Филип Керр - Metropolis

‘I doubt it. A cop with a theory is like a lawyer going into court with an empty briefcase; he doesn’t have a shred of evidence. And that’s what matters in this place.’

‘Not a theory, then. A new interpretation of some facts.’

‘Still sounds like a theory.’

‘Just hear me out. Then you can have as much fun as you like picking it apart.’

‘Let the boy talk, Ernst,’ said Weiss. ‘He’s been right before.’

‘I don’t wind up my pocket watch and it’s still right, twice a day.’

I pointed to the cripple-cart I’d brought with me, which now lay on the floor like a child’s toy.

‘I found this klutz wagon at the entrance to a courtyard on Wormser Strasse. On the same night Eva Angerstein was killed.’

‘I told you to drop that damn case,’ said Gennat.

‘It was previously used by a yokel catcher and burglar’s lookout called Prussian Emil. From what I’ve heard he’s not even disabled. He positions himself outside a house that’s being turned over by his partner and then blows a bugle if the owner comes back or a cop shows up. I’ve been wondering why the cart was left abandoned at the scene of Eva Angerstein’s murder. So I checked with Commissar Körner. There was a burglary in an apartment on the corner of Bayreuther Strasse on that same night. Just a short way along from the Wormser Strasse courtyard.’

‘Interesting,’ said Weiss.

‘So what are you saying?’ asked Gennat.

‘I’m saying that Prussian Emil may have seen the man who killed Eva Angerstein. Maybe even recognized him. And legged it before Winnetou could murder him, too. Since when he’s been trying to do exactly that.’

‘So you’re saying that Winnetou is also Dr Gnadenschuss,’ said Gennat. ‘Jesus Christ. Is that your damn theory?’

‘That’s right. Look, it can’t have escaped your attention that Winnetou hasn’t struck since Dr Gnadenschuss started killing disabled war veterans.’

‘It’s nice and neat. I’ll give you that. Two murderers for the price of one. They should put you in charge of the shop floor at Teitz.’

‘It might just be that he’s killing them in the hope of eliminating someone who could identify him as Eva Angerstein’s killer. Since when, maybe he’s developed a taste for it. Maybe he prefers what he’s doing now. After all, there was never anything sexual about the Winnetou killings.’

‘Killing and scalping a girl seems like a very different crime from shooting a klutz in the head,’ said Gennat.

‘True. But you said yourself that it was murder for the sake of it. He enjoys killing and nothing else. That and tormenting the police, of course.’

‘Maybe Prussian Emil abandoned his klutz wagon when the police showed up to investigate Eva Angerstein’s murder,’ objected Gennat. ‘That seems just as likely, to me. Where does that leave your theory?’

‘In tatters,’ I conceded. ‘But why suppose yours is the only explanation, when there’s at least a possible chain of causation between Winnetou and Gnadenschuss? That’s the kind of chain of causation that helps us.’

‘Or wastes valuable police time.’

‘You’re both right,’ said Weiss. ‘And you’re both wrong. But that’s the true character of police work. Right now we have to work on the assumption that you’re both right. I can’t think of any other way of advancing this investigation, Ernst. We’ll let Gunther run with his theory for a while and see how far it carries us. Any ideas on that, Bernie?’

‘There’s a club on Chausseestrasse, near Oranienburger Tor. A place called Sing Sing. Prussian Emil has been known to drink there with other members of his ring. I thought I’d go there and see what I can find out.’

‘Bar work.’ Gennat laughed. ‘I might have known. Just up your street, I’d have thought.’

‘That used to be the Café Roland,’ said Weiss. ‘I’ve never been there myself but I’ve heard about it. The headwaiter is a loan shark called Gustav. Wasn’t a Schupo man found dead near there, a year ago?’

‘On Tieckstrasse,’ said Gennat. ‘But it was an accident. Live wire underneath the pavement electrocuted him when he walked through a deep puddle after some heavy rain.’

‘I have a question that potentially undermines your theory, Bernie,’ said Weiss. ‘If Dr Gnadenschuss saw Prussian Emil run away from the scene of Eva Angerstein’s murder, then surely he’d know that Emil was a yokel catcher. A fraud. And that there was no point in shooting other disabled veterans on klutz wagons. So why bother with them at all?’

‘Prussian Emil isn’t the only yokel catcher in Berlin. Everyone knows that a good percentage of these men are faking it to make a living. In his first letter, Dr Gnadenschuss actually mentions he’d seen one get up and walk away from his cripple-cart as if his middle name had been Lazarus . Well, suppose it was Prussian Emil that he saw get up and walk away. Suppose he concentrates only on men who are using klutz wagons. Suppose he figures that maybe he’ll shoot the right man eventually.’

‘Why suppose when you can say pretend ?’ said Gennat. ‘Or presume ? Or once upon a time ?’

‘At the same time, he starts to get it into his head that he’s performing a valuable public service in getting rid of these men. And that he can taunt us about it in the newspapers. That there’s nothing we can do about it until we get lucky. Which is probably what it’s going to take to crack a case like this.’

‘This is the part I don’t understand,’ said Weiss. ‘The need to taunt us. Does he do it to have us chasing our tails, or just for the hell of it?’

‘Simple,’ said Gennat. ‘He hates the police. I’ve heard it said that lots of people do, chief.’

‘And here was me thinking to run for election to the Reichstag,’ said Weiss. ‘Pity.’

‘Meanwhile, he helps build his notoriety by creating the public perception that we’re just a bunch of village idiots,’ said Gennat.

I glanced at my watch. ‘I’d better get going.’

Weiss smiled. ‘You’re going to that ring bar, Bernie? The Sing Sing? Tonight?’

‘I thought I might.’

‘With any luck they’ll kill him,’ said Gennat. ‘Even the rats tiptoe past the front door of that place.’

‘Ernst is right, Bernie. Be careful. They don’t like cops in there.’

‘I know. That’s why I thought I’d take someone with me. Someone no one would ever suspect of being with a cop in a million years.’

‘Oh? Who’s that?’

‘A girl.’

When Rosa Braun finished playing her saxophone in the Haller-Revue orchestra, we left the club and walked north up Friedrichstrasse towards Oranienburger Tor. It was almost one a.m., but the streets were still full of sweaty Berliners gathered like damp moths outside the more brightly lit bars, loudly enjoying the high summer temperatures and the prospect of even further intoxication.

‘I certainly didn’t expect to see you tonight,’ she said. ‘And certainly not wearing that suit. Where on earth did you get it?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘You know perfectly well.’

‘Says the woman wearing male evening dress.’

‘These are my working clothes.’

‘So are mine, as a matter of fact. This bar we’re going to, it’s full of thieves and murderers. Which means it’s best if I try to blend in.’

‘It’s a little hard to imagine that suit blending in anywhere except a shooting party or a racecourse.’

‘Well, you’re not so far from the mark. A couple of years ago, I had to spend a bit of time hanging around Hoppegarten, looking for some pimp we were after. And I bought this and the matching cap on expenses to make me look more like a sporting man.’