Rath thought he had misheard, but no, a few seats away, Harald Dettmann rose from his chair and strolled forward, a small file wedged under his arm.
He had to make every effort to stay seated, and the longer he listened to Dettmann recounting his heroic deeds with that unbearable strain of faux humility, the angrier he became.
The Phantom’s latest victim was a drug dealer, a figure ‘not unknown’ to Dettmann due to his ‘many years’ of service in Narcotics. Dettmann provided this characterisation of the victim to stress that his was not a loss the world should mourn. The man had emerged with his girlfriend from the picture palace’s late showing and been dropped by a single shot outside Gesundbrunnen Bahnhof. His girl had been unharmed, but the force of the shot had thrown the man to the floor and shredded his chest.
After Dettmann’s report Gennat concluded the meeting, with Rath among the first to leave, preferring to take his anger to the sanctity of his office. Perhaps, he told himself, it was better to be rid of the accursed Phantom case, but the manner of it, and the fact that it was Dettmann who would reap what he and his team had sown, made it hard to take.
‘No interruptions,’ he barked at his secretary as he disappeared inside his room and slammed the door. No sooner had he sat down than Erika Voss poked her blonde head around the door. ‘Didn’t I make myself clear?’
Erika Voss refused to be intimidated. ‘Why not take your anger out on this,’ she said, handing him a file. ‘Just in from Dortmund. Our colleagues there sent a car especially. With best wishes from Detective Chief Inspector Watzke. To Superintendent Gennat too.’
‘Thank you,’ he grumbled, accepting two thick lever arch files.
‘There you are, you see!’ Erika Voss said and smiled. ‘By the way, Herr Watzke telephoned while you were at briefing.’
‘And?’
‘He’ll try again at lunch. He has an appointment at court this morning. And Fräulein Ritter said to tell you she got the job. Stenographer-cum-kitchen maid, as you said.’
‘Wonderful. Thank you, Erika. You’re a gem.’ He opened the first lever arch file. ‘But I really did mean no interruptions.’
‘So you don’t want coffee then?’
He smiled for the first time since entering the Castle that morning. ‘You win,’ he said, ‘but close the door on your way out.’
Smelling as though it had been freshly brewed, sometimes he thought his secretary made the best coffee in the whole of police headquarters. Either way she certainly knew how to make him happy. He lit a cigarette and took a sip before burying himself in his work.
After two hours he had gone through both files and made a whole raft of notes. He might not have unearthed any fresh insights, but experience told him the devil was in the detail. He took the Lamkau file from the shelf and placed it alongside the Dortmund papers on his desk. There were still two Overstolz in his cigarette case. He lit one and compared the dead men’s personal details again.
Herbert Lamkau, born 1890 in Tilsit, married, two children, with a business registered in Tempelhof since 1925; no prior convictions and…
…Hans Wawerka, born 1898 in Marggrabowa, a Zollern Colliery employee since 1924. Unlike Lamkau, Wawerka had been placed on police file two years before, following a politically motivated bar brawl that escalated. The incident had led Dortmund homicide detectives to their sole suspect, a Communist who had fallen victim to an arson attack and subsequently been eliminated from inquiries.
Erika Voss knocked on the door. ‘Apologies, Inspector, two things. Herr Kronberg just called. The Forensics report is as good as finished.’
‘At last. What was the second thing?’
‘I’d like to take my break. If you don’t need me.’
‘Go, but it isn’t that I don’t need you.’ He took out his wallet and gave her a two-mark coin. ‘Can you do me a favour and look after Kirie? Buy her a few Bouletten from Aschinger. Treat yourself to a coffee while you’re at it. I need a few more minutes for my own peace of mind.’
He lit his final cigarette and got to thinking. The two dead men were linked to one another, but how? Why had Herbert Lamkau been sent Hans Wawerka’s death notice? It wasn’t clear from the files. Perhaps he had overlooked some connection between these two very different men? What on earth was it that bound them together? He took a long drag on his Overstolz, as if the truth were concealed somewhere inside the cigarette.
20
No amount of scrubbing could get rid of the onion smell from Charly’s hands. Even her cigarette tasted of them, but at least she was on her break.
After what seemed like an eternity, her red-headed mentor had reappeared, cast a sceptical glance towards the still imposing mound of onions, and ordered her to lunch; she had a quarter of an hour. ‘Then get back to it, and see if you can’t up the tempo.’ She almost threw in the towel.
With strictly no smoking in the kitchen, the longer she was made to wait for her break, the more feverish her anticipation became. Now she was standing on the fourth-floor balcony, with a cigarette that smelled of onions. Imagine having to do this your whole life…
There was no such thing as a joint break at Haus Vaterland. Lunch was the busiest time of day. Vast quantities of food went out, and, clearly, most of the recipes contained onions.
She stood on the south-eastern side of the building, and gazed at the sea of houses, in the middle of which the great hall of Anhalter Bahnhof appeared like a ship floating bottom up. Europahaus seemed almost within touching distance. The tower block was where she had spent her first evening with Gereon, more than three years ago. He had hurt her more than any other man but, even though she’d wished him to hell, they were together again after a year, and now they were engaged. She didn’t know if he’d make a good husband, but she did know she didn’t want anyone else.
Could a police marriage really work? There couldn’t be many who had tried. They might even be the first.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Cadet! You aren’t a police officer yet, and you’ve a job to do here first.
She looked at her watch. Only ten minutes left, and she still didn’t know where to start. So far she hadn’t observed a thing. Save for the fact that Unger had a permanent overview, and spent more time making calls and looking out of his poky little office than he did in the kitchen.
A door opened and a man stepped onto the balcony. His skin was as dark as the night; he wore a checked flannel shirt and red necktie, trousers with loose threads and a gun belt. On his head was a Stetson at least as big as Tom Mix’s. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.
A black man dressed as a cowboy. Charly thought she had seen him in the Haus Vaterland programme on a previous occasion and wondered if there really were black cowboys in America. She hadn’t seen any in the films.
Only after lighting his cigarette did he look up. He seemed surprised to see her, to see anyone here outside, and greeted her with a casual tip of his hat. Just like a real cowboy.
‘Any objection to my joining you?’ His German was slightly accented, but Charly couldn’t place it. She raised her hand in a welcoming gesture and he joined her by the balustrade. ‘I’ve never seen you here before,’ he said.
‘It’s my first day.’
‘What are you doing?’
She gave a lopsided grin. ‘To tell the truth, I thought I was here as a stenographer, but so far all I’ve done is chop onions. Are you American?’
‘No, German.’ The cowboy grinned, showing his white teeth. ‘From Dar es Salaam, German East Africa. I even fought for Kaiser and Fatherland.’
‘You’re an askari?’
‘Husen’s the name.’ He proffered a hand. ‘Bayume Mohamed Husen.’
‘Charlotte Ritter.’ Husen had a pleasantly firm handshake. ‘How is it that an askari winds up playing a cowboy in Berlin?’
‘You’d need longer than a cigarette break. Here’s the abridged version: I’m in Berlin because I’m owed money.’
‘By Haus Vaterland?’
Husen laughed. ‘No, the other Vaterland.’ He described a curve with his arms, as if taking the whole world in his embrace. ‘Germany still owes me my pay.’
‘That doesn’t explain how you became a cowboy.’
‘A man has to live. I wait tables in the Turkish Café or the Wild West Bar. The main thing is to be exotic. Aren’t too many Negroes in Berlin.’
Charly stubbed out her Juno on the balustrade. ‘Do you often come here to smoke?’ she asked.
‘If it isn’t raining. I need to get out. It feels like a prison in there, despite all the landscape murals.’
‘I know what you mean. If I have to spend another day chopping onions…’
‘You’ll be fine. People get used to anything.’ Husen stubbed out his cigarette too. A Turkish brand, she noted, not American. ‘Why don’t you come and see me in the Wild West Bar once you finish,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand you a whisky…’
‘Do you have Luisenbrand?’
‘It’s hardly the classic western drink, but it shouldn’t be a problem for Joe. The Wild West Bar has the best selection of liquor Haus Vaterland has to offer.’
‘Joe?’
‘Our barman. It’s Johannes, actually. But then my name’s not Husen either. It’s Hussein.’
‘We’ll see,’ Charly said. ‘If I haven’t turned into an onion myself by then.’
‘Ma’am…’
The way Mohamed Husen tipped his hat really did remind her of Tom Mix.