Babylon Berlin (43 page)

Gereon didn’t have an excuse to hand. He had arranged to meet friends, he said, and besides, he had to look for a new flat. Weak excuses. His father naturally assumed there was a girl behind it and began to tease his son. The old man could believe whatever he wanted. Gereon couldn’t deal with his family right now, with the exception of Ursula perhaps, his younger sister. He missed her sometimes, but the rest of them could go hang. The silence over Severin; and then the speeches in Anno’s honour, so skilfully delivered by Engelbert that Gereon always felt like a failure. There was no way he was ever going to measure up to Saint Anno.

The only person who could cheer him up now was Bruno, although Rath had thought about going away over Whitsun to give the Wolters space. Bruno had just given him a serious look and said, ‘You’re not imposing at all. It’s great to have you here, Gereon. You’re the son Emmi and I never had.’ It had taken Rath a moment to realise that Bruno was teasing him. Uncle was only twelve years older than him, and Emmi Wolter at most seven or eight. He must have a pulled a great face, because Bruno had burst into laughter.

The Wolters had invited guests to stay over the holiday, a couple they were friendly with, Rudi and Erika Scheer, as well as Agnes Sahler, a friend whose husband had died two years before. Though the invites had been sent out long before Rath had been made homeless, and there couldn’t have been any intention of pairing the two off, a strange atmosphere developed between them. Whether by accident or design, neither made much of an effort with the other, preferring to keep to the existing couples in the room. A few times Rath had stolen away from the company and tried to ring Charly. No-one picked up.

On Whit Sunday, the three men had sat in the garden drinking, long after the women had retired to bed. Rudi Scheer, a quiet, friendly man of about fifty, had talked about the old days on the firing range and how Bruno had taught the new recruits how to shoot. For the first time, Rath heard something about the time that had brought Bruno the nickname Parabellum. Scheer was still responsible for the armoury at Alex, but Bruno didn’t want anything to do with weapons. Rath asked why he had been transferred to Vice.

‘Ach, the accident,’ Scheer had said, only to fall silent immediately when Bruno cast him an angry glance.

‘There are things it’s best not to talk about,’ he had said.

He had changed the subject to the Kardakov case. Rath talked about the progress of the investigation, despite having been more or less cut off by Böhm. Zörgiebel had reassigned the case to the DCI, even if the latter had never officially relinquished it. Rath knew they hadn’t found Kardakov yet, and that the Countess was still missing. The two Russian heavies had been arrested and brought to Alex on Friday night, but turned loose again on Saturday morning. He didn’t tell Bruno it was the same Russians he had tried to arrest after the raid, hoping they hadn’t been released in the same manner as the week before. Special treatment! Just thinking about it made him angry. He ought to have given the pair a good grilling when he had the chance. Kardakov would have been theirs long ago.

Rath learned why the two Russians had been released when he was back at his desk on Tuesday morning, reading through the interrogation statements. Both Fallin and Selenskij had affirmed that they held no truck with communists, nor did they maintain any ties to an organisation called
Red Fortress.
They had never heard of Alexej Kardakov. Above all, their claims were substantiated by still having in their possession documents indicating that they had been officers in the
Ochranka
, the Tsar’s secret police. They were colleagues then, after a fashion. Was that why they had originally been released from police custody?

Rath gazed in annoyance at the interrogation statements. He’d have liked to have put these Russians through the mill himself, but Zörgiebel hadn’t allowed it. It was Böhm’s case again, and that was that!

Gennat himself was looking after the Jänicke case. The team dealing with the
Bülowplatz
murder had been slimmed down, though perhaps ‘slimmed down’ was the wrong expression, given that it was Buddha heading the inquiry. The man weighed in at a minimum 300 pounds.

Thus Rath wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing when he returned to his desk after an enforced three-day break. The events of Friday had rather shaken things up in A Division. Was he still assigned to the Jänicke case? Or should he reopen the Wilczek file, which he’d sooner have snapped shut and shelved? The only thing Zörgiebel had made abundantly clear was that from now on his involvement in the Kardakov case would be restricted to what Böhm asked of him – no more operations carried out under his own steam. Only, the DCI hadn’t asked for anything. He wasn’t even speaking to Rath. Not about the weather, and certainly not about the ongoing investigation.

Nevertheless, he was determined to knuckle down. After yesterday, the bleakest Whit Monday of his life, the whole day spent thinking gloomy thoughts, after a day like that, where even the evening binge with Bruno had done nothing to lift his spirits, he knew that the only way to stop himself thinking of private matters, of Charly, of what would happen when next they met, was to drown himself in work. At least he wasn’t the type who joined the foreign legion because of a woman.

He decided to call Gennat. Perhaps he would take Rath onto the
Bülowplatz
team. That still seemed like the most meaningful assignment A Division had to offer. Jänicke’s killer couldn’t be allowed to escape unpunished. Besides, there was probably a lot he could learn from an old fox like Gennat.

Rath had the receiver in hand, but didn’t get as far as dialling.

There was a knock. A man in white work trousers stood at the door, in the one hand a wooden case, in the other a piece of paper.

‘Yes?’

‘Detective Inspector Gero Rath?’

‘Gereon!’

‘The sign writers, Inspector.’

The sign writers? Despite his best efforts, Rath could only make out one. ‘Good. Please just get started,’ he said. ‘But remember: it’s Gereon.’

‘That’s what it says here.’ The sign writer waved the piece of paper.

Gingerly, he unpacked his colours, brushes and stencils and positioned himself in front of the open door.

‘Can’t you close it?’

‘Fraid not, the light here is better. It’ll only take a few minutes.’

The man started daubing away, as calm as you like. Sometimes Rath envied such people, even if they also made him nervous.

The sign writer was almost forced to start over when a man hurried through the door and barged into him. Kronberg, from ED, was carrying a brown envelope.

‘Working on the door already?’ he said. ‘Is this going to be your office?’

‘Looks that way. Small, but at least it’s mine. Just need a secretary now. What can I do for you?’

‘Other way round,’ Kronberg said and waved the envelope bearing the stamp of the Berlin police. ‘Wonders will never cease!’

‘Have Hertha won the league?’

‘No.’ Kronberg gazed at him uncomprehendingly. No sense of humour, the man. ‘You requested a ballistics report last week. Forgotten already?’ he continued. ‘And this here is the result. You’ll be amazed. Could be a big lead, and not just in your case!’

Now it was Rath’s turn to gaze uncomprehendingly. The ballistics report from the Wilczek case? Rath already knew whose weapon the bullet came from, which was precisely why he’d been expecting it to be a dead end. How could it have turned up a lead? ED had only examined the souvenir from Krajewski’s pistol. Did that mean the porn Kaiser had been fiddling around with it before the incident on the roof?

‘We’ve taken a close look at the projectile – and found a reference sample, also submitted last week. There is a more than ninety percent chance that both projectiles were fired from the same weapon, a Lignose one hand. Popular with communists and small-time crooks.’

Yes, a Lignose,
I know
, Rath nearly said. ‘Which reference sample are you talking about?’ he asked instead.

‘The
Bülowplatz
case. We examined the bullet last week, priority you know, on the orders of the Commissioner.’

‘Yes, yes!’ Couldn’t he just come out and say it? ‘Out with it, man!’

‘The bullet that killed Assistant Detective Stephan Jänicke came from the same weapon as the bullet found in Josef Wilczek’s body.’

Rath said nothing as Kronberg looked on triumphantly, like a Roman commander on victory parade.

‘That’s foxed you, hasn’t it?’

It had indeed. The revelation had left him flabbergasted.

‘That’s me finished,’ a voice interrupted his thoughts.

‘Sorry?’

‘Finished.’ The sign writer stood in the door and gestured towards the name he had painted. ‘Still not dry though. Be careful.’

‘Thanks. Can you close the door behind you?’

The sign writer nodded and closed the door so carefully it might have been made of sugar.

Rath sat at his desk and stared at the door, his name emblazoned on it. However, it wasn’t the door that was bothering him, but the brown envelope. Was it really possible? He opened it. He needed to see it in black and white, it couldn’t be true!

But deep down a voice was telling him that it had to be.

No matter how much he turned it over in his mind, there was simply no other solution: Bruno Wolter had shot Stephan Jänicke.

Part III

The Whole Truth

21st May – 21st June 1929

26

He rang three times without a response, turned the key in the lock, entered the flat and closed the door gently. The clock at the end of the hall showed half past three. It felt strange to be here in broad daylight. What if Emmi Wolter suddenly appeared? What if she had been taking a nap and hadn’t been able to make it to the door in time? He could tell her he had forgotten something, she might still believe him. But once he started raking through her things? How would he explain that? Perhaps it had been a silly idea to drive out here, but Rath had to know for sure.

Gennat had pinched the report, along with the Wilczek file. The chief of homicide was now certain that Wilczek’s killer had Jänicke on his conscience too. According to his theory, the assistant detective had most likely rumbled the Wilczek killer during his investigations into the city’s criminal underworld.

Under normal circumstances, Rath would have been delighted about having his own desk in A Division, about belonging to the legendary Buddha
’
s team, and about the fact that Gennat would have to assign the Wilczek case to the wet fish.

Under normal circumstances he would have been delighted, but nothing seemed normal anymore.

He had pretended to get on with his work, but his mind was on other things. Realising that he was actually looking for explanations that exonerated Bruno, he wondered if Uncle had perhaps returned the Lignose to Krajewski? Or simply flogged it?

And why would he shoot Jänicke?

Unable to think of anything else, he had got hold of a car and driven to Friedenau and now, here he was, loitering in the Wolters’s flat, not even knowing where to look. If Bruno still had the pistol, then he must be hiding it somewhere. Rath didn’t think Uncle told Emmi all his secrets, and certainly not secrets like this.

It therefore made little sense to look downstairs, where the Wolters had their kitchen, as well as their dining and living rooms. He went upstairs, which was where the guestroom was situated. He didn’t need to look there, nor in the Wolters’s bedroom, even if it did contain an enormous wardrobe where loads of things could be stored. Where then?

Rath tried to imagine he was married to Emmi Wolter and wanted to hide something from her.

Bruno had a study, a realm in which Emmi never set foot. When she wanted to clean, she had to ask permission. Rath had only been inside once, when he had been looking for Bruno a few days before. He’d barely had time to poke his head round the door before his host rose from his desk and ushered him outside. Downstairs in the living room they had enjoyed a beer together, as so often in the last few days.

At first glance, the room seemed like a normal study: a desk, a few roll-front cabinets, framed photos on the wall. No gun cabinet. Rath gazed at the photos. There were uniforms in almost every one: soldiers’ uniforms, police uniforms. In one he thought he recognised Major General Seegers, albeit in captain’s uniform, shaking the hand of a still relatively slim Lance Corporal Bruno Wolter. A second picture showed Wolter wearing his sergeant’s stripes and staring proudly into the camera beside another sergeant whom Rath didn’t recognise, but guessed was Helmut Behnke. Another picture that must have been taken just after the start of the war showed three lance corporals in the trenches, marked by dirt and the strain of slaughter, but smiling nevertheless. Rath recognised Wolter and the man from the previous picture straightaway. The third soldier was Rudi Scheer, the Wolters’s guest over Whitsun, in his younger days. A rectangular patch on the wallpaper showed where another picture must have hung until recently.

He tore his gaze away from the pictures and began to examine the cabinets. Typical roll-front cabinets, just like those at the Castle. He slipped on a pair of gloves and examined the first. Locked, as were the rest. He rummaged through the desk drawers for a key. They weren’t exactly tidy. In the top drawer there was some change, a few ten pfenning coins, the odd Reichsmark, a rubber, a few pens, a letter opener, and paperclips everywhere, clinging to the rest of the junk like ticks. The next drawer down was a muddle of all sorts of papers: bills, taxes, letters, postcards, a few newspapers.
Die Standarte
,
Der Stahlhelm.
The chaos in the lower drawer was even greater, with all kinds of odds and ends packed into a wooden box. Rath removed it and tipped its contents out. Ammunition packs fell onto the parquet flooring and different calibre cartridges rolled out, little
Stahlhelm
badges, a pair of pincers, a little hammer and all sorts of rubbish. The ammunition had given him hope, but there was no pistol to be found.