So, what now? she had asked, and he had shrugged and ordered another round of champagne. They clinked glasses and when he made no move to kiss her, she pushed the false nose and moustache onto his forehead and seized the initiative. He didn’t resist.
A faithful soldier, without fear… The song was blaring from the loudspeaker as they left the bar. He led her through the night-time streets as if he had a destination in mind which, to his surprise, he did: Paul’s office on Sudermanstrasse, which he entered with the lockpick that Bruno Wolter had taught him how to use.
What an arsehole! Breaking into his best friend’s wine store because he and some girl he’d picked up needed a place for the night. At least he’d had the good sense not to call on his parents. He squinted across at the make-up smeared face. She wasn’t bad looking, the type he always went for when he was drunk.
His socks and shoes lay beside him, but he needed longer to find the rest. At first, all he could lay his hands on was her outfit: short red trousers with big black buttons, full length black knitted stockings and white gloves. With each item a new memory arrived. How he had taken off her trousers and stockings, and more besides – after opening one of Paul’s cases and helping himself to a bottle of red wine. God, he had been out of control! They had taken it in turns to swig from the bottle, kissing, pawing and stripping one another as they went. Her giggling hadn’t stopped him, even though giggling was something he really couldn’t stand.
His trousers were under the sofa behind the black cardboard ears. His shirt was there too. Jacket and overcoat lay beneath the desk, which left only the fake moustache-and-glasses combo from Tietz. The sofa yawned softly and he turned around. Two bleary eyes squinted at him.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘You’re up early.’
‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ He couldn’t remember her name, and where was that goddamn false nose? He looked behind the desk and underneath the chair.
‘Looking for this?’ She pulled it out from beneath the cover. The wire rim was bent out of shape. He put it in his pocket. The girl seemed to find the whole business a good deal less embarrassing.
He threw the black stockings and Mickey Mouse outfit onto the sofa. ‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘The cleaning lady will be here soon.’
‘No breakfast?’
‘Not here.’
He turned his back, a slave to his Catholic upbringing and afraid he’d give the wrong impression if he got an erection.
She looked around. ‘Is this your office? Are you a wine merchant?’
‘Something like that.’
When she was dressed, he led her through the store onto the road, letting the door click shut. Hilde, he remembered now, Wilde Hilde. Not even that had deterred him.
It looked as if a bomb had gone off on Eigelstein. The street cleaners hadn’t cleared the paper, broken glass or other rubbish, let alone the less appetising deposits. He led her to a little cafe on the Hansaring.
‘Let me order,’ she said. ‘I know a good hangover cure.’
‘Who said anything about a hangover?’ Rath asked, making such a pained face that she laughed out loud before going to the counter, then the toilet.
Rath lit an Overstolz and hoped in vain that she would slip out through the rear exit. By the time Wilde Hilde returned the waiter had set down two glasses of a brown, fizzy liquid.
‘What’s this?’ Rath asked. The smudged make-up was gone; Hilde had pencilled over her eyebrows and applied fresh lipstick, an ordinary civilian once more.
‘Try it.’ The drink was ice-cold, and tasted sweet as lemonade, only better. ‘So?’
‘It’s good,’ he said.
‘It’s called Afri-Cola.’
‘Are they paying you for this?’
‘Something like that.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘I work at their offices.’
‘Where?’
‘Blumhoffer in Braunsfeld.’
She smoked Juno, the same brand as Charly. He made his excuses and went to the toilet, running the cold tap and silently cursing his reflection. At least he recognised it: unshaven, hair tousled, dressed for carnival, otherwise presentable. No worse than most Cologners the day after Rosenmontag. He splashed cold water on his face and ran his hands through his hair. He felt better already; this Afri-Cola stuff seemed to work.
Back in the cafe, he ordered two more Afri-Cola and sat with Hilde for a final cigarette. At some point she asked about the scar on his shoulder and he let her believe it was a relic from the war. After placing a five-mark note on the table, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Sorry, but I have to…’
‘Will we see each other again?’
He shrugged and went on his way.
Outside, on the Ring, he made for the telephone booth by the tram stop on Platz der Republik, within sight of the Eigelstein gate, and called Paul. He let it ring for a long time, but no one picked up. You should have left a note, he thought, but it was too late now. He bought a ticket and the morning paper and climbed aboard the next tram. He had to go home to his parents, shower and put on fresh clothes. Then shoot himself.
He boarded the number sixteen tram and opened the paper. It was one of LeClerk’s, the man who’d forced him out of Cologne four years ago. Assassin, the press had dubbed him for days and weeks, Officer Trigger-happy. Now Berlin was where he belonged, with Charly, not in Cologne. This city was drunk on itself; it could stick its ridiculous excesses. The headline jolted him instantly awake.
Reichstag in Flammen. Holländischer Kommunist verhaftet. Reichstag in flames. Dutch Communist arrested.
Was the Red Front finally hitting back at the Nazis? He leafed through the paper, reading everything he could find on the story, almost forgetting to change to the twenty-one at Barbarossaplatz. Most Cologners were busy dealing with the aftermath of Rosenmontag, and perhaps they were right. What did they care what these idiots in Berlin were up to? Communists, Nazis, it was all the same – even if the danger of civil war had never been greater than since the brownshirts installed their Chancellor. Did this, now, mark the start? Surely not; the Communists in Berlin were braggarts who favoured words over actions.
Adenauer had said: Hitler should have been countered with force a year ago. It’s too late now. Was it really? Wasn’t there an election on Sunday? Germany had been transformed into a madhouse in the last two or three years, but Nazi support was on the wane. A little patience and normality would soon be restored.
He alighted the tram on Luxemburger Strasse. The smell of roast meat wafted through the hall as Frieda opened the heavy front door. In the Rath household, lunch was taken at twelve thirty whether or not the world outside was coming to an end.
‘Herr Rath!’ The girl regarded him wide-eyed. ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
12
The corridors of the Wittenauer Sanatorium smelled of cabbage and bratwurst. Charly’s stomach rumbled as she hurried along the shiny corridor, trying her best to keep up with Charge Sister Ingeborg. After Böhm’s call she hadn’t hesitated, had dropped everything and headed back to Reinickendorf, alone this time.
‘You’re going back?’ Karin asked, wide-eyed. ‘Why?’
‘Because the girl we questioned yesterday escaped last night.’
‘So what? That’s up to Homicide to investigate.’
That was true, but Charly wanted to know what had happened in Dalldorf. ‘Hold the fort,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in two hours.’
On the way she had stopped by the Reichstag to see how it looked in daylight. The smell of burning still filled the air, and the kitsch glass dome was reduced to a sooty steel skeleton. She doubted whether the Communists were responsible for the arson, as the papers claimed, but hadn’t said anything at the office, revealing neither where she’d been last night, nor her reservations about the arsonist’s identity. Why should the Communists dredge up some Dutch comrade, then ask that he, of all people, set fire to Parliament? If they really wanted to go for the Nazis, why not hit the SA Sturmlokale found all over the city? Or the Reich Chancellery itself? Or, for that matter, the Interior Ministry, where Göring was doing his best to turn the Prussian Police into a political brute squad?