‘What kind of meeting is it then?’ Gräf asked. He had always stood out for his healthy curiosity.
‘An informant.’ Rath took his coat and hat from the stand and grabbed Kirie’s lead. ‘Besides, the dog could use some exercise.’
He could see from their eyes that they wanted more, but he left it at that, tipping his hat as he went. Erika Voss would be the most put out by his secrecy.
Stefan Fink, the journalist, was waiting for him at Aschinger in Leipziger Strasse. He had suggested the meeting point himself, though probably not without ulterior motive. This was where he and Rath had met for the first time. Fink, back then a reporter for B.Z., had tried to recruit the inspector as a press informant. Rath politely declined and was hung out to dry.
Fink had a huge plate of Holsteiner Schnitzel in front of him.
‘Bon appétit,’ Rath said.
‘Late lunch,’ Fink replied, wiping his hands with a serviette. ‘Inspector! I’m delighted that you’ve decided to work with me at last. You’ll see that it’s worth it.’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’ Rath tied Kirie’s lead to the table leg, ordered a few Bouletten for the dog and a small beer for himself. He sat and waited for Fink to devour his schnitzel.
‘Right,’ he said finally, dabbing his mouth. ‘I needed that. Five cups of coffee for breakfast.’ He laughed and lit a cigarette.
Rath grinned. The man was a muckraker, which would make this easier. ‘Good of you to find the time,’ he said. ‘You seem to be very busy.’
‘Always. So, what is it you have for me? You made it sound very exciting on the telephone.’
‘It’s pretty explosive. A man with serious gambling debts could be in a lot of trouble.’
Fink hesitated as a light went on in his head. ‘What am I supposed to do with that, and since when are you interested in illegal gambling?’
‘I’m interested in anything worth pursuing.’
‘Can’t you just tell me what this is about? You’re talking in riddles.’
Rath got out the by now very crumpled edition of Der Tag and unfolded it on the table. ‘Here, this is what it’s about.’
Fink forced a weary smile. ‘That’s yesterday’s. You want to see the latest?’ He placed his copy of Der Tag on top. It was hot off the press, the headline underlined in red.
Jewish Gangster Left To Terrorise Berlin.
‘Why are you stirring things up?’ Rath asked.
‘Because it’s what people want to read.’
‘Why is the man’s religion so important that it has to be included in the headline? It almost reads like Der Angriff.’
‘Has Isidor Weiss sent you?’ Fink laughed. ‘What do you want, Herr Rath? I thought you had information. This is old hat.’
‘I do have information.’
‘You mean about the gambling debts? Who cares about that?’
Fink still had a big mouth, but Rath heard uncertainty behind the steady voice.
‘No dice? Then how about something else?’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I can reveal, for example, that you personally will fare much better in the coming days and weeks if you tell me how you got hold of the police sketch and internal information which you used to cobble together your wretched article.’
Fink stubbed out his cigarette and sighed, as if Rath was worthy of his deepest sympathy. ‘Inspector, I can’t see what you hope to gain from this. How many times do you think your colleague Böhm has tried to pump me for information in the last few days? My answer remains the same.’
‘Which is?’
‘Shield law. A serious journalist doesn’t name his sources. At any price.’
‘Is that so?’ Rath pulled an envelope from his pocket.
‘A German journalist cannot be bribed!’
‘All in all you have debts totalling fourteen thousand Reichsmark from illegal gambling.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Fink said, though it was plain he did. He just couldn’t work out how the inspector had got hold of the information.
‘I think you do, and, whether you believe it or not, I’m the man who can help you. If, that is, you are prepared to cooperate.’
Fink lit his next cigarette. The look he gave Rath contained a mixture of suspicion, fear and contempt.
‘I can’t release you from your debts, but I can ensure that your deadline is extended. Perhaps spare you a few broken fingers in the process.’
‘What kind of cop are you? You’re not only corrupt, you’re trying to threaten me.’
‘You play your dirty little games, and I’ll play mine.’
Fink inhaled as if he needed nicotine like he needed oxygen. ‘What makes you think I have gambling debts?’
‘Sorry,’ Rath said. ‘Shield law.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘I have to take the dog for a walk. She’s getting restless.’
He leaned over and untied Kirie, who began wagging her tail as soon as she realised they were leaving. Rath was halfway to the door when he heard Fink’s voice.
‘Stop. Wait!’
Rath kept his back to Fink. That way he didn’t have to hide his smile.
72
No, it was hardly the Adlon here. The brick walls were damp, the floor hard, and it stank of slurry and muck and salt and blood. To say nothing of chemicals; Alex didn’t even want to know how poisonous they were. And the cries at night. True, she had heard them from the axle factory too, but here they were so loud that she was startled out of sleep on the first night, believing the doomed animals were crying next to her.
What a place! The old tannery, or whatever Erich Rambow had called it. A hellhole, at any rate. Was she supposed to be grateful? She was, of course, after a fashion.
It was just too bad he was full of false hope again. She hadn’t seen him since she had been let go by Wertheim, and was glad to have closed that chapter in her life. Nevertheless, when she had waylaid him the day before yesterday, ready to take to her heels if he reacted strangely, she realised that nothing had changed. He still idolised her. She was using him, it was true, but it was a chance for him to get sex, so it all balanced out. As soon as this business with the murdering cop was over, she’d move with Vicky to another city, Breslau perhaps, where Vicky’s family came from. So far away the Berlin Police couldn’t lay a finger on her.
First, they had to finish things with the cop. Kuschke, the bastard’s name was, Vicky had followed him to his flat. Last night had been a success. A bucket of pig’s blood and a brush was all they needed. Vicky stood watch as Alex painted. It took barely five minutes. In Winterfeldtstrasse, even less.
Outside his flat they had screamed: ‘We’ll get you Kuschke!’ before running off laughing, as if it were a game of ring and run.
All the same, this was serious. They wanted to give the dirtbag a fright, to land him in trouble, before Alex launched the decisive strike.
If that meant spending a few days in this hole, so be it. She glanced at her pocket watch. Vicky was late again. Hopefully she wouldn’t burst in when she was busy with Erich. Still, maybe it would be OK. Alex could think of better things than ‘making love’, as Erich insisted on calling it, in this stench. At least he didn’t talk much. She heard steps and pricked up her ears. It couldn’t be Vicky or Erich; there were too many of them. Probably workers moving from one hall to the next. Fortunately, no one strayed into her dilapidated little hovel, which had been out of use so long it was beginning to rot. It still smelled like a slaughterhouse, however, the whole site did, a nauseating mix. It was what she had always hated about Erich, that the smell had seeped into his clothing by the end of the working day, but here she didn’t notice it so much.