Babylon Berlin (54 page)

Now Selenskij was dead and Fallin had disappeared.

‘Sorry, Inspector!’ The records office worker returned. Not as young as the woman in passports but just as friendly. ‘The file isn’t there.’

‘Does Böhm still have it?’

The woman looked through the index files she had brought back with her. ‘No, it was requested again yesterday evening. My colleague must’ve given it out.’

The file was with Gennat.

He would have to speak to Buddha, even if he felt more like hiding away in his office and raking through files. It couldn’t hurt to feign a little interest in the work of others; at least then he wouldn’t appear like such a lone wolf.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ Buddha greeted him. ‘Been at Yorckstrasse I understand?’

So Plisch and Plum had snitched on him.

Rath nodded. ‘Wanted to check on Fallin, but the flat is already under surveillance.’

‘You should have told me yesterday that we’d already interrogated Selenskij’s friend as part of the Kardakov case,’ Gennat said. ‘I only found out belatedly from DCI Böhm.’

‘Sorry, Superintendent, I didn’t think of it right away either,’ Rath lied. ‘It was DCI Böhm who questioned them, not me.’

‘Stop taking cheap shots at Böhm. He’s going about his duties at least as conscientiously as you! It was your mistake that cost us valuable time in the search for Fallin!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good, then I hope you take it to heart. Now get on with your work. Briefing in one hour in my office.’

Rath cleared his throat.

‘What now?’

‘Could I ask you for the Selenskij/Fallin file, Superintendent?’

12. February 1926.

Rath read the file in his office completely undisturbed. The two Russians had got into a fight with communists on the day in question and really filled their boots. One of the Reds had been in a wheelchair ever since, the other had needed his arm amputated. Selenskij and Fallin had admitted their involvement in the fight but denied responsibility for the injuries sustained by the victims, thereby escaping with a mild sentence. No wonder Böhm had shelved the file. Ex-Tsarist secret police who beat up Reds were the last people you’d suspect of belonging to a communist splinter group.

Whether you’d suspect them of abducting, torturing and killing their fellow countrymen in the name of the Black Hundred was an entirely different matter, however.

Rath leafed through all the police reports on the case, all of which seemed to support the judge’s sentence. It wasn’t until he saw the signature beneath the interrogation records that he began to wonder. They were written in a hand he recognised.

Shortly afterwards Rath was sitting in the briefing like a cat on hot bricks. As expected, there were no new findings. Although Selenskij was a strong suspect following the witness statement made by the schoolboy, he was also sadly dead. The search for Fallin hadn’t yielded anything, nor had the combing of the pine forests, which was still taking place at great expense. That left their inquiries into the activities of
Berolina.
Red Hugo’s people, otherwise good for a tip-off, tended to keep mum as soon as they became the subject of an investigation. Rath was finding it hard to listen properly and present his findings on his fruitless search of the
Delphi.
At least Gennat praised him for getting hold of the decisive witnesses. But none of that mattered to Rath now; even Charly’s presence left him cold. The thing he most wanted was to storm into Bruno Wolter’s office, grab him by the throat and shake him until the bastard finally came out with the truth.

Instead he intercepted Gennat straight after the briefing.

‘If you’re here to complain about your assignment today, you can forget it,’ Buddha said. ‘Nothing like a bit of discipline.’

‘No, sir, it’s something else. DCI Wolter. Did he ever work for A Division?’

‘I see you’ve been reading the file.’ Gennat nodded and seemed to think. ‘Must’ve been one of his final cases for us. Before the accident.’

The accident!
Rath’s ears pricked up. Scheer had also spoken of an accident.

‘They were colleagues. Has he never told you about it? Come to think of it, I’m not surprised. A nasty thing, it was.’ Gennat took him to one side. ‘Bruno Wolter is one of the best shots on the force. He used to train people on the firing range.’

‘I know. Was he still working for A Division at the time?’

‘Of course. He’s always been a CID officer, just one with a specific set of skills. Whenever things threatened to get a little dicey and we needed someone who could shoot, Wolter was brought in. He was a marksman during the war, belonged to a special unit by the end of it.’

‘Shouldn’t a police officer avoid using his service weapon whenever possible? There are procedures for that sort of thing, aren’t there?’

‘I don’t need procedures, young Rath. There’s nothing I hate more than bullets spraying everywhere. Which is precisely why it’s important to have someone who knows what they’re doing.’

‘That someone was Bruno Wolter?’

‘Yes. He was calm, didn’t matter if chaos was raging all around him. Sometimes a single shot was enough for it all to be over.’

‘And for the perpetrator to be dead…’

‘Wolter never killed a single person in the line of duty. He neutralised the bastards who insisted on waving weapons around. Very precisely. It was more like a surgical incision than a simple shot. Once you’ve got a hole in your hand, you can’t shoot anymore, it’s as simple as that. After that my men could pick up the gun-toting wailers.’

‘What about the accident?’

‘That’s the tragic thing. It didn’t even happen during an operation. Everyone would’ve been sympathetic if something had gone wrong there. But no, it was on the range. A young officer caught a bullet, Thies his name was, if memory serves. The best shot in his year. It was clear he ought to be working with Wolter together on the range.’

‘And then?’

‘The circumstances were never entirely clear. It was probably Thies’s fault. He was already helping out on the range, taking care of some of the smaller maintenance jobs. One day a troop of young officers were practising with their rifles, and suddenly there was a body twitching behind the target, streaming with blood.’

‘Thies.’

‘Somehow he must’ve got into the line of fire. By the time the doctor arrived he was already dead. Killed by his own colleagues. They removed five bullets from his body.’ Gennat paused, as if the memory still made him shudder. ‘As I said, it was probably the boy’s fault. But Wolter took responsibility and arranged for his own transfer to Vice. That’s where he was least likely to have to shoot. No-one’s seen him on the range since.’

Accident my arse
, Rath thought. He couldn’t help thinking of Jänicke’s death. Had 1A already tried to place Wolter under scrutiny? The parallels were clear: a young man straight from police academy who is supposed to be working with Wolter dies a violent death.

‘He never said anything to me.’

‘No-one likes to talk about it at the Castle. A tragic case. Besides, the police lost their best marksman.’

‘He wasn’t the best officer in those days though.’

‘You mean the interrogation records?’ Gennat asked. ‘Have you noticed how sloppily he conducted them? Still, we can hardly hold that against him now.’

Rath nodded, lost in thought. He couldn’t help thinking back to his own investigation into the Wilczek case. Behind Wolter’s alleged sloppiness, there appeared to be a system at work. It was as if he had let the two Russians get off deliberately.

The storm yesterday evening hadn’t dispelled the humidity, and the muggy air was making his fatigue even more unbearable. Rath was sweating, even though he had wound down the window. Gennat had sent him to Yorckstrasse to take over surveillance duties from Plisch and Plum. The pair smirked when they saw who was relieving them. Next to Rath sat Reinhold Gräf, one of Böhm’s people.

‘What have you done to end up here?’ Rath asked the assistant detective. ‘Did you steal a slice of Gennat’s cake?’

‘I’m an assistant detective. This kind of dirty work’s an everyday occurrence,’ Gräf said. ‘Since when were inspectors deployed for surveillance?’

‘Only when they’ve been misbehaving,’ Rath said and lit a cigarette. His last. ‘I’d offer you one but…’ he showed Gräf the empty carton.

‘That’s OK. I only smoke when I drink.’

‘I see. Well, I’m afraid I can’t conjure up a hipflask as well.’

Gräf laughed. ‘So you’ve been misbehaving?’

‘Ask Gennat.’

‘I’m surprised. If you’ll pardon my saying so, Böhm thinks you’re the sort of person who crawls up the boss’s arse.’

Rath was astonished. Hats off to the young man, speaking to an inspector like that. ‘Böhm’s clearly at great pains to keep that rumour in circulation.’

‘He doesn’t have a very high opinion of you anyway.’

‘You’re very open about these things. Aren’t you worried about damaging your career?’

‘I’ve always been open and honest with my colleagues, doesn’t matter if I’m speaking to a superintendent or a stenographer.’

‘That does you credit.’ Rath flicked away a little ash from his cigarette. ‘Who else is gossiping about me? Fräulein Ritter, no doubt?’

‘Charly? Why would she?’ Gräf seemed genuinely surprised. ‘She doesn’t even know you.’

They sat together in silence for a time. Finally, Rath flicked his cigarette stub through the open window onto the road. He opened the door.

‘I’m just going to stretch my legs, and buy some more cigarettes. You hold the fort in the meantime.’

‘Understood, Inspector.’ Gräf tipped his hat. ‘You go on. That’s why there are two of us here.’

Rath proceeded down the street a little. The exercise was better for his fatigue than the numerous cigarettes he had smoked. He glanced at the time. Eleven past eleven.
Kölle Alaaf!
Up Cologne! He had only been in the car for an hour and already it felt like an eternity. He had better things to do than sit warming his arse in a Prussian police vehicle. Finally taking Bruno Wolter to task, for one. They wouldn’t be relieved until six o’clock; it was going to be a long day.

He turned right into Grossbeerenstrasse at the first crossroads. With the green Opel out of sight he felt instantly freer. Somehow he had the feeling that Gennat had sent Gräf to keep an eye on him.

He found what he was looking for just round the corner: a branch of
Loeser und Wolff
, typically enough located right next to a pharmacy. Inside the tobacconist’s was dimly lit and sedately appointed. Rath had to wait to be served, and spent the time looking at some nice table lighters. It was his father’s birthday soon; it couldn’t hurt to start thinking about his present. The shop assistant seemed almost a little disappointed when in the end Rath purchased only cigarettes – even if it was a few cartons of Overstolz as well as a pack of matches.

He was just taking his change when he thought he saw a familiar face on the pavement outside, amongst the hordes of pedestrians streaming past the display window.

The short blonde hair confused him; he remembered the face under the midnight-blue hat differently, framed by dark hair. The face of Lana Nikoros, or Countess Svetlana Sorokina. He stuffed the coins into his pocket and rushed outside, unconcerned by the surprise on the face of the assistant.

She had gone towards Victoria Park. At the end of the street rose the green of the Kreuzberg, before it the heads of passers-by bobbing up and down like heaving ocean waves. He tried to discern her blue hat in the throng. There were a lot of hats. Although he could no longer see the midnight blue, he continued in the same direction. At Kreuzbergstrasse he could just make out a blue hat disappearing into the park. The path wound up the mountain and past a waterfall, until finally he saw her sitting on a bench. Her back was turned to him. Quietly, he drew closer.

‘Countess Sorokina, I presume?’

She turned round. A woman who was as gaunt as she was ugly stared back at him. A woman he had never seen before.

She gazed at him as if he had lost his mind. ‘And who might you be?’ she asked. ‘Lord Muck or the Emperor of China?’

Rath mumbled an apology, tipped his hat briefly and went back down the path.

Had he pursued a phantom? Was his fatigue making him see things?

He had to get back to the car, he had left Gräf alone far too long already. Hopefully the assistant detective didn’t have a weak bladder.

Reinhold Gräf opened the window on the passenger’s side to let some air into the vehicle. When the inspector returned, he would ask him to smoke less. He would rather have done this stretch with Charly than the newbie, even if Rath wasn’t nearly as bad as Böhm made out. True, he was a little hard to read, but otherwise he seemed OK. Just a little overworked. Smoked a lot too.

Gräf savoured the fresh air and stuck his head out of the window. No-one was paying him any attention anyway. Out on the street there was still no hint of the approaching weekend in the faces of the pedestrians as they scampered past, only the everyday stresses of the working week. Meanwhile, car drivers tooted their horns if progress in front of them was too slow. In truth, it wasn’t a day to be sitting in a car observing a house. Still, that was the reality of police work: for the most part it was boring. Charly would have made the boredom easier to endure.

Suddenly, there was something happening in front of the house. A taxi stopped outside the entrance. A powerful-looking man with a scar running across his cheek emerged, suitcase in one hand, and as he handed the driver his fare, he turned to face Gräf.

All of a sudden his boredom had evaporated. Gräf reached nervously for the photo. No doubt about it: the same scar, the same man! Nikita Fallin had arrived home.

What was he supposed to do now? Go after him straightaway? Better to wait, hold his nerve, the inspector would be back any minute. He’d only gone to get cigarettes.

A glance at the time. Quarter past eleven. After what felt like half an hour, he took a second glance. Sixteen minutes past. He couldn’t wait any longer. He’d never forgive himself if the Russian slipped through his fingers just because he was waiting for the inspector.