‘Here it is,’ she said.
The box was locked.
‘You don’t happen to know where the key is?’
‘Herr Kuschke always kept it on him, I think.’
‘This item is hereby seized. I’ll happily provide you with a receipt before we take it away.’
‘Don’t you want to open it here?’ she asked, her disappointment plain.
‘I’d have to force it open,’ Lange said, in a tone of deep regret. ‘Surely you can’t expect that of a Prussian officer.’
91
The porter shook his head, more bored than trenchant. ‘Never seen him before.’ He turned back to his crossword.
Rath had heard the sentence at least half a dozen times, but this was the first time he didn’t believe it. It wasn’t because of any uncertainty in the porter’s voice; or that he spoke too quickly, usually the sign of a pat answer. Rather, standing behind his rickety table, or reception counter as it was supposed to be, the man wasn’t merely disagreeable but utterly loathsome. Rath had thought the lead would be a waste of time, but the man was visibly thrown by the picture of Abraham Goldstein, much as he tried to hide it.
‘Underworld river in ancient Greece. Four letters, ending in “x”?’ he asked.
‘Styx,’ Rath said.
‘How d’you spell it?’
Rath tore the paper from the man’s hand and put it gently, delicately almost, on the table. He placed Goldstein’s picture over the crossword.
‘Take a closer look,’ he suggested in a friendly tone, which evidently confused the porter.
‘Like I say, I don’t know this man.’ The porter reached for the paper again.
There were electric lines showing through the wallpaper; it didn’t look like the work of experts. It wasn’t the cleanest hotel Rath had seen either. As for the accounts, well who could say?
‘Listen here,’ he said, still friendly, ‘what do you think it would take to get this fleapit closed down? A call to the public order office? Or the board of public health? I’m pretty sure the financial office would do the job. A little tax audit. Yes, best to be sure.’
The porter put the paper down again. ‘Let’s talk. What do you want to know?’
Rath pushed the Goldstein sketch under his nose. ‘Is he staying here?’
‘No,’ he said. Rath was just about to make for the telephone booth on Oranienburger Tor, when he added: ‘He checked out a few days ago.’
‘When?’ The porter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a bribe. Either you talk, or I make the call.’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I don’t know. He just didn’t come back. I’ve no idea where he’s staying now.’
‘What about his luggage? Is that still here?’
‘No, otherwise he wouldn’t be checked out. Someone came to pick it up.’
‘Male or female?’ A blank look. ‘His companion. Did she pick up his luggage?’
‘It certainly wasn’t a woman! He had a beard this long.’ The porter made a gesture with his hands. ‘All in black. A strange type. With a caftan, you know.’
‘What do I know?’
‘You know. He was a Jew. Anyway, it was him who came to pick the stuff up. Just the one suitcase, settled the bill too. So, all’s well that ends well.’
Rath nodded. He wasn’t listening anymore.
Forensics didn’t find anything. The cupboards were empty, and Goldstein had left nothing behind. The only item was a bible in the drawer of the bedside table. The room was much larger than Rath expected, probably the best a flophouse like this had to offer, but, compared with the Excelsior, it was a hole. The room hadn’t been cleaned following Goldstein’s hasty departure, and so, at the very least, the ED men were able to lift a number of fingerprints, enough to prove the Yank had been here, even if, by now, Rath needed no confirmation.
The most pressing question was no longer where Goldstein had spent the last few days, but where he was now.
Around four o’clock all three men were back at the Castle. In the absence of a third desk, Rath fetched a table into the office from next door and placed a visitor’s chair in front of it. He couldn’t offer Tornow his own extension, but had been only too glad to place his typewriter at his disposal. What was a cadet good for, if not the paperwork his boss despised?
While Tornow typed his report, to be checked by Rath before Erika Voss made a fair copy, he and Gräf went through Gräf’s interrogation records hoping that, among the waffle, they would find a few serious statements. Which, of course, they didn’t. They highlighted the odd account pointing to sightings around the Poetenviertel or the area by Stettiner Bahnhof. It might help to pay these witnesses another visit but it was probably just coincidence. Someone claimed to have seen Abraham Goldstein in pretty much every neighbourhood in Greater Berlin.
Later, when Rath was sitting in the outer office going through Tornow’s report, the telephone rang. He ignored it, having no desire to be yelled at by Böhm, the only one who ever dialled him directly. Everyone else went via Erika Voss.
Gräf and Tornow exchanged glances. Gräf likewise made no move to answer, so Tornow got to his feet, went over to Rath’s desk and picked up.
‘Tornow, Inspector Rath’s office.’ He listened for a while before handing Rath the receiver. ‘For you. A Herr Liang.’
With everyone listening… Rath took the call.
‘Yes,’ he said innocently.
‘I take it this isn’t a good time,’ he heard Marlow’s Chinaman say.
‘That’s right.’
‘Come to Borchardt’s tonight at eight. Französischer Strasse. The Doctor would like to speak to you.’
‘About what?’
‘No doubt you already knew, and were just about to notify the Doctor.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You didn’t? Your colleagues have found Hugo Lenz. He’s dead.’
‘I understand.’
This time Rath wasn’t sure he’d managed to sound casual and non-committal, but neither Gräf nor Tornow had noticed anything. He hung up.
‘Who was that?’ Tornow asked. ‘Someone Chinese?’
‘My hairdresser. I had to cancel our appointment.’
‘Then find a German hairdresser,’ Tornow said and grinned. ‘You could use a chop.’
92
If Rath had known what awaited in the Flegenheimer home, he might have postponed for another few days. The door to the flat stood open when he arrived but, for a moment, he lingered in the fabulously ornate stairwell. When he heard voices and no one responded to his tentative ‘Hello’, he entered.
Lea Flegenheimer and her husband were in the living room, just as before, but this time they were crouched on the floor, on small uncomfortable-looking stools. Four visitors, evidently friends of the family, were speaking with the Flegenheimers, in reverent, hushed tones. Rath entered with Kirie on her lead, and was met by six horrified faces.
Ariel Flegenheimer said nothing, he didn’t even stand up. An elderly guest, like his host clad entirely in black, approached in his stead.
‘What you are doing here?’ he whispered, pulling Rath into the hallway. ‘This is a house of mourning.’
‘CID,’ Rath said. ‘The Flegenheimers know me. I have a few more questions.’
‘When someone is sitting Shiva you visit to offer your condolences, not to ask questions!’