The sun was high in the sky. How long had he been asleep? There were midges everywhere, but he batted them away. Next to the entrance was an almost full rain barrel. He drank with both hands, shovelling water on his face to waken himself. The hut was perfectly camouflaged by trees and bushes but, a few steps to either side, and the scrub was so thick as to make it invisible.
The landscape wasn’t nearly as bleak as that which Adamek had shown him. He groped his way forward with the stick, but soon found himself in a deepish water hole. He circled the hut and realised it was situated on a kind of island, surrounded by moorland on all sides. It was a mystery how Radlewski came and went here. He’d have to know the moors like the back of his hand, or at least better than old Adamek.
The chances of escape were slim. He knew now why he hadn’t been tied, but Radlewski hadn’t killed him either. Perhaps that was still to come?
Inside again, he scoured every receptacle until he located his suit in a large chest. It was a little damp, and unbelievably dirty, especially the trousers, but it was better than traipsing around in his underwear. He dressed, donning socks and Herr Damerau’s sturdy boots, which seemed to have survived the episode intact.
He felt his inside jacket pocket. His cigarette case was still there, though it was empty, of course. He snapped it shut. The little magnifying glass was there too. He’d have preferred the cigarettes.
He returned to the stool and examined the books. At length he removed one from the shelf, opened it, and a sheaf of papers sailed to the ground. He crouched to retrieve it. Not bookmarks, as he’d thought initially, but letters, written in an elegant, curved hand.
Dear Artur,
I know I won’t be able to entice you from the wilderness, and sometimes I understand you only too well. But I cannot choose the same path as you; I couldn’t live like that, I’m not strong enough. That’s why I choose this path, because I know how much you cherish the world of language and the written word. Perhaps in this way we can even establish something akin to a friendship. You don’t have to reply, but if you don’t want me to write, just leave my letter here on your next visit. I’ll place it inside the pages of a book you want to borrow.
He didn’t have to read to the end to know that Maria Cofalka had written these lines, and that they marked the start of their correspondence. Rath had already guessed it was the librarian who’d initiated the exchange. Using the books she laid out for Radlewski as a kind of mailbox seemed like a natural solution.
She’d written to her childhood crush again and again and, at some point, Artur Radlewski, who was sensible to the written word, had responded. He had christened her Winchinchala, whatever that meant. With the exception of Nscho-tschi Rath didn’t know any Indian names.
He gathered up the letters and placed them back inside the book before returning it to the shelf.
His curiosity was further roused by an item of furniture that stood next to the window. A table with a slanting top, a kind of desk or bureau, adorned, incredibly, by an inkwell and ink. Where in the hell… The paraffin lamp that stood on the table was most likely stolen too, along with a few other implements Rath now recognised: tools, metal pots and pans, a washboard.
So this was where Artur Radlewski sat to write his strange, indecipherable letters to Treuburg’s librarian. The letters that Hella Rickert had stolen from his drawer!
More and more memories surfaced. The day in Treuburg. The missing letters. The expedition to the Markowsken forest. The little lake. Old Adamek, who set a ferocious pace before suddenly vanishing with Kowalski. The moonlit night. The moor. How he’d given up the ghost. When Radlewski had appeared, the Kaubuk…
He couldn’t remember anything after that. He felt his head for a bump, his neck for a puncture site, but there was nothing.
What would the Kaubuk do when he realised his unwanted guest was awake? He must know by now that Rath was a police officer: badge and identification were gone, along with his service pistol.
At least he wouldn’t kill him; if he wanted him dead he’d have killed him long ago.
Rath opened a drawer in the desk and was astonished to find piles of virgin white paper. Standing side by side were various leather-bound notebooks, some good as new, others well worn.
He snapped open his pocket magnifying glass and attempted to decipher a few lines of Radlewski’s tiny handwriting. Diaries, no doubt about it. In order to preserve his sanity out here in the wilds, Artur Radlewski had kept a diary.
The notebooks were from a stationer. The inkwell and letter paper too, no doubt. Rath sat down and opened the book that looked the oldest and most worn. Radlewski had filled the pages with the same tiny script he had used to write his letters to Maria Cofalka.
On the move again, stealing through the forest, he leaves his shelter and advances through the trees. No one will hear him, no one will see him. There is a heaviness in the air, deep in the thicket he feels the warmth; summer has arrived with a vengeance. Tokala pauses and takes a deep breath. The scent of lime-tree blossom and winter barley fills the air in the fields over by Markowsken, and already he can smell the lake…
70
Dietrich Assmann didn’t trust them. His alibi had collapsed, but still he was cautious. Playing the blackmailers Unger and Riedel off against each other had been a doddle in comparison, but Assmann smelled a trap and, for the time being, refused to say anything against his alleged accomplice. It didn’t matter whether it was the customs man, Kressin, asking the questions, or CID Officers Ritter and Böhm. Even Charly made him wary; he wouldn’t fall for her kindness.
After three and a half hours of more or less fruitless questioning, Böhm had Assmann escorted back to his cell. They had already requested an arrest warrant from the magistrate. Time was on their side. Sooner or later, Dietrich Assmann would be in absolutely no doubt that his boss had left him in the lurch and would make his statement, whereupon they could, likewise, issue a warrant for Wengler’s arrest – or so they hoped. They just had to make sure he didn’t give them the slip in the meantime. Fortunately Gräf, who had taken the day shift, was a dab hand at surveillance. They had chosen to deploy a new officer with each shift, alternating between CID and Customs so that Wengler didn’t smell a rat.
‘What do you think? Will Assmann make a statement today?’ Bruno Kressin asked. The man was dry as a bone.
Böhm shook his head. ‘Let him sleep on it, I say, and speak to his lawyer. Tomorrow he’ll be ripe.’
‘Why would Assmann choose an alibi like that if he couldn’t be sure Wengler would cover him?’ Charly asked.
‘Maybe,’ Böhm said, ‘he was sure.’
The customs man nodded, and it seemed plausible to Charly too.
Suddenly there was a commotion outside, loud voices, cries. The officers looked at one another. Charly exited the interview room and stepped into the corridor, crossing to the stairwell where various colleagues had gathered. She heard Böhm and Kressin follow, but didn’t turn around, the action before her was too compelling.
She didn’t know what had happened in the hours they had spent interrogating Dietrich Assmann, or what had taken place in the police commissioner’s office. She only knew that Albert Grzesinski hadn’t found the time to change his clothes. Flanked by two soldiers, he still wore his mourning suit. The Reichswehr had arrested the Berlin police commissioner and were relieving him of office.