thing.’ The Russian produced a small matchbook and offered Rath a light.
A quick look around was enough to tell Rath that Scar Face was right. The others would all say the same thing.
‘You can keep the photograph,’ he said. ‘Something might occur to you. You never know.’ He finished his Americano and laid the glass on the table amongst vodka glasses. ‘I’m here from time to time.’ With that he turned and left the Russians.
For the first time that night, he was certain that he had run into people who knew Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov, but he had every reason to believe Scar Face. No-one in this company would say a word to the German police. At least not when either of the two Russian heavies was in the vicinity.
Rath was too tired to really care. Despite his fatigue, however, he made his way back to Nürnberger Strasse in the best of spirits. He had tasted blood and finally had the tiniest of clues. He also knew where he would continue his search. Conditorei Café Berlin. The advertising on the matchbook.
9
When Rath arrived at the office on Saturday morning, a little hungover, a little late and more than a little tired, Wolter was already hammering away on his typewriter. The type bars crackled against the paper like shots from a pistol.
‘Morning,’ Rath said, hanging his hat and coat on the stand next to the door.
Uncle looked up and raised an eyebrow. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘A bit late last night?’
‘Just a bit,’ Rath replied. ‘Stephan not here yet?’
‘Won’t be coming today. The politicals just rang. 1A need him a little longer.’
‘And our inquiries?’
‘Not today. Vice has to wait. We’re sticking with politics.’ Wolter continued typing; it was obvious he didn’t like it. Schmittchen wasn’t there on Saturdays, Lieselotte Schmidt, their secretary who did most of the paper work. ‘It’s almost like a murder investigation, this. Ought to be right up your street.’
Rath ignored the jibe. ‘Can I write down what happened to me yesterday first? It was quite an adventure.’
‘Feel free. The Prussian police force is ideally equipped for precisely that task.’ Wolter gestured towards Rath’s desk, where there was another covered typewriter. ‘Did you know that we have more typewriters than weapons recorded in our inventory?’
‘Just CID or the entire police?’
Wolter shrugged. ‘In Germany, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Reichswehr had more typewriters than canons.’
Rath sat at his desk and removed the protective cover from his pre-war Adler. The black machine stared at him like a hostile insect.
‘Were you able to satisfy our friendly communist doctor yesterday?’ Uncle asked without looking up.
‘Völcker? So comrades, come rally.’
‘That’s a good one.’ Wolter laughed and, finally, stopped typing.
‘It’s from Dr Schwartz. He’s known the Red doctor since university.’
‘And what else did Dr Schwartz say? Did Völcker let him work in peace?’
‘More or less. To begin with he played the outraged communist pain in the arse but, during the examination, he was astonishingly friendly. Even Schwartz teasing him didn’t put him out.’
‘People like him are never put out. That’s why they turn out the way they do.’
‘Maybe, but Völcker might also be happy with the result. It turns out a single bullet was enough to kill both women. It entered through the younger woman’s chest and passed through her heart. The older one was hit in the shoulder but died of coronary failure. Probably the shock.’
Uncle pulled a disgusted face. ‘The thing that annoys me most is that the communists make capital out of this. It’s only because the social democrats are too stupid to plan an operation properly.’ He tore a sheet of paper from the machine. ‘Maybe this can get us out of it,’ he said. ‘I mean, who says it wasn’t a communist bullet after all? It wasn’t a police bullet anyway.’
‘Your report?’ Rath asked. ‘Finished
A quick look around was enough to tell Rath that Scar Face was right. The others would all say the same thing.
‘You can keep the photograph,’ he said. ‘Something might occur to you. You never know.’ He finished his Americano and laid the glass on the table amongst vodka glasses. ‘I’m here from time to time.’ With that he turned and left the Russians.
For the first time that night, he was certain that he had run into people who knew Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov, but he had every reason to believe Scar Face. No-one in this company would say a word to the German police. At least not when either of the two Russian heavies was in the vicinity.
Rath was too tired to really care. Despite his fatigue, however, he made his way back to Nürnberger Strasse in the best of spirits. He had tasted blood and finally had the tiniest of clues. He also knew where he would continue his search. Conditorei Café Berlin. The advertising on the matchbook.
9
When Rath arrived at the office on Saturday morning, a little hungover, a little late and more than a little tired, Wolter was already hammering away on his typewriter. The type bars crackled against the paper like shots from a pistol.
‘Morning,’ Rath said, hanging his hat and coat on the stand next to the door.
Uncle looked up and raised an eyebrow. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘A bit late last night?’
‘Just a bit,’ Rath replied. ‘Stephan not here yet?’
‘Won’t be coming today. The politicals just rang. 1A need him a little longer.’
‘And our inquiries?’
‘Not today. Vice has to wait. We’re sticking with politics.’ Wolter continued typing; it was obvious he didn’t like it. Schmittchen wasn’t there on Saturdays, Lieselotte Schmidt, their secretary who did most of the paper work. ‘It’s almost like a murder investigation, this. Ought to be right up your street.’
Rath ignored the jibe. ‘Can I write down what happened to me yesterday first? It was quite an adventure.’
‘Feel free. The Prussian police force is ideally equipped for precisely that task.’ Wolter gestured towards Rath’s desk, where there was another covered typewriter. ‘Did you know that we have more typewriters than weapons recorded in our inventory?’
‘Just CID or the entire police?’
Wolter shrugged. ‘In Germany, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Reichswehr had more typewriters than canons.’
Rath sat at his desk and removed the protective cover from his pre-war Adler. The black machine stared at him like a hostile insect.
‘Were you able to satisfy our friendly communist doctor yesterday?’ Uncle asked without looking up.
‘Völcker? So comrades, come rally.’
‘That’s a good one.’ Wolter laughed and, finally, stopped typing.
‘It’s from Dr Schwartz. He’s known the Red doctor since university.’
‘And what else did Dr Schwartz say? Did Völcker let him work in peace?’
‘More or less. To begin with he played the outraged communist pain in the arse but, during the examination, he was astonishingly friendly. Even Schwartz teasing him didn’t put him out.’
‘People like him are never put out. That’s why they turn out the way they do.’
‘Maybe, but Völcker might also be happy with the result. It turns out a single bullet was enough to kill both women. It entered through the younger woman’s chest and passed through her heart. The older one was hit in the shoulder but died of coronary failure. Probably the shock.’
Uncle pulled a disgusted face. ‘The thing that annoys me most is that the communists make capital out of this. It’s only because the social democrats are too stupid to plan an operation properly.’ He tore a sheet of paper from the machine. ‘Maybe this can get us out of it,’ he said. ‘I mean, who says it wasn’t a communist bullet after all? It wasn’t a police bullet anyway.’
‘Your report?’ Rath asked. ‘Finished
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