Rath drove into the forest until the road became track, parked and started walking. He didn’t know how far it was, couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t get lost again without Adamek and his local knowledge; but still he continued, until suddenly he saw the water sparkle through the trees.
He considered calling out loud, so that he could bring home the folly of Polakowski’s endeavour, but then the man would be warned, and he would never catch him. And Rath wanted to catch him. Not just because he was a mass murderer, but because he might be a viable witness in the case against Gustav Wengler. He worked his way through the forest until he could see the little lake – but it was too late.
Standing in the shallows over Gustav Wengler’s inert body was Hartmut Janke, aka Jakub Polakowski, the man whose life Wengler had so utterly destroyed. Wengler’s head was submerged, but Polakowski pulled it out. Wengler gasped for air, but not as frantically as someone who fears he will drown. The tubocurarine must be at work. Polakowski apparently spoke with Wengler, who sat listlessly in the water.
Rath imagined Polakowski speaking with his other victims, reminding them of their sins, of the harm they had visited on himself and Anna, even asking about Gustav Wengler, as, slowly, he ended their lives.
Then he realised he wasn’t alone in the forest. A man was crouched behind a thick pine trunk, brown suit scarcely visible against its surroundings. It was Erich Grigat in plain clothes, his weapon drawn and trained on Polakowski. He meant to shoot Polakowski dead first time, and not hit Gustav Wengler by mistake.
Rath could have made short work of things with his service pistol, but it was locked in a Polish border office.
Down by the water Polakowski was still speaking, and Grigat had eyes only for the killer and his next victim. Rath grabbed a stick from the forest floor, and approached the chief constable slowly from behind, making sure he didn’t step on any withered branches that might give him away. It was a trick he had from reading Karl May, although perhaps fortune looked kindly on him. As Gustav Wengler’s head was thrust underwater a second time, he struck, and Grigat slumped to his knees before collapsing sideways on the soft forest floor. His service pistol, a Luger, fell out of his hand. Rath claimed it, walked the final few metres to the shore, and emerged from the shadow of the trees.
Polakowski didn’t see him, hadn’t heard him above the splash. Wengler lay on his back, face submerged in the water. A few bubbles rose to the surface, otherwise all was still. Wengler didn’t so much as twitch.
Rath caught himself taking pleasure in the scene: the great Gustav Wengler drowned by his own wretched victim. Wasn’t that just, and didn’t he deserve to die? Should he, Rath, not simply wait until Polakowski had completed his task before making his arrest? He just needed to stay quiet, to avoid startling Polakowski and preventing him from carrying out the execution, but the other part of Rath’s conscience was already working. His right hand released the safety catch on Grigat’s Luger and held it at the ready, as his feet continued towards the shore. It was time to end this.
‘CID, Berlin,’ he said. ‘I’m armed. Please do as I say.’ Polakowski’s body grew rigid. Though the man’s back was to him, Rath felt certain it was devoid of expression. ‘Remove the man from the water. Slowly and carefully.’
Polakowski lifted Wengler by the shoulders. No sooner did his head surface than he took a deep, heavy breath. The escaped convict, who had spent long years wrongfully languishing in jail, held his victim and tormentor above the water.
‘Bring him ashore.’
Rath didn’t know if that would save Wengler. He had no idea if and when the curare would exert its deadly effect, or if Wengler already had too much water in his lungs. Polakowski seized Wengler’s body under the armpits and dragged him slowly towards the shore.
‘Now lay him down, place your hands in the air and turn around.’
Polakowski obeyed, but turned so quickly that Rath scarcely knew what was happening, knocking the Luger out of his hand in a single motion. The pistol landed in the undergrowth, and Polakowski was on him.
The man was strong and deadly serious. Polakowski took his neck in a chokehold. He couldn’t prise his hands free. He wriggled and thrashed his legs, reared up, but it was no use. Polakowski stayed on top, hands squeezing mercilessly until, suddenly, his grip loosened and he toppled to the side like a felled tree.
Rath gripped his neck and looked up. Gustav Wengler stood over him, holding Grigat’s Luger in his hand, which glistened with Jakub Polakowski’s blood. Rath was confused. It was strange to see a firearm used as a primitive cudgel, but it had worked, Polakowski had been immobilised. Wengler had saved his life.
Rath would never have thought he’d have to feel grateful towards the man, yet here he was. ‘You need a doctor,’ he said. ‘He’s injected you with tubocurarine. Probably in a fatal dose. It’s a miracle you can even stand.’
‘You disappoint me, Inspector!’ said Wengler. ‘I thought you were more intelligent than that, and less scrupulous.’ He grew more serious. ‘I’d hoped you’d shoot the swine. The man was trying to kill me.’
‘He didn’t inject you with paralytic poison?’
‘He injected me with something, and I’m sure he believed it was the Devil’s work.’ Wengler laughed. ‘When really it was saline solution.’ He gestured towards a large tree by the shore. ‘The needle lay hidden there for days. I had a hunch he’d want to finish things here, and asked Erich to keep an eye on the lake. It was no problem to switch the needles.’
‘Then you were playacting? Why?’
Wengler looked at the weapon. ‘Did you get this off Erich? That isn’t nice, you know. It’s his service pistol. Where is he, by the way?’
‘Sleeping the sleep of the just. Now explain: why the dying swan?’
‘Why, indeed? To manufacture a situation where the bastard could be gunned down without Erich being brought to trial.’
‘It was all planned?’
‘Inspector, for more than two years I have known that Polakowski was outside, planning his revenge. He made the mistake of obtaining false papers from Paul Marczewski of all people. In Königsberg. Without realising I do business with the man.’
‘Did business with the man.’
‘I see you’re well informed. Yes, sadly I had to end our business partnership but, back then, it proved very useful. When the Polack started making inquiries about my people, Marczewski naturally informed me right away.’
‘You knew the whole time? Why didn’t you protect your men?’
‘Why should I? They’d become a nuisance. The sins of one’s youth.’ He shook his head. ‘Inspector, I’m trying to legitimise my business operation and these tales of moonshining are damaging.’
‘But… your own brother…’
‘If you must know, Siegbert was a corrupt bastard. Sooner or later he’d have blackmailed me if I’d interrupted my payments. He’d cost me far too much already, and he was a lazy swine.’
‘Then Polakowski acted in your interests.’
‘You know, he thought he was scaring me with those death notices. I was pleased with his work. How much do you think it’d have cost to pay someone for all that?’
‘Well, you ought to know. You paid for Assmann, didn’t you? Or did Lapke go halves with you?’
‘Inspector, if you’re so clever, why is it I have to do your work for you?’
Wengler raised Grigat’s pistol and aimed at the unconscious Polakowski. Rath closed his eyes.