Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘Shabbos,’ Lea Flegenheimer said. ‘The men are at synagogue. I’m preparing our shabbat meal with Rikwa.’

‘I thought the Sabbath was on Saturday.’

‘You don’t have any Jewish friends, do you, Inspector?’ Lea Flegenheimer said, and while Rath was still thinking about whether he’d describe Manfred Oppenberg or Magnus Schwartz as friends, or, indeed, if he had any friends at all, whether Jewish, Catholic, Protestant or even Atheist, she provided the answer. ‘Clearly not, otherwise you’d know that Sabbath begins at sunset.’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’ The best way to annoy people like Lea Flegenheimer was to remain resolutely polite. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me which synagogue I might find your son in?’

‘You’re not going to disrupt the liturgy?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll wait outside.’

Rath took less than five minutes to reach the synagogue on Münchener Strasse. Naturally, he didn’t go inside, and wouldn’t have done so even without Lea Flegenheimer’s warning. He stood in front of the portal and lit a cigarette. Dusk was falling; it wouldn’t be long now. He contemplated the enormous Jugendstil façade, above which a cupola stood in solitary splendour, capped by the star of David.

It took two cigarettes before the men started to emerge. Only men. No doubt the women were at home preparing the food.

He looked carefully, not just because night was closing in, but because most of the men were dressed in identical fashion. Nearly all wore black coats and black hats, and all wore prayer shawls. Beards and sidelocks made it trickier still. He caught sight of the Flegenheimers among a group of men proceeding down Münchener Strasse towards Grunewaldstrasse, and followed at a distance until Flegenheimer father and son separated from the group at the junction with Berchtesgadener Strasse.

For some reason he couldn’t bring himself to speak to Joseph Flegenheimer, or tell his father that his offspring had been seen entering a Catholic church. He didn’t know whether it was the prayer shawls, or that they were celebrating the most important day in their faith, but there was something in the air, an almost intimate feeling of religion, that he didn’t want to disturb. Perhaps somewhere deep inside he was simply too Catholic not to respect those who still believed in God, even though he was no longer capable of it himself – however much he might long to be.

He waited until the two had disappeared inside their house before walking down Berchtesgadener Strasse towards his car. It was time to go and collect the Buick from the Castle.

On Saturday there was schnitzel. Czerwinski had asked for an especially large plate, with extra potato salad. The workers in the canteen knew the detective’s appetite. Rath and Henning were more modest and contented themselves with smaller portions.

Plisch and Plum were in good spirits. Reaching the weekend without incident was all that mattered to Czerwinski, and he had managed again. The pair thought nothing of Rath quizzing them for information. They had worked together so often that it felt normal when he enquired about the state of an investigation, even now, after Böhm had split them up.

They still hadn’t formally identified the Osthafen as the scene of the crime, even though it stood on their shortlist along with several other remote areas by the shore. Nor could they say anything about the time of death. In other words, they had nothing. In the absence of any other leads, Plisch and Plum only had Hugo’s reputation to go on, and they concluded that it was a gangland revenge. Meanwhile, Rudi Höller’s murder fitted the picture perfectly, even if the pair couldn’t say who was avenging whom, given the uncertainty surrounding the times of death.

‘What’s strange,’ Henning said, ‘is that the pattern in both cases was the same. Exit wounds to the head and chest. Even stranger, according to Ballistics, both Höller and Lenz were killed by the same weapon. The one that did for the dead SA man’s foot.’

‘Goldstein’s Remington,’ Rath said.

‘It looks as if the newspapers were right,’ Czerwinski said. Despite his enormous portion, he was already eating dessert. ‘Our gangster’s been working overtime.’

‘I don’t know.’ Rath was sceptical. ‘Don’t you think everything points a little too obviously at Goldstein? I mean, how does the dead SA man fit in there?’

‘Don’t blame yourself, Gereon,’ Henning said. ‘None of us feels good about how he escaped, but we have to look the facts in the eye.’

Rath fell silent, stood up and took his leave. Earlier that morning he had been to Lanke’s office several times, where he was brusquely informed that Lanke was ‘out in the field’.

The man lived in Schöneberg, near the Queen-Luise-Gedächtniskirche. He stood wide-eyed when he opened the door to find Rath outside. He seemed to have been expecting someone else.

‘You?’ he said. ‘What do you want here?’

‘To talk to you. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

‘I’m afraid this really isn’t a good time. I’m expecting a visitor…’

‘Your uncle?’

Lanke didn’t take the bait. ‘Please leave,’ he said.

Rath stepped inside the flat. He knew he had Lanke where he wanted him. Looking round he noted that Gregor Lanke seemed to exist on more than a detective’s salary. How else could he afford such a roomy front-facing apartment? The maid must have been here recently too; everything looked clean and tidy. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me anything?’ he asked.

‘You want me to make coffee now?’

‘Just a joke.’

‘My sides have split.’

‘What telephone number did you give Christine Möller?’ Rath asked.

‘Pardon?’

‘Christine Möller. Another girl from your impressive collection. You know it’s quite astonishing what you ask of your informants. Pretty much everything, it seems, except for information, of course.’

Lanke turned pale and leaned against the doorframe.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, but it didn’t sound convincing. Lanke knew why Rath was here.

‘Hugo Lenz, also known as Red Hugo was your plaything’s lover. Is that the right way to describe it? Were you jealous? Was that why you arranged the meeting with your supposed colleague? I think it was you who shot Hugo Lenz, or did you hire someone from overseas?’

‘I’m sorry?’ This time he sounded genuine. Rath was surprised. ‘It wasn’t me. You have to believe me!’

‘Then tell me who it was.’

‘I can’t. Don’t you understand!’

‘No.’

‘I can’t betray the fellowsh… the men. It would mean certain death.’

Gregor Lanke looked like a man out of his depth.

‘The story about how you wanted to get Goldstein by smuggling your informant into the Excelsior was a lie,’ Rath said. ‘You were acting on behalf of your comrades there too, weren’t you?’

Lanke said nothing, but Rath realised he was on the right track. ‘What’s going on here, Lanke?’

Gregor Lanke gazed at his feet, saying nothing, but shaking slightly. Rath almost felt sympathy for him.

‘You should think hard about cooperating, otherwise I’ll make your dirty business public and that’ll be it for your police career.’

‘If that’s what you have to do. I’ve got nothing more to say. Now, please leave my flat.’

Rath wouldn’t get anything more out of him for the time being. The man seemed genuinely afraid. When the doorbell rang he looked at it like a deer in headlights. Rath opened and stared into a pretty face. He had never seen this young lady before, but felt certain she could be marvelled at in an illegal nightclub somewhere in Berlin. He tipped his hat and took his leave, wishing both parties ‘a nice weekend’, which, of course, neither of them would have. Gregor Lanke was soaked in sweat, no longer capable of anything.