‘The what?’
‘The Kaubuk. A kind of bogeyman that generations of Masurian parents have used to scare naughty children. Only, here in the Oletzko district, he’s real.’ It was the first time Rath had heard Kowalski say so much in one go. ‘His name is Artur Radlewski.’
Kowalski didn’t finish until they’d reached the Lyck road and were filtering into Treuburg.
The story was among the strangest Rath had ever heard. An oddball had lived in the forests around Treuburg since at least the outbreak of war. He dressed like an Indian in leather and hides, hunted with a bow and arrow, and lived on whatever nature could provide. He had fled home as an adolescent and was supposedly Martha Radlewski’s son.
‘You think he’s avenging his mother’s death?’
Kowalski shrugged. ‘When you mentioned the Indian arrow poison, I couldn’t help thinking of the Kaubuk. Naujoks too, I’d be willing to bet.’
‘So, which forest do we find him in, this Kaubuk? Or Radlewski, I should say.’
‘I’ve no idea where his hideout is. People say it’s on the moors, somewhere only he and his dog know, though it’s possible he doesn’t live there any more. The story is from my childhood, and I haven’t been in this part of Masuria for years.’ Kowalski shrugged. ‘I don’t know, it was just an idea.’
‘The man would certainly have motive, but why wait this long?’
‘Perhaps because he had to find our trio first, and go west, into the cities. Not easy when you look like an Indian. Who knows how long it’d take to get used to civilisation again after all these years?’
‘Supposing Radlewski junior has left the wilds to avenge his mother. Do you think Naujoks might be holding something back?’
‘Unlikely. He was just as surprised as me when he heard about the arrow poison.’
‘Would Artur Radlewski be capable of making such a thing?’
‘All I know is he’s supposed to live like an Indian. I’ve never seen him myself.’
‘Is there someone who could tell me more?’
‘My uncle perhaps. Or we could ask in Wielitzken, which, to my knowledge, is where the Radlewskis lived. Perhaps there’s someone who knew him as a child.’
‘Let’s head to your uncle’s now.’
Kowalski had just steered the Wanderer onto the Treuburg marketplace when Rath’s gaze alighted on the advertising pillar. Above the sorry-looking remains of the Communist placards, someone had scrawled Rotfront verrecke in red ink. Red Front Die. Most likely someone dressed in brown, thought Rath, cheered on by the good citizens of Treuburg.
Kowalski parked the car on Goldaper Strasse and the two of them got out. F. Kowalski, Shoemaker the sign on the house front said.
‘On you go and ask,’ Rath said.
‘You’re not coming in?’
Rath shook his head. ‘You question your uncle; I’ll try my luck in Wielitzken.’ He gestured towards the front door. ‘Find out what he has to say about the Kaubuk, and submit your report in the morning. And, please, not a word to Grigat. I don’t know how far we can trust him. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
Kowalski nodded, proud to have been taken into Rath’s confidence. ‘Yes, Sir. You know, it’s strange…’
‘What is?’
‘Whenever I misbehaved as a child I was afraid the Kaubuk might come and get me…’ Kowalski grinned. ‘Well, now it’s the Kaubuk’s turn to be afraid.’
38
Rath pulled over by a gas station on Lindenallee, just behind the town mill, and skimmed through Robert Naujoks’s files while the attendant checked the oil level and tyre pressure. The ex-chief constable might not have been entirely honest with them, but he’d gladly parted with both documents he’d swiped on the day of his retirement, the second of which, previously housed at Lyck District Court, concerned the Radlewski investigation, a lead they might otherwise have missed.
At first glance the files were of little use. The pathology report mitigated against Naujoks’s theory that the cases were linked. It was true that he had arranged a chemical analysis of the confiscated hooch, which had yielded potentially fatal levels of methanol, but despite the various bottles in circulation, Martha Radlewski’s death in 1924 was an isolated incident. Perhaps Naujoks had been gripped by an obsession, but if Artur Radlewski had drawn the same conclusions there was no question he’d have motive.
Kowalski’s story about the Kaubuk who lived like an Indian in the forest seemed outlandish – it wasn’t even clear if the man was still alive – but it was something like a lead. They had found someone with a plausible motive for killing the three moonshiners. Rath wondered if the tainted booze might not have claimed other victims whom neither Naujoks nor the deceased trio knew anything about.
Either way, at some point proceedings against Lamkau, Simoneit and Wawerka had been discontinued. Had Gustav Wengler smuggled his employees out west because he feared they could be avenged? By Radlewski? Had he, Radlewski, gone unsighted for so long because he’d been killing people in Berlin, Dortmund and Wittenberge? Or was the Kaubuk long dead himself?
He had to learn more about this strange Masurian Indian. He waited for the attendant to finish cleaning his windscreen, then paid and asked for a receipt. Heading south, signposts informed him that the Polish border was only sixteen kilometres away.
He reached Wielitzken after a few minutes via a ramrod-straight road that took a sharp curve just before the village. The schoolhouse was a low, elongated building near an ancient wooden church that was set back from the road in a slightly elevated position and hidden behind a few old trees.
After first trying his flat, he found the schoolmaster in his spacious classroom. On his desk in front of the blackboard was a fragile mini-laboratory of tubes and bottles. In a large glass vessel a cloudy-brown liquid boiled and bubbled away, while a second, smaller glass vessel collected drop after drop of a glassy distillate.
Rammoser was sniffing at a test tube when Rath entered. He looked up in surprise. ‘Inspector! Good of you to stop by. Finished for the day already?’
‘Sorry to interrupt. Are you preparing a lesson?’
‘More of a hobby. During the holidays I have the run of the classroom.’
‘Looks like you’d have made a good chemist.’
‘I doubt it.’ Rammoser laughed and waved the test tube. ‘Fancy a sniff?’
The scent was extremely familiar.
‘You’re… distilling schnapps.’
‘Correct.’
‘That’s illegal!’
‘Come off it,’ Rammoser said. ‘Where there’s no complaint, there can be no redress. Lots of people are at it around here.’
‘Some of them have died.’
‘Do you think I’m making some cheap rotgut? The recipe is from my father.’
‘Your father was a master distiller?’
‘My father, God rest his soul, was a village schoolmaster, like me. In the same village, in this very school. A man with a thirst for righteousness.’
‘All right. I’ve no intention of impugning your father’s good name, or of locking you up…’
‘That would be a thing, after I saved your skin yesterday.’
‘…although I am here on duty.’
‘Shame. I was about to offer you a taste. You won’t find schnapps like this anywhere on the market.’ Rammoser held the glass towards him. ‘Go on, have a sip. Then you’ll see why I bother.’
‘As long as you guarantee I won’t go blind.’
‘You won’t go blind, that much I can guarantee.’ The teacher grinned. ‘But after that, you’re on your own.’
‘Then perhaps I will take a glass.’
‘I thought you were on duty?’