Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘What is it this time, Frau Karsunke? Everything here’s dark.’

‘Little brat, coming up here like that. She doesn’t even live in the building.’

Alex scarcely dared breathe. The attic’s forty-watt bulbs came on and cast a yellowy shimmer on the roof tiles.

‘Are you sure? Doesn’t look like there’s anyone here to me.’

‘I saw her. Not for the first time either. Something’s not right.’

Alex had never heard the caretaker say a word, but knew it was him; she could picture his red face. He began to shout: ‘Hello? Is there anyone there?’

‘She must be hiding. You need to take a look-see, Herr Ebers.’

The abandoned hovel with the number fourteen was situated right at the end of the corridor. During the day, they would stand the mattresses against the wall, pack their sleeping bags away, and pile all their junk in front so that it looked like the last tenant hadn’t cleared the flat when they left. One by one Alex heard the doors creak open.

‘Guard the stairs, Frau Karsunke, so that no one can get away.’

The thought of escaping down the stairs past the two of them disappeared no sooner than it arrived. She stood stock-still on the roof, right next to the dormer window. Just stay calm. In half an hour they’d be asleep in their beds, and she could exit the building.

A few days ago she had asked Benny if it wasn’t time to look for a new hideout. He had played it down, saying that this one still had a few days in it. Soon they’d rent a proper flat with the KaDeWe money Kalli had promised. She had let herself be convinced, but still had a funny feeling about Flat B. If only she had listened to her instincts.

‘I told you, there’s no one here,’ the caretaker said. ‘Perhaps she really is with the Grünbergs, like she said.’

‘They’re all asleep. She went upstairs two hours ago and never came back.’

‘There’s no one here, anyway.’

‘Then maybe she’s in one of the empty flats.’

‘They’re all locked. Listen, Frau Karsunke. You got me out of bed. I’ve come up to take a look, but that’s it now. There’s nothing here.’

‘What about the window?’

‘What about it?’

‘The skylight. It’s ajar.’

‘Someone’ll have opened it while hanging the washing.’

Alex heard footsteps approaching. Hopefully he wouldn’t come onto the roof. She stood rigid. If he wanted to see her, he’d have to climb out. She heard the window hinge creaking but, from the sound of the bolt, it was being closed rather than opened. The idiot caretaker had locked her out and she could scarcely hear their voices.

A few minutes later the light in the attic went off. They were gone. She poked her head around the corner. Darkness everywhere. Perhaps it was a trap? Perhaps the caretaker was still there, waiting for her to show herself. Whatever, the main thing was that she had no idea how to get down.

In the meantime, what light remained had been swallowed by the night.

The red-black Horch parked next to the silo seemed out of place. The corner of Stralauer Allee was chock full of lorries and small delivery trucks. Hugo Lenz got out of the car and stretched his considerable frame into the night, feeling the blood course through his body. He liked the air here by the harbour, the smell of the river, mingled with the smell of petrol from the nearby tank. He didn’t lock up. This was his kingdom; no one would think of stealing Red Hugo’s car, not here. He had worked at the Osthafen many years ago prior to the war, before he started earning money by more dangerous, though far more profitable, means. The two and a half years in prison seemed a fair price, all things considered.

Things weren’t running so smoothly at the moment, however. The Nordpiraten had been making serious trouble ever since Rudi the Rat had returned from the clink. Only this morning some hooligan had smashed up Fritze Hansen’s kiosk, one of the most reliable earners Berolina had on their lists. It was a brazen insult. Well, what do you know, it said, Berolina can no longer protect their own. What are you still paying them for?

If Marlow didn’t react soon, things would get out of control. Until now he had preferred to sit back, reluctant to do anything that might bring the cops into play and disrupt business.

Dr M. was perhaps not entirely wrong, but doing nothing wasn’t the answer. The Pirates were becoming bolder by the day, and it was only a matter of time before somebody snuffed it. They had thrown Kettler out of the window, leaving him in a wheelchair, but it could have been worse. Lenz had wanted to strike there and then, but Marlow kept him in check. They had been allowed to torch a Pirate betting office on Greifswalder Strasse, but that was his only concession to his men’s desire for revenge.

The good doctor had no idea that feelings were running so high. If he allowed this to continue, people would start jumping ship. Something had to give. The Pirates had to be taken out of circulation in a way that was sanctioned by the cops, and Hugo Lenz knew how to make it happen. His new allies would help him; they’d even pay for it.

He could already tell they were serious. The department store brats had been neutralised at the weekend. One of the little bastards had even been killed, not that Hugo had wanted that. All he wanted was to give those urchins, who had been making the cops nervous for weeks and ruining Berolina’s business, a little warning. He hadn’t wanted anyone to die, although a dead body was a damn good warning. The other brats would keep away from the city’s department stores for a while, and Kalli knew that Berolina were better business partners than a couple of snotty-nosed street urchins. If there should be further deaths Hugo wouldn’t complain. After all, Berolina wouldn’t have anything to do with it.

He crossed the railway tracks that ran parallel to Stralauer Allee and connected the Osthafen with the wider world. He had suggested the meeting point himself. One of the warehouses next to the big cold-storage depot belonged to Berolina. Not officially, of course, no one rented a warehouse to a Ringverein. Officially, it was the firm Marlow Imports who used the almost two thousand square metre space, as the sign above the loading bay indicated. Lenz had seen to it that none of his men were present. Who the boss was meeting was none of their concern.

He moved along the quay, past the cranes that shifted goods by the ton, and the ships moored on the Spree, waiting to be loaded. There wasn’t much happening. The crews were asleep, and the few workers he met had tired faces.

There were two men waiting at the loading bay. They were a little too well dressed for the neighbourhood, even if their suits were off the peg. Typical cop suits, Hugo Lenz thought. So, they were serious. Satisfied, he breathed in a gust of Spree air and grinned. He didn’t need Johann Marlow to keep those Nordpiraten rats at bay. Things would be different now, and Johann Marlow, the arrogant prick, could go hang once and for all.

The house lay in darkness as Rath opened the main door. Everyone was asleep and no wonder: it was almost midnight. He felt as if he should have been in bed hours ago. Yet the rage in his stomach would make sleep hard to come by. He switched on the light in the stairwell and climbed the stairs, past Brettschneider’s door. She looked at him in a funny way whenever their paths crossed, couldn’t get it into her bourgeois little head that a man came and went in a flat shared by two young women. The landlord accepted that while Fräulein Overbeck was in Uppsala for two semesters, Rath sometimes spent whole nights and even had his own key. Frau Brettschneider, a single, retired teacher, did not. It simply didn’t fit into her worldview.