Фолькер Кучер - The Fatherland Files

‘Which was enough to make him shoot.’

Rath’s left shoulder hurt. ‘Clearly.’ He stubbed out his cigarette with his right hand. ‘I didn’t think that was in any doubt.’

Gennat again glanced at the file. ‘I can understand your first shot,’ he said. ‘A classic case of self-defence, but why did you shoot Wengler in the eye after you’d immobilised him with a shot to the neck?’

‘I don’t know, Sir. I pulled down on the trigger twice. I realise it was an error, but it happened. Perhaps it was a reflex after Wengler hit me, mortal terror, whatever… in situations like that you don’t always think clearly. You react…’

‘But you should. Think. It’s what police officers are trained to do. Especially before using their weapons; before having recourse to fire !’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘The weapon used to shoot you… could it have been a Luger too? Our colleagues were unable to trace the bullet.’

‘I don’t know, Sir. It’s possible.’

‘Your wound would suggest as much.’ Gennat sighed. ‘Shame we don’t have it.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Rath appeared contrite again. ‘I’m sorry I let Polakowski give me the slip, but he threatened me with Wengler’s gun, which he had claimed for himself.’

‘You were armed too. Why didn’t you take up the chase?’

‘I had to see to Gustav Wengler first. He was still alive at that point.’

‘And, of course, Chief Constable Grigat was no longer armed.’ Gennat struck the file with the flat of his hand. ‘Rath, my good man. I’m having trouble believing even half of this outlandish tale.’

‘I can’t help it if the truth is outlandish, Sir.’

Gennat fixed him in the eyes, so deep that Rath grew uneasy. ‘I guess we’ll never know what really happened at this lake in Masuria.’

Let’s hope so , Rath thought. Otherwise they’ll make Artur Radlewski’s life hell, and he deserves it least of all .

‘I’ve told you everything I know, Sir.’

‘Let’s put it this way: you haven’t once contradicted yourself and, as your statement tallies with that of Chief Constable Grigat, there’s an end to it.’

Dealing with Grigat had been easier than Rath anticipated. The fact that Gustav Wengler was dead, and the bullets in his corpse came from the constable’s service Luger, made it a damn sight easier to win the man over, and cook up a halfway credible explanation for the whole shemozzle.

Gennat tapped Rath’s report with the flat of his hand. ‘This won’t be the last time you’re questioned on this. Investigation proceedings aren’t over, not by a long shot.’

‘I’m aware of that, Sir.’ Rath tried not to show discomfort at Buddha’s stern gaze.

‘I hope that killing a man and allowing a mass murderer to escape can be squared with your conscience.’

‘Forgive me, Sir.’

Gennat shook his head. ‘Sometimes, Herr Rath, you’re a little too Catholic for your own good.’

‘What do you mean, Sir?’

‘The fact that you’re constantly seeking forgiveness. How many times is it you’ve sat here now? I’m neither your confessor, nor the dear Lord himself. Go to confession to have your sins absolved, not my office!’

‘I haven’t been to confession in a long time, Sir.’

‘Perhaps you should.’ Buddha snapped the file shut. ‘You’re lucky, Herr Rath, that alongside Chief Constable Grigat and Assistant Detective Kowalski, both Fräulein Ritter and Wilhelm Böhm have put in a good word for you. And that, right now, I need people like you. People who aren’t interested in politics, but in solving crimes.’

Rath stubbed out his cigarette, safe in the knowledge that, whatever investigation proceedings were still to come, he’d survive. As for his conscience and visiting confession, Buddha need have no worries there. He was at peace with himself – for the most part.

He looked at his watch and stood up. ‘Might I remind you, Sir? We have an appointment.’

Though it was mid-August, an uncomfortable chill rose from the harbour basin, a biting wind. Rath parked the Buick outside the warehouse and opened the passenger door. Having squeezed himself into the vehicle, Gennat only barely made it out.

Rath turned up his collar and looked around. At the opposite end of the basin a ship was being loaded, otherwise all was quiet. With his arm still in the sling he felt vulnerable. Driving had been a challenge in itself but, having now arrived, he was certain they had nothing to fear. The Westhafen was Concordia territory; no one from the Pirates would show his face here. Even if there was a traitor in Concordia ranks, as Rath suspected, their chief was the only one who knew of this arrangement. That much had been guaranteed by Marlow.

Rath had met Marczewski on one previous occasion, in Marlow’s office at Ostbahnhof, shortly after returning from East Prussia. ‘So, you’re from Königsberg?’ he’d asked, and Paul Marczewski had shaken his head.

‘Rastenburg. Like many Masurians, I moved west for work.’

‘You’re Masurian? Then why is your nickname Polish-Paule?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. We Masurians are caught between two stools: too German for the Polish, too Polish for the Germans. Believe me, though. The majority of people decried as Polacks here in Berlin or the Westphalian mines have Prussian passports.’

Gustav Wengler had indeed known about Polakowski’s vendetta, and done nothing about it. It seemed that, meaning to go legitimate and make his position unassailable, the time was right to get rid of his former partners in crime. Lamkau, Simoneit, Wawerka, and his own brother, Siegbert.

‘It was the strangest thing,’ Marczewski said. ‘The man appearing like that, and asking about the very people we do business with. Did business with.’ Needless to say the former Königsberg gangster had informed his business associate Gustav Wengler. ‘Had I known the bastard would leave me in the lurch, I’d never have warned him. It’s a good thing you dealt with him.’

Rath didn’t know how to take this compliment, but he did know that he didn’t mourn Gustav Wengler.

Buddha wheezed as he climbed the small staircase to the concrete loading ramp. Rath followed behind. No sooner had they reached it than a door opened and a man stepped out. ‘May I introduce Paul Marczewski, Sir.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’

Rath was surprised at Buddha’s easy manner. The pair shook hands, the chief of the Concordia Ringverein and the head of Berlin Homicide.

‘Come in,’ Marczewski said. ‘It’s warmer inside.’

The warehouse really was just a warehouse, bearing no comparison with Marlow’s office at Ostbahnhof, which called to mind the fireplace room of an English country house. Marczewski was less assuming, contenting himself with a table and a few chairs. They sat down. On the table stood three glasses and a bottle of Mathée Luisenbrand . Marczewski poured. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’s the real thing.’

The Luisenbrand tasted as Rath knew it from Treuburg. This was no rotgut, though nor was it as tasty as Rammoser’s homebrew.

‘It seems,’ Marczewski began, lighting a cigarette, ‘that the Berlin Police and Concordia have a mutual problem…’

‘Indeed,’ Gennat said. ‘Inspector Rath tells me you’d be willing to help bring it to a resolution.’

‘The Phantom, as the papers have dubbed him, has been responsible for the deaths of five of my men. With each killing he has sought to weaken my organisation. From what I understand…’ he drew on his cigarette, ‘…I’m next.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Since the operation at the Westhafen, seven of my men have been detained in custody. If they take me now, Concordia will be finished. Why do you think I’ve gone into hiding?’