Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

Of course she was worth it. She was worth a whole lot more too, whatever the consequences. Rath banished the thought of her with another sip of cognac and got back to his report.

He hammered the letters word by word onto the paper. Gradually he gained momentum. They wouldn’t be able to bite his head off tomorrow. Böhm would have to acknowledge that Detective Inspector Rath had done a good job – or rather that Rath’s team had done a good job; which was how he’d have to present it. He had fetched ED to Guerickestrasse yesterday and back out to Terra Film today. Hardly the work of someone who was going it alone!

The telephone rang a few times; he let it ring.

The stack of crumpled paper on the floor grew as the bottle of cognac became emptier. He needed the entire afternoon and evening, pausing only to change the record and for a light supper. He felt halfway at peace with himself by the time he laid the final sheet on top of the, by now, considerable mound of papers. The bottle of cognac was empty. Something told him he wouldn’t be having any nightmares tonight either.

Rath had set the alarm for early but it was the telephone that startled him out of sleep. Who the hell was calling at quarter to six? Whoever it was, they were persistent. He got up, determined to give the caller a piece of his mind only to find it was someone he had to be friendly to.

‘You wanted to speak to me urgently, my wife said?’

‘Herr Ziehlke! Good of you to call!’ Rath didn’t sound quite as cheery as he would have liked. ‘If a little early.’

‘I couldn’t get hold of you yesterday, chief. So, Friedhelm, I thought, try again before your shift begins. The cops are on the ball.’

‘Ever ready,’ Rath said, yawning silently.

‘At least here in the garage we have a telephone. Once I’m on the move, it’ll be trickier. What can I do for the boys in blue?’

‘Could you come to the station later today? I’d like to show you a few photos. You might recognise the man who picked up Vivian Franck.’

‘How about twelve? Or, better, make it half past, in case I have to drive across town to get to Alex.’

‘Half past twelve is perfect. I’ll buy you lunch at Aschinger.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Ah, Herr Ziehlke… there is one thing I haven’t asked yet. When you drove Frau Franck that day, what did you do with her luggage? I’m sure you didn’t just leave all those suitcases on the pavement beside her on Hohenzollerndamm?’

‘We’d already got rid of the luggage. From Kaiserdamm we went first to Bahnhof Zoo, where I had to wrestle with her cases again, and only then did we go on to Wilmersdorf.’

‘Where did you take the suitcases? To check them in for a train journey?’

‘I just delivered them to left luggage.’

‘Do you know what number Fräulein Franck had?’

‘Well, you’ve a nerve!’ Ziehlke gave a dry laugh that sounded like something had gone down the wrong way. ‘If I could remember that I’d be a variety performer, not a taxi driver!’

‘See you later. Have a good day at work.’

‘You, too.’

Rath hung up and considered for a moment. Why not, he said to himself and asked to be put through. To his surprise, it only took a few seconds for someone to pick up.

‘Behnke.’

‘Herr Weinert, please.’

‘You again? Didn’t you call yesterday?’ Rath remained silent. ‘I’m afraid Herr Weinert is still in bed.’

‘Then wake him up, please. It’s important.’

It was unlikely that the landlady would catch Weinert with one of his girls, since he normally sent them home in the middle of the night when she was too drunk to notice. Still, there was no harm, Rath thought, in a little schadenfreude.

Weinert seemed genuinely dozy, announcing himself with a ‘Yes?’ that sounded more like a yawn.

‘We need to rearrange.’

‘Gereon?’

‘Are you crazy, shouting my name like that? Do you want to make yourself unpopular with Behnke?’

‘What are you doing getting me out of bed in the middle of the night?’

‘You mean early in the morning. Your landlady is up and about anyway.’

‘She wasn’t as late as me yesterday.’

‘I’m calling about the car. What do you think about returning it half an hour later than agreed…’

‘Great, that way I can have a lie-in!’

‘…and not to me. We’ll meet at Bahnhof Zoo, that’s nearer for you.’

‘No problem. You’ll bring the typewriter?’

‘I wasn’t planning on dragging it through the underground. Can I bring it round later? Tonight?’

‘This is my livelihood we’re talking about. If I can take it on the train, then so can you. Otherwise, get a taxi.’

At half past seven Rath was standing at the Bahnhof Zoo left-luggage office with a jet black Remington tucked under his arm alongside a brown briefcase. He felt pretty stupid, especially when the man at the counter asked if he wanted to leave the typewriter in the checkroom.

‘Taking our favourite pet for a walk, are we? You should buy a lead.’

Rath didn’t blink. ‘I need some information,’ he said, putting the typewriter down to reveal his badge.

‘Well, what do you know! CID have mobile offices these days, do they? And the crooks? Give ’em a piggyback when you catch them, do you?

‘You should be a variety performer…’

‘That’s what my Ilse always says.’

‘…but save your jokes for your audition at the Wintergarten.’

‘All right, all right. Is humour against the law now too?’

Rath showed the man a photo of Vivian Franck. ‘Do you remember this woman?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ The little eyes behind the counter twinkled. ‘Saw her in Verrucht. Divine! Vivian Franck, isn’t it?’

‘She must have checked in several large items of luggage about three weeks ago. On the eighth of February to be precise, around ten in the morning. Have the items been collected?’

‘That’s a lot of questions at once,’ the baggage porter said in his thick Berlin accent. ‘A Sunday, wasn’t it? I wasn’t on that day, but I can take a look and see what I can find. It’s rare for something to be left that long.’

‘If you could.’

‘Might take a moment, though.’

‘Fine, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘As far as you’re concerned perhaps, but what about my customers? I don’t get any help till ten.’

‘I’ll take care of things here, you go and look.’

‘You do have a typewriter,’ the baggage porter said, ‘which ought to make filling out forms easier.’ He paused, perhaps wondering if he could think of a better joke, before disappearing behind a door that led to a windowless, neon-lit room. After five minutes he returned without any cases, but with a stack of index cards which he laid on the counter.

‘So, this is everything that’s been here longer than two weeks. Let’s have a look.’

He leafed through the pile and, amazingly, found what he was searching for.

‘Here it is. Eighth of February. Three items, checked at nine forty-five. Number three-seven-zero-seven. Pretty expensive to redeem by now.’

‘Can I take a look?’

The man put on his most officious face. ‘Either you have number three-seven-zero-seven or a court order, or everything stays where it is. Rules is rules.’

‘And if you were to take a quick look and report back…’

‘That’s even more illegal! Do you think we fiddle about with our customers’ luggage? Don’t worry, Inspector, if there was a corpse inside we’d smell it.’

Rath took his leave politely and sat down in the station restaurant with a stack of newspapers. At least the waiter didn’t comment on the typewriter. It wasn’t very busy. Most Berliners didn’t have time for coffee at eight o’clock.