‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You are being transferred to Köpenick, Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘When… when does this transfer take effect?’
‘Immediately, of course. What did you think? Get used to the pace of the new age! Now back to headquarters with you and clear your desk. Tomorrow morning, you’ll report to Inspector Brenner.’
‘Brenner?’
‘He’s head of operations at Köpenick.’ Daluege wrote another sentence in Böhm’s file. ‘You can go now.’
Böhm’s legs felt like jelly, but soon the old spirit returned and filled him with resolve. He wouldn’t let himself be ground down. They had no cause to remove him from office, and for as long as he was a Prussian police officer he would conduct business as he saw fit. These Nazi upstarts could go hang.
Nothing lasts forever, he thought, let’s see what the elections bring. He left the office without another word.
24
Café Imperator was slightly out of the way, towards the southern end of Friedrichstrasse. Two gentlemen rose when they spied Roddeck. Rath had never seen the gaunt man, but recognised the fat man with the glasses.
Roddeck made the introductions. ‘Martin Frank, Neue Preussische Zeitung, and Gregor Hildebrandt, my publisher – Gereon Rath, Criminal Police.’
‘Hildebrandt?’ Rath asked, shaking the fat man’s hand. ‘Didn’t you publish Herr Roeder back in the day?’
‘Some time ago,’ Hildebrandt said, evidently flattered that Rath should recognise him. ‘Nibelungen is famous for its true life stories.’
‘Or true war stories.’
‘War is life, life is war,’ Hildebrandt said seriously. ‘How are you getting on, Inspector? Ever considered putting pen to paper yourself?’
‘God forbid!’ Rath raised his hands. ‘No one’s interested in my life.’
‘Don’t say that.’
Rath and Roddeck took their places at the table.
‘We’ve just come from the morgue,’ said Roddeck. ‘It really is my faithful Heinrich.’
Hildebrandt shook his head. ‘What do you think, Inspector? Is the murder linked to this poison-pen business?’
‘You know about that?’
‘I advised Herr von Roddeck to go to the police.’
‘Advice you should have given two weeks ago.’
‘I only told Herr Hildebrandt this morning,’ Roddeck said.
‘What are you going to do?’ Hildebrandt asked. ‘Will Herr von Roddeck receive police protection?’
‘That’s not my decision. Besides, it’s still a little early… First we need to examine the facts.’
‘Too early? Don’t you think it might be too late, unless you act?’
‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ Rath lit an Overstolz. ‘How about you? What steps are you taking?’ He turned to Martin Frank, the editor. ‘The easiest thing would be to pull the advance print. You could announce it in tomorrow’s edition.’
‘We’ve spent the last few weeks publicising it,’ Frank said. ‘Our readers are expecting the first instalment. If we postpone it, we’ll need a replacement, and negotiations are still ongoing for our next serial.’
‘But it isn’t completely impossible? I mean, it’s still two weeks away, and if a human life really is at stake, then…’
Frank looked uncertainly towards Roddeck and Hildebrandt. ‘Assuming it met with the wishes of Herr von Roddeck and Herr Hildebrandt, then, yes, postponing is something we might consider. If the police recommended it.’
Roddeck cut in. ‘The police should focus on catching the killer. For my part, I will not submit to threats.’
‘The same goes for the Neue Preussische Zeitung, of course,’ Frank interjected hurriedly. ‘I just thought that since the Criminal Police…’
‘Yielding to blackmail can’t be in police interests,’ Roddeck said.
‘We only have to be seen to be yielding,’ Rath said. ‘Forbearance is not acquittance. It would ease the pressure, that’s all, and give us a week to search for this missing captain. If he is still alive, that is, and responsible for Heinrich Wosniak’s death. To be honest I have difficulty believing someone would kill in order to prevent a book from being published.’
The publisher looked astounded. ‘Hasn’t Lieutenant von Roddeck explained to you what this is about?’
‘Operation Alberich, Captain Engel, the murder of two French civilians…’
‘…and a German recruit,’ Hildebrandt added.
‘This business with the gold. What can I say, it all sounds pretty convoluted.’
‘Herr von Roddeck expresses himself better in writing.’ Hildebrandt said, reaching for his briefcase. He removed a thick wodge of papers held together by cord. ‘Here,’ he said, passing it across. ‘Märzgefallene proofs. Read the book and you’ll understand.’
Rath looked at the wodge in horror. ‘How many pages?’
‘Five hundred and eighty, but you don’t have to read everything. I’ve marked the most important sections. You’ll realise soon enough that our fears are justified. Captain Engel is cold-hearted and devoid of scruples.’
‘A Nazi?’
‘What are you saying? The exact opposite.’
‘A Communist?’
‘No.’ The publisher looked piqued. ‘A Jew.’
25
When Rath returned to his office, Erika Voss was sitting at her desk in her hat and coat writing something on a piece of paper. She crumpled it when she saw him.
Rath looked at his watch. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late.’
‘You don’t say.’ She passed him Kirie’s lead. ‘I was all set to take her home.’
‘Sorry, Erika,’ he said. Kirie wagged her tail contentedly. ‘Traffic.’
He released Kirie’s collar and she made straight for her favourite place under his desk. Rath followed her into his office and set down the thick stack of papers he was carrying. ‘Any sign of Gräf?’ he asked through the door.
‘Finished for the night. Your fiancée was asking for you on the phone just now.’
‘She was?’ Rath hung his hat and coat on the stand. ‘Did Gräf have any luck?’
‘None. No trace of our dead man.’ Erika Voss could no longer hide her curiosity at the wodge of paper. ‘What’s that?’
‘Märzgefallene. Our baron’s novel about his wartime experiences.’
‘All that shorthand was for nothing?’ Erika Voss presented him with a neatly stapled file. ‘Interview transcript, freshly typed.’
‘You’re an angel.’
‘Speaking of which…’ She opened a second, thinner file. ‘Captain Engel was reported missing in March ’17, and declared dead seven years later. At his widow’s behest.’
Many war widows refused to accept their missing husbands’ deaths, even if it brought them financial difficulties, but Captain Engel’s widow had prioritised inheritance over hopes of a miracle. Perhaps the woman was simply realistic, but how would she react when she learned her husband might not have been killed after all?
‘Do you have her address?’
Erika Voss pushed the file across the table. ‘This is everything I’ve been able to find.’
Rath skimmed the list, which also contained the addresses of some of the men Roddeck had mentioned. Eva Engel still lived in Bonn, but went by a different name. ‘Looks like she remarried?’
‘I don’t know, but she’s called Heinen these days.’
‘Our colleagues in Bonn should pay these men a visit. The widow, too, of course. Is the press appeal ready?’