.’ He finished his Americano and laid the glass on the table amongst vodka glasses. ‘I’m here from time to time.’ With that he turned and left the Russians.

For the first time that night, he was certain that he had run into people who knew Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov, but he had every reason to believe Scar Face. No-one in this company would say a word to the German police. At least not when either of the two Russian heavies was in the vicinity.

Rath was too tired to really care. Despite his fatigue, however, he made his way back to Nürnberger Strasse in the best of spirits. He had tasted blood and finally had the tiniest of clues. He also knew where he would continue his search.
Conditorei
Café Berlin.
The advertising on the matchbook.

9

When Rath arrived at the office on Saturday morning, a little hungover, a little late and more than a little tired, Wolter was already hammering away on his typewriter. The type bars crackled against the paper like shots from a pistol.

‘Morning,’ Rath said, hanging his hat and coat on the stand next to the door.

Uncle looked up and raised an eyebrow. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘A bit late last night?’

‘Just a bit,’ Rath replied. ‘Stephan not here yet?’

‘Won’t be coming today. The politicals just rang. 1A need him a little longer.’

‘And
our
inquiries?’

‘Not today. Vice has to wait. We’re sticking with politics.’ Wolter continued typing; it was obvious he didn’t like it. Schmittchen wasn’t there on Saturdays, Lieselotte Schmidt, their secretary who did most of the paper work. ‘It’s almost like a murder investigation, this. Ought to be right up your street.’

Rath ignored the jibe. ‘Can I write down what happened to me yesterday first? It was quite an adventure.’

‘Feel free. The Prussian police force is ideally equipped for precisely that task.’ Wolter gestured towards Rath’s desk, where there was another covered typewriter. ‘Did you know that we have more typewriters than weapons recorded in our inventory?’

‘Just CID or the entire police?’

Wolter shrugged. ‘In Germany, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Reichswehr had more typewriters than canons.’

Rath sat at his desk and removed the protective cover from his pre-war
Adler.
The black machine stared at him like a hostile insect.

‘Were you able to satisfy our friendly communist doctor yesterday?’ Uncle asked without looking up.

‘Völcker? So comrades, come rally.’

‘That’s a good one.’ Wolter laughed and, finally, stopped typing.

‘It’s from Dr Schwartz. He’s known the Red doctor since university.’

‘And what else did Dr Schwartz say? Did Völcker let him work in peace?’

‘More or less. To begin with he played the outraged communist pain in the arse but, during the examination, he was astonishingly friendly. Even Schwartz teasing him didn’t put him out.’

‘People like him are never put out. That’s why they turn out the way they do.’

‘Maybe, but Völcker might also be happy with the result. It turns out a single bullet was enough to kill both women. It entered through the younger woman’s chest and passed through her heart. The older one was hit in the shoulder but died of coronary failure. Probably the shock.’

Uncle pulled a disgusted face. ‘The thing that annoys me most is that the communists make capital out of this. It’s only because the social democrats are too stupid to plan an operation properly.’ He tore a sheet of paper from the machine. ‘Maybe this can get us out of it,’ he said. ‘I mean, who says it wasn’t a communist bullet after all? It wasn’t a police bullet anyway.’

‘Your report?’ Rath asked. ‘Finished already?’

‘Wündisch’s people like to have everything early.’ Deputy Wündisch was in charge of the political police. His department, 1A, was also investigating the deaths during the May actions. Rath skimmed the report. Brief, functional and precise, it was a shining example of police reporting, including a detailed account of Dr Völcker’s appearance and the fact that it was the doctor who had removed the confiscated bullet from the wood. Wolter had formulated the report in such a way that one couldn’t help suspecting the communist doctor of having exchanged the bullet himself. At least of having had the opportunity to do so and, with that, the pointed bullet was no longer worth a great deal as a piece of evidence.

‘It was a police bullet,’ Rath said. He didn’t like the way Wolter’s report skirted the truth, but sometimes there was no alternative. Dr Völcker would also manipulate the truth for his own ends – at least that had been Rath’s impression in the morgue.

‘A pointed bullet like the ones we use in our rifles,’ Wolter agreed. ‘I brought it to Ballistics myself. A pointed bullet given to me by a communist. Now what does that prove? Other than that there are communists out there who collect police bullets?’

Still reflecting on Wolter’s relationship with the truth, Rath sat in a café in Tauentzienstrasse after work with a pile of newspapers on the table in front of him. He understood that there were different versions of the truth. Every police officer knew that, with each trial it was experienced afresh. Resourceful lawyers could call into question even the most unambiguous of facts, which made the work of the police all the more important. You had to provide the public prosecutor with evidence so watertight that no lawyer could pick it apart. Wolter had just done the exact opposite. He had made a piece of evidence inadmissible to protect police from communist attacks. Did the end really justify the means?

They would come before court with their differing versions of the truth, Wolter and Völcker, the cop and the communist, and what side would the witness Gereon Rath take? It was inconceivable that a police officer should testify against the police. If he did, he might as well pack it in. Most likely he would claim he hadn’t seen anything, but he felt queasy about it already.

Was the cleverly fudged report another of Bruno’s lessons? At various times, Rath had the feeling that he was trying to familiarise the provincial cop with the way things worked in Berlin. He knew that Bruno thought highly of him. Likewise, he had a high opinion of his experienced colleague, but what to make of these private lessons he wasn’t sure. First the outburst on the Karstadt scaffolding and now the exercise in bending the truth, but perhaps that was what you did to survive in the big city. Perhaps Rath had been too naïve, even in a provincial city such as Cologne. Perhaps that was how LeClerk had been able to give him such a going-over in the press.

Rath remembered meeting Alexander LeClerk for the first time. The face of the man called to identify his dead son was like stone. On the marble table the deceased no longer looked like the madman firing at unsuspecting passers-by. He was a pale young man with dead eyes, who hadn’t made it to thirty because Gereon Rath had pulled a trigger.

Passing one another in the corridors by Forensics, the policeman and the father, Rath hadn’t known what to say or how to behave. He had offered his condolences, well aware of how inappropriate that was. LeClerk hadn’t accorded him so much as a glance, showing no emotion in that stony face, neither grief nor anger.

Alexander LeClerk, one of the most important newspaper publishers in Cologne.

It started shortly afterwards, each day a new headline. The first:
Hail of bullets in St Agnes. Is
our police force trigger-happy?
The name Gereon Rath appeared in the very first article.