Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

Rath had taken the east. While Charly spoke to the five families who had registered girls called Alex, he would work his way through the list of Reinholds based in Friedrichshain. He strode to the top of the escalator and lit a cigarette. Before emerging from the U-Bahn station at Strausberger Platz, he took another look in his notebook. The first address was in Andreasstrasse, not far from here.

In her determination to make amends, Charly had reminded him of the year before, when she had flunked her exam. Clearly, failure was not a concept that existed in her world. Her only source of comfort was to act, which she had done by tackling the exam for a second time. She’s a tough one, my girl, he had thought, as she started over again, studying long into the night. He felt an immense love for Charly in those hours he observed her unnoticed. At the same time her dogged grimness almost scared him.

He walked down Andreasstrasse, looking at the house numbers. The neighbourhood didn’t bring back good memories. Not far from here, at a construction site on Koppenstrasse, which had long since been replaced by a new building, Rath had clashed fatally with Josef Wilczek, a small-time crook, and then disposed of the corpse. Later he had consigned the man’s file to the Wet Fish, the Castle’s store of unsolved cases, after sabotaging the investigation. At least that’s what he thought, until Johann Marlow quite casually dropped the name Wilczek into a conversation. It was one of the reasons he couldn’t refuse any of the gangster’s requests, and that included searching for Red Hugo. At least – and this was to the man’s credit – it was the first time in almost two and a half years that Marlow had tried to use him. Until now it had been the other way around, which only exacerbated Rath’s debt.

He looked around. The pub where Dr M. had waited in vain for Hugo Lenz on Monday evening must be close. Not the sort of neighbourhood Charly should be walking around in at night.

On Langen Strasse, a flickering neon sign was engaged in battle with the oncoming dusk. Amor-Diele. That was the place. For an underworld meeting point it looked pretty respectable. Perhaps it had to be for Johann Marlow to frequent it.

Rath came to a halt. He looked at his list of addresses and then the sign outside the pub. Damn it, he thought as he pocketed his notebook. Charly’s Reinholds could wait. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter and went over.

The old man didn’t make it out of the station building. The brownshirts caught up with him and pushed him into a corner. Two or three passersby looked across, and suddenly rushed to get down to the platform. The man at the ticket counter leaned over his till to count his change. Goldstein entered the foyer from the top of the escalator and saw the lips under the white beard moving as if in prayer. ‘Could you please to step aside so that I go back down the underground?’ he asked politely.

‘It’s for Germans only,’ said the red-faced man who had started the whole thing off. He tapped the old man’s chest with his fingers. ‘Who said you could take the train?’

‘But I have ticket.’

‘Didn’t you hear? For Germans only, you’ll have to walk!’ One of the brownshirts struck the old man a hefty blow so that he stumbled into the arms of the ringleader.

‘Hey, Jew, watch where you’re going!’

‘Well,’ said a third, giving the old man, who was still holding his ticket, a sharp rap on the arm. ‘Aren’t you going to apologise to the Scharführer?’

The old man’s eyes flitted this way and that, from one man to the next. Enough was enough.

‘Why don’t you just let the man go home?’ Goldstein said.

Four pairs of eyes turned to face him.

As calmly as possible, Goldstein lit a Camel, and, for a moment, they were speechless, looking at each other before returning to the man with the cigarette. ‘What do we have here?’

Goldstein would have liked to tear a strip off them, but he didn’t want to start a fight. He just wanted them to leave the old man in peace.

While the eyes of his tormentors were on Goldstein, the old man lunged to the right, darting sideways and out of the building with surprising speed. The four men gazed after him in confusion.

‘We haven’t finished with you yet!’ the Scharführer waved his fist at Goldstein, a gesture that seemed laughable, and followed his three cronies outside.

‘You’re welcome, asshole,’ Goldstein snarled in English. He was part of this now. By the time he stepped onto the street the old man had crossed the carriageway. His pursuers waited for their Scharführer to catch up, then bore down on the old man from both sides. He looked to the left and right, before turning towards the park, which rose dark and threatening in the night sky, a wall of leaves illuminated by streetlights.

They had forced him into a corner.

Goldstein who, as a child, had been told never to walk through McCarren Park after dark, had no idea what the man was thinking. Perhaps the trees reminded him of the Galician forests, or he hoped simply to hide among the bushes. He disappeared between two box trees and, for a brief moment, the brownshirts looked around idiotically, before stalking after him.

Goldstein had to let three or four cars pass before he could cross too. The old man had struck out for the undergrowth, and his pursuers had followed. He decided on a gravel path. At least the way here was lit.

The man was smoking behind the wheel of his car.

Rath hadn’t learned much in the pub, but at least they had stood him a beer. The landlord, obviously briefed by Marlow, showed him to a spacious room behind the lounge and toilets, with three tables that could be pushed together for conferences or large dinners, but would better suit games of skat. The most noticeable thing was the desk with the telephone, by which Rath knew straightaway that he was in one of Johann Marlow’s many offices. This was where Red Hugo Lenz should have appeared yesterday evening, having last been seen at lunchtime. According to the landlord Lenz didn’t have any quirks, only a passion for the horses, and regularly visited the racetrack at Karlshorst. Rath’s theory that the Nordpiraten had taken him from outside Amor-Diele was rejected out of hand. The landlord claimed the Pirates were too cowardly to set foot in Friedrichshain, but it looked like he might be mistaken there.

Rath crossed the street, opened the passenger door and sat inside. The man stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a taxi.’

Rath pulled out his identification. The man made to open the door but froze when he felt the barrel of Rath’s Walther against his temple.

‘Stay where you are, and close the door.’ The man obeyed. ‘Back on the streets, Johnny?’

‘Do we know each other?’

‘It was a long time ago. Vice squad. Bruno Wolter.’ A light came on in Johnny’s head. ‘You were a doorman, weren’t you? You’ve risen in the world.’

‘Is this allowed?’

‘Does it matter?’ Rath pressed the Walther a little harder against the man’s temple. ‘You’re from the Nordpiraten, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘And you’re a cop coming out of a Berolina dive. What am I supposed to make of that?’

‘Nothing. You’re here to answer questions, not me. Hugo Lenz has disappeared, and the majority of people in there think the Nordpiraten had something to do with it. How many evenings have you been sitting here now? Was it you who kept an eye on Red Hugo before giving him up?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Why break a drug-dealer’s spine? Why make a bonfire out of a newspaper kiosk?’