Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

Rath got out and crossed the street, keeping the pub door in view, and held his badge against the taxi window. The driver wound down the window.

‘Yes, Inspector?’

‘Did your passenger say how long you had to wait?’

‘He did.’

‘So, when’s he coming back?’

The man shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘Did he or didn’t he tell you how long you had to wait?’

‘Take it easy, man. He said I should wait until the meter shows twenty.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Beats me. Only thing I know is it’s at twelve fifty. He’s already paid, so here I am waiting, and that’s that.’ Rath slammed the roof in rage and turned away.

The name of the pub hardly inspired confidence: Rote Laterne . The Red Lantern. A fug of beer met him as he entered the half-darkness, making out a lounge that stretched into infinity, a dark tunnel in which the bar shone like a promise. A few male guests sat in silence. One of them was barely capable of keeping himself upright, but even he turned his head to look. Rath couldn’t see the Yank anywhere. The woman behind the bar continued to tap beer without looking up.

‘A man must have come through this way,’ he said. It wasn’t a good idea to show his badge here. He turned to the barmaid. ‘Did a man come through here?’

The woman, who seemed a little fragile, gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. ‘A while ago.’ She gestured towards the back. ‘Asked for the toilets.’

The narrow, dark corridor reeked of piss. Rath held his breath and flung open the toilet door, not expecting to find Goldstein by the urinal. He quickly made sure the cubicle was also empty and continued on his way to the courtyard. No trace. He hurried through a large archway leading onto Reinickendorfer Strasse , a wide street with lots of pedestrians, and spotted him there. The light-coloured hat was too elegant for a neighbourhood like this, where most people wore plain caps. Goldstein was making for Nettelbeckplatz, crossing the carriageway just before the railway bridge. For a moment, Rath thought he was headed for the S-Bahn station, but he turned into Lindower Strasse, which looked just as run-down as the street where the taxi was waiting. Had he taken a wrong turn?

Yet Goldstein didn’t seem like a lost tourist. He strode purposefully towards Müllerstrasse and descended the steps to the U-Bahn. Rath had to increase his pace to keep up, and saw him again on the platform, just as a train was approaching.

Goldstein grinned without, however, making any attempt to climb aboard. Rath stayed close to a door, ready to jump in if he had to. The stationmaster’s ‘Keep back!’ came through the loudspeakers and had the effect of a starting pistol on Goldstein. He dived into the train, and Rath did likewise, just making it into third-class as the train started and the doors engaged.

‘Are you daft or something?’ grumbled an ill-tempered worker, whose foot Rath had trampled. ‘Pay attention, can’t you?’

‘Sorry,’ Rath mumbled. The next station was Schwartzkopffstrasse ; they were heading south. Rath poked his head out of the door, but Goldstein didn’t get off. There was no other way of keeping the Yank in view. He was sitting in second-class and there was no connecting door. He still hadn’t got off when the ‘Keep back’ sounded. Only at the last moment did Rath pull his head in.

‘You’re a strange one,’ the worker said. ‘Don’t know whether you’re coming or going.’

The man got out at Stettiner Bahnhof, leaving Rath in peace. The rest of the passengers looked at him quizzically when, with each new station, he moved to the door, blocking the path of those boarding and alighting and earning himself a few shoves. Goldstein didn’t dismount until Kochstrasse.

Goldstein waited for him at the foot of the steps. ‘Well, Inspector,’ he said. ‘This Berlin of yours is a lovely city.’

They climbed the stairs, gangster and police inspector together.

‘If you want a guided tour,’ Rath said, ‘I’d recommend one of Käse’s travel buses. You’ll see more for less money.’

‘I’ll remember that. Will you be joining me?’

Rath gave a sour smile.

They reached Friedrichstrasse. Dusk was falling and the first shops had switched on their neon signs.

‘Will you escort me back to the hotel?’ Goldstein asked. ‘It shouldn’t be too far from here, the taxi driver said.’

‘I’ll do anything I can to make your stay in our city as unpleasant as possible.’

Goldstein shook his head. ‘Is that the famous Berlin hospitality?’

‘We don’t like your sort here. This isn’t Chicago.’

‘So I’m a bogeyman and this is a city full of angels. Is that it?’

‘All I want is for you not to get away. As long as I manage that, I’m happy.’

At Wilhelmstrasse, Goldstein stopped at the corner outside the Prinz-Albrecht-Palais. He tapped a Camel out of the carton and lit it before replying. ‘Who says I’m trying to get away, Officer?’

The sun disappeared behind the roofs and sent a final glimmer over the horizon. How peaceful the city seemed from here, how spectacular the view. The palace dome, the cathedral and the tower of City Hall seemed within touching distance, though not quite as close as the dark roofs and brick walls of the women’s prison. To the right, the Friedrichshain treetops towered over the roof ridges and swayed gently in the breeze.

Alex sat next to the skylight, smoking a Manoli, drawing so deep it was as if she wanted to absorb everything; to keep all the fumes inside. She was smoking to quell her anger, but it wasn’t working.

They had shared the first cigarette from that tin only two days before, but already it seemed like an image from another life: Benny standing before her smiling, so uncertain and so in love. His shy overtures, the failed kiss… And she had turned him down. Damn it!

Every evening they spent in Flat B they would sit here on the roof and share a cigarette before going to bed. They had to smoke it outside as cold cigarette smoke could give them away.

Flat B was really nothing more than an abandoned hovel in a Büschingstrasse attic, located in a rear building in which the majority of flats stood deserted. A perfect hideaway, perhaps a little too warm on hot days, but otherwise ideal. Benny had found it, God knows how, but he’d always had a good nose for a bolt-hole, and only very seldom in the last few months had they actually been forced to sleep outside. Whenever they had, there’d always been something to smoke, even if it was rolled together from the stubs of other cigarettes.

The last of the daylight shone over the roofs in the west. In the courtyard below it was already dark. Most people were in their beds. Alex flicked away the cigarette butt and watched it descend like a drunken firefly. Its embers corkscrewed into the night.

Yes, they had been damn lucky these last few weeks, but somehow she had sensed that fate would make them pay. With so much luck, something was bound to go wrong and, indeed, something had. Benny had died. It was as if all their luck was merely borrowed, and the repayments were far too high.

Kalli, that rat, had fobbed her off with a twenty, a measly twenty! Well, the skinflint would be sorry. Her mind was made up. It had to be tonight. In an hour’s time it would be dark enough and she could get on the tram and head back out. Without cigarettes, there was no reason to sit on the roof any longer.

Their alarm system was a few tins on a washing line that Benny had connected to the door at the foot of the attic stairs. She was about to climb back through the window when there was a high-pitched, hollow clatter and footsteps on the stairs. Shit! Who was trying to get into the attic at this hour? She pulled her legs back and moved away from the window opening. Not a moment too soon. The door to the attic opened, and she heard a man’s voice, so loud it was as if he was standing right next to her.