‘Then see that it is.’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’
He returned to his room. Knowing it was futile, he searched high and low, behind every cupboard, in each drawer and under the bed. There was no sign. Hella must have taken it. He wondered why, but there wasn’t time to pursue the thought. Today was the day they entered the forest.
At the bottom of the stairs, he saw that both reception and dining room were deserted, the only sound the clattering of pans from the kitchen. He peered through the swing door, but didn’t recognise any of the staff.
He hoped the threat of a police search would be enough to retrieve the folder. Perhaps Hella Rickert was simply a kleptomaniac, and her father was already taking her to task.
He crossed over to Goldaper Strasse and rang the shoemaker’s bell. The Wanderer gleamed outside; Kowalski must have washed it after collecting it from the site.
Uncle Friedrich opened and bade him enter, looking him up and down. ‘You’re not going into the forest dressed like that?’
He shrugged. ‘How else?’
The answer came in the form of Anton Kowalski, who looked as if he were planning an Alpine crossing with full rucksack, knee breeches, checked shirt and coarse knee-length socks. Sturdy hiking boots completed the ensemble. In brogues and grey suit, Rath was his antithesis.
‘You need good shoes,’ the shoemaker said firmly. ‘The forest is swampy; moorland everywhere.’
‘Our guide will take us round any bogholes.’
‘Even so, you need good shoes.’
‘This isn’t the Sauerland Mountaineering Society.’ Both Kowalskis stared blankly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘My uncle’s right, Sir. If we’re heading into the forest you need something sturdier. We’re not talking about some park. The hut’s out on the moors.’
Rath pointed towards his brogues. ‘That’s the sturdiest pair I own.’
Friedrich Kowalski looked down. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘What’s going on?’ Rath asked.
Moments later Kowalski’s uncle returned carrying hiking boots that looked brand new. ‘Try these on. Finished working on them two weeks ago. They’re from Studienrat Damerau, the teacher next door.’ Amazingly, they were a fit. ‘Of course, I’ll have to pledge Herr Damerau a small loan fee…’
‘How much?’
‘One mark.’
Rath rummaged for a coin. ‘Give Herr Damerau my thanks.’
With that they set off. Kowalski drove as Rath tied his shoelaces a second time. He hoped they really were all right; the last thing he needed was blisters. They were certainly sturdy enough, and handmade to perfection.
He bade Kowalski stop outside the Salzburger Hof, and took his brogues up to his room. The bed was still unmade. Hella would be in for it tonight, if the folder still hadn’t turned up.
He made no mention of last night’s incident to Kowalski, who had his mind firmly set on the Kaubuk. Rath had never seen him so excited. No doubt it was the thrill of the chase.
On the Lega bridge, halfway towards Adamek’s house, they ran into Erich Grigat. The police constable tipped his shako in greeting, and the two officers saluted in return.
‘Let’s make a little detour to Luisenhöhe,’ Rath said when they were on Lindenallee, on the road out of town. Kowalski furrowed his brow, but did as bidden.
Outside the estate house, Wengler’s servant was loading a suitcase into a maroon-coloured Mercedes. Rath motioned for Kowalski to park behind the gleaming sedan and got out. The servant pretended not to have seen him, and stalked back inside.
Rath debated what he might say to the man, when Wengler appeared, buttoning his coat. ‘Inspector! Good morning.’
‘You’re going somewhere?’ Rath asked.
‘Berlin.’ Wengler cleared his throat. ‘To settle my brother’s estate, and take care of the funeral arrangements.’
‘Of course. My apologies for disturbing you again. You were going to tell me how to reach your former employees. Assmann, and the others on the list.’
‘I’ve had the addresses collated for you. I’ll send for it now.’
‘Not necessary.’ Rath took out a card and wrote a name on the reverse. ‘Since you’re going to be in Berlin, why not report to Detective Chief Inspector Böhm at Police Headquarters, Alexanderplatz.’
Wengler took the card. ‘I’ll do that, Inspector. Many thanks.’
‘One more thing…’ said Rath. Wengler’s eyes were devoid of grief or rage, or indeed of any expression at all. ‘Your brother… how long did he serve as a police officer in Treuburg?’
‘He started during the war. Why?’
‘I’m looking for possible motives. Police officers often make enemies in their job.’
‘You can say that again.’
Rath ignored the allusion. ‘The question is, is it possible there are other cases besides the moonshining scandal that your brother could have been involved in?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Anything that could have created bad blood.’
‘I thought you were looking for this Radlewski?’
‘We are. We’re about to head into the Markowsken forest. They say his hideout’s there somewhere.’
‘Then go and find him – and stop harassing me.’
‘Herr Wengler, I’m sorry if my questions are bothering you, but I’m only doing my job. We want to find your brother’s killer and whoever murdered your former employees.’
‘I realise that. I’m sorry.’
‘They’ll ask you the same thing in Berlin. Perhaps you should use the journey to think about your response.’
Wengler nodded. ‘I’ll do that, Inspector. I promise.’
Rath tipped his hat. ‘Safe trip, anyhow.’
He climbed into the Wanderer and looked back through the rear mirror as Kowalski turned towards the driveway. Wengler stared after them until they’d disappeared around the bend behind the avenue trees.
62
Old Adamek waited on the bench outside his shanty, cheroot dangling from his mouth. In contrast to Kowalski, his outfit was unlikely to meet with Sauerland Mountaineering Society Statutes. It looked as if it hadn’t been washed since Christmas, if, indeed, it had been washed at all. His trousers were more patch than original, his jacket bloodstained, and his shoes were tied with wire. He greeted Rath’s suit with a raised eyebrow and snarl; the coarse hiking boots alone appeared to satisfy him.
He was astonished when asked to get into the car. ‘We’re heading into the forest,’ he said. ‘Crate like that’s no good to us.’
‘It’ll take us as far as Markowsken,’ Kowalski said. ‘We’ll manage the rest on foot.’
Reluctantly, Adamek agreed, and Rath guessed the man had never set foot inside a car. A horse and carriage was probably the only means of transportation he’d ever used; perhaps the railways during the war, out of necessity. Either way he was used to travelling on foot. Huddled on the rear seat, he clung to the shotgun wedged between his thighs. Did he mean to go hunting, or did he never leave the house unarmed?
They reached Markowsken via a pretty mountain road, noticeably higher above sea level than Treuburg and its lake. Shortly before the entrance they passed a little grove, with stone crosses between its young trees. ‘Military cemetery,’ Kowalski explained, without being asked. ‘Russians and Germans at peace together.’
On the rear seat Adamek mumbled something. Rath recalled that the old man had fought the Russians in the war. Perhaps some of his comrades were buried here, along with one or two enemies – or former enemies. Rath was reminded, not for the first time, how much the Masurians had suffered during the war. People had died in the Rhineland of hunger and deprivation, but the actual war had largely played out beyond the border. Here in East Prussia, battles had raged, and whole towns and villages were destroyed before Hindenburg finally drove the Russians out at Tannenberg. No wonder the Masurians worshipped the man.