Babylon Berlin (55 page)

Gräf checked his pistol and pocketed his cuffs, climbed out of the car and went over to the house. He’d just have to arrest the guy on his own. Inspector Rath would be amazed when he returned. While he’s off buying cigarettes, the assistant detective goes and arrests a murder suspect!

He removed the pistol from its holster as he entered the house. In the great, shadowy stairwell he could hear rasping voices a few storeys above. Could it be Fallin? He lived on the fourth floor. What was taking him so long? Had he checked his mailbox first, leafed through his post? Gräf took the safety catch off the pistol and began to climb the stairs as quietly as possible. For a few moments, he could hear only the sound of his own breath allied to the low creak of the steps. Slowly he worked his way up to the second floor.

Then came the jangle of a keyring, and a moment later a woman’s voice echoed through the stairwell.

‘Nikita?’

The voice came from above. Gräf considered whether he should lean over the banister and look to see who had shouted, who had been waiting for the Russian, when suddenly there was a crackling noise like the sound of wood snapping, followed by a short, sharp cry and a low thud. There was a second thud and the cry died away, as if the air had been sucked out of it; then a third, as a heavy body struck the handrail in front of Gräf, fingers clasping a broken chunk of banister as if they might still find a purchase. Gräf heard the sound of bones breaking before the body rebounded and fell further into the depths, arms and legs twisting wildly. One final crash and all was still.

The assistant detective stood flabbergasted, pistol still cocked in his hand. He rushed to the banister and looked down. On the pale stone floor, lay a powerful-looking man in a dark suit, arms and legs strangely contorted. The image almost resembled a swastika. A bright-red trickle of blood was oozing from under the black body, spreading quickly and growing thicker all the time.

The assistant detective put away his pistol and stumbled down the steps.

The man was lying face down in an ever expanding pool of blood, beside him the broken chunk of banister. Gräf leaned over the body and turned the man’s head to one side. A scar ran right across the left cheek.

The creaking of the steps made Gräf look up. A dainty woman was gazing upon the dead man and the blood. Eyes wide open, white as a sheet.

‘Is he dead?’

Gräf’s felt his neck in vain for a pulse. He nodded.

‘My God!’ The woman was already at the door. ‘Stay here. I’ll get the police.’

‘Stop,’ Gräf called after her, ‘I
am
the police!’ She was already gone, but it wouldn’t hurt if she came back with a few cops. That way he could stay with the corpse.

He listened into the silence. Everything was quiet. Had no-one in the house heard anything apart from the young woman?

In the dark of the stairwell, he had been unable to make out her face, but in her appearance and manner, she had almost reminded him a little of Charly. Only, this woman was blonde; and Charly would never have worn a blue hat.

Rath had been away for almost half an hour in total when he finally returned to Yorckstrasse. The green Opel was still parked in the shadow of a tree on the corner of the street. Exactly as he had left it – except for one detail. It was empty.

At first Rath thought that Gräf had simply leaned forward to pick up his notepad or something, but as he drew closer he realised his initial impression had been correct.

Gräf was no longer in the car!

Where the hell had the assistant detective got to? Had he actually no longer been able to stand the build-up of pressure in his bladder and disappeared into the nearest pub to use the toilet? Was he making a relieved face even now?

He hadn’t even locked the Opel. Rath shook his head and sat back in the driver’s seat. In vain he looked for a piece of paper, any sort of message. He opened a packet of Overstolz and lit a cigarette. Well, the lad would soon be back. Hopefully he had prepared a decent excuse. And hopefully Fallin hadn’t slipped through their fingers.

Fallin! Of course! There was another possibility: Nikita Fallin had returned!

Hopefully nothing had happened to the boy. If his past was anything to go by, the burly Russian was capable of anything.

Rath checked his Mauser, pulled his hat a little lower over his forehead and got out of the car. Slowly he moved over to the house, smoking, head bowed. If Fallin was looking out of the window, he didn’t want him to recognise a familiar face from
Kakadu.
He trod his cigarette out before opening the front door.

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

On the half landing Assistant Detective Reinhold Gräf was crouched over the corpse of a man whose scar face identified him beyond any doubt as Nikita Fallin.

31

It was just after four when he dropped Gräf off at the station. At least the observation had been cut short; Gennat hadn’t detailed the relief until six o’clock. Rath had alerted the Castle from the first telephone he could find, and only then called the 103rd precinct in Möckernstrasse. He didn’t want to be accused of not giving his division chief enough information this time. Let Buddha come out in the murder wagon to see for himself!

He came too. Gennat hadn’t driven out to a crime scene for a long time. It was clear to all officers present that something must be up if Buddha himself was stepping out of the murder wagon.

This time it was one hundred percent certain they were dealing with a murder. Gräf had told them he had witnessed the fall, and the chunk of banister lying next to the corpse clearly displayed saw marks. The suspicion that someone had transformed the banister into a deadly trap was confirmed when Forensics examined the fourth floor. A big chunk was missing from directly opposite the door to Fallin’s flat, where his suitcase was still standing. The banister had been carefully sawn into. In his reconstruction of events, which Rath supported, Gräf had claimed it was probably the woman’s cry that had enticed the Russian over to the banister in the first place. He had leaned over to see who was calling him, before plummeting to his death.

The identity of the woman and the possibility that she had intentionally lured Scar Face into the trap was just a hunch at first. However, it was corroborated by the knowledge that the woman, whom Gräf had seen, hadn’t called the police as promised. Quite the opposite, she had fled from them.

Gräf, who was inconsolable at his
faux pas
, had been unable to make out her face in the dark stairwell. The only thing he had noticed was her blue hat. Rath could imagine whom the assistant detective had encountered, but preferred to keep it to himself. Not only because he wasn’t sure if he really had seen the Countess on Grossbeerenstrasse just before, he also believed that a dirty pig like Nikita Fallin deserved his violent end.

Like Vitali Selenskij before him. Two Black Hundredists who for more than three years had been eating out of the hand of an unscrupulous
Stahlhelmer
. Who had tortured Kardakov and the hapless Boris so brutally. Bruno Wolter’s sadistic helpers.

Now both were dead and the thought that their avenging angel, Countess Sorokina, might also pick up the trail of Uncle secretly filled Rath with satisfaction.

It was more likely, however, that she had no idea the two Black Hundredists were in cahoots with a Prussian police officer. Only he knew that, Gereon Rath.

After he dropped Gräf off at Alex, Rath drove on to Potsdamer station. The motor pool could wait on the vehicle, Rath still had things to do. The officers at the Castle would just have to make do without him today.

First of all he went to the station and opened his locker. What a hotchpotch of items he had accumulated: a notebook, a pistol, a photo of wartime companions, a telephone ripped from the wall. And a packet of cocaine. All his dirty secrets were here.

He took the cocaine and stowed it in his pocket. Now he needed it. The sleeplessness of the last few nights was beginning to take its toll. Sometimes he couldn’t tell if he was awake or dreaming. Was there really someone standing behind him? Or was it just his shadow? He had to be careful he wasn’t seeing ghosts.

Before he returned to the car, he locked himself in one of the cubicles in the station toilet. He didn’t have much experience when it came to taking cocaine. He tried to remember that night in
Venuskeller
, the generous Oppenberg and the nymphomaniac Vivian. Rath knew he needed a surface that was halfway flat as well as something to snort with, so he used his ID and a twenty mark note. Werner von Siemens gazed at him sternly, almost reproachfully, as Rath rolled him into a little tube. The white powder in the packet was lumpier than the stuff in
Venuskeller.
He cut it with the help of his Mauser until he thought it was fine enough for his nose, then laid a line out ready. He didn’t want to take too much, not knowing how strong the dose was. He stuck the paper tube in his nose and snorted the white powder up like a vacuum cleaner.

That numbness again, and then the desired effect. A wreck only moments before from extreme lack of sleep, he suddenly felt immense energy coursing through his veins. Quickly, he stowed the equipment away, splashed a little cold water on his face and proceeded through the station concourse back to the car. He could have uprooted a tree, but he felt more like cutting Bruno Wolter down to size.

Still, one thing at a time. He drove out to Steglitz.

Ahornstrasse was in a nice, middle-class district. Rath parked the Opel and rang the doorbell. It didn’t take long for someone to answer.

There was no need to ask if he was in the right place. The man in front of him was wearing a brown uniform, a black belt and the armband that was increasingly common in Berlin these days: blood-red with a black swastika framed by a white circle. Otherwise, he didn’t look especially military. More small and slight, like a bookkeeper. Rath had caught him knotting his tie.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Heinrich Röllecke?’

‘What can I do for you?’

Rath had a flash of inspiration. ‘I’m a friend of Bruno Wolter,’ he said.

‘Bruno? Why isn’t he here himself?’

‘Lots to do at the moment. Besides, he needs to be careful. He’s still under surveillance.’

‘The political police should be more concerned with the Red Front than making trouble for their own… Blast!’ Röllecke began knotting his tie once more. ‘Well, get to the point, man! I have to get to a meeting. The
Gauleiter
is speaking. Dr Goebbels doesn’t beat around the bush, so the SA need to be there on time. Before the Reds even think about kicking up a stink. I hope you understand. I’d ask you in otherwise.’

‘That’s OK. I think we can keep it brief. It’s about what happens next on Luisenufer.’

‘An infuriating business! I said from the start we should have used a German. But Bruno absolutely insisted on this Russian. Now he’s dead.’

‘At least it was a Russian that died, not a German!’

Röllecke laughed. ‘You’re right there. I like you, young man. Our country needs men like you!’

‘Selenskij’s death is being investigated as murder.’

‘Well, probably couldn’t have been avoided. A stupid mistake. Now the police are snooping around. It’ll calm down again, we just need to be a little patient.’

‘Don’t you think that Hermann Schäffner could be a problem…’

‘
Scharführer
Schäffner is a reliable man. The fact that the police turned the flat upside down wasn’t his fault. Besides, they won’t find anything: he’s seen to that.’

‘If you say so.’

‘You can count on the SA, my friend! We’re no less reliable than you
Stahlhelmer.
It isn’t words that count but actions, and it’s time the
Stahlhelm
got that into their heads. Bruno’s been talking about a new consignment for weeks, yet nothing’s happened. My people are growing impatient. I’ve given them a few rusty rifles we finagled out of the Red Front. Absolute rubbish, all of it. At some point we’re going to need some decent weapons.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m glad you see it that way too. Please inform Lieutenant Wolter that if the loyalty of nationally minded fighters isn’t to be sorely tested, it’s time to put his money where his mouth is!’

‘I’ll do that Herr
Sturmhauptführer
.’

‘Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready. My driver will be here in a moment.’

Rath was unable to say goodbye, as Röllecke had already slammed the door.

The vain, self-righteous squirt! Rath was shuddering as he returned to the car. Röllecke had bought his story without a second thought.

It was exactly as he had suspected. Bruno Wolter and his friends in the SA had secured Selenskij the flat on Luisenufer in order to monitor the Countess. The DCI with the affable face was an arms dealer. An arms dealer who would stop at nothing.

He had to take him to task. He wanted to hear it from him. The truth, or the lie. Bruno would have to look him in the face.

He couldn’t say what he was hoping to achieve; he only knew that he had no choice. He had to show Wolter there was someone who had seen right through him and his shady deals.

Rath felt his heart beat faster as he turned into Friedenau from Rheinstrasse.

The man was at home. E Division had finished early for the evening. Rath parked directly behind the black Ford. He rang but no-one answered. As he listened to the echo of the doorbell, he became aware of a rattling, clunking noise and gazed round the corner into the garden where they had sat during Whitsun. The garden furniture was still outside, and Uncle was trudging up and down the lawn wearing loose work slacks, a sleeveless vest and a broad-brimmed old hat as he pushed the mower back and forth. A regular citizen going about his evening tasks, it was scarcely credible that this man was a cold-blooded killer. Rath went behind the house.

Bruno only saw him when he reached the lawn. He left the reel mower where it was and took a few steps towards Rath, wiping his sweaty hands on his vest.