Babylon Berlin (25 page)

Behind him he heard a resounding clang, a small, wet explosion.

Instinctively he turned his head. There was no-one there, just a hissing, white puddle on the pavement and shiny, red-brown shards. Above him a window slammed shut and, in the same instant, he was attacked.

A firm grip clasped his right forearm and pulled it to one side, turning the muzzle of the pistol painfully downwards. Rath lost his balance and fell to the ground. It happened so slowly it was as if time had been frozen. It seemed to take minutes for him to crash onto the wet stones.

While he was still falling the shot went off. A reflex. He squeezed the trigger without taking aim. Without the first idea of what had happened. The shot was earsplittingly loud.

Along with the crack he heard a loud metal noise, almost like a gong, and then the zing of a ricochet. Still he fell endlessly but with the grip of the other man loosening. His pursuer crashed to the ground too, thudding against the pavement barely a metre away.

Rath climbed to his feet, ready for the next attack. He had the Mauser in his hand and could aim again, keep the aggressive terrier in check. But the man stayed down. The hat had rolled from his head to reveal a face that Rath still didn’t recognise. Thinnish lips, a crooked nose that hinted at numerous punch-ups, an eye that was wide open. Only one. There, where the other eye ought to have been, was a gaping dark hole. In the dim light, the blood running in a thin rivulet over his pale face appeared almost black.

Rath stood holding his right ear; it ached and there was a buzzing noise. Only now did he understand what had happened. Or try to understand. Was it the mixture of alcohol, cocaine and adrenaline that somehow made the whole scene seem so unreal? But it was real, terrifyingly real. He could kick the corpse with his foot.

He saw a shiny metal object next to his foot and could almost have laughed. A mundane, everyday manhole cover, through which the rainwater drained from the paved courtyard, had sealed his attacker’s fate. As in billiards, the angle of incidence is equal to the angle of refraction.

As if someone had kicked in a glass pane and the reality behind it was only just revealing itself now, Rath became aware that he was standing next to a corpse. Next to a person who had been killed by a bullet from his Mauser.

Who would believe his story? There was a corpse, and here’s Detective Inspector Gereon Rath, pumped full of cocaine and alcohol, claiming it was all just a mistake? He realised he wasn’t going to be able to sell that to anyone. He could hear the public prosecutor posing his questions: could you explain to us again why you took cocaine, Inspector? I see, to get closer to Herr Marlow, very interesting. And what did you want from him? What on earth were you doing in a notoriously shady part of town in the middle of the night?

This time he wouldn’t escape the courts in one piece. Let alone the press. A cop who shoots a person dead during a cocaine high – the boys in Kochstrasse had been waiting for a headline like that since the Kaiser abdicated.

He looked around. All the windows remained dark, but at least one person must have seen them fighting. Rath examined the brown shards. From the white of the puddle, nothing had remained, only a few little bubbles that were frothing. A familiar smell reached his nostrils. Next to the wet shards lay a metal holder with a porcelain stopper. A beer bottle. Some sleepless voyeur up there had dropped a beer in fright.

A witness!

So what? Don’t panic! A shot here was nothing unusual. No-one would expose themselves to the questions of the accursed cops, just because they had been witness to a shoot-out. He was telling himself all this, like a kid who claims not to believe in ghosts but is still afraid of the dark. He instinctively pulled his hat further down over his eyes, but then his thoughts were clear; he knew exactly what he had to do.

He replaced his weapon and began to search the pockets of the deceased. He recoiled as something pricked him in the finger. A lapel pin, no weapon, not even a wallet. Just a small, stylised steel helmet. Rath threw it into the drain. Then he buttoned the dead man’s coat to the top, put his hat back on his head and began to pull him by the collar of his coat.

The rain became heavier, as he hauled the heavy body to the construction fence and looked for a gap. He found the loose plank and gave one of the neighbouring planks a little nudge until the gap was big enough to drag the corpse through. He looked around. The contractor hadn’t got very far, only the foundations and the floor panels had been laid. Rath climbed into the excavation and tested the concrete with a timber beam. Still not set, they must have only poured it today. He dragged the dead man down and located a shovel from the trailer. He wiped down the lock with a handkerchief after he had broken it open. His dry mouth was making him crazy. He almost took a beer from a crate that was lying next to a rusty bike, but he managed to control himself. Instead he poked his tongue out into the rain.

As if in a frenzy, he dug a hole in the fresh concrete, placed the man inside and shovelled the concrete back over the top. There was a little left over, which he spread out. Then he returned the shovel to the trailer and wiped down the handle with his handkerchief. He wiped down everything he had touched, including the loose planks in the fence, once he had straightened them again. The rain would hopefully have washed away the blood from the courtyard by the morning.

Rath looked down at himself. His dark coat was glistening with rainwater, mud and concrete. He tried to rub away the dirt but it was pointless, he was only spreading it further. The way he was looking, he couldn’t show himself to a taxi driver. He went back to the trailer, retrieved the bike and gave it the once over. There wasn’t enough air in the rear wheel, but for his purposes it would do.

His gaze wandered once more over the dark apertures that looked out onto the courtyard. He wasn’t sure whether anyone had seen him, but he was sure that in this darkness no-one could have made out his face under the shadow of his hat. Even if there was someone here who enjoyed speaking to the police.

He wheeled the bike through the entrance to the courtyard. Still no-one on the street. He pushed off and jumped into the saddle. The bike bumped across the cobblestones. As long as he wasn’t stopped by a colleague for riding without a light he would be home within half an hour.

Part II

A Division

11th May – 21st May 1929

16

The rain was still beating on the roof of the car. The beat rose to a hiss as the car door opened and a huge body sank, with surprising force, onto the black leather of the rear seat. Liang must’ve lent a helping hand. The door closed with a resounding clunk and wouldn’t be opened again until Johann Marlow gave the signal. Through the ever-changing pattern of the raindrops on the windscreen, Marlow could see the dark coat of Liang Kuen-Yao, who had remained outside to ensure that any thought of escape died a premature death.

Marlow looked at his guest without saying a word. The man had thrown on a trench coat, upon which the rain had left dark traces, but underneath he was wearing only pyjamas. His grey face could have done with a shave, while his eyes told of too little sleep. The smell of alcohol, sweat and rain permeated the vehicle. Despite their tiredness, his eyes danced anxiously to and fro. In trying to mask his anxiety he ended up sounding a little brash.

‘What’s the big idea? Why is your Chinaman dragging me out of bed in the middle of the night? I have to be at Alex at six tomorrow. I need my sleep!’

Marlow turned his attentions to a cigar that was as thick as his thumb, calmly cutting off the tip. He allowed the snapping noise of the cigar cutter to take effect before answering. His guest had already seen once what else the device could be used for.

‘I had a visit from one of your colleagues today, and I ask myself why I didn’t know anything about it,’ he said.

‘Come again? Can’t be anything official. The raid isn’t until tomorrow…’ He corrected himself upon looking at his watch. ‘…until
this
evening
.’

‘Not a raid, a lone cop. Rath, Gereon Rath. Does the name mean anything to you?’

The man considered, but all that followed was a shrug.

‘He doesn’t work in Narcotics anyway.’

‘I don’t pay you just to keep Narcotics off my back. I’d hope that you picked up on a little bit more than that at Alex.’

‘Who told you Vice were planning a raid? I can’t know everyone at the station. It’s probably someone new.’

‘There can’t be that many new people arriving at Alex from the Rhineland. Keep your ears to the ground!’

‘From the Rhineland?’ The man hesitated. ‘Maybe I have heard something about the guy. What was his name again?’

‘Gereon Rath.’

‘I’m not quite sure, could be from Vice. They’ve had someone new foisted on them. From Düsseldorf or Cologne. He’s supposed to be a friend of the commissioner.’

Marlow nodded thoughtfully.

‘You have a name now. See what you can do with it. I want to hear more tomorrow.’

A small hand movement sufficed for Kuen-Yao to open the door. It had stopped raining. The man stayed in his seat and looked around uncertainly.

‘Go and have your well-earned sleep,’ Marlow said, almost friendly now. ‘We’ll speak again tomorrow evening.’

No sooner was the man outside than Liang closed the door again. He didn’t bother to accompany him back into the house. He went straight to the driver’s door, threw the umbrella onto the floor space in front of the passenger seat and reclaimed his place behind the wheel. There was barely a drop of rain on his coat, as if he had never been outside.

‘To Peters?’ he asked simply.

Marlow shook his head. ‘That’ll do, Kuen-Yao. We’re going home.’

The Chinese man started the engine, and the brand new, gleaming, jet-black
Standard 8
rolled onto the carriageway.

The streets were filling with cyclists as the first workers pedalled towards the factories. Liang steered the big
Adler
Limousine calmly and safely through the dawning city. The night-time storm clouds had dispersed as suddenly as they had arrived. Only on the eastern horizon did they continue to paint the morning sky in strips of red. It promised to be a beautiful day. In the rear-view mirror Marlow gazed into the eyes of the Chinese man. They were inscrutable.

Bruno Wolter was a morning person. Getting up at six didn’t bother him, but today he gazed pensively out of the window, and not just because he knew it was going to be a long day. A beautiful morning. It must have rained in the night, as there were puddles glistening on the asphalt. In Fregestrasse the birds chirruped in the trees, doing all they could to mark the start of a sunny spring day, but he wasn’t listening. He scraped shaving cream from his face as if blindfolded, and mulled things over. The calls yesterday evening had pursued him into his dreams and were still whirring around his head. He didn’t think there was any reason to worry. They had planned everything carefully, but you never knew.

One thing, at any rate, was clear: he would soon be rid of the new detective inspector. And yet he had grown accustomed to the lanky figure. He was a little too ambitious for someone who had no idea what was going on in this city but, still, he would most likely get his wish and be transferred to Homicide. Well, enjoy, my friend! The half-shaved face grinned in the mirror.

‘Bruno,’ he heard Emmi call from below. ‘Coffee’s ready.’

After breakfast, he felt better. Emmi carried his brown briefcase to the door and passed it to him as he stepped out of the house. He gave her a quick, dry kiss and went to the black Ford that was parked in front of the house and drove away. He watched her disappearing in the rear-view mirror.

Emmi was the kind of woman he had always wished for. She admired him, she was attentive – and she didn’t ask any questions. He could do no wrong by her. She trusted him completely. Until now he hadn’t disappointed her, and they had been married for over fourteen years. When war broke out and he was called to arms, he had made his proposal. Emilie von Bülow was much sought-after but he won the race for her hand and they used his first leave to get married. It was good to have someone to write to in the field, and that’s what he had done, regularly and in detail. She had sent him at least one letter a week. As the war tightened its grip, and the soldiers were no longer granted leave of their trenches, things continued to take shape in Berlin. Little by little, Emmi furnished the house her parents had bought for them, while he defended the Fatherland for a paltry sum, with which they could never have afforded such a place. But they weren’t fighting for the pay, none of his companions were. They were fighting for the future of Germany, a position that his father-in-law fully supported.

The longer the war continued, the more sordid it became and, for many of his companions, it became a question of returning home in one piece. Not for him, he had hope until the end. They had been in the heart of enemy territory for four years, but Germany’s future was up the spout when the Reds sent the Kaiser packing and signed the surrender – and this despite the fact that his unit hadn’t retreated a millimetre for three years. They held their position in the middle of France without yielding, in the heart of enemy territory, but suddenly everything disintegrated and the country they had fought for no longer existed. It was still called Germany but it was no longer their country.

Nevertheless, he had remained with the police, whom he had already served under the Kaiser. Even with the social democrats in power, someone was required to maintain law and order, and he had never given up hope of the Germany he had fought for and wanted to serve further. He retained contact with his old comrades who had survived.

He parked the Ford in front of the
Josty
branch on Kaiserallee and looked for a sunny spot on the terrace. Shortly afterwards a waiter brought his coffee, and Wolter leafed through the papers. They were all reporting on the Young Plan. Idiotic prattle, these negotiations in Geneva. He rustled the paper impatiently, gazing up from his reading to take in the entrance to the café terrace and the wide pavement on Kaiserallee. His mood was deteriorating rapidly. He didn’t have forever.