‘Oh, I think I would.’ Rath gestured towards the canvasses. ‘Do me one last favour. Get these loaded into my car. It’s parked over there.’
The man was unenthusiastic, but obeyed all the same. Rath unlocked the car, opened the passenger door and the cop gradually lowered the two canvasses into the footwell, only for his blue sleeves to become smeared with pigeon dirt at the last minute. ‘Shit!’ he cursed.
‘I should say so!’
‘It wouldn’t be so bad if the Prussians picked up the goddamn cleaning bill! Instead it will be left to my wife. Communist blood, vomit and pigeon muck. She’ll be delighted, I tell you.’
‘Lucky there’s Persil,’ Rath said, as the cop tipped his shako with a pained smile.
Back at the Castle, Rath delivered the canvasses to Forensics.
‘What are we supposed to do with these?’ Klassen, one of Kronberg’s men, asked.
‘It’s to establish the chronology of…’
‘I know what it’s for,’ Klassen interrupted. ‘Right now we don’t have time. Anything to do with the Reichstag fire and the Communists has priority. The rest will have to wait.’
‘Perhaps the dead tramp was a Communist,’ Rath said. Klassen forced a smile. The pair had always got on well. ‘Come on! I’ve already compared them with the photos. All I need’s a quick look at the original coat and your signature, to make it official. I’ll write the report while you fetch it.’
‘Go on then,’ Klassen said. ‘But you’ll owe me.’
‘Of course.’
Rath sat at the typewriter, inserted a Forensics report form and began to type. Moments later, Klassen returned with the old soldier’s coat, which dangled from a hanger as if it were about to be returned to its wardrobe. It smelled as though it hadn’t been washed since the war.
‘It’s more or less a match, wouldn’t you say?’ Rath asked.
Klassen threw a glance at the canvasses, and at the dead man’s coat and nodded. ‘They’re both covered in about the same amount of shit, if that’s what you mean.’
Rath shook his head. ‘Which would suggest he was there four or five days before being discovered. Shocking. A man lies dead next to a busy train station for days, and the Berliners simply wash their hands.’
‘I fear it isn’t just Berliners,’ Klassen said, stamping Rath’s report and adding his signature.
Rath waved the ink dry and put the report in his pocket. ‘Much obliged.’
‘No trouble.’ Klaasen pointed towards the coat and canvasses, which were stinking out the warm office. ‘You going to take them with you?’
‘Me?’ Rath raised his hands. ‘Sorry, but that’s evidence. Nothing to do with me.’
‘You think I have any use for them now that the ‘examination’ is complete?’
‘Have them taken to the evidence room, or whatever it is you do. If in doubt ask Böhm. They’re no good to me.’
Wilhelm Böhm was in a downright filthy mood. ‘Four days,’ he grumbled. ‘Which means that Wosniak was killed on Tuesday. Possibly Wednesday if his overcoat was already a little… stained prior to his death.’
‘The twenty-first or twenty-second then.’ Rath noted the date. ‘Shall we launch a press appeal? Check if anyone noticed any suspicious goings-on in the vicinity of Nollendorfplatz on either day?’
‘Could do,’ Böhm said, ‘but I fear the press already has wind of the case.’
‘It does?’
‘And it doesn’t look as if they’re in the mood to help.’ Böhm gestured towards a newspaper on his desk. Der Tag. Most of the articles still concerned the Reichstag fire and its aftermath, but one carried the headline:
Police adopt questionable methods in hunt for killer
Rath was astonished to see the name in the byline. Berthold Weinert, a former tenant of the widow Behnke’s, in Nürnberger Strasse.
You wouldn’t credit it: while Berlin police detectives search for the masterminds behind the Reichstag fire (see pages 1, and 3–5 for further detail) a lone officer stands under the elevated railway at Nollendorfplatz guarding – wait for it – pigeon droppings!
The attempt to determine the time of death of homeless man Heinrich Wosniak, whose corpse was discovered on Saturday morning beneath the steel framework of the railway station, has been going on for days.
Homicide Detective Chief Inspector Böhm was unavailable for comment yesterday but must surely be wondering whether such tasteless not to say dubious methods can be justified at a time when police resources are urgently required to stave off the Communist…
Böhm snatched away the article before Rath could finish reading. ‘You know this Weinert, don’t you?’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I’m just wondering where he gets his information.’
‘Not from me.’ What a pleasure to be genuinely outraged for once. ‘You didn’t fill me in on the case until this morning. Though you’re right, I do know Weinert. Perhaps I should have a talk with him.’
‘I’m wondering whether that might not make matters worse.’ Böhm sounded wary. ‘At least Der Tag’s the only one making fun of us,’ he said, flinging his copy into the wastepaper basket.
‘Don’t you think we should put out a request for information? Especially now we can isolate the time of death.’
‘Perhaps we won’t need the public’s help,’ Böhm said, gesturing towards a folder on his desk. ‘Just in from Pathology.’ He had a gift for making his colleagues feel surplus to requirements. ‘Dr Schwartz has examined the wound in Wosniak’s head more closely. The weapon wasn’t a knitting needle but a blade with a triangular cross-section.’
‘Like a skewer,’ Rath said, receiving an angry glance.
‘A kind of stiletto, but an unusual one. Dr Schwartz suspects it could be a trench dagger.’
‘There’s no shortage of those.’
‘True, but they differ greatly in style. Every front soldier had his preference. Anyway, it should help us identify the perpetrator.’
‘A soldier, like his victim.’
‘It’s highly likely. At the very least someone who knows a soldier.’
‘Or his way around a pawnshop.’
‘Unlikely. A front soldier wouldn’t part with his trench dagger.’
‘Why would an ex-soldier kill a homeless man?’
‘Because the homeless man was a soldier too. I’d wager that’s where we’ll find our motive. It could be score-settling from the old days.’
‘Or a fight between tramps,’ Rath said. Yet here we are.
‘The nature of the wound suggests this was no crime of passion. The man was stabbed through the nostril. It was a calculated act.’
‘Someone trained in close-combat?’
‘Could be. I’ve put in a request to the Reichswehr Ministry. We need to know exactly where Heinrich Wosniak served during the war, and with whom.’
‘That could be quite the list.’
‘Perhaps, but what is police work if not a search for a needle in a haystack?’
‘Hell of a job we have.’
‘Quite,’ Böhm said. ‘Which is why you’ll be delighted to hear that I’ve earmarked a special needle just for you.’
‘Come again?’
‘Not a needle exactly, but how about a trench dagger in a city of four million? One with a triangular blade. You need to find the manufacturer, and any potential owners.’ He handed Rath the report. ‘Measurements are in there: blade length, width and so on.’
Rath’s face grew pale. ‘Will Gräf be assisting me in this Sisyphean task?’