‘This was just a matter of days before his escape attempt,’ Henning said, shaking his head. ‘Tragic. When he finally receives a visit, he chooses to break out and forfeit his life.’
‘Perhaps he broke out because he suddenly had a reason to live?’
‘You mean, he fell in love with his visitor?’ Henning shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re right. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘What actually happened? Was he shot?’
‘No.’ Henning didn’t have to consult the file to tell the story. ‘Polakowski was engaged in road construction work with a number of other prisoners. A guard lost concentration and he escaped, together with the prisoner he was chained to. A crafty bank robber named Sobotka.’
‘They were chained together? Wouldn’t that render any escape attempt hopeless?’
‘That’s what we thought,’ Henning said. ‘That only a madman would try it. Or, rather madmen. Whatever, Sobotka managed it – we’re still looking for him today.’ Henning adopted a serious expression. He didn’t enjoy discussing the subject. ‘And Polakowski, the poor fellow, whom Sobotka had incited to flee in the first place, was the one who died.’
‘Go on.’
The director explained how they had found Polakowski’s corpse on the railway line between Allenstein and Insterburg. Of Sobotka there was no trace.
‘Could I take another look at the file?’ Rath asked.
Moments later Rath sat with the Polakowski file in an empty office, whose windows looked onto a prison courtyard. In the watchtower two men stood with loaded carbines. He lit a cigarette and leafed through the file. A serious man gazed out of the photo, a man who had abandoned hope.
He checked the date in the visitor log. Maria Cofalka, Treuburg librarian, residence ibidem, Seestrasse 3 had visited Prisoner Jakub Polakowski on 27th July 1930 at 17h, a Sunday. Exactly a week after the plebiscite anniversary during which she’d accused Gustav Wengler of murder.
Maria Cofalka had let Polakowski in on her secret! Following her visit, prisoner 466/20 had a reason to live again, but not because he had fallen in love with the librarian. Not love, but hatred, had been the driving force behind his escape, which took place one and half weeks later, at one thirty on a Tuesday afternoon. Shortly after five they had recovered his corpse.
The prison file came to a close on that date, 5th August 1930, with the stamped remark: Deceased.
Rath leafed back to the photograph. The sight set something inside him in motion, a vague feeling which he tried, once more, to grasp until, all of a sudden, he realised what it was. He knew this man. His appearance might have changed, but the eyes left him in no doubt. It was a man he had met a short while ago, but not in Treuburg. In Berlin.
87
Charly felt a little queasy inside. It was her first armed operation, and she was still a relative novice with the gun. Gennat had insisted she take it.
Buddha himself held position in the Castle. By his own account, Hartmut Janke lived on the fourth floor, and for the overweight superintendent that was a step too far. He had enough difficulty negotiating the single flight of stairs up to A Division. Perhaps – and it wasn’t just Charly who thought this – it was why he was wont to sleep in his office, where he’d had a small bedroom made up years ago for those nights he was obliged to work late. Such nights were commonplace for Gennat, as they were for any CID officer who took the job seriously. Nights such as tonight.
It was already gone eight when the uniform cops took up position in the stairwell. By now all escape routes were blocked, with additional officers posted in the courtyard and on the street below. The squad leader nodded to Böhm, and he knocked on the wooden door. No response. Böhm knocked a second time.
‘Herr Janke? Are you there? Please excuse the late interruption, but I need to speak with you urgently. CID. We have some questions regarding the Haus Vaterland murder three weeks ago. It won’t take long.’
There was nothing from behind the door.
Charly was wondering if she should volunteer her lock-picking skills, when Böhm wound back and aimed a mighty kick at the door frame, lifting it off its hinges. Wood splintered, and there was a loud crack.
Uniform stormed the apartment.
Charly followed at a respectful distance, weapon drawn for form’s sake. She held it primed, barrel in the air, but only because it looked better, and she didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of colleagues.
She had told Gennat and Böhm about Gereon’s call right away. The first thing Buddha said was: ‘I hope you know where he is this time.’
‘Not right this moment, but I do know he telephoned from a jail.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘From Wartenburg, a jail in East Prussia. He recognised Janke, aka Polakowski, from the files.’
Gennat had acted immediately, enlisting a squad of a hundred officers in case Polakowski should attempt to resist arrest or flee. In the rear courtyard uniform cops stood at every entrance and exit point, stretching all the way to Müllerstrasse. Even in Wedding, such a large police presence didn’t go unnoticed.
No one was home. They swept the flat in less than thirty seconds. The windows were all closed from the inside, meaning Janke hadn’t fled via the fire escape. Böhm made a beeline for the bedroom and wardrobe. The hangers were all empty except for one, which held the uniform of the Berlin Security Corps.
Otherwise the cupboards had been cleared. Even the bed had been stripped. There were no pictures, though the tiny holes in the wallpaper revealed that any number of items must have hung above the desk. Charly found a scrap of newspaper on the floor. It was scarcely yellowed. A black line that might have been part of a border was the only sign of printer’s ink.
It looked like it was the only trace the man had left behind. The squad officers handed over to Forensics, but they found nothing either: no red handkerchiefs, no envelopes, no tubocurarine, not even any fingerprints.
‘It’s as if he wiped everything down before leaving,’ said Charly.
‘What about the uniform?’ Böhm asked.
‘No prints, if that’s what you mean. Looks as if it’s been dry-cleaned.’
‘Take a look at this.’ A second technician had lifted a plank from the wooden floorboard between the hallway and parlour. Right under the door frame. ‘It’s hollow under here.’
‘So?’
Charly and Böhm drew closer. The ED man shrugged in disappointment. ‘Empty.’
Even so, Charly felt sure this was where Janke kept the items that a routine police check would have no business uncovering. ‘See if you can’t find something. After all…’ she said.
‘What do you mean? It’s empty.’
‘I mean, little things. Things you might need a magnifying glass for, and better light. Glass shards, perhaps, or dried liquid residue, anything like that. Then check if the glass might be part of a hypodermic syringe, or if the liquid’s curare.’
In the corner where three rooms abutted one another was a small, pot-bellied stove. Charly took a handkerchief and opened the hatch. ‘There’s ash inside,’ she said, and one of Kronberg’s men rushed over. ‘It’s still warm.’
The technician took the poker and carefully probed the ashes. It was mostly paper. Then he fished something from the black-grey mass which disintegrated upon touch, the only thing to have survived the gorging flames. Just a little edge of paper, but it was clear it was from a death notice. A few of the letters were even legible:
thy victory
omable wisdom
suddenly and unex
sy life.