Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

Goldstein grinned. ‘I see you know all the tricks.’ He took off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and sat at the table. ‘OK, let’s get it over with. But if you’re planning to do this sort of thing in future, come a little earlier. Then I won’t have to shower twice.’

‘Cleanliness is a virtue,’ Rath said, taking the American’s right hand and pressing the thumb first on the ink pad and then inside the appropriate box on the form. A good, clean print. ED, the police identification service, would be pleased, even if Rath hoped they’d never have to use it. The fingerprint business was meant to show Goldstein who was in charge, not that he seemed greatly impressed.

‘What happens to that sheet when we’re finished?’ he asked, sounding like a patient who wants to know his blood pressure.

‘It’s added to our collection,’ Rath said, taking the next print. ‘And if your prints turn up on anything even halfway suspicious, you’ll be behind bars. Simple as that.’

‘As I said, I’m a tourist, here to explore your city.’

‘Then you’ll have no objection to police observing you as you go about it.’

‘Pardon me?’ Goldstein pulled his hand away before Rath could press his already blackened pinkie onto the page.

‘No need to get worked up. We’re keeping an eye on you for your own safety. It shouldn’t put you out in the slightest, so long as you’ve nothing to hide.’

‘What if it does put me out?! Fucking unbelievable! Is this some sort of police state? I thought you’d driven your Kaiser out and founded a democracy!’

‘The safety of our… tourists matters a great deal to us.’

Goldstein gazed at Rath as if sizing him up. ‘So, I have my own babysitter, is that right? One with a piece, to boot.’

‘If you like.’

Goldstein shook his head. ‘What happens if I give you the slip? Will you shoot me?’

‘You won’t.’

A smile reappeared on Goldstein’s face. ‘Finally, an offer I can work with,’ he said, stretching out a blackened right hand.

The number of people passing through these revolving doors! Just looking made you dizzy. For a while Rath had counted bald men, then moustachioed men. When that became boring he counted women with bandy legs. You had to do something to pass the time – and he had already read all the papers. He still had to keep an eye on the hallway, of course, in case the Yank took a stroll, but it seemed as if Abe Goldstein was happy as Larry in his suite.

Every few minutes some helpful soul would change the ashtrays, so Rath lost track of how many cigarettes he had smoked. His supplies, at any rate, were dwindling. Only two were left in the packet, but the Excelsior housed a good range of tobacco products.

His attempt to intimidate the show-off Yank had failed spectacularly, and he was annoyed. Goldstein had made fun of him instead, by proposing a wager. As if they were playing chase, hide-and-seek or – more appropriately – cops and robbers.

Things weren’t looking good. Rath lit his second to last Overstolz. The coffee in the gold-rimmed cup had long since grown cold. He took a sip and leafed through the Vossische Zeitung without reading it, until he grew tired even of that and placed the paper next to the cup. A boy immediately sprang forth, smoothing and folding the crumpled newspaper so that it looked as good as new, and replacing it beside the others. Rath stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. The porter gazed at him expectantly.

‘Ah, Inspector.’ His voice dripped with kindness turned sour. ‘What can I do for you? Would you like to take another glance at the guest register? Or might I reserve you a room, since you are clearly intent on staying a little longer?’

‘Don’t put yourself out. Your hallway is perfectly agreeable. Very comfy chairs.’

‘Where the comfort of our guests is concerned we spare neither trouble nor expense.’

‘I should hope not.’

The porter leaned in a little and lowered his voice. ‘Inspector, won’t you please tell me what Mister Goldstein has done to attract the attention of the police?’

Rath leaned in too. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t any of your concern.’

‘If one of our guests is suspected of a crime, we ought to know about it. I shall have to inform our in-house detective. We’re talking about the safety of our hotel here!’

Rath nodded. ‘Quite right. Fetch your detective here but, first, I’ll make a telephone call.’

‘Should I put it on your account?’

‘If you would be so kind,’ Rath smiled pleasantly. Four coffees, a sandwich and a telephone call. Driving up his expenses bill was about the only pleasure left to him, and there was still a big carton of Overstolz to be added.

A short time later, he stood in one of the telephone booths, staring through the glass door, listening for the connection. He still had the lifts in his sights, as well as the great revolving door leading onto Stresemannstrasse. No one was home at Spenerstrasse, so he asked to be put through to Lichtenberg District Court and Fräulein Ritter.

‘Good thing you called,’ Charly said. ‘There’s trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘Weber’s just back from holiday…’

Special Counsel Albrecht Weber was Charly’s superior at the District Court.

‘So?’

‘Weber isn’t quite so taken with your dog’s charms as the rest of them here… Gereon, I can’t take Kirie into work anymore. From tomorrow you’ll have to start taking her to Alex again.’ That was all he needed. ‘Let’s talk about it at dinner. There’s something I need to speak to you about anyway. Will you be home on time?’

‘That’s why I’m calling,’ he said. ‘I’ll be about an hour late. Weiss has lumped this surveillance on me.’

‘The deputy himself? Go on, I’m all ears.’

Charly couldn’t hide her curiosity. Once upon a time she had worked in Homicide too. As a stenographer, nominally, but Gennat and Böhm had been only too happy to rely on her investigative acumen, and had deployed the prospective lawyer accordingly.

Rath told her about Goldstein and his assignment.

‘Sounds like a punishment,’ she said.

‘I didn’t do anything, honest.’

‘Perhaps Weiss wants to make you atone for your youthful misdeeds.’

‘I thought I’d already paid my dues.’

About a year before, Rath had been subjected to disciplinary proceedings. He had got off lightly, mainly because Gennat had put in a good word, but his scheduled promotion to chief inspector had been temporarily put on hold. Not even political support from the Prussian Interior Ministry, prompted by Konrad Adenauer, a personal friend of his father, had been able to change that.

‘I have to hang up now, Charly. I’m wanted here. See you tonight.’

There was a man at reception, whose appearance didn’t quite match the elegance of his light-brown summer suit. Although the suit looked tailor-made, it flapped at the edges whenever its bearer moved. He didn’t look anything like the veteran cop Rath had been expecting, more like a starving, unemployed bookkeeper. The porter pointed with his chin towards the telephone booth. Rath left the booth and went over. The man’s handshake was firmer than expected.

‘I’m the hotel detective,’ said the hotel detective. ‘Grunert. And you’re from the… CID?’ He spoke the last word quietly, as if it were something to be ashamed of. ‘Could I see your identification?’

‘Certainly.’ Rath fumbled the document out of his bag.

The hotel detective unfolded it with nimble fingers and compared the photograph with the man, declaring himself satisfied and returning it to Rath. ‘You understand that we have a legitimate interest in knowing why the police are here. Herr Teubner tells me that your attention is reserved for a particular guest. The American in 301?’