Babylon Berlin (16 page)

‘Buschmann. He runs several variety theatres in the city, as well as a few dance cafés. You just have to study the Berlin night scene carefully, then you’ll find Lana for sure.’ Schneid played with the silver knob on his cane.

‘Perhaps you have an address for me?’

‘An address? No. I got her together with the band, and that’s how I paid her too, through the band.’

‘Which band?’

‘Russians. They could play jazz, I tell you. Just like the Negroes in the Cotton Club! Ilja Tretschkov is the band leader’s name. If you can find him, you’ll find Lana.’

‘She’s a Russian too?’

‘Yes, what were you expecting?’

Rath glanced at the time as he emerged back onto the street. He still had time. Given that he was already out in the car he might as well make the most of it.

An hour later he finally parked the Buick in the atrium at the station, having driven for any number of kilometres in what ultimately amounted to little more than a jaunt around Berlin. First he had returned to Möckern Bridge and driven slowly along Tempelhofer Ufer, without really knowing what he was looking for, probably for a glimpse of Kardakov. He didn’t recognise a single face amongst the Sunday afternoon strollers, now examining the scene of the accident, not even one from the Castle. Soon it would cease to be a crime scene altogether, but simply a ruined section of canal fencing, whose repair the city council would put off for as long as possible.

Next he drove into the eastern part of the city, over the Schilling Bridge into the Stralau quarter and the centre of Friedrichshain. He hadn’t dared to get out at Küstriner Platz, which wasn’t the sort of place you could park a sand-coloured American sports car and expect to find it intact upon your return. The area around
Schlesischer Bahnhof
was amongst the most notorious in Berlin. Uniform only dared to venture onto the streets in small groups, and CID kept as low a profile as possible. The area was firmly in the hands of criminals and, as there wasn’t a lot that police could do, they left it to the
Ringvereine
to maintain order.

Plaza
had once been a station. However, no trains had stopped there for over forty years. Since then the buildings of the former
Ostbahnhof
had been used as warehouses. Jules Marx had converted the giant station concourse into a variety theatre that housed almost three thousand spectators. It had only opened at the start of the year. Rath first explored the long side of the great building, where the street was still called
Am Ostbahnhof.
Only the front part of the station had been converted into a theatre. At the back there were still a number of warehouses, many of which had gone to rack and ruin. Next he drove slowly along the newly renovated station façade. The big neon letters which formed the name
Plaza
were still switched on. At the main entrance, multi-coloured placards promised an evening themed around the Wild West. Not without a certain irony, Rath thought. In Berlin, the east was wilder than the west.

No sign of Johann Marlow.
You don’t find him, he finds you.
Rath couldn’t help thinking of Gloria’s words. He didn’t even know what Dr M. looked like, which was the reason he had driven to the Castle and was now trudging up the stairs. I Division was located on the top floor and was home to the
Erkennungsdienst
, the identification service.

There was no mention of a Johann Marlow anywhere in the files. The man didn’t have a single conviction or file note. He hadn’t even so much as driven through a red light at Potsdamer Platz. The same was true for Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov. Until now he had successfully concealed his coke dealing from the Berlin police. A trip to see his colleagues in Narcotics was thus rendered superfluous. Rath returned to the ground floor.

The offices in the western wing were all locked up. Sunday. Closed for public business. As far as Rath knew, the passports office was usually open on Sundays, or at least part-staffed. He trawled through the various doors before striking lucky. Just as he turned the corner and opened the connecting door to the north wing, he saw a grey-haired official who was already in his coat. The old man was just about to lock the door to his office.

‘Home time!’ he said, as Rath addressed him. ‘One o’clock.’

‘Come on! CID are working today too. Criminals don’t keep office hours.’

‘I still need to go to the form storage room.’

‘And you can. I just need a little help with an address.’

The grey-haired man sighed. The key turned back in the opposite direction.

‘Well, I just hope that CID will do me a favour when I need one.’ The man led him into a neat and tidy office and rummaged around in his jacket pocket for his glasses case. Behind a low wooden barricade, which normally kept the public at arm’s length, stood meticulously arranged rows of desks, shelves and filing cabinets. ‘Which Division do you work for?’ he asked.

‘E Division.’

The old man put on his reading glasses and surveyed him briefly.

‘What letter?’

Rath almost said ‘E’ again before he realised what the man meant.

‘K,’ he said simply.

The man noisily opened a roll-front cabinet.

‘And the whole word?’

‘Kardakov.’

The man had already pulled out a drawer and started to search.

‘Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov,’ Rath added, hoping to do the official a favour.

The latter abandoned his search immediately. ‘That doesn’t sound like a German name to me,’ he said.

‘It isn’t. Kardakov is Russian.’

The official rolled his eyes, slammed the drawer shut, closed the roll-front cabinet and jangled a bunch of keys. ‘Couldn’t you have said right away?’ he asked. ‘Come with me.’

He led Rath through three further offices that all looked the same as the first.

‘Room 152. Alien passports office,’ said the man when they had reached the fourth office. The rest Rath knew already. Roll-front cabinet, drawer, search. It didn’t take too long. The official pulled an index card from the drawer.

‘There he is… Kardakov, Alexej Ivanovitsch. Born 25th July 1896 in St Petersburg, Russia, registered in Berlin since 15th December 1920…’

‘I need the address!’

‘All in good time, young man.’ Another reproachful glance from over his spectacles. ‘Registered in Berlin since 15th December 1920…’ the man repeated with a composure that nearly drove Rath spare. He was exactly the kind of Prussian official the police could do without. ‘…resident in Nürnberger Stra…’

‘That’s his old address.’

‘My dear inspector! Might I ask why you are bothering
me
, when you seem to know all the answers?’

‘Sorry, but the man moved out of that address a month ago.’

The official glanced over the card. ‘There’s no mention of it here. Kardakov has been living at this address for three years.’ He took another look. ‘In a week’s time he has to extend his yellow identity card, foreigners need to do that every six months. That’s most likely when he intends to give notice of his move. Perhaps you could come back then. On the 16th May I’ll be able to tell you more.’

‘Many thanks. You’ve been a great help,’ Rath said, as pleasantly as he could manage. Inside he was seething. He’d have liked nothing better than to throttle the old man. ‘Wait,’ he said. The official was already standing by the door. ‘Please wait! There’s one more thing you can do for me. A woman’s address. Lana Nikoros.’

The official grumbled, but did as he was told.

‘Doesn’t sound much like a German name either.’

His visit to the Castle was not very productive. Neither at the records office nor at the passports office did he get any information that might advance his inquiries. There wasn’t even a Lana Nikoros registered in Berlin, but at least he knew that Kardakov would soon be obliged to renew his ID. If he didn’t appear for that, it would be clear that he really had gone to ground. If he was only interested in not paying his final month’s rent, he would not run the risk of wandering around Germany as a foreigner without valid papers.

Big white letters interrupted Rath’s thoughts. HOMICIDE. He stared at the glass double door. Somehow he had ended up on the first floor. Force of habit? He had stood in front of the very same door a week ago, which was when he saw her for the first time. Today the passageway was devoid of people. He made a quick about turn and headed towards Vice. All he needed now was to run into Wilhelm Böhm, but their corridor was quiet too. There was no noise coming from the offices, no sound of voices, no rattling away on the typewriters. A floor higher, where the politicals were based, was still a hive of activity. The May actions had filled the police holding cells. In contrast there wasn’t a single person working in E Division. Just the right place to do some thinking.

The door wasn’t locked. He had expected to find a deserted office, so was all the more surprised to discover one of his colleagues.

‘Stephan!’

The rookie Jänicke was sitting at Uncle’s desk, buried in a mound of papers.

‘Hello, Gereon!’ Jänicke was just as surprised as Rath. ‘This crew not giving you any peace either? I wanted to have another look at the files on König. I can’t get the man out of my head. An upstanding photographer, and then this filth.’

‘The König file from 1A? It’s in my desk. I’m the one who dug it out, not Bruno.’

‘Right!’ Jänicke stuffed the papers on the desk back into Wolter’s drawer and closed it. ‘I’d have been looking for a long time.’

Rath’s desk drawer was still relatively empty. He found the file with König’s political inclinations and threw it over to Jänicke. ‘Here.’

His colleague was a good catcher. Word was that he played handball.

‘Thank you!’ Jänicke took the file to his desk. ‘And what brings you here on a Sunday?’

Rath had no desire to feign an interest in the porn investigation, only to spend the rest of the day poring over the König file with the rookie. That he was looking for a Russian named Kardakov had nothing to do with the young man.

‘Boredom,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a car I can wash.’

Jänicke laughed. ‘Now I know why Bruno isn’t here.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I had no intention of spending my whole Sunday here. Hertha are playing against Südstern today. Are you coming?’

‘I thought you played handball?’

‘In my youth I was a football goalkeeper for Viktoria Allenstein. I didn’t start playing handball until police academy at Potsdam. I was in goal there too.’

‘Hertha will win anyway,’ Rath said. ‘They always take the Berlin Championship.’ He made as if he was looking for something in his desk. ‘I’ll be on my way soon too. I just wanted to see… Ah, there it is!’

He removed the wallet that he had placed in the drawer three seconds before and pretended to be relieved. ‘There was I thinking one of the pickpockets at Alex had nicked it. I was ready for a weekend without any money.’ He put the wallet back in his pocket and moved towards the door. ‘See you tomorrow then.’

For forty-eight hours they hadn’t set eyes on their colleague and now, on today of all days, Jänicke turns up again! Rath felt that their unexpected meeting had been more embarrassing for the rookie than for him as it wasn’t exactly kosher, rummaging around in other people’s drawers. Did Bruno know about it? Probably not. Rath decided not to say anything either. That way Jänicke would be worried he
might
say something. Couldn’t hurt if the rookie felt obliged to do him the odd favour.

In the stairwell, Rath realised how hungry he was. Only half past one. He still had enough time to eat something here, although not in the canteen. Instead of the atrium, he made for the exit at Dircksenstrasse. The railway arches were lit by a few thin rays of sunshine.

There was a gusty wind blowing over Alex and he had to hold his hat as he turned into the square. Even on a Sunday there was a large crowd milling around between the construction hoardings. A magazine vendor was pedalling his dubious wares, at 20 pfennig each:
Ehe
magazine, fascinating and piquant. Rath wondered whether the porn merchant, to whom police owed their successful search, would appear again. He pushed through the crowd, squeezed past a bread trolley in front of Aschinger’s and went inside where it was dark but pleasantly warm and smelt of beer and cigarette smoke.

He took a Sunday paper from the hook and looked for a free table. When the waiter came, he ordered
Sauerbraten
with dumplings and a beer and unfolded the paper. The photo of the deceased Boris had been printed again today and had advanced several pages towards the front. The article was bigger, but it contained no significant new details. Böhm wasn’t making any progress.

‘Ah-ha! I see you don’t just advertise Aschinger products. You eat here too!’

He gave a start, his thoughts rudely interrupted by a smiling Charlotte Ritter in a dark coat. He folded the paper hastily and mumbled a greeting.

‘Is there still space on this table?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ He stood up and straightened her chair, gazing at her slim neck and realising how good she smelt.

She sat down and, before he could say anything stupid, the waiter arrived with his food.

‘A coffee for me,’ she said and wished him
bon
appétit
.

‘Thank you.’ He would have liked to bag the
Sauerbraten
and go. ‘We meet again,’ he said instead. ‘Been at the station today too.’

‘What do you mean ‘been’? I’m just about to go back. Böhm has only let me off the leash for a moment. We’ve got a lot to do, another busy weekend.’ She shrugged as if to say: what the hell? That’s just the way it is.

‘Any progress?’

‘Progress would be an exaggeration. It’s a strange case with barely any clues. I fear that
Aquarius
will keep us occupied for some time yet.’

‘Aquarius?’

‘Even if it’s not a classic floater. What else are we supposed to call the case when the victim doesn’t have a name?’

‘You don’t know his identity?’