Babylon Berlin (15 page)

‘She must be sick.’ Rath defended the landlady. He hadn’t seen the journalist for days. During the May disturbances he had been away almost the whole time, but today of all days he just had to be sitting at the breakfast table.

‘Sick? She’s been drinking, I bet you anything. It smells like a brewery in here. Yours truly has to live like a monk, while good old Frau Behnke’s enjoying a boozy evening!’

The smell of sweet, strong liquor was still hanging in the air.

‘It’s only human. You shouldn’t get so worked up about it,’ Rath said. He tipped the coffee grounds into the filter bag. ‘Just imagine if she was infallible. It doesn’t bear thinking about!’

In truth he was happy she hadn’t got out of bed. When he had got back to Nürnberger Strasse at around three that morning, she had been waiting for him. No sooner had he opened the front door than she had been standing in the hallway, propped up on the doorpost and gazing at him reproachfully. This time there was no shawl over her nightdress. In comparison, he felt almost sober. She fell into his arms and when he helped her into bed she tried to engage him in some sort of wrestling match. He freed himself and shortly afterwards she fell asleep. By the time he made it to his own bed, his alarm clock was showing half past four and he could sense how much the little hand was longing to click into place and trigger the alarm. He had let himself sleep until eight. Too little to be fully fit, but enough to get through the day.

The kettle emitted a shrill whistle that grew steadily louder.

‘Of course, you’re sympathetic,’ Weinert grinned as he removed the kettle from the stove. ‘Seems like you might have overdone it a little yourself.’

A pleasant aroma wafted through the kitchen as boiling water reached the coffee grounds in the filter. Rath inhaled appreciatively.

‘An ancient rule ‘tis and still true, who worry has, takes liquor too,’ he pronounced.

‘Old Behnke must have some serious worries in that case,’ Weinert said, pouring the coffee.

Rath took the hot mug carefully in two hands and blew on it.

Weinert sat with him at the table and unfolded the Sunday papers. The disturbances were still dominating the front pages. ‘The social democrats have really left you in the shit, haven’t they?’ he asked casually, without looking up.

‘What?’

‘The action against the May demonstrators, of course. Don’t you think it was all a little heavy-handed? Over twenty dead. Any number wounded. A few whose lives are still in danger.’ He began to read: ‘
We can’t help thinking that the measures taken
by social democrat Zörgiebel, above all the demonstration ban, were
primarily motivated by party politics.
’

‘Did you write that?’

‘For three days it was like civil war in certain workers’ districts, and all because your commissioner wanted to show the communists who calls the shots in Red Berlin. A minor dispute between Red friends and Red enemies of the state and he’s misused the entire police apparatus to settle it. The deaths are just collateral!’

Rath feared that the journalist’s interpretation wasn’t so very wide of the mark. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about politics, but it is the role of the police to restore order on the streets.’

‘Don’t give me that! I’ve been on the ground these last few days, and the police certainly haven’t restored any order. Quite the opposite! The Reds would’ve gone home after an hour if you’d let them march in peace.’

‘There were barricades, people looting, gun battles!’

‘There are always people who exploit lawless situations. Smashing display windows, looting shops and generally letting it all hang out. I didn’t see a single communist sniper. Only policemen opening fire…’

‘…waiting to be attacked at any moment by the Red Front,’ Rath finished the journalist’s sentence. ‘The RFB are armed.’

Now it was Weinert who shrugged. ‘Of course, the communists with all their loudmouth posturing are at least partly responsible for the general hysteria as well. Even now they’re still kicking up a fuss, milking every death for their own propaganda purposes, despite there being barely any communists amongst the deceased. On Wednesday three May victims will be buried in Friedrichsfelde, and Ernst Thälmann himself intends to speak at their graves. They’re making martyrs of innocent victims, behaving as if revolution were imminent.

‘The thing is, these idiots are actually playing right into the hands of good old Zörgiebel. If the communists were trying to stage a revolution, then sending the police in hard was the right thing to do. But the last person to die wasn’t a communist. He was an unsuspecting journalist working for
The Daily
Express
, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Against that, the journalists who were driven out of trouble spots by police batons have actually been rather lucky. Likewise my colleague from
Vossische Zeitung
who escaped after being shot in the leg.’

Rath thought of the two dead women.

‘You can see your commissioner’s guilty conscience here.’ Weinert showed him the story on page four. They had reprinted the photograph of the dead Boris.

‘After all the police violence against journalists and the commissioner’s smoke and mirror tactics during the May disturbances, the way the police have behaved towards the press on this case has been incredibly accommodating. No wonder, this corpse has come at just the right time for them.’ Weinert struck the portrait with the flat of his hand. ‘A death that has nothing to do with the disturbances. And the circumstances are so mysterious and gruesome. Hands and feet mashed to a pulp. That should keep the people of Berlin entertained for a few days. When the heroes from Homicide reveal the perpetrator, the police will be gleaming like a Persil sky. Brilliant and white! Feted by the press, feted by all of Berlin. Nobody will give a second thought to bloody May.’

Rath was lost in his own thoughts, but Weinert’s theory seemed plausible. All that remained to be seen was who would play the hero. ‘Don’t tell me that’s a story you wouldn’t write,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me that if you had exclusive information about a murder inquiry that was on everybody’s lips, you wouldn’t write anything just because your story might be of use to the commissioner?’

Weinert smiled, looking like a shark with a cup of coffee. ‘I’m always happy to receive exclusive information,’ he said.

‘Good to know.’ Rath placed his empty cup on the table and stood up. ‘Oh, and by the way, I lent you a tenner recently…’

‘…which you’ll get back tomorrow. I promise. I just haven’t had enough time to go to the bank in the last few days.’

Weinert looked embarrassed. Rath made use of the opportunity. ‘Maybe there’s something else you can do for me today…’ he said casually.

‘Anytime.’ Weinert sounded relieved.

‘…I could use your car for a few hours.’

‘One-nil!’ he laughed. ‘You can have it until four, and then I need it myself.’ He waved the key. ‘But be punctual. I’m meeting someone and without a car you’ll leave me exposed.’

The journalist’s sand-coloured sports car was parked in front of the door. Second-hand, but elegant. An American model, a Buick two-seater. A car you could use to impress women, but Rath just needed some wheels. If Weinert thought he was taking a girl out to the country, then so much the better.

The
Delphi
Palace
was situated beside the
Theater des Westens
, looking like a jungle temple that had washed up in Charlottenburg with palm trees growing in the front garden. On the façade, where the programme attractions would normally be advertised, a large banner announced that the
Delphi
was temporarily closed. Rath had parked his car in Kantstrasse, directly in front of the gate, and was slowly climbing the steps to the front garden.

He was a little disappointed. He had been expecting to find the current programme displayed somewhere, so that he could see when Lana Nikoros was next performing, but the
Delphi
seemed completely deserted. The plants that flanked the path to the main door made a lamentable impression. A few exotic-looking wicker chairs, carelessly piled on top of one another and worn by the weather, stood in a corner of the garden. There were two flights of steps leading to the entrance. A sharp voice pierced the air.

‘If you’re one of Schneid’s people, then I suggest you vacate the property this instant! Unless you want me to call the police?’

A man was rushing towards him from Fasanenstrasse.

‘I
am
the police,’ Rath said.

The man slowed his pace. He was so elegantly dressed it was as if he was preparing to go dancing. ‘Really?’ he asked as he drew nearer. ‘Department of Building Regulations, Charlottenburg?’

‘No.’ Rath showed him his ID. ‘CID, Berlin.’

‘If Herr Schneid called you, then you can leave right now. He’s not in charge here. We have every right to turn off the water and electricity.’

‘I don’t know any Herr Schneid. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me
your
name.’

‘Sorry.’ He proffered a hand. ‘Felten. I’m Herr Sehring’s secretary.’

‘Who?’

‘You don’t seem to know many people. Herr Sehring is an architect. The owner and builder of the
Delphi Palace.
May I ask what brings you here?’

Rath removed the programme from his pocket. ‘A singer. Lana Nikoros.’

Felten took the programme and cast his eye over the photo.

‘Oh yes, she has performed here. One of Schneid’s artists.’ He returned the programme to Rath. ‘But there’ll be new tenants here soon. Which means there’ll be a new programme too.’

‘I don’t really care about the programme, but I do need to speak to this woman. I’m investigating a crime.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you further.’

‘Then where would I be able to find Herr Schneid?’

The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not in his office at the
Delphi
at any rate. Bankruptcy proceedings have been launched against him.’ He jangled a set of keys. ‘I’ve got the keys here.’

‘Perhaps you could take me to his office?’

Rath felt slightly uneasy as he followed Felten through the huge room, which did actually feel like a palace, opulent and bombastically decorated. A thin layer of dust had settled on the finery, scarcely perceptible but conveying a sense of decay.

Felten appeared to have read his mind. ‘We’ll get some life back in the old place soon,’ he said, and gestured towards the scaffolding on the side wall. ‘Work has already begun.’

They went past an inconspicuous-looking door that was standing slightly ajar. Felten closed it with a casual movement of the hand.

‘Where does that lead?’ Rath asked.

‘The stairs into the cellar. Schneid has his office upstairs,’ Felten said, before correcting himself. ‘Had.’

He led him to the right and up a flight of stairs. They stopped in front of a dark, heavy door. Felten searched for the right key.

‘You can come and go as you please?’ Rath asked, surprised.

‘No problem,’ Felten grinned as the door opened. ‘The liquidator is an old university friend of Herr Sehring.’

Inside the office it was dark.

‘No electricity,’ Felten said apologetically. He reached unerringly into a wall cupboard, took out a candle and lit it. Yellow light flickered over a dark, heavy desk and leather chair. Rath quickly located the artist directory. The details of any number of musicians were noted, along with male and female singers and dance artists. The directory also included addresses, artist names, special skills, and the size of the agreed fee. No Lana Nikoros. In one of the desk drawers Rath found Josef Schneid’s business cards. He pocketed one. Felten made sure that everything was returned to its rightful place before locking up. Then he accompanied Rath outside.

‘You should come by when we reopen,’ he said then quickly added, ‘when you’re off duty, of course.’

Rath was happy to be rid of the man, off duty or not. He climbed back into the car and looked at the business card. Alongside the address in Kantstrasse was Josef Schneid’s private address.

After the long, cold winter, May seemed to have brought more agreeable temperatures. Rath drove through Budapester Strasse with the top down. The first trees in Tiergarten were starting to come into leaf. A car like this was a wonderful thing, even if it wasn’t cheap. He would have to ask Bruno how he could afford his Model A. As far as Rath knew, he was somehow able to claim any work-related trips in his private vehicle as tax exempt. There were certain colleagues who begrudged Bruno the luxury of owning a car. It was rumoured by some that Emmi Wolter had brought money into the marriage. CID officers were not particularly well remunerated. Even the DCIs, to say nothing of a simple detective inspector.

Well, Rath might not have a rich wife, but he did have a neighbour with a car.

Tiergartenstrasse was a good address. To the left the green of the park; to the right houses with extravagant façades. The old West’s heyday was over. Today those who could afford it were building their villas a long way out, in Grunewald, but Rath paid more attention to the house numbers than the mouldings. He parked the Buick under a tree just before Kemperplatz.

There were so many mouldings on the façade of Schneid’s house that it looked as though the plaster cast angels would have to fight it out to retain their place. The owner was at home. A valet led him into a drawing room that was every bit as impressive as the façade; few signs of bankruptcy here. Rath didn’t have to wait long before Josef Schneid appeared leaning on a cane, a commanding figure in a robe, sporting an old-fashioned beard.

‘Lana Nikoros? Of course I know her. I stole her from Fritz. A shame that we had to close temporarily, I fear she may have gone back to him. This feud with Sehring is taking up so much of my time, don’t ask me where my artists are. He kicked them all out, the staff too. These bankruptcy proceedings he’s started, they’re just a way of getting rid of me. I’m standing in the way of his new tenants.’

‘Fritz?’