‘He’d have inherited it anyway, but took over from old Mathée prior to his death because of debt issues. That’s where all the local gossip stems from – not least because he’s made a pretty penny since.’
‘No doubt he’d have preferred a living bride.’
‘And no doubt it was her death that made him seek refuge in his work. He made the Mathée name great in memory of his murdered fiancée, whom he never got to lead to the altar.’
Rath realised he was shivering. It had grown cold. ‘Let’s get back to the Kronprinzen,’ he said. ‘I could use a drink after that. As well as some light, and a little company.’
When they returned to the marketplace there was almost no light from the houses, and the street lamps were out. Rath lit the way with the torch. The light caught an advertising pillar on the corner of Bahnhofstrasse, startling two figures armed with a wall brush and bucket who immediately took to their heels.
Rath almost cried ‘Stop! Police!’, but managed to restrain himself. ‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘I’d wager it was Albrecht and Rosanki.’
‘Who?’
‘Our local Communists. You mustn’t think you only have them in Berlin.’
‘I fear we have more than two.’
Rath approached the advertising pillar and found three election posters arranged neatly alongside each other, still damp with paste. The other posters were untouched, even the Nazi ones: no graffiti moustaches, no torn corners. ‘I thought we’d caught them at sabotage, but they were only putting their posters up.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m wondering why they ran if they weren’t doing anything wrong.’
‘If you were a Communist trying to put up election posters in Treuburg, you’d know,’ Rammoser said. ‘It isn’t much fun running into Wengler’s boys on the job.’
‘Wengler’s boys? Does he still have a band of thugs? I thought the plebiscite settled all that.’
‘The plebiscite didn’t settle anything,’ Rammoser said. ‘It’s just that Wengler’s thugs wear uniform now, and put up posters themselves. The ones with the swastikas.’
35
Rath was awakened by a fearful clamour and hullabaloo, as if a thousand people were cheering a boxing match while the Town Musicians of Bremen performed at maximum volume.
The reality wasn’t so different. Still a little dazed, he padded towards the window and pulled back the curtain to see that the peaceful Treuburg marketplace of yesterday had been transformed into a madhouse. Cows and horses, geese and hens, sheep and pigs; animals were being sold everywhere, their din merging with the cries of the market barkers. East Prussian constraint, it seemed, was just a state of mind.
He sloped into the bathroom and felt his head as, slowly, the memories returned. Rammoser, the village teacher. The night-time excursion to the cemetery. The stories about Herbert Lamkau and Gustav Wengler. The drinking. One beer had turned into two, and before long the first Luisenbrand had been ordered. He had stopped counting after that.
‘This is the stuff Wengler made his fortune on,’ Rammoser said, as they toasted the first schnapps. That was their final word on the subject, though they continued to drink the stuff, ordering round after round to chase their beers.
Rath had thought little of it, since he wasn’t the one who had to cycle six kilometres home. As it transpired, he had greater problems crossing the marketplace and climbing to his room on the first floor than Rammoser did with his trusty bicycle, which he had left against a street lamp. He swung himself onto the saddle without so much as a wobble.
‘Stop by the schoolhouse in Wielitzken sometime,’ he had said.
Thinking back, Rath felt strangely elated. More than being the first decent informant he’d found, Karl Rammoser was also a nice guy. True, he wasn’t technically from Treuburg, but maybe that was an advantage. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t belong that made him so effusive.
Rath looked at his watch: time for breakfast if he didn’t want to be late for the distillery. He used cold water for his fatigue, and aspirin for his headache. Luckily, he had remembered to pack a tube in Berlin.
Kowalski sat waiting in the lounge, this time minus the shaving tissue. He stood to attention. ‘Good morning, Sir.’
‘Morning, Kowalski. Any luck yesterday evening?’
‘A few witnesses.’
‘Any insights?’
‘Afraid not, Sir. Only that all three worked at the Luisenhöhe distillery.’ Kowalski fumbled in his jacket pocket. ‘Witness addresses. Question them yourself if you like.’
Rath stowed the list in his pocket. No sooner had he sat down than the girl who served him lunch yesterday appeared with the breakfast tray. Hella, if he remembered rightly. She pulled a face as if to say: I’m only doing this because my parents are making me. ‘Thank you,’ he said, savouring the smell of fresh coffee.
‘Would you like anything else, sir?
‘Perhaps some coffee for my colleague.’ Kowalski shook his head. ‘Don’t you want to sit down?’
‘Thank you, Sir. I prefer to stand. What are my orders for today? Can I assist with questioning? Or drive you somewhere?’
‘I can drive myself. Continue with your work in the archive. You’re bound to hit on something.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Take a look at the newspaper archive as well. I assume there’s one here in Treuburg?’
‘Of course.’
Rath placed the lily-white serviette on his lap. ‘Once you’ve finished going through the case records, head over there. Perhaps today will be the day.’
Kowalski appeared slightly offended. He wouldn’t have pictured his days in Treuburg swallowing dust. Indeed, no doubt he already had his instructions, but was too Prussian to defy his senior officer’s command. He gave a smart salute and had already reached the door when Rath thought of something else. ‘One more thing, Kowalski…’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Do you speak Masurian?’
‘A little.’ Kowalski appeared embarrassed by the admission. ‘Groska, for example, means grandmother. And Grosek, grandfather. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering.’
‘My uncle speaks fluent Masurian, and my grandparents spoke nothing but.’
Rath nodded and dismissed him. After a first cup of coffee he felt ready to take on some solids. The bread rolls here were something else, and the quince jelly must be home-made.
‘Hella?’
Was that her name? Either way she came over. She was a pretty girl, blonde and suntanned, but the braided pigtails made her look like a country cousin. A different haircut, a little make-up, a fashionable dress, and even Berlin men would crane their necks for a glimpse.
‘Would you like anything else, sir?’
‘No, thank you, everything’s fine.’ He pressed a one-mark coin into her hand. ‘Haven’t had a breakfast like this in a long time.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Her smile knocked him dead, perhaps because it came so unexpectedly. Clearing the table, she brushed against his arm.
‘Lots going on today,’ he said. ‘Outside, I mean.’
‘Friday is market day.’
She curtseyed, disappearing with her tray and her smile into the kitchen. He tore his gaze away from her rear and stood up. It was time to go.
Friday was indeed market day, and it took a long time to crawl through the milling mass of animals and people in the car. Somehow, Rath managed to reach Bahnhofstrasse without running over a pig. In front of the advertising pillar on the street corner, a group of young brownshirts were in the process of tearing down the Communist placards from last night. No one took exception, although Rath debated whether he should intervene. As matters stood, going by the market had cost him ten minutes already. He wouldn’t make the time up now, no matter how fast he drove.