Rath was so preoccupied with Kirie that only now did he register the eye-catching vehicle parked beside the railway arches. A slender man climbed out of the driver’s door, and his appearance caused something of a stir, partly on account of his straight, black hair, which was bound in a long ponytail, and partly on account of his high cheekbones and impenetrable, dark, narrow eyes. Rath recognised him instantly… Liang Kuen-Yao, Johann Marlow’s shadow, in a tailored suit as always.
What the hell was Marlow’s Chinaman doing at police headquarters? Liang strode purposefully to the entrance, but only when he tipped his hat in greeting did Rath realise that he himself was the target.
‘Inspector,’ Liang said. ‘Please come with me. Your presence is requested.’ Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed back to the car.
Rath looked around. When he was certain there was no one here who knew him, he followed. The freshly washed car was parked between a dusty Opel and a new Ford. The colour of a fine red wine, it looked as if it had arrived straight from Holly-wood. Not even Hindenburg’s Mercedes could have attracted more attention. Several youths gazed in wonder while maintaining a respectful distance. They were discussing what make it was.
‘It’s a Chevy.’ – ‘Nonsense, a Buick Master Six.’ – ‘American at any rate.’
It was indeed an American vehicle, but a Duesenberg, as uncommon on Berlin’s roads as penguins in the Sahara. Liang opened the door and, to Rath’s great surprise, Kirie sprang into the back. Before following, he took one last look to check Charly wasn’t coming around the corner. Kirie crouched in the spacious footwell in front of the backseat, and allowed herself to be stroked by a man inside.
‘Good dog,’ said Johann Marlow.
‘That must be a Boulette from Aschinger,’ Rath said. ‘Kirie would eat one of those out of the devil’s hand.’
‘I hope that’s not a reference to me.’ Marlow looked just as Rath remembered him: a little stocky but powerfully built, his linen summer suit tailored to perfection. ‘Good to see you again, Inspector,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know I had a choice?’
‘I’m pleased to see you’re as realistic as ever.’
Rath felt as if he’d stepped into his own nightmare. He had been expecting Marlow to show up again, but had pushed the knowledge aside, almost daring to hope that his dealings with the man were over.
Johann Marlow was known as Dr Mabuse or simply Dr M. At the start of his time in Berlin, Rath had become involved with him in the course of a case. Its resolution had brought a series of consequences.
At first everything had been fine. Rath had his killer, and Marlow had the gold he was after. Then a few months later an envelope containing five thousand marks appeared in Rath’s mailbox. No letter, no sender, not even Rath’s address – but he knew straightaway who it was from.
He hadn’t asked for the money, but neither had he given it back. Several months later, he ignored the fact that it was dirty and bought a car. Perhaps to this day he wouldn’t have touched it if his friend, Weinert, hadn’t needed to sell his old Buick when he was in a financial jam. The money meant that Rath could help him, though the stubbornness with which the Free State of Prussia refused him promotion and, with it, a decent salary, were contributory factors too. What was left had lain untouched in an account ever since.
Among all this he had neglected one crucial detaiclass="underline" the five thousand marks weren’t just a thank you and reward for his part in locating the Sorokin gold, they sealed a bond which Rath would sooner have dissolved – only, he didn’t know how.
He looked at Marlow. What did the man want from him? ‘I’m realistic enough to know that heading me off outside police headquarters is lunacy, especially in a flashy crate like that.’
‘If you don’t like it, then make sure you can be reached by telephone in future. Or, at the very least, that you spend your nights at home.’
‘You were at Luisenufer?’
‘If you had been there at four this morning we’d have had this conversation long ago. Poor Kuen-Yao had to wait in your flat for nothing. As for the flashy crate, the vehicle is a present from a girlfriend overseas, which I’m currently test driving.’
‘There was I thinking it was you who sent your girlfriends cars.’
Marlow laughed. ‘In this case, it concerns a female business associate, whom I helped gain a foothold in the States. She’s doing rather well now, as you can see.’
‘It’s still a typical American show-off machine,’ Rath said. Right now anything American could go hang. Except for their music.
‘I must say I’m surprised. I thought you drove American vehicles too?’
‘Singular,’ Rath said. ‘I drive an American vehicle, a used one at that. It’s no match for your fleet.’
‘You should work with me more often. You’d be able to afford something better.’
‘Who says I want to?’
‘Have I been misinformed about Prussian Police pay grades? Weren’t your salaries cut again?’
Rath was tired of the subject. ‘What’s so important that you need to interrupt your test drive to speak to me?’
‘I need your help.’ Marlow made it sound like a request. ‘Hugo Lenz,’ he continued. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’
Rath shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Head of the Berolina Ringverein…’
‘Red Hugo!’
Marlow nodded. ‘You’ve come across him then?’
‘No, but I know the name.’
Operating under his nickname, Hugo Lenz was a known figure in the Berlin underworld. Red Hugo, an experienced safebreaker, was head of Berolina, the Ringverein Marlow used for his shady deals – without ever having been a member himself. It was a profitable collaboration for both sides. Berolina did the best business out of all the Berlin underworld syndicates, and Marlow always had enough men at his disposal – and not just when there was work to be carried out. The men from Berolina were Marlow’s muscle, a small army loyal to his illegitimate business empire. Nevertheless, he was careful to avoid anything that gave the impression he might have links with the Ringverein. He didn’t even go to their receptions – in contrast to a number of police officers, who maintained good relationships with Berlin’s criminal organisations. Even Superintendent Gennat had been known to attend the odd founder’s day celebration.
‘You’re aware that Lapke and Höller were released from Tegel two weeks ago?’
Rath nodded. The heads of the Nordpiraten had been caught red-handed two years ago breaking into a vault at Reichskanzlerplatz. Their temporary incarceration in Tegel had decisively weakened the Pirates, with Berolina the main beneficiaries. With Lapke and Höller back on the streets they seemed determined to re-establish the old status quo, and incidents were stacking up. A week ago, unidentified men had thrown one of Marlow’s drug-dealers through the closed window of a dance hall along with his goods, the victim sustaining not only cuts but paralysis to his legs and lower body. Shortly afterwards, a newly established Pirate betting office had been raided and destroyed. A gangland war seemed to be in the offing, a development many police officers observed with satisfaction, content to let the city’s criminal elements take care of one another.
‘I’ve heard about your trouble,’ Rath said.
‘Trouble’s the wrong word. We have our first fatality. A… how shall I put it? Business associate of Berolina was found murdered in his shop.’
Rath was surprised. Murder was against the Ringverein code of honour. That said, the Nordpiraten weren’t thought to take matters such as honour and tradition particularly seriously. ‘You believe the Pirates are behind it?’