‘Not yet, but this is where my family and I will be moving to. We need to vacate our official apartment in Charlottenburg within the next few weeks.’
Charly felt a great sadness. ‘So it’s permanent, your withdrawal from police office?’
‘I hope to be reclaiming my desk at Alex very soon. Once the State Court has delivered its verdict, or the new Reich government.’
‘If there is a new government, and it isn’t worse than the one we already have.’
98
Rath pulled over just before Allenstein, parking on a forest path, struggling to keep his eyes open. When he awakened it was already dawn. He washed using water from a nearby stream, and drove on, encountering more and more people the closer he came to Treuburg. Again and again he had to brake as a horse and cart straggled along. Occasionally he met a group of pedestrians, who stood gawping at the Buick and took an age to clear the road. It was almost midday when he arrived in Treuburg, suit rumpled and stomach rumbling.
The Masurians were on their way to church and the polls. Almost all the towns and villages he had driven through were decked out for election day, with people hanging flags out of windows to denote their political persuasion. Far too many swastikas, he thought, far too much black-white-and-red, and not nearly enough black-red-and-gold.
Approaching from Lyck he could already make out the Treuburg water tower, but instead of holding course, he bore left and drove up to Luisenhöhe. The staff in the estate house were surprised to see him again. Yes, Herr Wengler had returned, yesterday evening in fact, but unfortunately he wasn’t home. After church he had gone to vote, and he still had business to attend to in town.
When was he expected?
A shrug.
‘I need to find Herr Wengler. It’s a matter of life and death.’
The servant looked at Rath as if he had never heard such nonsense. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘I’ll pass that on.’
‘It might be too late by then. Just tell me where I can find him.’
‘Try the marketplace, that’s where Herr Wengler’s polling station is.’
In Treuburg, too, flags hung from windows. Lots of black-white-and-red, interspersed with swastikas. There was even a little black-red-and-gold on show. Only Communist colours were absent; perhaps the Nazis had burned their flags.
The girls’ school on the marketplace had been transformed into a polling station. Outside the entrance stood a few of Fabeck’s SA boys, brown shirts freshly ironed, hair parted straight as a die. They threw Rath dirty glances but, in the absence of their Rottenführer, seemed unsure whether to take matters further. ‘Berliners aren’t permitted to vote here,’ said one, as Rath pushed past.
‘Who wants to vote with people like your Führer standing?’
Before the youth could respond, he disappeared inside. Dressed in their Sunday best, the Treuburgers were fulfilling their patriotic duty. Gustav Wengler was nowhere to be seen. ‘The Herr Director has voted already,’ one of the polling officers said. No more information was forthcoming.
Outside, he found Klaus Fabeck and troops blocking his path. ‘If it isn’t our busybody friend from Berlin,’ Fabeck said. ‘SA-officer Brandt tells me you’ve been insulting the Führer…’
‘Have I?’ Rath lit a cigarette. ‘Well, he isn’t my Führer. I’m sorry if I hurt your tender feelings for the man. I forgot you lot are all gay.’
‘You’re lucky it’s polling day, Inspector. Once these elections are over, you’d better watch out. People like you will be first for the chop.’
‘People like me?’
‘Those who mock the Führer. Once Adolf Hitler assumes his rightful position as leader of the German Volk, only true Germans…’
‘He didn’t even make it to Reich President,’ Rath interrupted. ‘Perhaps it’s time Herr Hitler headed back to Austria. Half a year ago he didn’t have citizenship, now he’s telling us what it means to be German?’
Fabeck stood poised to attack, but his two companions held him back.
‘Leave it, Klaus,’ said one. ‘He’s a cop. He’s trying to provoke you, so he can lock you up.’
Rath lifted his hat. ‘I bid you good day.’
Without hurrying he made sure to put a little distance between himself and the group. Fists inwardly raised, he readied himself to strike, but the attack never came.
Outside the Kronprinzen he ran into Karl Rammoser, who sat on the terrace in the shade. ‘Inspector, what are you doing back in Masuria?’
‘Try keeping me away.’
‘Isn’t it polling day in Berlin?’
‘I have more important things to do. I’m looking for Gustav Wengler.’
‘I saw him about an hour ago, coming out of the polling station. Exchanged a few words with the SA lads, then got in his car.’
‘Well, he isn’t home. I was up there just now.’
‘Then I assume he’s gone for a drive. He does that sometimes, just hops in his car and drives around, out to some lake, or forest.’
‘It is pretty around here.’
‘You’re telling me. Only, not everyone has a Mercedes to enjoy it.’
‘A Buick will do just fine.’ He gestured towards his car, which was parked down by the roadside. ‘Can I drive you home?’
‘Too early for me, I’m afraid. I’m meeting someone for lunch.’
‘Well, then…’ Rath tipped his hat by way of goodbye.
He wondered how long he could leave the Buick by the marketplace before the SA slashed his tyres. It hardly faded into the background, besides being the only vehicle here with IA plates. It seemed even the Berlin tourist family had returned in time to vote. All other cars bore the East Prussian registration IC.
He got in his car and considered where Polakowski might be hiding. He had no idea. This trip to Treuburg might be a crackpot idea, yet he knew Polakowski was here somewhere, waiting to complete his revenge.
He settled down. If Wengler was in his Mercedes then he was safe, for the time being. Whether that was true at Luisenhöhe was another matter.
At least he had managed to pick up the trail again after Danzig. That ought to pacify Böhm somewhat. He started the engine and set off. Perhaps he should take a leaf out of Wengler’s book and enjoy the scenery, and maybe he’d meet the maroon-coloured Mercedes along the way.
Something on the Lega bridge was flapping in the breeze. He reversed a few metres and looked out the side window. A red handkerchief was tied to the railing. He pulled over and got out of the car. No doubt about it, it was the same as the one they’d recovered from the lift at Haus Vaterland. In the traffic tower at Potsdamer Platz; in Wittenberge and in Dortmund. Fearing the worst he gazed over the railing, scouring the Lega’s shallow waters for a corpse.
He took a deep breath before climbing down to the river to check underneath the bridge. Only when he was certain there was no body did he return to the handkerchief. It was dry.
Suddenly it dawned on him that the red handkerchiefs were a signal to Polakowski’s victims, rather than a simple means of torture. The same signal had lured Anna von Mathée to her death – and Jakub Polakowski to ruin.
Rath got into the Buick and drove to Markowsken without filling up. He’d only have enough for another few kilometres but couldn’t afford to be late. Wengler had almost certainly seen the sign.
Apart from two horse carriages, the road was clear. His instincts hadn’t betrayed him: the red Mercedes was parked by the edge of the forest.
Gustav Wengler wanted rid of this man who threatened his legend, this man who knew his status was founded on lies and hypocrisy. Did he think he had the edge on Polakowski? That was what Herbert Lamkau and Siegbert Wengler had thought, until Polakowski administered his needle and resistance was crushed. Did Wengler realise exactly how his brother had died?