Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘Kralle, shut up!’

‘The fuck I will! Who brought you up? When grown-ups ask you something, you answer.’

Charly tried to allay Vicky’s fears. ‘You needn’t be afraid,’ she said. ‘I want to help your friend.’

‘If you’re from Welfare, you can piss off,’ Vicky hissed. ‘We know your kind of help!’

‘Maybe the cops sent her on ahead,’ Kralle said. ‘Is Alex involved in this KaDeWe business? I thought she and her little Jewish friend had something to do with it.’

The girl with the knife suddenly lost her temper. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re saying,’ she shouted. ‘Do you have any idea what happened, you stupid, fat bastard? Now piss off before I cut you a second arsehole!’

Kralle hunched his shoulders and left.

‘You’d better go too,’ Vicky said to Charly, ‘and forget what that idiot just said.’

‘I want to help Alexandra. Do you know where I can find her? She’s injured her hand and I think…’

‘Didn’t you hear me? Piss off!’

The knife in Vicky’s hand shook, and she looked as if she could lose control at any moment. Charly decided not to take that chance. The knife looked sharp.

‘OK,’ she said, ‘but if you change your mind, call me. Like I said, I want to help. I know that Alexandra is afraid of something; perhaps she should talk to me about it. I’m not from the police or Welfare.’ From her handbag she produced the notebook she had carried since her time in Homicide, wrote down her Moabit number and tore out the page. She placed the paper on the stairs and picked her way across the shards of glass, back into the open air.

Her heart was pounding as she emerged onto the street. Walking quickly towards Landsberger Allee, she opened her handbag and counted her change as she went. At the Ringbahn station she made straight for the nearest telephone booth.

Dressed in a dark suit with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, Goldstein stood outside the door, stared at the brass number, and withdrew the hand that was about to knock. Seized by a sudden nervousness, he paced back and forth like a tiger in a cage. No one paid him any attention; only a child being dragged through the ward in his parents’ wake looked at him for any length of time. He decided to go in, despite his reservations, just as the door unexpectedly opened. A man wearing a black hat came out, looked at him and his bouquet with a serious expression and walked past.

Beard and sidelocks made him seem older than he was, possibly about thirty, more likely mid-twenties. The brief moment the door was open had been enough for Goldstein to see the numerous visitors inside the room. It looked as if the entire family was gathered round the sickbed, including a second man in a black caftan. Everyone else was dressed in normal clothes.

He took a deep breath when the door closed again and the young man had disappeared inside the stairwell at the end of the corridor.

Arriving during visiting hours had been a bad idea. He couldn’t go in, not with all those people there, and suddenly felt out of place with his bouquet of flowers.

Yet, until that point everything had gone so smoothly. No one had asked any questions, and the porter had provided the room number without hesitation. Dressed in his plain, dark, single-breasted suit and carrying his bouquet of flowers, Abraham Goldstein looked like an ordinary visitor, blending in with the many others moving about with flowers during visiting hours.

Everything had seemed so easy, except that it wasn’t.

Goldstein paced up and down outside the door, unsure what to do. No one in there would recognise him, but he wondered whether he shouldn’t wait until the family had gone. With that, he made up his mind. Pressing the flowers into the hands of a puzzled nurse, he exited the ward the same way he had come.

At the public entrance, Charly had said, but she wasn’t there when Rath turned the corner past Alexanderhaus. The entrance to police headquarters on Grunerstrasse, right by the arches of the suburban railway, might have been the only one with an eye-catching perron, but that didn’t stop the rest of the colossal brick structure from inspiring awe. Purpose-built and bigger, even, than the City Palace, Berliners referred to it as Red Castle . Most police officers, however, simply called their workplace Castle ; others, somewhat less awe-struck, dubbed it Factory.

He was to wait on the steps outside, rather than at the porter’s lodge or in his office. She hadn’t said why, but he sensed she would have no great desire to run into her former colleagues. Well, there was little chance of that happening here. Although a great many people used the public entrance, those who worked at police headquarters tended to avoid it. She hadn’t said a great deal on the telephone, only that they should meet at Alex and that she needed his help.

Kirie was sniffing at every corner and gazing at strange dogs as they passed. Already Rath had been forced to ward off the attentions of a pushy male pug during their lunchtime stroll, but that was as exciting as it got. His shift in the Excelsior had passed without event. Evidently Goldstein had given up trying to escape his minders and disappeared into his suite. He hadn’t shown himself since, even choosing to have his lunch brought to the room.

Rath was so preoccupied with Kirie that only now did he register the eye-catching vehicle parked beside the railway arches. A slender man climbed out of the driver’s door, and his appearance caused something of a stir, partly on account of his straight, black hair, which was bound in a long ponytail, and partly on account of his high cheekbones and impenetrable, dark, narrow eyes. Rath recognised him instantly… Liang Kuen-Yao, Johann Marlow’s shadow, in a tailored suit as always.

What the hell was Marlow’s Chinaman doing at police headquarters? Liang strode purposefully to the entrance, but only when he tipped his hat in greeting did Rath realise that he himself was the target.

‘Inspector,’ Liang said. ‘Please come with me. Your presence is requested.’ Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed back to the car.

Rath looked around. When he was certain there was no one here who knew him, he followed. The freshly washed car was parked between a dusty Opel and a new Ford. The colour of a fine red wine, it looked as if it had arrived straight from Holly-wood. Not even Hindenburg’s Mercedes could have attracted more attention. Several youths gazed in wonder while maintaining a respectful distance. They were discussing what make it was.

‘It’s a Chevy.’ – ‘Nonsense, a Buick Master Six.’ – ‘American at any rate.’

It was indeed an American vehicle, but a Duesenberg, as uncommon on Berlin’s roads as penguins in the Sahara. Liang opened the door and, to Rath’s great surprise, Kirie sprang into the back. Before following, he took one last look to check Charly wasn’t coming around the corner. Kirie crouched in the spacious footwell in front of the backseat, and allowed herself to be stroked by a man inside.

‘Good dog,’ said Johann Marlow.

‘That must be a Boulette from Aschinger,’ Rath said. ‘Kirie would eat one of those out of the devil’s hand.’

‘I hope that’s not a reference to me.’ Marlow looked just as Rath remembered him: a little stocky but powerfully built, his linen summer suit tailored to perfection. ‘Good to see you again, Inspector,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know I had a choice?’

‘I’m pleased to see you’re as realistic as ever.’

Rath felt as if he’d stepped into his own nightmare. He had been expecting Marlow to show up again, but had pushed the knowledge aside, almost daring to hope that his dealings with the man were over.