Lange took one of the heavy boxes, and gestured for Unger to take the other.
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Very well,’ Lange said. ‘Fräulein Ritter? Put a call through to the 16th precinct and request assistance with a defiant suspect, and with carrying boxes.’
She reached for the receiver and was on the verge of dialling when Unger had second thoughts. He lifted the box sulkily from the desk. She held the door open and they left the office, encountering a fat man at the time clock who was putting on his chef’s hat. Unger stared at him.
‘Fritzsche? What are you doing here?’
The fat man smiled in embarrassment. ‘Director Fleischer called to say I’d be standing in for the day.’
‘I think it’ll be longer than that,’ Lange said.
Carrying his cardboard box in front of him as they left the central kitchen, Manfred Unger looked like an employee who had just been given the sack.
57
By now the atmosphere was far removed from the solemn patriotism of the morning speeches. People were laughing and having a good time, while the first inebriates stared into space or began weaving their way home. Soon a fight would break out, and new couples would form. Devoid of all the nationalist bombast, this was just another run-of-the-mill public festival. Behind the war memorial, on the bridge leading over the light railway platform, the celebrations were no louder than a distant murmur.
Rath tapped an Overstolz against the lid of his cigarette case and gazed over the sports ground towards the lake and public baths. He had sent Kowalski to remind old Adamek of their agreement, and was glad to have a minute to himself. Informing a person that a relative, or friend, had died, sometimes in violent circumstances, was a part of the job he despised – even if that person was as slippery as Gustav Wengler. He threw the match onto the railway tracks.
A voice called out behind him, and he gave a start. ‘Inspector, do you have a moment?’ Maria Cofalka, the librarian, stood looking at him, appearing altogether less shy – and sober – than before. ‘If it suits you, of course…’
‘Absolutely.’ He tried to sound friendly. ‘Is it to do with Artur Radlewski?’
‘You could say that.’ Maria Cofalka smiled and suddenly appeared ten years younger. Probably the same ten years added by her bun. ‘Karl tells me you can be trusted. Herr Rammoser, I mean.’
‘I’m honoured. Is there something you’d like to tell me in confidence?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘What do you make of Herr Wengler?’
‘In my line of work it doesn’t matter what I make of someone. What matters is what they’ve done, and what you can tell me.’
‘You’re probably right. What did Wengler want to speak with you about just now?’
‘You were watching?’
‘I just happened to see the pair of you strolling through the park. Was it something important?’
‘You’ll understand that I can’t go into detail. Only, it wasn’t Wengler who wanted to speak with me. I had bad news for him.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She seemed surprised. ‘His brother?’
‘How did you know?’
‘You suspect Artur of killing these moonshiners, don’t you? The ones responsible for his mother’s death.’ Rath nodded. ‘That’s not his style, believe me. Artur has always let Wengler’s moonshiners go about their business in peace. Even though they brew and smuggle their rotgut in his forest.’
‘They’re not Wengler’s moonshiners, though, are they? Gustav Wengler has nothing to do with all that.’
‘That’s certainly the impression he likes to convey but, Inspector, you shouldn’t believe everything Gustav Wengler tells you.’
‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’
‘I have my reasons.’
‘Perhaps you should enlighten me.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’ She looked around to check no one was listening. Whatever she had to say, it was costing her a lot of effort. ‘Don’t believe Wengler’s stories, Inspector. About his fiancée and her death. It’s lies, all of it.’
‘Let’s head down to the lake. We can talk in private there.’
‘Apologies, Inspector. I’m not in the habit of speaking ill of people.’ The noise grew ever quieter the nearer they approached the lake. ‘It’s just… I have the feeling no one here can separate good from evil any more.’
‘And Gustav Wengler is evil?’
She agreed without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Gustav Wengler is a hypocrite. He sent an innocent man to jail. The Polack didn’t kill Anna von Mathée.’
‘Who?’
‘The Polack. The great Polish agitator Wengler never tires of mentioning in his speeches.’
‘Polack, eh? Sounds like he might be onto something.’
‘That’s just the name he was given by Wengler and his men. His real name was Polakowski.’
‘Was?’
‘He died trying to escape from Wartenburg Jail. He’s buried in the cemetery over by the lake.’
‘The Catholic cemetery…’
‘Being Catholic was his first mistake – alongside his Polish name. At least in the eyes of the Homeland Service. His second was to want no part in the anti-Polish frenzy of twelve years ago.’
‘He didn’t belong to the Agitation Bureau?’
‘He was a doctor. A young registrar who worked at the hospital over on Graudenzer Strasse.’
‘A doctor who spoke up for the Polish cause…’
‘I’m afraid you’ve let yourself be taken in, Inspector, just like everyone else. Jakub Polakowski didn’t speak up for the Polish cause; he spoke up for Polish people.’
‘I’m sorry. Go on.’
‘Back in those days brawls were a common occurrence. On one occasion alongside a member of the Agitation Bureau, one of Wengler’s goons was hurt. Lamkau.’ Rath nodded. ‘Both men needed treatment, but Polakowski’s mistake was to tend to the Bureau member, Roeska, first, who was unconscious and the more seriously hurt. Suffice it to say, the decision didn’t go down well with Lamkau and Wengler and the others. After that Dr Polakowski became the Polack.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘The man often came by the library, and I can tell you one thing. He never took out any Polish books, although we had any number back then. Still do, in fact, even today, when Polish is only spoken behind closed doors.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘You’re a police officer. Perhaps you’ll see that justice is served. Jakub Polakowski didn’t kill Anna von Mathée, he was just a convenient scapegoat. Wengler serves up the same old lie each year, and people here are only too happy to believe it. It soothes their conscience about the bad old days. The Poles were much worse, they’ll say, they actually killed someone, when all we did was fight, or smash windows, or set fire to barns.’
She had talked herself into a rage.
‘I’m not sure there’s much I can do for you,’ Rath said. ‘Who benefits if I go digging up these old stories? Not Polakowski. He’s already dead.’
‘It was Siegbert Wengler who arrested him…’
‘So?’
‘He knew that Polakowski was innocent, and Gustav Wengler knew it too. Yet they took him to court, and both made statements against him.’
‘You realise these are pretty enormous accusations you’re making?’
‘I appreciate that, Inspector, but you’re the first person I’ve told.’
‘Karl Rammoser doesn’t know?’
She shook her head. ‘No one here does. No one would believe me. Like I say, you’re the first I’ve told.’