Фолькер Кучер - Babylon Berlin

Wilhelm Böhm had known Dr Magnus Schwartz for years. The doctor’s cynicism was an occupational hazard which detective inspectors were not immune to. Maybe that was why Böhm had such a good relationship with the coroner, who was also a respected professor at the university.

‘Good evening, Doctor! Did they tear you away from the opera?’

Schwartz turned from the dead man at the wheel. Under his coat, he was still in evening dress.

‘Böhm! I should have known you were behind this!’ the doctor shook his hand. ‘No, I don’t go to the opera. It’s too loud for me. Reception at the dean’s. Pretty dull conversation when you consider it was attended by the cream of the German intelligentsia.’

‘You can be grateful that we dragged you away.’

‘Just don’t tell my wife!’

‘So?’ Böhm gestured towards the corpse.

‘You’ll scarcely believe it, my dear Böhm, but this man is dead.’

‘Seriously?’ Böhm feigned surprise. ‘There’s nothing quite like the word of an expert.’

The doctor undid the buttons on the dead man’s double-breasted jacket and shirt. Then he inspected the inside of his mouth. ‘Cause of death still unknown,’ he said after a pause, ‘but most likely he was already dead before he fell in the water. Would you like to hear any more guesses or can you wait until noon tomorrow? I’ll know by then whether he had water in his lungs.’

Böhm didn’t say anything.

‘I thought as much,’ said the doctor. ‘Well now, these are all approximations and remain subject to change until we have the official result tomorrow. Male corpse, height over one seventy, weight around 65 kilograms, age mid-thirties, poor teeth, cause of death still…’

‘Poor teeth?’

‘That’s a fact, not an approximation.’

‘Then he must have been afraid of the dentist.’

‘I don’t think so. Judging by the ruined landscape of his mouth, he’s been to a dentist. A bad one. Seems more likely he was unable to afford decent treatment.’

‘And yet he drives a new car and wears an elegant dinner jacket. He’s almost more stylish than you are, Doctor!’

‘Maybe he preferred to spend his money on cars and clothes than on the dentist. You know how it is, fine feathers make fine birds. And wheels too! Nice car, that Horch. My colleague Karthaus drives one. Not that I’m jealous – what are you supposed to do with a crate like that when it goes off road and lands in the canal…’

‘I think that’s got less to do with the car than the roadworthiness of the driver.’ Böhm gestured towards the dead man’s deformed hands. ‘Can you die of something like that, Doctor?’

‘You can die of almost anything, my dear Böhm.’ Schwartz adjusted his glasses with his index finger and took a closer look at the mash of skin flaps, flesh and bones. ‘What a mess,’ he said finally. ‘That must have been very painful, but he most probably survived it.’

‘Strange,’ Böhm murmured to himself.

‘My dear Böhm! You wouldn’t believe the things people can survive.’

‘No, I mean his face.’ Böhm seemed as if he had awoken from a dream. ‘Is that the face of a man who was in great pain shortly before dying?’

Schwartz didn’t answer but focused instead on the deceased. The dead man seemed to be smiling peacefully.

They had been hauling people out of their beds since a quarter past six, searching everywhere, not just in the flats but in the attics and cellars as well. Officers were even rummaging for weapons in the bins. Rath never imagined he’d be back in Hermannstrasse so soon. Eight police squads had been deployed in the communist area of Neukölln alone.

The May disturbances had persisted into a third day. Communists and police had clashed repeatedly. Shots continued to be fired as war raged on the streets of Wedding and Neukölln. Building materials in Hermannstrasse had been used to erect barricades, and entire rows of streets lights put out of commission by protesters throwing stones. Gangs of youths were taking advantage of the darkness and plundering shops.

The previous night, rioters had stoned the 220th precinct building in Selchower Strasse where, as recently as Sunday, they had launched the operation against König. Shots had even been fired and the affair was only defused by a police squad with an armoured car and two trucks.

Episodes like this exacerbated fears of a communist putsch while also stirring up the feelings of the police force. Every officer on the street – especially those in workers’ districts – was nervous and ready to open fire.

In Rath’s eyes, his colleagues’ state of mind bordered on hysteria. When they had summoned him and Wolter to Neukölln, therefore, he determined to keep a cool head. On the morning of the third of May, Commissioner Zörgiebel ordered CID to assist uniform in their search of the city’s trouble spots. Police squads had cordoned off the district on both sides of Hermannstrasse, from Boddinstrasse to Leykestrasse and a huge part of the city had become a no-go area. Uniform guarded the access points, and signs warned that heavy gunfire was expected.

When they began the house-to-house search, duty officers sealed off the entrances to courtyards, before uniformed troops, led in each case by two members of CID, combed the entire block. They had been met with the same reaction everywhere: men cursing, women swearing, children crying – but there had been no weapons. The more the morning wore on, the more Rath felt that people knew something. Somehow, word had spread.

So far they had confiscated only a single revolver – and that after nearly six hours of hard searching in at least four dozen flats, and the man they had taken the weapon off wasn’t even a communist. They had found an embroidered text of the Internationale on the wall of his kitchen, but only in the way that Christians might display Biblical quotations. The man was a social democrat like the commissioner.

The operation was beginning to get on Rath’s nerves, and judging by his expression Bruno felt the same way. Pointless, it was a total waste of resources, and yet the pair had struggled to suppress a grin when they saw that Leykestrasse was on their list. That was where Franz Krajewski, the junkie from the Karstadt department store scaffolding and their latest informant, had his digs. The porn Kaiser himself opened the door when they called on him just after seven in the morning.

Krajewski’s heart sunk into his boots as the crowd of uniformed officers marched past him into the flat. Rath and Wolter kept him in suspense for a moment before Uncle trotted out the usual spiel, that police were engaged in a routine search for weapons throughout the district. Krajewski seemed a little more relaxed after that. A trace of nervousness remained, however, and Rath knew why. He had had the presence of mind to recover a small bag of cocaine from the sugar bowl in the kitchen before uniform got there.

‘Lucky you met us a few days ago,’ Rath whispered. ‘Otherwise we’d have found a shooter on you and you’d have had to come along with us.’

‘What’s all the fuss about?’ Krajewski asked.

‘You live in the wrong area. Too many communists. You should mind what you hide in the kitchen.’

Krajewski turned pale, but uniform were already on the next floor up. Rath lingered a moment before pressing the paper bag into Krajewski’s hands.

It was now just after twelve and they had worked through another three blocks. House after house, flat after flat, but there was still a long way to go.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Wolter said, as the pair left another building full of angry faces and furious protests – without finding a single weapon.