Babylon Berlin (51 page)

On his way out west, Rath took a little detour past Yorckstrasse. In vain: Nikita Fallin wasn’t at home.

Likewise the operation in
Delphi
seemed doomed from the start. The cops in Kantstrasse weren’t exactly champing at the bit to help an officer from Alex. Before setting off, Rath tried to notify the landlord, but only got his secretary on the line, Felten. Rath recalled their first encounter. A slippery customer.

‘A criminal! In our building? What makes you think that?’

‘I didn’t say anything about a criminal,’ Rath corrected the man. ‘It’s about an important witness.’

‘I see. That’s why you want to proceed on the quiet
.
’

‘How I choose to proceed is up to me. Can you provide us with a key or would you prefer us to kick the door down?’

‘I will, of course, support the police in this matter, Inspector.’

He was already waiting on Fasanenstrasse when the police arrived. Rath posted an officer at every entrance to the building before going in with Felten and two other cops. The secretary led them though an unprepossessing door towards an iron staircase.

‘It goes downstairs.’

‘Are you sure she’s hiding downstairs?’

‘I wouldn’t know where else. It’s just props and other junk in the cellar. No-one’s been down there for weeks. There’s work going on upstairs. We’re renovating at the minute.’

In the end props and junk were all they found. No Countess for miles around; nothing to indicate that anyone had been hiding. Just one big expanse of rubble. Next to all manner of bits and pieces made out of plaster, wood and cardboard, almost all of it broken, were the remains of a sofa, feathers coming out of its cushions, a curved bedstead and a torn mattress.

Felten gazed at the scene wide-eyed.

‘Would you look at this mess!’

‘Doesn’t look much like a hiding place.’

‘But someone must’ve been here,’ Felten said. ‘Everything’s broken. All these things were in good nick when we put them down here.’ He gazed about him, still stunned. ‘I think you should leave an officer here,’ he suggested, ‘in case she returns.’

‘And
I
think you’d be better off calling the Refuse Department and asking them to clear all this rubbish away,’ Rath said. ‘There hasn’t been any Countess living here, maybe vandals at most. If this is an attempt to get your establishment onto the front page, then you can consider it failed.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It was
you
who called us, my dear Felten,’ Rath shouted at the secretary. ‘Just as surely as you say amen in church. Well, you can thank God that I can’t prove it! The Prussian police don’t stand for people giving them the run around.’

He was still in a bad mood when he parked his car in Nürnberger Strasse shortly afterwards.

Weinert opened the door.

‘Well, what a surprise,’ the journalist said, grinning. ‘The man who palmed me off with a murdering corpse.’

‘Come on, you thought it was a plausible theory too.’

‘Very plausible, even. Still, doesn’t seem to have been right.’

‘Well, now we know. Can I come in all the same?’

‘Of course.’ Weinert stepped to one side. Everything looked the same; they sat at the empty dining room table. ‘Still a little early for supper. Would you like tea?’

‘I’d prefer coffee.’

Weinert went to the kitchen unit, put the water onto boil and started fiddling with the coffee grinder.

‘What brings you here?’ he asked. ‘New revelations? If so, I hope they’re right this time.’

‘Come on. You didn’t do too badly out of it. All the papers published it – it’s just that
Abendblatt
was a day early.’

‘You’re right. A canard that everyone prints is hardly a canard anymore.’

Rath looked around. There was no sign of Elisabeth Behnke.

‘Has my room been let already?’ he asked.

‘No, it’s barricaded up like the
Reichsbank
. You’d think old Behnke was looking after the British crown jewels.’

The kettle began to whistle. Rath watched Weinert as he tipped the boiling water carefully into the coffee filter.

‘So where is our dear old landlady?’

‘Should be here any minute. Just running a few errands. Perhaps you could have supper together – if she’s forgiven you, that is, you old dog. Receiving female visitors, just imagine! Tsk, tsk!’

‘I bet you’re still at it every night.’

‘Every night? I couldn’t possibly at my age. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to let some old landlady spoil my fun.’

‘Just make sure you don’t get caught! The consequences can be dire.’

‘Sometimes I think she’s known for a long time, but doesn’t dare throw me out. Perhaps she’s afraid of appearing on the front page of
Abendblatt.
’

‘She wasn’t afraid of being arrested by CID, I can tell you that.’

The men laughed. Weinert poured the coffee. Rath felt the hot liquid flowing through his body, dispelling the fatigue that was constantly threatening to take hold of him.

‘What do you want from her?’

‘It’s private, which in this case means work-related. Nothing to concern the free press.’

‘Normally that’s something for the free press to decide itself.’ Weinert finished his coffee. ‘Still, you’re in luck. I’m in a hurry, so there won’t be any eavesdropping.’ He stood up. ‘Nice to see you again. Let me know if you have anything interesting in future.’

‘You’re not going to leave me alone, are you? I’m a stranger these days!’

‘You’re a policeman…’ Weinert hesitated. ‘But you’re right, it’s irresponsible. I’m going to lock my room.’

‘I promise I’ll be good and wait here. If she takes too long, I’ll leave a note.’

Weinert left the room. Rath heard the journalist slam his bedroom door, probably after retrieving his hat and coat, and then the heavy front door clicked to.

Rath poured himself more coffee and stared into his cup. The clock on the wall was ticking loudly. He shifted back and forth impatiently in his chair. He had more important things to do than to wait for his former landlady. In truth, it would probably be enough to take the telephone with him; then he could leave right away.

Rath went to his old room and shook the door. Weinert had been right: it was locked.

Where did Elisabeth Behnke keep her keys?

Probably in her private chambers, and he had already seen that the door was ajar.

He felt even more uneasy in her flat than he had done in the kitchen. If she caught him here he really would have some explaining to do. As he searched the drawing room, he listened intently for any noise, above all the turning of keys in heavy doors. After a quick tour through her bedroom, he finally found what he was looking for.

Rath had only been in her living quarters once before, about six weeks ago when he had signed the rental agreement. On that occasion, she had led him straight into this strange drawing room, on the one hand a fairly normal, plush living room of the sort that had been modern during the Kaiser’s reign. On the other it was a kind of military shrine, in the centre of which stood a large oil painting depicting Helmut Behnke in the uniform of a Prussian sergeant, underneath it a sabre with black and white tassels, which had been presented to his widow upon his death, and any number of photos showing Helmut Behnke during the war. In front of this memorial wall stood the bureau where she had fetched the keys to Rath’s room.

Rath stared at this morbid display, which took up an entire wall. Instead of looking in the drawers for Elisabeth Behnke’s keys, he decided to examine the photos, his gaze coming to rest on a picture that was familiar to him. He had already seen it once, in an office in Friedenau. It showed the newly appointed sergeants Helmut Behnke and Bruno Wolter. Bruno Wolter, Helmut Behnke’s old comrade, looking slim and gazing proudly into the camera. The picture must have been hanging here during Rath’s first visit too, only on that occasion he hadn’t noticed, as he had been studiously ignoring this altar to a fallen soldier. Indeed he had barely even looked across, since he didn’t want to show his new landlady just how much the display had unsettled him.

Wolter could be seen elsewhere on other photos, always with Helmut Behnke. The pair really did seem to have been inseparable. Until, that is, a French grenade had ripped off both of young Sergeant Behnke’s legs at Soissons, and he had succumbed to his injuries a few days later.
Höllenschlacht an der Aisne
a military film would later dub it:
Slaughter on the Aisne.

Rath tried to tear himself away from the pictures, but they drew him into the past, into the war, reminded him how different things might have been if he had only been born a few years earlier. Like Anno…

Then he saw a face that prompted a flash of recognition in his brain. A face he hadn’t been expecting to see in this gallery, which suddenly jerked him wide awake.

Was it possible?

Five men by an artillery gun, looking tired but gazing proudly and confidently ahead. A captain and four lance corporals, a picture like a thousand others.

On the shaft in front sat the captain, left hand leaning imperiously on a cane. Alfred Seegers. To the left next to the cartwheel was Lance Corporal Rudolf Scheer, while directly behind the captain stood Lance Corporals Behnke and Wolter.

To the right of Wolter stood a man whose moustache reminded him of a police mug shot. The man was a few years younger, and the ends of his moustache were twirled upwards in the manner of Kaiser Wilhelm, but it was him, no doubt about it: Josef Wilczek!

Saint Josef!

The man from
Berolina
had been one of Bruno Wolter’s former comrades!

30

Friday night, and there were still tables to be had in
Venuskeller
without bribing a waiter. It was just before ten and the revellers wouldn’t be arriving until later, the band was playing its heart out and the first guests were trying to match the noise with their chatter. In place of last time’s American Indian routine, Rath was treated to a performance by harem girls, two rather plump women in pastel-coloured, semi-transparent veils undressing one another. Not very erotic, but they were probably saving the edgier routines for later.

Rath never thought he’d be back here of his own accord. Yet here he was, fighting back his fatigue. The noise merged in his ears to form a single, soothing slur. He didn’t even bother to order when the waiter came to his table.

‘I need to see Dr M.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what doctor you’re referring to, sir. Can I get you something to drink?’

He seized the man by the collar. A few guests looked round.

‘Listen to me, my friend. If you’re getting cold feet because someone’s asked for the doctor, fetch Sebald to take the decision out of your hands. But do something. Believe me, Dr M. wants to see me; he
doesn’t
want me to have a drink here.’

‘Very well, sir.’ The waiter seemed unperturbed as he disappeared with his tray. Rath gazed after him and lit a cigarette. The man didn’t go to the counter, but instead opened a discreet little door beside the sparsely populated dance floor. Well, what do you know! How was it that every time he learned something new about this case, he understood less than before? Every insight gave way to disenchantment. The knowledge that Josef Wilczek was in cahoots with Bruno Wolter had once again thrown up more questions than it had answered.

His discovery just now in Nürnberger Strasse had sent the adrenaline pumping through his body. He had felt like a chemist who had chanced upon a new element, albeit one he was unable to classify. He must have stood in front of that picture as if in a trance, his gaze rigid while the thoughts raced through his mind.

Outside on Nürnberger Strasse a car horn had sounded almost right outside the window, and it was this noise that had taken him back to the present, and reminded him what he was actually there for. He had opened the drawer and removed her keyring, tried the keys one by one until he opened the door to his old room. It looked exactly the same as before, only the bed wasn’t made. With a tug, he pulled the telephone cable out of the wall.

Once he had put the keys back, he simply lifted the picture off the wall.

Before dropping the Opel off at the Castle, he had driven to Potsdamer station. He couldn’t think of anything better than to stow the picture and the telephone in his locker alongside the pistol and notebook. Its contents increasingly resembled a curiosity cabinet, and he wondered whether anything inside would be admissible as evidence.

He had taken the car back, but avoided Gennat’s office. Erika Voss had already finished work for the evening when Rath spread the contents of the Wilczek file across his desk. He almost had the impression he was avoiding his secretary, and perhaps he was. He leafed through the file that he himself had put together. Above all, he was interested in the older cases that had been transferred to the file in note form: Wilczek’s prior convictions. Rath noted the dates and got hold of the old case files. Had Bruno Wolter ever had any official dealings with Saint Josef? All his efforts were in vain. There was nothing. No arrests, nothing at all. Not even a premature release from custody, an instance of special treatment as with Selenskij or Fallin. Yet Rath was certain that Wilczek had worked as a police informant for his former comrade-in-arms Bruno Wolter, even if such details were kept off the record.

Fallin’s flat in Yorckstrasse was near the
Excelsior
and Rath had taken a little stroll there before freshening up for the evening in his hotel room. When no-one came to the door, he had picked the lock and taken a look inside. He didn’t have much time to scrutinise the flat, but at least the Russian wasn’t lying dead in his bath. Rath had left again before he ran the risk of being caught. He told himself not to immediately expect the worst. Perhaps Fallin had gone into hiding because he had got wind of his friend’s death.

‘Benno’s already informed me that you’re unarmed, Inspector. I hope you haven’t been snorting any cocaine this time.’