It was the same story in the Schmale Gasse, where Wawerka had lived before moving west, only here a woman came to the door – and she proved even more taciturn than the man at Legasteg. Her contribution consisted entirely of headshakes, nods and suspicious glances. She had never heard of a Johann Wawerka.
Unlike the previous two streets, Lamkau’s address on Lindenallee was perfectly presentable, a neat, solidly middle-class little home with a well-maintained garden. Rath stood at the garden gate and, for a moment, considered entering the grounds. He rejected the notion. He felt himself being watched. The whole neighbourhood was probably just waiting for this stranger in the fancy suit to do something illegal so that they could call the police or, better still, reach for their shotguns.
Assmann, the enamel sign read. Rath noted the name and made his way back to the marketplace. It was gone three, but the sun was still beating down. At least the shadows were starting to lengthen, and a few shops had their awnings down. An advertisement on one of the houses gave him an idea. Fahrschule Emil Hermann. A driving school. He rang the bell and asked the instructor about a certain pupil.
‘Lamkau? When would this be?’ Another suspicious Treuburg resident.
‘A good ten years ago.’
The instructor, a well-fed man in his fifties, scratched his chin in careful consideration, but all it yielded was a regretful shrug, and an isolated sentence. ‘Nope, no idea.’
‘Perhaps you have a telephone book?’
Herr Hermann led him through a kind of classroom into his office at the back. As soon as Rath saw the so-called telephone book, he knew it was no use. The sum total of Treuburg’s telephone subscribers, from Adomeit to Zukowski, fitted on a single page hanging from the wall. He had intended to take a note of any Wawerkas, Simoneits and Lamkaus with a view to tracking down potential relatives, but the only thing he found was the number of a certain Dietrich Assmann, the man who lived at Lamkau’s old address. At least he had a telephone, unlike the Lamkaus, Simoneits and Wawerkas of this town.
After making a solitary entry, he clapped his notebook shut. ‘One more thing,’ he said, once driving instructor Hermann had accompanied him to the door. ‘The Luisenhöhe estate and Mathée Korn distillery… What’s the best way to get there?’
Emil Hermann looked him up and down. ‘It’s about half an hour on foot,’ he said, at length. ‘Or you can take the light railway to Schwentainen. It stops at Luisenhöhe. Doesn’t go too often, mind.’
‘Thank you.’
Rath returned to find his unsolicited colleague and chaperone exactly where he’d left him: in the catacombs of the district administrative office, surrounded by a mound of files and card boxes. ‘Found anything?’
‘You should know that Prussians are slow on the draw,’ Kowalski replied.
Rath had asked him to scour the archives for mention of the three names. ‘You find anything that links them, you let me know right away.’
Kowalski had been unable to recall anything specific that had happened in Treuburg or Marggrabowa in 1924. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything. I was at the village school in Markowsken; it wasn’t easy keeping up with the world outside.’
Perhaps he wasn’t quite so taciturn after all, at least not in comparison with his fellow East Prussians, but his failure didn’t bother Rath particularly, since the main reason he’d left him trawling through the archives was to buy himself a few hours’ peace. ‘Then spend the afternoon looking through the case files from the district court. Maybe you’ll find something there,’ he said. ‘Focus on 1924 again.’
Kowalski nodded, less than thrilled. ‘How about you? Any luck?’
‘I’m certainly getting to know Treuburg.’ Rath lit a cigarette. ‘I’m going to drive out to the Luisenhöhe estate. Could you pass me the keys…’
Kowalski looked reluctant. Evidently his superiors weren’t banking on him handing over the car without a fight. ‘Why don’t I drive you there? I know the way. It’s why I’m here after all.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ Rath gestured towards the dusty mound of files. ‘You’re of more use to me here.’
‘You know,’ Kowalski said, ‘I’m not even sure I’m authorised to lend you the car…’
‘It’s a Prussian police vehicle, right?’
‘Right.’
‘What does a Prussian assistant detective say when a Prussian detective inspector requests the use of a vehicle?’
‘He says: “Yes, Sir!”, Detective Inspector, Sir.’
‘There we are.’ Rath gave a satisfied nod and stretched out his right hand for the keys.
The black Wanderer handled well enough, and Rath enjoyed steering through the countryside unaccompanied. The truth was that he preferred working alone; somehow it allowed him to think better. He took the B road to Schwentainen, but quickly realised it was a mistake. A farmer on a hay cart sent him back to Treuburg, where he was to take the road to Lyck. He reached the railway line within ten minutes and, shortly after that, the stop with the lightly rusted sign. LUISENHÖHE. With its high chimneys, the brick distillery appeared more like a factory than an estate building. The name Mathée was printed on the pediment in the same ornate writing as on the Luisenbrand bottles; below, in much smaller, simple block letters was the rubric Brennerei Gut Luisenhöhe. Luisenhöhe Distillery. A low, modern annexe, behind which two large copper storage tanks glistened in the sunlight, marked the boundary of a paved square, upon which two trucks containing barley malt waited to be unloaded.
The quantities that must be produced here! This was no provincial operation distilling cheap schnapps for Treuburg and its outlying villages.
Rath parked the car in the courtyard and spoke to the nearest worker. ‘Where can I find the boss around here?’
‘You mean the operations manager or the managing director?’
‘Director Wengler,’ he said, displaying Lamkau’s driving licence photo. ‘Or anyone who can tell me about this man. Herbert Lamkau.’ The worker looked at the photo briefly and shrugged. ‘He never put in an appearance here? Lamkau was a distributor, a pretty important one too, I might add.’
The worker gestured towards the top of the hill. ‘Director Wengler has his office up there in the estate house.’
‘Many thanks,’ Rath said. ‘Wait a minute… 1924… That was the year Herr Lamkau left town, along with a few other men. I suspect something happened here that forced their hand. Any idea what it might be?’
Again the worker shrugged, but this time Rath sensed he was lying; the man knew exactly what had happened eight years ago.
A shaded avenue led up to the estate house, which wasn’t nearly as ostentatious as he had imagined: more large villa than small castle. He parked in front of a stoop, and no sooner had he got out of the car than a man in a suit descended the steps. Either they were permanently on guard here, or the distillery worker below had telephoned up to the house.
‘Good afternoon,’ the suit said, sounding excessively polite. He had the air of a bookkeeper.
‘Herr Wengler?’
‘I’m afraid Herr Wengler is away on business; we’re not expecting him back before evening.’ The man stretched out a hand. ‘Fischer’s the name. I’m Herr Wengler’s private secretary. With whom do I have the pleasure?’
‘Rath, CID.’
The secretary didn’t look overly surprised. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’
Rath showed him the driving licence photo. ‘I need some information about this man,’ he said. ‘Herbert Lamkau. A business associate of Herr Wengler’s.’