‘Do you have any leads?’ Rath asked.
‘We picked up a Communist with Kubicki’s blood on his clothes.’
‘There you are then. Business as usual. Red on Brown.’
Gräf looked sceptical. ‘The man admitted to hiding the corpse, but denies killing the SA man. He says he was propped against the church wall, dead as a doornail. He just hid the corpse to avoid getting into trouble.’
‘When does he say he found the body?’
‘In the early hours. He meets his girl in front of the Himmelfahrtkirche every day before work. Before her work, that is. He’s unemployed.’
‘Handy. Is she providing his alibi?’
‘No, that’s just it. She didn’t see him at all on the morning in question. He says he noticed the blood on his jacket and went straight home.’
‘Strange story.’
‘Which is why I’m inclined to believe it.’
‘Who killed the dead Nazi then?’
‘I don’t know.’
Gräf lifted his empty beer glass, which caught Schorsch’s attention. The Nasse Dreieck landlord brought a fresh beer, exchanging it for Gräf’s empty glass and glancing disapprovingly at Rath’s, which was still half full.
‘It could be,’ Gräf said, ‘that the victim’s homosexuality is relevant somehow.’
‘A gay Nazi the victim of a homophobic murderer? Doesn’t sound right to me. Always leaves a funny taste when these Nazis or Commies style themselves as victims.’
‘The man isn’t styling himself. He is a victim. He was killed after all.’
‘You’re right. It’s just that since Goebbels made a hero out of that pimp Wessel…’
‘Wessel was no pimp. That’s Communist propaganda!’
‘Well, he was no martyr either. I know the case pretty well.’
Rath decided to back down. He had no desire to quarrel with his friend over politics. They usually avoided such topics, just as they avoided talking about Charlotte Ritter. ‘You’re saying this Kubicki died because he was a homosexual.’
‘It’s a possibility. I found something interesting in the files. About a week ago Stennes’ men threatened one of the leaders of the new Berlin SA. Karl Ernst, the local Gau’s aide-de-camp, was sitting with a few fellow officers in a bar in Halensee when a group of Stennes’ supporters tried to lay into them. Before it could go too far a riot squad took them in.’
‘So?’
‘One of Stennes’ men said some pretty nasty things to Ernst and his pal Paul Röhrbein. It’s the first time I’ve ever read the phrase arse-fuckers in a police statement. There was talk of gay boys and faggy bastards too.’
‘Sounds pretty homophobic.’
‘Right. Ernst and Röhrbein are both homosexual.’
Rath nodded pensively.
‘But the most interesting thing about the file was something else,’ Gräf said. ‘Among the brownshirts in the bar was a certain Gerhard Kubicki.’
‘Let me guess: he was one of the arse-fuckers.’
‘Got it in one.’ Gräf took a few more sips of beer and drained his glass. ‘I’ve suggested to Böhm that we canvass the names on the Halensee list, but he won’t have it. Thinks we’d be better off softening up a few Communists.’
‘I never knew Böhm was such a Commie-basher.’
‘He doesn’t care if they’re Communists, Nazis or small children.’
‘But he saves his best for CID officers.’
Gräf laughed. ‘At least I have permission to question our dead Rottenführer’s superior officer tomorrow. Let’s see what comes of that.’ His gaze fell on the two glasses again. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked. ‘You’re a beer down already.’
The detective made a move to order a fresh round, but Rath waved him away. ‘Not tonight,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for his hat. ‘I’ve made other plans.’
Gräf looked at his watch. ‘At quarter past eleven?’
‘Sorry,’ he said and placed five marks on the counter. ‘Let me take care of this.’
The detective grinned. ‘So, what’s her name?’
Rath shrugged. ‘Not sure,’ he said, pleased at the look of bafflement on Gräf’s face.
51
Rath parked the Buick a walking distance from the door. If his former colleagues at Vice were on surveillance and took down his number plate, he could have a lot of explaining to do. He left the car by the Weberwiese and walked down Memeler Strasse. The fresh air did him good. He had packed his Walther, as he didn’t fancy his chances here unarmed, especially at night. When he reached the junction at Posener Strasse a dim memory surfaced.
Venuskeller was an illegal cellar bar near the former Ostbahnhof, concealed in the rear courtyard of an unprepossessing tenement house. Dim was the word. This was where his first meeting with Johann Marlow had been contrived during a visit more than two years before. Marlow’s men had led Rath, the coked-up policeman, to a warehouse on the site of the Ostbahnhof, where the gangster received him. The evening had marked the start of their fateful relationship. Well, Rath thought, at least this time he was invited.
Guards stood watch on the street, but let him approach the building and the stairs that led down to the cellar bar. A man stepped out of the shadows.
‘Herr Rath, I presume,’ he said. Rath nodded. The man tipped his hat. ‘You’re expected. Please follow me.’
The guard didn’t take him to the entrance at the foot of the stairs, but further towards the back where a staircase led directly to the office and back rooms. He would be spared the noise and scandal of Venuskeller. He wasn’t in the mood for an illegal nightclub, not after Charly and the grinning man had put paid to his evening. In fact, he was just happy to have something to do, even sleuthing for an underworld heavyweight. The guard gave two brief knocks and Liang opened.
Marlow’s Chinaman frisked him, fishing the Walther out of its holster and taking his coat. Johann Marlow sat behind Sebald’s desk. There was no sign of the bar’s owner, however. Apart from Marlow, Rath and Liang, there wasn’t a soul in the room. Sebald’s office appeared to be one of the many Marlow had dotted across the city, to be used as and when required. Through the door came the muffled sound of music aimed at getting patrons in the mood. Marlow offered a friendly greeting as usual, even standing to proffer a hand.
‘Do take a seat,’ he said, pointing to a leather chair that Liang was already straightening. The silent Chinese always seemed to be in several places at once. Rath sank onto the cushion, and Liang set down a whisky glass and poured.
‘I thought I remembered you having a taste for my malt,’ Marlow said, and raised his glass.
Rath lit an Overstolz. His supplies were dwindling again. He was smoking more than was good for him, especially in the five hours since the grinning man had opened Charly’s door.
‘You were going to introduce me to Red Hugo’s girl,’ he said, realising he sounded a little unfriendly.
‘Later.’ Marlow said. ‘I’ve been asking around. You have this Goldstein under surveillance?’
‘Since Monday.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I don’t think he has anything to do with the disappearance of some Berlin gangster. He hasn’t left his hotel in days.’