‘Not an ideal spot to take a lady,’ he said, offering her a Muratti, ‘but the coffee’s better than in Vaterland, and no one’s going to shoot their mouth off if we’re seen together.’
‘That’d be the last thing I need.’ She showed her ring. ‘I’m engaged.’
Husen laughed. ‘I’m married, but you’re right. That doesn’t stop people’s imaginations running away with them. Particularly where colleagues are involved.’
There was smoke everywhere, and all sorts of negotiations were being brokered at the tables. She couldn’t vouch for their legality, but Husen was right. No one was looking at them. ‘How are you settling in?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid I’m not made for kitchen work.’
He looked at her. ‘Stick at it, and you can work your way up to waitress. You’ll earn more money, and there are tips.’
‘I’ve never waited tables.’
‘You learn quickly. If a vacancy pops up somewhere I’ll let you know. Maybe you’ll be lucky and won’t have to dress up.’
Talk about career prospects, she thought, but even so, she was grateful for his concern. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s kind.’
The waiter arrived with their coffee.
‘Waitressing’s pretty easy, you know,’ Husen said, once the man was gone. ‘Set down your plates and cups, pour a few drinks. Then it’s all maths and remembering the right table.’
‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘My training’s as a stenographer, but I guess these days you have to be flexible. You mentioned recently that you know this spirits buyer…’
‘Chief Red Nose?’
‘Maybe he needs an office hand?’ she asked. ‘He must have more correspondence than a head chef.’
‘Which is why he’ll have one already. I’m afraid you’re too late.’
‘Perhaps you could put in a word for me, if a position became free.’
Husen took a drag on his cigarette. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know him that well. I just know that he enjoys a drink at the Wild West Bar, and that… Goddamn it!’ He broke off mid-sentence and hid behind the menu.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Speak of the devil…’ Husen spoke so softly she could barely hear him. ‘Riedel’s here.’
‘Who?’
‘Chief Red Nose,’ she heard him whisper behind the menu. ‘He’s just come in. What’s someone like him doing in a place like this?’
‘He won’t have anything against two colleagues having coffee together after work.’
‘If he sees us together, Vaterland will be full of exactly the kind of rumours we want to avoid.’
‘So what?’
‘I need my job. And you don’t want to lose yours either.’
‘Then what do we do?’
‘We leave, but separately. You go first. He won’t know you yet, unless he’s been in the kitchen recently.’
‘Why would he have been?’
‘Because he’s Kempinski’s main buyer. He orders the hard stuff for Unger too.’
‘I’ve never seen him upstairs.’
‘Good. Then off you go. We’ll meet outside.’
She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. She didn’t want Mohamed Husen losing his job on her account.
She only knew Alfons Riedel from Gereon’s description, but, in a place like this, the red nose and slightly outmoded attire immediately stood out. He hung his hat and coat next to Husen’s bowler, granting her at most a fleeting glance as she retrieved her coat from the stand. Reaching the door she recognised a face through the large window pane, and made a beeline for the telephone booth that stood against the wall.
In the reflective glass of the booth she saw the face look left and right before entering, apparently reluctant to set foot in such a disreputable establishment. The man stood in the dining area, looking around. Manfred Unger, head chef and target of her covert operation in Haus Vaterland.
She took the receiver from the cradle and pretended to make a call. Instead of rummaging in her pockets for change, however, she took out her little make-up mirror and opened it. Yes, Unger was making straight for Riedel’s table. The two men knew one another, Gereon had been right. Rather well, if their cheerful manner was anything to go by.
She watched Husen remove his hat from the hook, nod briefly at Riedel, who barely accorded him a glance, and make for the exit. As he reached the door, two men jostled past him into the smoky lounge. She wouldn’t have noticed them hovering by the entrance with their backs to her were it not for the scarcely perceptible twitch of the chin with which one of them gestured towards Unger and Riedel’s table. She watched as they sat next to the would-be blackmailers. She’d have given anything to eavesdrop, but there was no way she could simply appear at an adjoining table.
Was she actually going to witness a pay-off? The new arrivals had removed their headgear, and now she waited for one of them to discreetly place an envelope under his hat and slide it across the table. Or, perhaps they were accomplices, and this blackmailing business was somehow linked to a Ringverein?
She was wrong on both counts. One of the new men might have been lanky and a little gaunt, but as soon as she saw the pair’s faces she knew they hadn’t come to make a payment. Their eyes brooked no argument; men like this wouldn’t be blackmailed.
Not that Unger and Riedel seemed to have realised. There was a brief argument, during which the spirits buyer affected a manner of superiority, only to pause mid-flow and puff out his cheeks as if gasping for air. He sat at a slight angle, stock-still, not daring to move, his head increasingly the colour of his nose. The man opposite leaned forward slightly and continued speaking, unperturbed. He had one hand under the table, and though she couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, she knew it must be painful. All of a sudden Unger appeared in a rush to get up, but the second man pressed him back in his chair. She almost pitied the blackmailers.
Without warning, Riedel, who had turned a deep shade of purple, began nodding, and now Unger, too, wagged his head eagerly. The synchronised display made for a ridiculous sight, but the two strangers appeared satisfied, put on their hats, and exited the lounge as swiftly as they had entered.
The whole thing had lasted barely five minutes. Among the remaining patrons, it appeared no one had seen anything. Even if they had, this wasn’t the sort of place you got involved.
Unger and Riedel remained at the table. The waiter brought two beers and two schnapps, which must have been ordered sometime before, and Riedel, whose head was still red as a beet, drained the Korn using his left hand. He held his right hand tight to his body as if afraid the fingers might fall off. Unger raised his glass almost as if to propose a toast, only to give a start as Riedel scolded him.
Charly was startled by a knock on the glass. A man wearing his hat at an angle banged a coin against the pane. ‘Are you putting down roots here, woman? If I don’t get on that phone soon, there’ll be hell to pay with my old lady.’
She hung up and left the booth, but before stepping onto the street, she took a final glance at the two men, who appeared completely at a loss, stricken somehow. Unger drank his beer and gazed into thin air, and she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t looking in her direction. She turned her head away and left the café. Now she just had to think of a reason for leaving Mohamed Husen waiting so long. She no longer had so many questions for the African waiter, and, those she did have, were very different from a quarter of an hour before.