Skinny Sally’s heart jumped when he saw the lights on in his flat and his boss’s killer sitting inside on the sofa. His gaze said simply: make it quick.
Abe had reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, Sally. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.’
Salomon Epstein understood Goldstein’s visit meant it would be wise to disappear for a few weeks, as far away as possible from Moe Berkowicz and his men. He packed a suitcase and, ever since that evening, Abe Goldstein had a new friend.
On that momentous day, when he let Skinny Sally go free, Goldstein’s passage was already booked. The letter from Berlin a few days before had made the decision easy. He spent the four days prior to his departure in a cheap hotel with his suitcases packed, venturing outside only to buy papers and cigarettes. The day before leaving he read that there had been a gunfight in the Congo Club on Amsterdam Avenue, a bloodbath, in which five people had lost their lives. The Congo was one of Moses Berkowicz’s Speakeasies. Fat Moe ought to have been dead, but had broken his routine and left the club at ten. After that he had gone to ground. The incident finally brought home to Abe how important it was that he skip town. A wounded Moses Berkowicz was more dangerous than ever.
A day later, Goldstein stood on the upper deck of the Europa. Leaning against the rail he saw two young men in light-grey summer coats on the pier below. He had never seen them before, but was in no doubt they were sharing board and lodging with Fat Moe in some lice-ridden apartment out in the Bronx. The fat man’s last reserves: two amateurs picked off the street, who looked as though they had never worn suits before in their lives. When one of them spotted him and pointed up, he gave them a friendly wave, knowing he was safe. The steamer had already cast off, and the foghorn issued its deafening farewell to Manhattan. Nevertheless, one of the two – perhaps thinking no one would be able to hear over the noise – drew his weapon and took aim. His partner stopped him pulling the trigger. A cop had seen them, and Moe’s kindergarten killers made themselves scarce.
After searching in vain for Moses Berkowicz’s obituary notice, Goldstein leafed through the sports section. The Dodgers had lost again.
‘Anything else, Sir?’ the waiter said in English. His tone was polite and worldly, in anticipation of a hefty dollar tip.
‘Schwarzwälder Kirsch, please.’
The waiter gave a nod of acknowledgement hearing Goldstein’s impeccable pronunciation. He had probably never taken an order like that from an American tourist before.
Goldstein leaned back, lit a Camel and surveyed a girl in a light summer dress. She seemed to notice; at any rate, she gave him an enchanting smile. He smiled back and crumpled the empty cigarette packet. He only had one pack of twenty left in his suite, and still hadn’t located an alternative source. Despite an otherwise excellent selection, the hotel tobacconist’s didn’t have any Camel, nor, surprisingly, did the big train station opposite. Maybe he should write to the American embassy. Or try here in this neighbourhood. The rich west was where most American tourists seemed to spend their time.
Someone had left a Berlin paper on the neighbouring table. Goldstein’s gaze fixed on a familiar portrait. He reached over and grabbed it. B.Z. am Mittag the title page said, and on the first page of the regional section stood the headline: SA man murdered. Below it was the photo. The man wore a neat parting, but aside from that bore a fatal resemblance to Knuckleduster Gerd from Humboldthain. The image line also carried his name: Victim of a political brawl? Gerhard Kubicki (27).
‘One Schwarzwälder Kirsch. Would the gentleman like anything else?’
The waiter placed a plate containing a large slice of cake on the table and discreetly removed the crumpled cigarette packet. Goldstein continued reading the paper.
BERLIN. The bloody corpse of a 27-year-old man was discovered by police yesterday morning in Volkspark Humboldthain, near the Himmelfahrtkirche. The victim suffered cut and stab wounds. The man, who later succumbed to his injuries, has been identified as SA-Rottenführer Gerhard Kubicki, resident at Berlin Gesundbrunnen, currently unemployed. Police suspect that Kubicki was the victim of a politically motivated brawl, and have requested the assistance of B.Z. readers. Did you notice anything suspicious in Volkspark Humboldthain on Tuesday night? Witnesses are asked to contact their nearest police precinct, or get in touch directly with CID at police headquarters, Alexanderplatz. Telephone: Berolina 0023.
Goldstein pushed the cake plate aside. His appetite was gone. The police were making a real fuss over this. Damn it! He stubbed out the Camel and pushed five dollars under the saucer. Instinctively he smelled trouble. He had to do something.
49
Dull as it might be playing Abraham Goldstein’s minder, Rath was satisfied with his working day as he got into the Buick at Anhalter Bahnhof. Soon they’d have the Yank worn down. How must it feel to spend the whole day trapped in your hotel room? Lunch was the only meal Goldstein had left his suite for. Breakfast had been taken to his room, likewise dinner the night before. As Czerwinski had painstakingly noted: a platter of cold roast beef and a bottle of chilled champagne. The man had to console himself somehow.
The garage had done a good job; the Buick felt good as new. Marlow would expect a favour in return, but Rath would supply. His investigation for Dr M. was a hundred times more interesting than being on shift at the Excelsior. Or searching for Charly’s guttersnipe, a task that was as ridiculous as it was futile.
Those endless hours in the hotel had given him too much time to think about his quarrel with Charly. Again and again, he saw the image of her green hat as it disappeared between the S-Bahn scaffolding poles. A few times he had been on the verge of calling her; the telephone he had brought up to the desk kept urging him on. Once he even dialled the operator, only to hang up before he could give Charly’s number.
He was furious at her pig-headedness, but couldn’t stop thinking about her. At the same time he would have liked nothing more than to take her in his arms, and not just because they usually landed in bed when they made up after quarrelling. But yesterday was different, he could feel it.
He should have proposed like he planned, but the timing in the last few months had never been right. He wanted it to be special, which was why he had organised the trip to Cologne, even got hold of football tickets. Everything had been planned down to the final detail, including booking a table in the Bastei for the day after the game. After that he’d have performed his filial duty by officially introducing Charly as his fiancée, making it clear once and for all that he was determined to marry a Protestant. Then he’d have disappeared back to Berlin and finally been rid of his parents and their advice.
The Bastei was one of the classiest restaurants in the city, a generously proportioned, modern build with spectacular views of the cathedral and the Rhine. The waiter had been in on it: rings in the champagne. But then they had run into his mother. How could he forget that she shopped at Leonhard Tietz every Monday?
They had gone out to eat that night as planned. The table was booked, but the timing wasn’t right. He managed to catch the waiter at the last moment, and had the rings taken out of the glasses. They were now hidden in his living room cabinet, waiting to be deployed again.
He cursed his indecision. He should have asked her long ago, or left it once and for all.