The face of a dead woman gazed out at him, larger than life. Rath instinctively applied the brakes and Kirie slid from the passenger seat. A taxi beeped and overtook. Liebesgewitter, it said under the face, behind which a huge flash of lightning split the sky in two. The great Betty Winter’s final film. In cinemas soon.
The billboard was impossible to miss. It spanned the whole width of a scaffold on Moritzplatz. Rath pulled over to look at the gigantic advertisement in all its glory. Had Bellmann gone completely mad, or simply been very shrewd and unscrupulous? The Winter team had been far too fixated on Krempin and completely ignored the producer. Why hadn’t Gräf listened to him? It had been clear from the start that Bellmann was making capital from his star’s death.
On the way to Alex he passed two more giant billboards, from which Betty Winter gazed longingly into the morning.
He was raring to go, a feeling that the spring-like weather only served to intensify. He hadn’t slept so well in a long time. Unfortunately, Charly was no longer in bed when he awoke. It was the sound of her closing the front door that roused him. Her scent lingered on the pillows. He saw that she had fed the dog, brewed coffee and left a note, which he stuck in his jacket.
I did warn you, sleepyhead: I have to leave early.
Hope we see each other soon. C.
Even the note smelled of her, which was why he had taken it with him. Climbing the stairs in the Castle he greeted everyone with a smile, but no doubt it was due to Kirie, who was pulling on her lead, that he met such friendly faces in return.
Erika Voss already knew who they had found yesterday. ‘You poor thing,’ she said, bending over towards Kirie. ‘Now you don’t have a mistress!’
‘Is it only dogs we’re saying hello to these days?’ Rath asked.
‘Forgive me, Inspector, but…the poor animal! Who’s going to look after her now?’
‘We are,’ Rath said. ‘That is, for the moment you are. Can you fetch a bowl of water, and perhaps you could take her for a little walk? She needs exercise.’
‘Of course, Inspector. Poor Kirie. You don’t even realise you’re an orphan.’
Kirie was in high spirits and glad of the water, and Rath knew she was in good hands with his secretary. He closed the door to look through the call logs from Saturday afternoon. There wasn’t much. The last person to have seen Jeanette Fastré alive was her caretaker. She seemed to have lived quite a secluded life, unusual for an actress. At least the call logs clarified the mystery of her name: she was called Vanhaelen, but had taken her mother’s maiden name for the stage.
Before he went to briefing, Rath made a detour to the passport office, and quickly found what he was looking for. Gertie’s name was Gertrud. Gertrud Hagedorn. There were no other Gertie Hagedorns, at least no other women by that name. The address was close to Stettiner Bahnhof as well: Bernauer Strasse 110. It had to be Anton Schmieder’s girlfriend. Rath made a note of the address.
When he entered the small conference room, Gennat was already sitting on the podium studying various files. ‘Morning, Superintendent,’ he said.
Gennat responded with a grunt, and continued reading. Rath looked for a free seat as more and more homicide detectives poured into the room. Finally Böhm arrived and, right behind him, arm still in a sling, Frank Brenner.
Just you wait, Rath thought, I haven’t finished with you.
Brenner cast him a hostile glance as he sat down. Lange was the last to appear, taking his seat next to Rath. The voices in the room died only as Böhm approached the lectern.
‘Dear colleagues,’ he began, ‘before we make a start, allow me to welcome back Superintendent Gennat. He will be taking charge of Homicide again as of today.’
That was the best news Böhm had announced for a long time. Gennat stood up, and the officers drummed respectfully on the table tops and chairs.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Buddha said. ‘It’s good to be back.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve already seen some of you in Weissensee, yesterday evening. It’s quite something to be greeted by a corpse, but we’ll come to that later. I’ll familiarise myself with all ongoing homicide investigations as quickly as possible. In the meantime, DCI Böhm, please continue as if I weren’t here.’
‘It’s not so easy, Sir.’
Buddha, who really was hard to ignore, took as little offence at the friendly laughter Böhm’s words provoked as at the words themselves. He listened as the DCI provided a summary of the preceding weeks, from the Winter and Franck cases to Krempin’s spectacular death. In the process it became clear that Böhm was treating Krempin’s fall as suicide as much for its public effect as anything else. The press were more restrained when it came to suicide, as long as they didn’t know who had died. So, Böhm also considered foul play to be a possibility. Interesting. Next he showed them the work of the sketch artist: a grim-looking face.
‘This man was seen at the Funkturm,’ he explained. ‘He was one of the first to appear by the corpse, along with a journalist…’ Böhm looked inside his notebook. ‘…Berthold Weinert. The curious thing is that a number of people saw him go up the Funkturm afterwards. Curious, but perhaps there’s a simple explanation. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to identify the man. This Weinert didn’t know him either.’
‘He looks like Inspector Rath,’ someone said, and everyone laughed. A few people turned to face Rath, who joined in with the laughter.
‘I don’t think it’s so funny!’ Lange said, in a loud, firm voice. ‘I need to say something here. I find it more sad than funny that every portrait drawn by this sketch artist resembles one of our colleagues. We engaged the man to draw the wanted poster for the stranger in Wilmersdorf, in the Franck case, and the result was a picture that my mother could have hung in her parlour, so closely did it resemble me. These sketches are of limited use. We should leave the man to work as a court sketch artist, rather than consulting him again. The alternative would be to arrest myself and Herr Rath as prime suspects in the two homicide cases.’
‘Hmm,’ Gennat said, ‘perhaps you are right, but that’s down to the artist and not the method. In principle, I believe that a wanted sketch will meet with more response than a personal description, but in this case the debate is futile. If we want to keep the matter discreet we cannot issue a description, whether sketched or written. Carry on, Böhm.’
‘Since Herr Lange already has the floor,’ Böhm said, ‘perhaps he can report on what he and Herr Rath learned about Jeanette Fastré when she was still a missing person case.’
Lange knew what was expected of him and let Rath take the initiative. Briefly listing what they had found in the flat, including the dog, he reported on the meagre results of Saturday afternoon’s telephone calls. ‘She had few friends in the city, if any,’ he concluded. ‘The last person to have seen her alive appears to have been her caretaker, who isn’t too concerned about what’s going on around him. That was on Tuesday evening. Yesterday we found her dead in Kosmos, a disused cinema in Weissensee, as part of a search action that I…’
Böhm interrupted. ‘That’s not relevant, Herr Rath. Thank you for your contribution.’ Rath sat down.
‘Now we come to the corpse,’ Böhm continued. ‘Everything seems to point to the same perpetrator as with Vivian Franck. That, or the first murder has inspired a copycat, thanks to the press. Again we find ourselves with an actress, evidence of an injection, and a corpse in a disused cinema. It also seems likely that Fastré has had her vocal cords removed.’
Since Böhm wasn’t saying anything new, at least not for those who had been in Weissensee yesterday, Lange fetched an apple from his briefcase, polished it on his sleeve and bit into it so loudly that Böhm interrupted his report. ‘Bon appétit,’ he said, and everyone laughed. Lange went red.
Rath looked at the apple, and some memory was aroused, some image that refused to let him alone, until suddenly he knew what had been on his mind this whole time. The fruit bowl in Jeanette Fastré’s flat that had been plundered by a hungry dog. Apples, oranges and a nondescript fruit with furry brown skin, which only revealed its bright green flesh and little black seeds when cut open. The one thing Kirie hadn’t bitten into. ‘Yangtao!’ he cried out.
‘Pardon me?’ Böhm said. ‘Was that a sneeze, Herr Rath? Or was there something you wanted to say?’
A few colleagues laughed. Böhm was in a humorous mood.
‘I just realised something,’ said Rath. ‘A possible link that I still don’t quite understand.’
‘Are you going to share it with us?’
‘It could be a coincidence…’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘So,’ he said. ‘It concerns yangtao, the Chinese gooseberry, an exotic fruit. I ate it myself for the first time a few days ago in a Chinese restaurant, when we were asking after Vivian Franck. Just in front of where she got out of the taxi – probably her final taxi ride.’
‘And?’
‘The staff didn’t recognise her photograph, but they did recognise Betty Winter.’
‘It’s not unusual for actresses to visit exotic restaurants.’
‘I think there were a few yangtao in the fruit bowl at Jeanette Fastré’s flat. Perhaps Kronberg’s people should check it out.’
‘I don’t have to tell you, I hope, that the Winter case doesn’t have the slightest bit in common with the other two cases.’
‘Betty Winter was an actress.’
‘That was enough for the press to establish a correlation, but not us.’
‘But now there is a second correlation,’ Rath said. ‘The fact that Fastré’s fruit bowl contained the same exotic fruit found in Betty Winter’s stomach. On top of that, Winter frequented a Chinese restaurant located at the same intersection where Vivian Franck was picked up by her probable killer.’
‘So, we should start looking for a triple murderer amongst Berlin’s Chinese population? Or what are you trying to say?’
Böhm got a laugh or two, but Gennat cut him short. ‘Leave it, Böhm. Herr Rath is not wrong: that is indeed highly unusual. We may not know, yet, what we can conclude from it, but we should keep the information at the back of our minds and, at the very least, verify where these yangatang-things…’
‘Yangtao,’ Rath said.
‘…where they can be obtained in Berlin. If you could take care of that, Inspector Rath?’
Rath could think of more exciting assignments, but nodded all the same. Gennat having taken his side and put an end to Böhm’s mockery was compensation enough.
They were spared Kronberg’s report today. The head of ED had already visited the Fastré flat with his people and had only given Böhm a preliminary summary, which the DCI himself had read out. The ED team still hadn’t analysed a number of clues. It was certain, however, that there was no evidence of a break-in, just as with the Luxor. If they could narrow down the list of key owners and see whether there was any overlap between the two cinemas, it would be a step in the right direction. Otherwise, the man who had planted the corpses must be a champion burglar capable of cracking complex security locks, which seemed unlikely.
They had found numerous fingerprints, but hadn’t even begun analysing them. They were still right at the start, and faced with a giant riddle.
‘We might have another lead in the Franck case,’ Böhm said. ‘The stranger who picked her up on Hohenzollerndamm – Oppenberg, her producer, knew about it because he hired a private detective when Franck was still a missing person case. Inspector Rath, have you spoken to the detective in the meantime?’
Shit!
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. I just haven’t got around to it, especially since we are now investigating another fatality and…’
‘…you have failed to do your job again…’
‘It’s all right, Böhm.’ Gennat had interrupted Böhm for a second time. ‘Herr Rath can still look into it. For the time being, there are more important things. Let’s use our imaginations instead.’ He looked round the room. No one was laughing anymore. ‘We’re not dealing with an ordinary killer here. So, think about what kind of person it could be.’ It was so still you could hear the clock on the wall ticking. ‘Why,’ Gennat continued, ‘does someone plant the bodies of actresses in old cinemas after making them up as if for a film shoot – and removing their vocal cords?’ Again, Gennat looked round the room. ‘Does anyone have any suggestions? If so, please feel free to share them, no matter how strange. They might just help us track the perpetrator down.’
‘A pervert!’ Brenner cried without raising his hand. ‘He fucked the women…I mean engaged in sexual intercourse with them, then killed them. And, to prevent them screaming: wham! Away with their vocal cords.’ He gestured towards his throat. A few colleagues nodded their agreement.
‘We still don’t have any indication that a sexual crime has been committed,’ Böhm objected. ‘We don’t even know if he actually kills them, or, at least, how he does it. Nor is it clear if the second corpse’s vocal cords are missing yet.’
‘Then he used a French letter,’ Brenner grumbled.
‘We shouldn’t rule anything out so long as we lack the relevant exclusion criteria,’ Gennat said, and Böhm, who was about to make another objection, closed his mouth before saying anything.
Lange raised his hand. ‘Perhaps it’s an act of revenge, or sabotage. Film types waging war on one another, with the help of the underworld.’
Gennat made a few notes.
‘The whole thing is staged,’ Rath said, inwardly thanking Charly for the tip. ‘Someone’s trying to tell us something – us, or more likely, the public.’
‘Tell us what?’ Gennat asked.
Rath shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s precisely what we have to find out. If we know that, it could lead us to the perpetrator.’
‘If that is so, then perhaps we should wilfully misunderstand him,’ Lange suggested. ‘How about we inform the press that a dangerous sex offender is on the loose, someone who has it in for attractive film actresses?’
Gennat shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right, Herr Lange. We might provoke him that way, but we wouldn’t have any control over the consequences. We would most likely trigger another killing, and no one here can answer for that.’
‘We need to get him to make mistakes.’
‘Not mistakes other people pay for with their lives.’
Lange nodded and sat down. There were no further requests to speak.
‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your contributions,’ Gennat said. ‘With that, we have reached the end of our meeting. Your tasks for today will be allocated subsequently in Homicide, and we will meet again tomorrow. We will continue to adhere to Herr Böhm’s practice of regular morning briefings, at least for the time being. It has proved to be worthwhile. Good work, Böhm.’
‘Thank you, Superintendent,’ Böhm said, and turned again to face the room. ‘That’s it for now. Any questions?’
That was how the DCI always ended the meetings, yet until now no one had taken his invitation seriously and he didn’t realise at first that Rath had stood up.
‘If I might say something else…’
‘Inspector Rath?’
‘Even if the Franck and Fastré cases have priority, I would nevertheless like to draw your attention back to the Winter case. In my opinion, it has not been solved with the death of Felix Krempin.’ Rath cleared his throat before continuing. ‘I noticed something this morning. Heinrich Bellmann has launched a huge advertising campaign for his new film, in which he is exploiting the death of his lead actress.’
‘That might be tasteless, but it isn’t against the law,’ said Böhm, who was already packing his things.
‘It’s a motive,’ Rath said. ‘The whole time he’s been giving us this sob story, while simultaneously harnessing the media to make headlines out of Betty Winter and her final film. He’s been doing it since the day she died. Now, to cap it, there’s this publicity campaign fronted by a dead woman.’
He had aroused Gennat’s interest again. ‘You mean to say that Betty Winter is of more use to this Bellmann dead than alive?’
Rath shrugged his shoulders. ‘What I want to know is where all that money comes from. This morning alone I saw three giant billboards. Who can say how many more there are in the city? It must cost a fortune. Usually Bellmann promotes his little films with notices in the daily press, so how do you explain that for this one he’s making more of a ballyhoo than Ufa?’
‘Some greedy vulture senses the chance of a lifetime and stakes everything on it,’ Böhm said. ‘That isn’t a crime either.’
‘True, but it is unusual,’ Gennat said. ‘Clearly we should be sounding him out a lot more thoroughly than we have done already. Than you have done already, Inspector Rath, Chief Inspector Böhm!’
Rath wasn’t too worried about Gennat’s parting shot. After all, Wilhelm Böhm was the man in charge of the Winter case. Since taking over, the DCI had been far too focused on Krempin, dismissing Rath’s doubts about the man’s guilt – and finally made sure the case was passed to Gräf, a mere detective who was already overworked. All because he had refused to give it to Rath. That would teach him.
Could Bellmann really have something to do with the death of Betty Winter? Rath had long suspected there were skeletons in his closet, ever since he had threatened him with his lawyers. Sounding the man out, as Gennat had put it, couldn’t do any harm.
After the briefing Buddha took Rath to one side and asked for his thoughts. Rath told him everything Böhm hadn’t wanted to hear: how Krempin’s wire construction worked, and that someone who knew the script had most likely made use of it – only on Betty Winter, rather than an expensive film camera. Which assumed, of course, that same someone had uncovered Krempin’s plan. All of which could certainly have applied to Heinrich Bellmann.
Buddha had listened attentively. ‘I’ll take care of the search warrant for Bellmann,’ he had said. ‘See if you can make any headway with that Chinese lead. See you at two in the morgue.’
Rath sat at his desk leafing through the telephone book for Chinese restaurants. His outburst was irritating him. Even if Gennat had defended him against Böhm, his colleagues hadn’t taken him seriously. Not that he blamed them. Still, in the absence of any tangible leads, this was the sort of thing they were obliged to follow up.
For the time being he couldn’t get hold of anyone at Yangtao. He asked Erika Voss to call the number every five minutes. Shortly before eleven, she got through.
‘Inspector,’ she said. ‘Your Chinese restaurant.’
‘Wen Tian, Yangtao,’ said a soft voice that barely sounded the consonants.
‘Rath, CID. I was at your restaurant recently, with a colleague. Do you remember? I’d like to know where you purchase yangtao for your kitchen.’
‘Want reserve?’
‘No, I’m from the police. I just want to know where in Berlin you can get yangtao.’
‘Monday rest day.’
‘I don’t want to eat.’
‘Better reserve. Yangtao many guests.’
‘I just have a question. I’m not eating.’
‘For two persons?’
Rath gave up. ‘Police here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘Monday rest day.’
He hung up.
‘I have to go out,’ he said. ‘Can you look after Kirie, Erika?’
‘It’s lunchtime soon. Don’t you want to take her?’
‘The place I’m going they might put her on the menu.’
She looked at him in horror. ‘My goodness, where are you going?’
‘To the Chinese.’
Before setting off, Rath made his way on foot to the Zentralmarkthalle, which was only a stone’s throw away from the Castle. Things were at their busiest here at the crack of dawn, long before the rest of the city was awake, but right now it was quiet. The Zentralmarkthalle actually comprised two market halls, separated from one another by Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse. Horses and carts were parked on both sides of the road, and were a constant source of traffic jams in the early hours. Rath found his way by asking; the fruit and vegetable traders were housed in the northern hall. The best goods had long since been sold, only a few lettuce heads wilted away sadly. Rath accosted a red-faced man with a walrus moustache who was stacking cherries under a large company sign.
‘What you after?’ the walrus huffed.
‘I’m looking for a Chinese fruit and vegetable trader here in the market hall.’
‘Does that look like me?’
‘No, but perhaps you know of one.’
‘Who’s asking?’ Rath showed his badge. ‘Leave the poor slit eyes alone! They have it bad enough already.’
‘I just need a little information about a Chinese variety of fruit.’
The man looked at him as if deciding whether he could trust a police officer, then said: ‘Up on the gallery, just by the middle aisle where the wholesale butchers are, there’s a flight of steps. Ask for Lingyuan, he could be the one.’
Rath tipped his hat and made his way through. It was incredible how much food was on sale, even if most traders were only offering what had survived the frenzy earlier that morning. Rath found the steps and climbed to the gallery. This was where the smaller traders were housed, those who didn’t occupy so much space, and to whom fewer customers strayed. He found Lingyuan’s stand without having to ask again. A large Chinese paper lantern jutting into the aisle showed the way. Lingyuan didn’t just offer exotic varieties of fruit and vegetable, but herbs and spices that Rath had never seen before. A few of the smells reminded him of the Chinese restaurant on Hohenzollerndamm. He felt himself transported to another world, a little piece of Asia in the heart of Berlin. The king of this world was a small Chinese man with a green apron over his grey, Western suit, who spoke accent-free German. He didn’t even have trouble sounding the consonants.
‘What would you like?’ he asked.
‘Just some information,’ Rath said. This time he showed his badge straightaway. The Chinese man nodded humbly and smiled. ‘You sell Chinese groceries…’
‘For more than seven years now…’
‘…do you have yangtao?’
Lingyuan gestured towards a stack of crates. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘What’s left of them. Arrived from China two weeks ago.’
‘As long ago as that?’
‘You have to keep yangtao cool, then they stay fresh for a long time. Up to half a year.’
‘Isn’t that expensive? Importing them from China?’
‘Quantity is the key,’ Lingyuan said. ‘Do you know how many Chinese people live here in the city? A few thousand. The poorer ones by Schlesischer Bahnhof, the more prosperous in Charlottenburg, the rest spread across the city.’
‘And they all buy from you?’
‘All the Chinese restaurants, I’d say. As well as two or three Chinese shops.’
‘Do you have the addresses?’
‘Why?’
‘I need to know all the places in the city where yangtao is sold. Are there any other importers?’
‘Not that I know of. At least no one else who grows Chinese fruit and vegetables.’
‘Here in Berlin?’
‘I have a little nursery over in Mariendorf. A few weeks ago I’d have been able to offer you yangtao that I’d picked myself before Christmas.’
‘Business is good, no doubt.’
‘I get by.’
‘How much does a yangtao cost?’
‘Let’s say a little more than an apple.’
‘A delicacy then…’
‘If you like. Something different at least. Very healthy too.’
Rath showed the Chinese man the photos of Betty Winter and Jeanette Fastré. Lingyuan didn’t seem to go to the cinema or read the paper. He shook his head. ‘Never seen them,’ he said.
‘Where could these women have got hold of yangtao?’
‘I’ll give you a few names,’ the man said, reaching for the notepad next to the weighing scales.
Rath left the market hall with the addresses of five restaurants and three shops, but it wouldn’t be worth visiting the former today. ‘Rest day,’ Lingyuan had warned. So, the Chinese shops it was. Two were in Friedrichshain, the third in the west. Rath fetched the car from Alex and drove first to Krautstrasse, which formed the heart of Berlin’s little Chinese quarter. He didn’t have happy memories of the area. His fateful clash with Josef Wilczek had taken place just a few blocks away, at a building site on Koppenstrasse.
He parked outside the first address. Compared with New York’s Chinatown around Pell Street, which he had visited years ago with his brother, this was a disappointing affair: the building fronts a little run-down, barely any cars on the roadside, a few children playing noisily on the pavement, not a single Chinese person. It was a normal street in East Berlin. At least the Chinese shop, in front of whose display he had parked the car, was adorned with red Chinese characters. There were no Latin letters whatsoever; from the outside it wasn’t clear if it was a grocery shop, a clothing store or a laundry.
As it transpired it was a mixture of all three, and much more besides, with an assortment of goods as varied as in KaDeWe, but using only a fraction of the space. Alongside food, tea and spices, there were colourful silk fabrics, porcelain, little soapstone carvings, shelves, paper lanterns, all tightly packed in a wild jumble. The old Chinese lady inside the dark cave, which smelled even stranger than Lingyuan’s market stall, didn’t speak a word of German. Rath tried his luck with sign language, showing her a few photos and pointing towards the floor with his index finger.
‘These women here?’ he asked. ‘Yangtao?’ The old lady gestured towards a crate containing a few miserable-looking yangtao. Rath showed the photos again, this time omitting the word yangtao, but the woman shook her head. During the entire conversation, if you could call it that, her face under the black beehive hair hadn’t displayed an ounce of emotion. Rath was equally unsuccessful in the next shop, just a few houses further along in Markusstrasse. Once again there was yangtao. Once again no one spoke German or recognised the actresses.
When he returned to the car, he found it surrounded by snotty-nosed brats.
‘That yours, chief?’ one asked. ‘Nice wheels you’ve got there.’
‘You can look but you can’t touch,’ Rath said, climbing in. It was a crummy neighbourhood. He couldn’t imagine either of the two actresses setting foot in a street like this. He drove west.
The third shop was in Kantstrasse, and a very different establishment from the previous two. The Chinahaus, this time using the Latin alphabet, was located next to a Chinese restaurant and was bright and elegantly furnished, with fine porcelain vases lining the walls and two stone lions guarding the stairs. The room’s scent came from a shelf full of different types of tea. A slender Chinese man with hair slicked tightly back approached him.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Do you sell food as well?’
‘Of course. If you could follow me.’
‘I’m only looking for information.’ Rath showed the photos and asked his question.
The man reacted to Betty Winter. ‘I think I saw her here a few weeks ago, it could have been her. Usually it’s only Chinese people who shop here. Occasionally a curious German or two.’
‘You don’t have any regular German customers?’
‘You couldn’t call them regulars.’ The Chinese man shook his head. ‘Apart from this one old man, perhaps. Although he hasn’t been here for a long time.’
‘And he comes here often?’
‘To buy yangtao too, yes, but not just yangtao.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Alfred or Albert, something like that.’
‘How about an address?’
A shake of the head.
He gave the Chinese man his card. ‘Please let me know if he comes back. Promptly and without delay, that’s very important! Try, if you can, to get his name and address.’
‘I’m not a policeman. I can hardly interrogate my customers.’
‘Discreetly, of course. You could tell him you need to order the goods first, and ask for a delivery address. You’ll think of something.’
Since he was already in Kantstrasse, Rath decided to pay Oppenberg a visit. He was in luck, the producer was at his desk and had already heard the news about Krempin. ‘Poor Felix,’ he said. ‘A rather unfriendly colleague of yours came by to tell me. Just dreadful, plunging to his death like that.’
Rath looked at him closely, but there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest that he was responsible for Krempin’s death. ‘I’m here about Vivian,’ he said. ‘The underworld lead has come to nothing, but we’re in the process of uncovering new links that could be significant. Do you know yangtao, the Chinese gooseberry?’
Oppenberg considered for a moment. ‘Could be. The name doesn’t mean anything, but I sometimes go to the Chinese along the road. Perhaps I ate it there. You never really know what’s on your plate.’
‘Then you can’t say whether Vivian Franck liked yangtao either?’
‘Vivian?’ Oppenberg laughed out loud. ‘On the contrary. I can tell you that she gave any food that looked Chinese, or at all Asian, a wide berth, and not just because of the chopsticks. I could never persuade her to come to Nanking with me.’
Rath thought about what Oppenberg had said as he made his way back to the car. Betty Winter and Jeanette Fastré adored yangtao, while Vivian Franck despised it. It didn’t look like a correlation now, just a strange coincidence. Or was the fact that Vivian Franck abhorred Chinese food some kind of explanation?
On the way back to Alex, he took a detour by Bernauer Strasse and rang number 110. Hagedorn.
‘The young lady isn’t here,’ a voice said from above. A man in grey overalls was looking over the banister on the half landing.
‘Working?’
‘What else? Think the bank does a night shift?’
‘Perhaps it should. When you think of those bank robbers, the Brothers Sass.’
‘Even if it was the fuzz pulling the night shifts, they still wouldn’t catch ’em!’ The man gave a brief, dry laugh. ‘What do you want from old Hagedorn?’
‘It isn’t important. Strictly private.’
‘See that her fiancé doesn’t catch you. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humour!’
‘Herr Schmieder, you mean?’
‘Ah, so you know him too?’
‘Berlin’s a small place. Didn’t you know? Isn’t Herr Schmieder living here at the moment?’
‘Ha, it’s almost like his second home. And whenever I say to old Hagedorn, that’s enough now, if he’s here a day longer I’ll have to take money for gas and electricity, he disappears again for a day or two, and the whole thing starts over.’
‘Let me guess, you mentioned it to Frau Hagedorn again today?’
‘You’re a bright spark. Spend the night at the Osram plant, did you?’
Osram light bulbs. The visit had indeed shed more light than Rath could have hoped for. Schmieder’s girlfriend or fiancée, or whatever she was, worked in a bank. He hadn’t even had to ask the caretaker which one; he had simply asked which branch. But she didn’t work in a branch, she worked at the central office in Behrensstrasse and had only arrived at the start of the year – from Cologne.
He knew enough to pay Anton Schmieder a little visit. So, why not now? The man would be back on nights after a week of evenings. Perhaps he’d be at home? Besides, there was someone else in Moabit whom Rath wanted to surprise. True, Charly had made coffee for him that morning, but she hadn’t said goodbye. She could hardly turn down lunch. He climbed the steps to her flat in Spenerstrasse and rang the bell, feeling like a little kid, looking forward to seeing her surprised face.
The door opened and a man grinned at him; he hadn’t counted on seeing that face here. Charly’s cowboy. Her dancing partner at the Resi, this time without the fringe. Was he the reason she had to leave so early?
‘Who is it you’re after?’ he asked. ‘Can I pass on a message?’
Rath was speechless, but managed to mumble something like ‘It’s fine’ before turning and allowing gravity to carry him down the steps.
Back in the car he sat teeming with rage, with no recollection of how he had got there. He would have liked nothing better than to let out some steam on the grinning man upstairs, but he could forget about that unless he wanted to spoil things with Charly for good. He revved the engine, screeching away onto the carriageway.
Five minutes later, he was standing outside Anton Schmieder’s flat. ‘A message from Fräulein Hagedorn,’ he cried, as he knocked on the door for a second time.
When he heard steps inside he positioned himself so that Schmieder couldn’t make him out through the crack, but the man was more trusting than expected. He opened the door without thinking, only to turn deathly pale when he saw who was there.
Rath got his foot in the crack, pushing the door inwards with all his might, and causing Anton Schmieder to stumble backwards. ‘What do you want from me?’ Schmieder asked.
‘Why so nervous when the police are round? We wouldn’t do anything to an upstanding citizen.’
Schmieder retreated along the corridor, with Rath in pursuit. They wound up in an untidy kitchen.
‘Haven’t been here for a while, eh?’ said Rath. ‘Been shacked up for a few days with your bride-to-be.’
‘What do you want?’ Schmieder seemed halfway composed again. ‘You can’t just come marching in.’
Rath smiled and rammed his right fist into the man’s solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping for air.
‘If you’re going to blackmail someone, then it’s a good idea not to get caught,’ Rath said. ‘You see, now someone’s hurting you and you can’t even call the police.’
‘You are the police!’ the man panted, having caught his breath at last. ‘What you’re doing here isn’t allowed.’
‘This is for my own pleasure. I know you aren’t going to report me.’
‘I still don’t know what you want.’
‘I want you to stop exchanging letters with one of my friends. No more unfriendly missives written in red pencil and delivered to the State Council mailboxes. Blackmail is a serious offence.’
‘Why don’t you report me if you think I’m a blackmailer? I’ll tell you why. Because if you do, your friend can forget about his dirty deals. Adenauer, that Jew lover, that…’
Rath dealt him another blow to the solar plexus. The man was showing far too little respect. He leaned over him as he gasped for air, pulled him up by the collar and spoke directly in his ear.
‘You should take this a little more seriously. At the end of the day it’s your health. No more letters and no more harassment of any kind. If any details of this disagreeable Glanzstoff affair should reach the public I will hold you personally responsible. Time to impress upon your girlfriend how dangerous it can be to divulge official secrets.’
Schmieder gasped for air and nodded.
‘I hope I’ve made myself clear, for your sake. Because next time, it’ll be people who are far better at this sort of thing than I am.’
Schmieder said nothing. He just nodded, again and again, his whole body shaking.
Rath hadn’t realised he was capable of inspiring so much fear. He let go of the man’s collar and stood up.
Schmieder started sobbing. ‘I just wanted for everything to stay the same,’ he said. ‘What am I supposed to do if Ford closes? When they hired me three years ago, I thought this is it, this is my life really starting. I’ll be earning a decent wage. Now you’re telling me that’s over? Do you know how many unemployed people there are in this city? What am I supposed to do if there’s no more Ford?’
‘I wouldn’t try your hand at blackmail, anyway,’ Rath said. ‘You don’t have the talent.’
He exited the flat, got in his car and drove off. All he wanted now was to get out of Moabit. Out, out, out. He was still beside himself with rage.
Driving east via Invalidenstrasse, he came to a halt at Stettiner Bahnhof in front of a telephone booth. Before getting out he smoked a cigarette to calm himself down. Then he looked for twenty pfennigs and called Ostbahnhof. To his surprise he got Marlow on the line.
‘Inspector!’ Dr M. sounded pleased. ‘Good of you to call. How are you getting on with Deutsche Kraft?’
‘Things are moving along,’ Rath lied. ‘Perhaps you can do me a little favour.’
‘So long as you don’t demand the impossible.’
Rath gave Anton Schmieder’s name and address. ‘Nothing too heavy,’ he said. ‘The man just needs a little scare. Have him tailed by the most frightening men you have, and tell them to bump into him now and again and give him a dirty look.’
Marlow laughed. ‘You don’t have to tell me how to go about it. How far can my men go?’
‘A scare, no more. No physical violence. Under no circumstances!’
‘Supposing your man becomes violent, my people have to be able to defend themselves. I can’t forbid them that.’
‘Don’t worry, he won’t. He’s just a poor soul.’
‘If you say so.’
Rath didn’t feel good about his pact with the devil, but he was already too involved with Marlow for another favour to make much difference. He found himself feeling a little sorry for Anton Schmieder, the blackmailer of the rueful countenance, but a blackmailer deserved no better. He could count himself lucky not to face criminal charges. Indeed, all parties involved had come out of the matter rather well: Adenauer had his peace, Schmieder wasn’t going to the clink and Inspector Rath would soon be Chief Inspector Rath.
If there was something in the Deutsche Kraft affair, then he would be doing not only Marlow a favour, but his colleagues too. He thought about why a Ringverein should be involved in a film company, and realised he only knew one type of illegal film. Perhaps he should alert Superintendent Lanke from Vice.
There was an Aschinger at Stettiner Bahnhof too. Rath ate a Bulette on the hoof and drove towards Hannoversche Strasse. He was late. He would have to throw himself into his work to avoid thinking about Charly, and what that cowboy was still doing rattling around her flat.