Rath stubbed out his cigarette and went into the bathroom. He felt OK, despite having had far too much to drink last night while attempting to contact Charly. Eschewing the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Salzburger Hof, he had taken dinner in the Kronprinzen, where his fellow patrons, among them the Berlin tourist family, had watched in bafflement as time and again he interrupted his dinner to make a telephone call.
After dessert, he had asked for a Turkish coffee and called Carmerstrasse at one or two cigarette intervals, growing more nervous with each failed attempt. Finishing his coffee, he ordered a cognac. Then a second, and a third. At some point he overcame his reservations and telephoned Spenerstrasse, by then drunk enough to contemplate an exchange with Greta. Temporarily setting aside his dislike he inquired politely as to Charly’s whereabouts.
Greta’s response was curt. ‘On duty,’ she said. ‘No idea when she’ll be back.’
He mumbled his thank yous and hung up.
No idea when she’ll be back.
Did that mean Charly was still living at Spenerstrasse? To think, he had given her his keys in the hope that she might move in and actually be living with him when he returned from East Prussia. Well, think again.
He ordered another cognac and spent the rest of the evening wallowing in self-pity until, finally, he felt numb enough to head back to his hotel.
There had been no need of an aspirin this morning. A cold shower sufficed. He descended the stairs, placed his key on the shiny counter of the deserted reception and stepped into the sunshine.
The musicians were decidedly better at marching than playing. Reaching Bergstrasse, where Rath now stood with a crowd of onlookers, they wheeled left onto Goldaper Strasse and made their way towards the festival site. The crowd trailed after them like children following the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
He let himself be carried forward, calling on Master Shoemaker Kowalski at the midway point, but to no avail. By the time he reached the park, the musicians had their positions onstage and were playing their final march. Upon finishing they sat down, enjoying the applause of the crowd and turning their attentions to the glasses of beer that had been laid out for them in advance. In the open expanse in front of the war memorial, countless rows of beer tables led to the marquee from which waiters and waitresses emerged carrying fully laden trays.
Spying Kowalski, he fought his way through the masses to join his table. Kowalski made room and introduced the man on his right as ‘Uncle Fritz’. Friedrich Kowalski, the cobbler, wasn’t nearly as old as Rath had imagined, in his early forties perhaps. Straightaway he stood Rath a beer. Rath offered cigarettes in return.
Moments later, the beer arrived and the band resumed its playing at a volume that precluded normal conversation. Looking around, Rath recognised the blue uniform of Chief Constable Grigat in the front row. Alongside him were two men who were unmistakably parish priests, Catholic and Protestant seated side by side. The sight of the clerical collar and cassock reassured him; anti-Catholic sentiment couldn’t be so rife here after all. At the same table were the district administrator and mayor. Evidently the town’s dignitaries were gathered, from the grammar school rector to the hospital chief doctor and newspaper editor. Two tables further along was the tourist family from the Kronprinzen, the Berliners with the spoiled children. The mother threw Rath a disapproving glance. His fondness for cognac seemed to have left a lasting impression.
At last the band took a break. He was about to turn to Kowalski when he heard a high-pitched voice from behind. ‘Inspector?’ It was Hella, the waitress from the Salzburger Hof. ‘Please excuse the interruption,’ she said, dropping a curtsey. ‘But I didn’t see you this morning at the hotel, and there was a telephone call for you. From Berlin.’
‘From Berlin? Was it a lady?’
She shook her head. ‘A Detective Chief Inspector Blum? He requested that you call back.’ The music started up again, obliging her to shout.
‘Was it Detective Chief Inspector Böhm? When did he call?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘When?’
She leaned over and spoke loudly in his ear. ‘Yesterday evening. I put a note in your pigeonhole… but then I didn’t see you. Anyway, I thought I’d tell you now. Perhaps it’s important…’
‘Thank you, Hella,’ he said. She stood where she was until he pressed a one-mark coin into her hand. She curtseyed again, flashing him a smile as she returned to her family’s table. He gazed after her. The way she lifted her skirt as she sat down…
So Böhm had called. Well, he’d just have to wait. He focused on his beer; the local brew wasn’t so bad. When the band took another break he leaned over to Kowalski. ‘How did you get on with that list of names?’ he asked.
‘I had my hands full with the reading you gave me.’
‘And?’
‘Zip. Nothing in the paper that might’ve grabbed Radlewski’s attention, and the books you gave me are all about North American Indians. The curare poison comes from South America.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning there are no recipes for poison.’
‘Perhaps the librarian overlooked something.’
‘District library’s closed today.’ Kowalski gestured towards a table in the shadow of the marquee. Maria Cofalka, lady of letters, sat in the company of various men and women, obviously teachers, among whom Rath spotted Karl Rammoser. Rammoser looked over and raised his glass. It seemed the band were taking a longer break; at any rate the musicians’ drinks were being replenished.
‘What about the list?’
‘Give me a few hours.’ Kowalski gazed across the site and lowered his voice. ‘They’re all here, and the tipsier they get, the more likely they are to share.’
‘Then get going. I need to send the names by lunchtime. Detective Chief Inspector Böhm’s requested them already.’
Kowalski nodded and looked towards the front as the district administrator, Wachsmann, buttoned his jacket and climbed the steps to the war memorial to open the official ceremony commemorating the 1920 plebiscite. The whispering at the tables died when the microphone issued its first sound. Wachsmann contented himself with a simple greeting; the majority of his address consisted in listing the names of the local dignitaries present. Rath was pleased that Dr Wachsmann also bid them welcome on behalf of the mayor; there would be no need to submit to this pantomime a second time.
‘I would like, in particular,’ Wachsmann said, having now worked his way through his list, ‘to welcome those here from the west. The Corridor may continue to rupture our Fatherland, but, as your presence demonstrates, we remain very much part of the German Reich, to which we professed our loyalty exactly twelve years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome those families from Berlin and Pomerania who have holidayed in Masuria for years, unstinting in their solidarity with our beautiful region. I extend an equally warm welcome to all those celebrating the plebiscite anniversary with us today for the first time. May you return, next year, and in ten, in twenty, in fifty years!’ His gaze passed among the rows like an itinerant preacher hailing the newly baptised. ‘Now, please join me in welcoming to the stage a man who, twelve years ago, fought unswervingly to repel the Polish assault on our hometown! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Gustav Wengler!’