‘What do you have?’
‘Your freedom. I’ll let you go, and no one will ever know who shot Friedrich Grimberg. As far as the other murders are concerned…’
‘You can’t prove a thing. I’ve nothing to do with them.’
‘Of course you have. Wosniak might have done the dirty work, but you pulled the strings. Still, let’s not quibble over details. You killed Grimberg, and that I can prove.’
‘You lured me into a trap with the help of Captain Engel, a man subject to a nationwide murder hunt, knowing it might end in death. Perhaps I should be the one offering you an exchange, Inspector. Aren’t you concerned for your career?’
‘Not as much as you ought to be concerned for your life and reputation. Both of which will go on the scaffold.’
Roddeck fell silent, a wretched figure with bloody forehead, tangled hair and water-stained raincoat.
‘Engel came to me in confidence and told me the whole sorry tale,’ Rath lied.
‘Who’s going to believe a Jew? Or you, for that matter.’
‘But they’ll believe you.’
He seized Roddeck by the arm and led him further along the tunnel until the curve became a straight. They were now standing beneath Unter den Linden, looking at a box on the wall. On the front was a large rotary control and a jet-black cassette in the form of a sideways figure-of-eight. A cable extended up the tunnel wall and along the ceiling towards the exit, almost reaching back to where Friedrich Grimberg’s corpse lay. There, fixed to an old, out-of-service tunnel lamp, was a microphone.
The device whirred quietly. Rath switched it off.
‘A friend of mine is a film producer,’ he said. ‘It’s a Klangfilm camera, model X, a reportage camera for portable use.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Let’s say you needn’t worry about not being filmed tonight by the newsreel. Everything you’ve said and done in the last ten minutes is preserved for posterity.’
‘Crafty little rat, aren’t you?’
‘The same as you.’
‘You’ll never get it past court.’
‘I’m not planning to. There’ll be plenty of others interested in the sound recording.’
‘Will there now?’
‘Your publisher, Reich Minister Goebbels, the police commissioner, to name a few, and various newspapers at home and abroad.’ Rath pointed at the horizontal figure-of-eight. ‘That cassette contains a talkie without the pictures, and you know the best thing about it? Recordings like this can be copied a hundred times over.’
There was no longer any trace of fear in Roddeck’s face, only blind, helpless rage. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘This.’
Rath took a piece of paper from his pocket and held it under Roddeck’s nose as he shone the flashlight.
‘If you sign this, I’ll let you walk out of here on your own.’ Rath pointed in the direction of the tunnel exit and the brass band music. The midnight burning ceremony appeared to be over. ‘No one will ever know what happened tonight in the Linden tunnel.’
Roddeck skimmed the text and blanched. ‘That’s…’ He faltered. ‘You want me to cede all rights to my novel?’
‘And all royalties. Unless you want this here to fall into the wrong hands…’
‘It will ruin me!’
‘There’s always the alternative…’
‘What guarantee do I have the recording won’t be passed on?’
‘Guarantees are for washing machines and vacuum cleaners.’
‘Who the hell is Hannelore Schneider?’ Roddeck asked.
‘Someone deserving.’ Rath loosened Roddeck’s cuffs and handed him his fountain pen.
No doubt contracts drawn up by Gustav Kohn had been sealed in some strange places, Rath thought, especially if they had been written for Johann Marlow, perhaps even overlooking the odd corpse, but a decommissioned tramcar tunnel must be a first. He checked Roddeck’s signature. Everything was in order.
‘Now scram,’ he said, waving the ink dry. ‘I don’t want to see your face again, or read your name in the papers.’
‘Where am I supposed to go?’
‘To hell as far as I’m concerned.’
‘And my pistol?’
‘It stays with me, along with your flashlight.’
Achim von Roddeck looked as if he were about to cry. Slowly at first, then with growing haste, he made for the tunnel exit. Rath gazed after him without pity.
Behind him he heard a groan. ‘Can I take this off now? It hurts.’
The man in the captain’s uniform stepped out of the darkness of the tunnel and removed the half-face as though it were a carnival mask. Walther Engel’s face was sweaty, and half covered in painted red welts. The right sleeve of his uniform glistened damply.
‘My God, did Roddeck hit you?’ said Rath.
‘Caught me on the arm. Just a graze.’
‘I never should have asked you to do this.’
‘It’s what I wanted, Inspector, and I knew the risks. Who else was going to do it? My mother would never have given the mask to you.’ He looked down at Grimberg’s body. ‘So, that’s the man who tried to kill my father.’
‘He succeeded too,’ said Rath. ‘Even if it took him ten years.’
110
He ought to have been happy, but all he felt was a kind of relief. Everything had gone off without a hitch apart from Kirie’s barking, but that was to be expected. Fritze had looked after her and the ceremony, by that stage mainly forms and signatures, had proceeded without interruption.
Charly wore the home-made, knee-length, white dress she would wear again on Saturday. No veil but to Rath, even with just the white hat, she made the perfect bride. Above all, because she behaved like the perfect bride who said ‘yes’ and revealed her dimpled smile. No sooner had their lips met than Kirie started barking. The old girl couldn’t bear to watch, which was why she had her basket in the corridor and in case of doubt was shown the door.
After Hannelore relieved the guests of their coats, Rath showed the small party to the living room and closed the door before Kirie could slink inside. He took a deep breath. They had come this far.
After lunch in the Charlottenburger Ratskeller, underneath the town hall, the company had departed in two taxicabs for Carmerstrasse. Engelbert Rath nodded in approval of the area his son had chosen to make his home. Entering the stairwell, however, he became more sceptical, no fan of modern architecture, which meant everything built after the war.
Rath almost forgot to carry Charly over the threshold, but a look from her, and a hefty nudge from Paul, reminded him of his duties as groom. Fritze was present to capture the moment for the family album in which he, too, found his place.
Charly had insisted on taking photos of his first day at school, albeit minus the satchel. ‘No way you’re making a sap out of me!’ As it happened, his first two schooldays were holidays, German Labour Day on 1st May followed by a belated celebration of Hitler’s birthday. The Nazis knew how to make themselves popular.
‘As far as I’m concerned, this can carry on,’ Fritze had said, but it couldn’t. On 3rd May classes started in earnest. Yes, he was now an unofficial member of the family, and stood to be formally recognised as the foster child of the newlyweds at the youth welfare office three weeks hence.
For a moment, Rath had been concerned that Charly’s decisive ‘yes’ was not only a product of her love, but their need to appear as a respectable married couple while there. He pushed the thought aside. Now they were man and wife they’d manage with the boy somehow, especially as she would be at home during the day.
Hannelore appeared with a tray of champagne glasses and curtseyed politely. With her white apron and bonnet, she looked as if she’d never done anything else. Without saying much, she made a decent job of it, her manner courteous and reliable.