Babylon Berlin (6 page)

‘Looking for someone?’ The man was small and slight, his hat too big for his gaunt face, likewise his enormous moustache. There was a little steel helmet on his lapel.

‘You could say that.’ Rath dug out the piece of paper and read aloud. ‘Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov.’

‘Never heard of him. Is he supposed to live here?’

‘He left this address.’

‘That doesn’t mean a thing with these Russians.’

‘But
you
live in this house?’

‘I don’t need to tell you anything.’

‘Perhaps you do.’ Rath waved his badge, although he was not on duty.

The man raised a conciliatory hand. ‘What would you like to know?’

‘Have you noticed anything suspicious in the last few weeks? Has anyone new moved in?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Perhaps under a different name.’

‘I’d like to help you, mate, but no. What’s this guy supposed to have done?’

‘Just routine questioning,’ Rath said. He was regretting having shown his badge, strictly speaking it was illegal. He needed to get rid of this pesky witness before he became any more curious. It was obvious he couldn’t assist any further. ‘Thank you for your help.’

‘Always at your service.’

Rath had already turned round when the stranger shouted after him. ‘Hang on, officer! Are you here because of the row by any chance?’

‘The row?’

‘There was someone here in the middle of the night banging on the door so loudly that no-one could sleep. Crazy, he was. Afterwards, there were two of them fighting. The noise, well I’ll tell you it was quite something. I thought they were going to kill each other.’

‘And?’

‘They were Russian. Hundred percent. Maybe it was the man you’re looking for, but he doesn’t live here. Definitely not. Only decent people live here.’

Rath tipped his hat.

‘Many thanks.’

Strange, he thought, as he made his way via Skalitzer Strasse back in the direction of Kottbusser Tor. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who’d had his sleep disturbed by a Russian.

4

The new month had got off to a good start. Rath was sitting at his desk, cup of coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. In front of him were the photos. The print of Wilhelm II was the only one still with a question mark; a little secret he shared with Wolter. They had managed to identify all those who had been snapped, even the ones who had given them the slip during the raid. Yesterday, after he had softened up Old Fritz in the interview room, Rath had presented Uncle with a list of names.

For the first time since his arrival in Berlin, Rath felt halfway decent about himself and at one with the world. His gaze wandered out through the window, past the railway platform to the dark wall of the courthouse.

The day off had done him good, even if he had squandered it in fruitless inquiries. At least he had been able to avoid Elisabeth Behnke. She had cooked for him that evening, and he had told her about his futile search over a bottle of wine. This time he hadn’t drunk too much, but had simply planted on her cheek a goodnight kiss that left everything open while promising nothing. The next morning, yesterday morning, he had arrived at work feeling fresh and well rested for the first time in weeks.

Wolter had pressed for results because time was short. ‘We need to get a move on with our questioning. 1A will need plenty of space in the cells tomorrow. On the first of May our friends will be transferred to Moabit. We need to have something we can use by then.’

Well, now they did.

Section 1A, the political arm of the police, was in charge of the May actions, and obviously reckoned on making a lot of arrests. The communist press had been agitating for days. Commissioner Zörgiebel, meanwhile, had responded with an appeal that almost all the city’s papers had carried:
If the
communists have their way the streets of Berlin will be
paved with blood
.
I am determined to assert the powers
vested in me by the state and use all available
means at my disposal.
It was clear what he meant.

In police barracks there was talk of civil war. Everyone knew the RFB – the alliance of Red Front fighters – had weapons, and many feared they would use them.

Accordingly, E Division’s investigation was now less important. If the cells in Alex were to be filled with communists, then the pornographers would have to make way. Wolter had even been asked to postpone any further arrests until after the weekend, which had dulled Rath’s sense of achievement a little. Despite the breakthrough they were forced to twiddle their thumbs.

He had managed to show his colleagues what he was about though; Detective Inspector Gereon Rath, the cop from the provinces. Bruno had been amazed. The rookie Jänicke likewise.

There was always a weakness, a wall of silence invariably contained a loose stone and, once you found it, the rest would crumble. In this case the loose stone was Old Fritz, who had squealed as soon as Rath threatened to subpoena his wife. Pure bluff, Rath hadn’t known the old man was married. He didn’t even know his name. The only person they’d been able to identify beyond any doubt in the last few days was Johann König and, like the rest of them, he hadn’t said a word. They must have made a deal in the Black Maria while Jänicke had been half-asleep.

Rath had tried a few things before he had finally broken Frederick the Great, aka Old Fritz. The old man wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but he had the air of a respectable family man. Pressed in that sensitive spot, he had broken down and the names came gushing out. The stenographer had a job keeping up.

There was a knock at the door. Rath yanked his top drawer open and swept the prints from his desk. No-one else needed to see them, and he found them embarrassing. At the same time, some of his colleagues in E Division got a kick out of displaying their photo collections whenever a female CID officer entered. It didn’t matter if the women blushed or came out with some saucy riposte, the men’s laughter was always the same.

‘Come in,’ he cried. The door opened. It was Wolter. ‘Why so formal?’ Rath asked. ‘Since when do you knock?’

Uncle grinned. ‘Were you expecting visitors? I can see you’ve cleared your desk!’

‘Not everyone has to see our evidence.’

‘Especially not stenographers from A Division, am I right?’ Wolter laughed. ‘Come on, don’t be such a sourpuss. You’ve got every reason to celebrate.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because the calendar says Monday the first of May, and you’re not in uniform. They’re the ones out fighting the communists. While
we
get to stay warm inside.’

‘Thanks, but I already know why I never wanted to join uniform.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up too soon. CID might still be needed on the streets.’

The entire Berlin police force had been on high alert since seven that morning, including both uniform and CID, sixteen thousand officers in total. They had called in those training at the police academy and mounted police had closed off all the parks. There was a strong police presence in the public transport depots, and uniformed officers had assembled in force in the city’s working class areas.

‘The Reds mean business,’ said Wolter. ‘Things are really kicking off at Alex. At least that’s what Schultes said in the canteen just now. Both of his windows look out onto the square. Should we go and take a look?’

They weren’t the only ones to find their way to Schultes’s office. There was barely any space left by the two windows. Jänicke was there too.

‘I wouldn’t be going to Aschinger’s today if I were you,’ he greeted his colleagues.

A big crowd had gathered amidst the building-site chaos at Alexanderplatz, several thousand people tightly packed around the entrance to Tietz department store. A shawm band in marching order had turned the corner at Alexanderstrasse and was heading towards the square, followed by the grey uniforms of the RFB
.
Now and then a banner was raised and Rath recognised the faces that also adorned the front of Communist Party headquarters on nearby Bülowplatz: Lenin, Liebknecht, Luxemburg. A holy trinity of Ls.

Since arriving in Berlin, he had grown increasingly infuriated by the audacity of the communists, the way they decorated their party headquarters with the portraits and slogans of these enemies of the state.
Hail the world revolution!
The sheer nerve of it, and now they were carrying these slogans in front of police headquarters.
Down with the
demonstration ban
.
Keep the streets free on the 1st of
May!
On an enormous piece of red fabric they had written:
Long live the Soviet Union, fight for a Soviet
Germany!
To the left was a resplendent Soviet star; to the right a hammer and sickle. More and more red flags were fluttering above the heads of those marching. An underground worker had planted a red flag on one of the steam hammers at Alex. High up in the offices of the Castle they could hear the crowd chanting: ‘Down with the dem-on-stration ban!’

The grey and brown of the workers’ caps was surrounded by the black of the shakos and the blue of the uniforms. Another police van emerged from Königstrasse and a troop of officers sprang from the platform, chin straps tightly fastened. The cops on the square formed a line of blue, drew their batons and stormed forth in unison. The chorus of voices quietened and ceased and a murmur went through the crowd. Batons began their whistling descent.

Those demonstrating on the front line ducked under the blows. Some fell and some were bundled into a Black Maria, amongst them a man with a red standard. Still the throng would not be deterred. A short step back and they were pressing forward once more. A wooden banner knocked the shako off an officer’s head. The first stones were launched. The crowd had resumed their chant: ‘Down with the dem-on-stration ban!’

‘Have we taken on fire brigade duties as well?’ Rath asked. At the tram stop in front of the UFA cinema down below, two officers were attaching a fire hose to a hydrant.

‘New tactic,’ Wolter replied. ‘Water instead of batons. The demonstrators are about to get wet.’

Scarcely had the two officers connected the hose when the command sounded: charge the line! The officer with the hose waded into the middle of the crowd, which scattered in surprise. Some were knocked to the ground by the force of the jet, and sent rolling on the wet asphalt.

‘Nice work. Watering the communists,’ Wolter said.

‘The commissioner’s got the whole force on high alert for this?’ asked Schultes. ‘Socialist hysteria, that’s what I call it. Later this afternoon these communists will be sitting back at home by the fire, drying their wet things. Enough revolution for one day. People will have had their fun and order will be restored.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Wolter. ‘The RFB are getting weapons and training from Moscow. They’re not just playing.’

‘We’ve always managed to bring the Reds into the line,’ said Schultes. ‘They tried to stage a revolution ten years ago and what became of it? The minute things get serious, they throw in the towel.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Wolter and made a concerned face. ‘At any rate, we can’t allow this rabble to take over the streets.’

‘No,’ Schultes replied, ‘but the Nazis with their brownshirts aren’t much better. Better marchers perhaps.’

‘They don’t shoot police officers.’

Schultes fixed his gaze on Uncle. ‘Law and order must be maintained at all times. You’re right there, DCI Wolter.’

‘That’s the job of uniform, not CID,’ said Rath. ‘I for one am happy that we have nothing to do with politics, only criminals.’

‘Politicians, criminals – who said they aren’t one and the same?’ Schultes replied and everyone laughed.

Rath gazed thoughtfully out of the window. Ten years ago the streets had also been turned upside down, but he hadn’t seen anything like it since. His colleagues on the square were going about their business bravely, and not just with fire hoses. At this precise moment Rath wouldn’t have liked to have been out there in his civvies.

5

The car hung from the hook of the salvage crane like an overgrown fish as dirty brown water poured back into the Landwehr canal. In the dark night, the crane’s spotlight bathed the vehicle in bright, eerie light.

Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm emerged from a large black Mercedes on Tempelhofer Ufer and put on his bowler hat. A few curious night owls turned from the salvage operation to admire the car, out of which there followed a slim, elegantly dressed woman carrying a shorthand pad, followed by a young man.

The black murder wagon was famous in Berlin. Equipped with numbered markers to secure evidence, camera, spotlights, an inch rule and tape measure, ordnance maps, gloves, tweezers, a transportable police laboratory, and all sorts of paraphernalia for the recording of evidence, it even housed a mobile office of folding table, chairs and a travel typewriter.

The car being lowered onto the wet asphalt of Möckern Bridge was a cream-coloured Horch 350. The soft top was down and there was a man at the wheel. DCI Böhm marched towards the police officer directing the operation.

‘Have I just walked into Lunapark? What the hell are all these people doing? And why couldn’t you have waited until Homicide arrived before starting the recovery? Did you at least manage to check the exact location with the divers?’

Without waiting for an answer, the DCI approached the vehicle. Pointless, he thought, trying to teach these idiots in uniform about modern-day police work. They still thought that restoring order to a crime scene was more important than securing evidence from it. Böhm glanced at the dead man behind the wheel.

‘Gräf,’ Böhm barked through the night. ‘Make sure you get a photo before the doctor messes everything up.’

Assistant Detective Reinhold Gräf started lugging the heavy camera from the murder wagon. In the meantime the officer had recovered from being shouted at, and approached the DCI.