‘I’m afraid I’m not responsible for Herr Wengler’s business affairs. But I could make you an appointment to see him.’ Fischer pulled out a little black book and leafed through it. ‘You’re in luck. There’s a small window tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.’
‘You’re in luck too.’ Rath handed the secretary his card. ‘Tell Herr Wengler I’ll be with him at ten.’
33
The day had begun with a mound of carrots that needed peeling, a doddle in comparison with chopping onions. Then, immediately after lunch, Unger had summoned Charly to his office. The head chef had a pile of correspondence to deal with, and, after dictating various letters, had left her to type them up.
Working quickly, she used the opportunity to rummage through Unger’s drawers. The window glass prevented a systematic search, but she managed an overview as she feigned looking for paperclips or envelopes.
She didn’t strike lucky until the filing shelves, where, right at the top, she stumbled on a folder marked Complaints. After skimming the copies inside, she surmised that they were letters of complaint sent by Unger on behalf of the Kempinski firm. It was unappetising stuff. One was a complaint addressed to Fehling Foods about a venison delivery overrun with maggots, another concerned a pallet of rotten eggs from Friedrichsen Eggs and Poultry.
Hearing the door open behind her she returned the folder to the shelf, and looked around to find Manfred Unger ogling her legs.
‘What is it you’re looking for, Fräulein Ritter?’
‘I’m finished with your correspondence and thought I might file the copies.’ She dismounted her stool.
‘No need to go up there.’
He took a folder from the shelf in front of her. +++ Korrespondenz 1932 +++ the cover said.
‘Another classic case.’ Charly laughed.
‘A classic case of what?’
‘Failing to see the wood for the trees.’
She opened the folder and returned to the desk. Luckily, she really had finished her typing. Unger regarded her benevolently as she reached for the punch and began filing the copies. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything. ‘You just need to sign,’ she said, placing the originals in front of him.
He tore his gaze away and turned to signing correspondence that was perfectly harmless compared to what she had just found. ‘If you could take these to the post office and then call it a night. You’ll find envelopes and stamps in the flat drawer at the top.’
She nodded demurely. She already knew where they were kept, but there was no reason for Unger to find out. ‘Many thanks, Herr Unger.’ At the desk she began folding the letters and placing them in their envelopes.
Unger gazed at her legs for a final time before disappearing inside the kitchen. It seemed like there was a lot going on today; he was everywhere issuing instructions, but still glanced periodically in her direction.
Did he suspect? Surely not but, even so, she didn’t dare reach for the Complaints folder a second time. She had seen enough, even if she hadn’t found anything addressed to Lamkau. Gereon’s hunch appeared to have been borne out. The letters were odd, not so much for their sharpness of tone as their ambiguities. Despite reading no more than two or three, she had noticed straightaway that they weren’t letters of complaint. They were letters of extortion.
34
The lounge was filled with smoke despite the early hour. Two men stood at the bar speaking in hushed tones; three others sat at a table playing skat, noisy only when they revealed their hands. By the window, a solitary old man in hard-wearing corduroy slacks and woollen pullover crouched over a glass of schnapps. A wiry, bespectacled man in his mid-thirties dressed in a coarse linen suit with elbow patches ate a light supper on his own. Rath nursed his beer at the only other table, hoping that Chief Constable Grigat avoided this dive, and that no one else decided to stand him a Pillkaller.
The risk seemed slight as, so far, the patrons had scrupulously ignored him. Only the man in the linen suit had looked up as he entered the lounge, appraising him openly through wire-framed spectacles. The most from anyone else was the occasional stolen glance. He had planned to have a drink at the bar and engage in conversation with the landlord and his locals, but the suspicion he’d met on entry made him plump for the window instead.
Assistant Detective Kowalski had offered to accompany him, but, after releasing him from the district archive, Rath had sent him on a bar crawl of his own, to do a little nosing around his compatriots, and to leave the ‘Herr Inspector’ in peace.
The wall of silence since he’d started asking about Lamkau, Simoneit and Wawerka made him suspicious. This wasn’t simply East Prussian reticence, more like a conspiracy everyone was in on. The contents of Grigat’s police file were sketchy at best, and Kowalski had spent the afternoon trawling through the archives in vain. Rath didn’t know if he should trust him.
There was nothing for it but to keep chivvying the stubborn fools until one of them offered more than a shrug. There was no doubt his mere presence was getting to them. He didn’t have to ask any questions.
He lit a cigarette and raised his by now empty glass. At least the landlord wasn’t ignoring him, and began tapping out a fresh beer. That was the kind of reserve he could deal with. He had taken his evening meal in a pretty little restaurant by the lakeshore, eschewing the Salzburger Hof, and with it Chief Constable Grigat. Kowalski had given him the name of the bar here; ‘Pritzkus’s is where the ordinary folk meet,’ he had said, and it was true. Ordinary folk, who didn’t take kindly to strangers.
He placed the photos of Lamkau and Wawerka on the table as the landlord approached with his beer. ‘Do you recognise either of these men? Herbert Lamkau, Hans Wawerka. Or does the name August Simoneit mean anything to you?’
‘It’s possible they drank here from time to time. Must’ve been a good while ago though.’
‘Eight years.’
‘Back then my father was still in charge.’
Rath dared to hope. ‘Would it be possible to speak to him?’
The landlord shook his head. ‘I’m afraid we buried him two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ but the landlord had disappeared to take the skat players’ latest order.
He stood up and took the two photos over to the old man, who sat alone with his schnapps and a fat cigar that didn’t seem to get any shorter. The man didn’t look like he was expecting company, let alone conversation. Rath showed him the photos all the same. ‘Good evening. I’m looking for someone who can tell me about this man.’ The old man puffed on his cheroot. ‘Herbert Lamkau. Does the name mean anything to you? Or this man here. Johann Wawerka.’ Silence. ‘They lived here, eight years ago. You’re old enough to remember them. How about August Simoneit? I don’t have a photo of him, unfortunately.’ The man mumbled something incomprehensible without removing the cheroot from his mouth. ‘Pardon me?’
The man removed the cigar and repeated what he’d just said. He spoke loudly and clearly, but Rath didn’t understand a word. Whatever language he was using, it wasn’t German.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rath said, taking his photos and standing up. ‘I didn’t realise you were Polish. I thought you were from here.’
The man glared at him, and conversation at the surrounding tables ceased. Suddenly, he started so violently from his chair that his drink overturned, his eyes sparkling with rage.