‘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.
21
All was quiet as Rath stepped outside his office. Most colleagues had already left for lunch; only a uniform cop and two plain-clothes officers remained in the long Homicide corridor. He was about to close the door when he heard the clatter of a typewriter, loud as machine-gun fire in the midday silence. He guessed which office it was coming from. He looked inside. The outer office was empty; the clattering came from further back. In the main office he found Inspector Harald Dettmann sitting in front of a typewriter, removing a sheet from its drum. In the absence of his secretary he was obliged to operate the machine himself.
‘If it isn’t Inspector Rath,’ he said, with eyebrows raised.
‘Afternoon.’
Dettmann placed the sheet neatly on a pile of typewritten pages. Rath had forgotten that he wasn’t just an arsehole, but a pedant to boot.
‘What is it?’ Dettmann asked, placing the stack of papers under a puncher. Rath made out a few sentences and concluded it was nothing to do with the Phantom. It looked like the full report on the Tiergarten case. Gennat had requested the report at briefing on Monday. The old excuse about a poorly secretary wasn’t much cop now that Detective Inspector Dettmann had been assigned the most high-profile case Gennat had to offer. There was a crack as the puncher went about its business. There must have been twenty sheets in the pile.
Rath planted himself in front of the desk. ‘A real pain when your secretary’s off sick, isn’t it? You realise how much work they do.’
‘Takes longer to write than type up.’ Dettmann eyed him suspiciously. ‘What do you want from me, Rath? Pining for your old case? I’ve already assembled my team, and it doesn’t include you.’
‘Did you manage to get anything out of the two suspects?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘No reason. I’d just be surprised if either of them’s the Phantom.’
‘Interrogations are ongoing.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘If you looked at your watch, you’d know that we’re almost an hour into lunch break. Which I’m using to complete my Tiergarten report for Gennat and the public prosecutor.’
‘Very commendable, I’m sure. So, it’s true then?’
‘What the hell do you want, Rath?’
‘You know, sitting like that you do actually look like a typist. How many words a minute?’
Dettmann seemed to finally grasp what he was talking about. ‘Has someone been telling tales?’
‘That was what you asked, wasn’t it? Do I look like a bloody typist? And I’d say: yes, you do.’
‘So the dirty bitch actually squealed!’ Dettmann shook his head. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear. These women get the wrong end of the stick. So, police talk can be a little rough. You’ve got to be able to take it if you want to mix with the big boys. If I were you I’d never have invited a little minx like her onto my team in the first place, but you must…’
‘Shut your face,’ Rath yelled, and Dettmann was so surprised that he did as bidden. ‘You arsehole,’ Rath said, leaning both arms on the desk. ‘If you insult Cadet Ritter again; if you so much as even look at her sideways, there’ll be trouble, do you understand?’
‘It’s like that, is it?’ Dettmann looked Rath up and down. ‘What is this? You’re her guardian now, are you? What’s the poor thing been saying?’
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. This isn’t about specifics. It’s about the principle. Not what bastards like you say about a female colleague, but that you don’t transgress a second time. In thought, word or deed.’
‘This is all getting a bit Catholic for me.’
‘Have I made myself clear?’
Dettmann shook his head in disbelief. ‘I can hardly believe what I’m witnessing here. Inspector Rath, the avenger of tramps and sluts!’ Dettmann made an O with his mouth. ‘Did she have to blow you for this? Or just look at you out of those doe-eyes?’
Rath was centimetres away from Dettmann’s face. ‘I’m warning you. Watch what you say!’
Almost imperceptibly Dettmann took a step back. ‘You’re warning me? Stop making a fool of yourself! What are you going to do? Should I be frightened?’ He was grinning again. ‘Ah yes, of course. How could I forget? Apparently you enjoy beating up colleagues.’
‘Only the arseholes…’ Rath paused. ‘Come to think of it, that might just put you in danger.’
‘Very funny. You really want to risk another round of disciplinary proceedings? Go ahead, I won’t put up a fight.’ Dettmann gestured towards the point of his chin. ‘Come on. What are you waiting for? But you’d better clear your desk straight after, because it’ll mean the end of your career.’
Rath stepped back. ‘You think I’m going to get my hands dirty on someone like you?’
‘Well, well, it seems there’s a first for everything.’ Dettmann looked Rath up and down. ‘I understand, you know. A girl like that might make me go weak too. Have you pulled her across the desk yet? I’m sure none of the boys round here would begrudge you it. Wouldn’t say no myself, either. But all I got from Buddha were Henning and Czerwinski.’
While Dettmann was still speaking, Rath felt for the inkwell on his desk, fixing the bastard in the eye as he gradually emptied the contents over the pristine, freshly typed Tiergarten report. Only when the ink dripped from the edge of the desk and created an ugly pattern on his summer trousers did Dettmann realise what was happening. He sprang to his feet and stepped back so frantically that his chair tipped over and he stumbled backwards.