Rath made a start.
‘Can you account for your whereabouts on the twenty-first and twenty-second of February?’
‘You’re not seriously asking for my alibi, Inspector?’
‘It’s purely routine.’
Roddeck fetched a little black book from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Lucky I keep a diary,’ he said. ‘The twenty-first and twenty-second… So, there’s nothing on the Tuesday. On Wednesday, I had a meeting with my publisher at three o’clock.’
‘Afterwards?’
‘I think we had dinner. I’d have to ask Hildebrandt.’
‘It would be good to know what you were doing on the Tuesday. Were you alone?’
‘I don’t think so, but it was a few weeks ago and I’d have to think about it.’
‘Please do, and give me the names of the people you were with.’ Rath made a tick in his notebook. ‘How about the ninth of March? Where were you in the early afternoon?’
Roddeck leafed through his diary again. ‘Kreuzzeitung at eleven, otherwise nothing.’ He snapped the diary shut. ‘I had lunch with the editor, Frank, and was home around one.’
‘Alone?’
‘For the most part, yes.’
‘It’s hardly water-tight.’
‘If I was your killer, I’d certainly have an alibi!’
‘Benjamin Engeclass="underline" when did you come to the view that he survived the war?’
‘When I realised that poison-pen letter was no joke.’
‘It’s unsigned. It could be from anyone.’
‘There is no one else! God knows, I’ve racked my brains but, believe me, Inspector, there’s no other explanation.’ Achim von Roddeck was on the verge of losing his self-control. Perhaps Christel Temme wouldn’t be bored after all.
‘Let’s change tack.’ Rath took the Krefeld court file from its folder. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what you were doing on the seventeenth of February 1927?’
‘That was ages ago.’
‘Allow me to jog your memory. The main hall of the Krefeld District Court. You were sitting in the dock accused of being a marriage swindler, when…’
Roddeck jumped up, his face red. ‘How dare you? What does this have to do with anything? Do you wish to slander me?’
‘Had you allowed me to finish, I’d have said that shortly before the public prosecutor gave his final statement, the chief prosecution witness, one Eleonore Weber, retracted all her accusations.’
Roddeck glared at him angrily. Christel Temme had ceased making doe-eyes, and was fully focused on her stenographer’s pad and pencil.
‘Tell me what you know!’ Roddeck demanded.
The pencil scratched across the page. Fräulein Temme was taking everything down.
‘Just what’s in here,’ Rath said, tapping the court file.
‘I have a clean record.’
‘No one’s suggesting otherwise.’
Rath was about to confront Roddeck with the issue of the missing gold, when the telephone rang. Roddeck was obviously grateful for the interruption. He sat down, suddenly charming again, but there was no way back with Christel Temme. ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ he asked.
Rath picked up. It was Gennat. ‘I’m in the middle of an important interrogation, Sir.’
‘This is more important. We’ve found another corpse. In Magdeburg. Hermann Wibeau.’
‘Warrants were supposed to be watching his flat.’
‘They were.’ Gennat cleared his throat. ‘His body was found on the train.’
62
A passenger in second class had failed to alight when the Hannover-Magdeburg express pulled into the depot for cleaning. Still at his window-seat, head to one side, paper in his lap, the man couldn’t be roused. His sample case held company identification belonging to the Deisler firm, and when police officers saw the name Wibeau the penny dropped. Gennat had been informed immediately, and less than two hours later Gereon Rath was on his way with Alfons Henning as back-up, the latter torn away from his partner Czerwinski.
An official led them to a siding at the far end of the station. Gennat had told the Magdeburg Police to leave everything as it was, so that Berlin could form its own impressions.
Hermann Wibeau wore a grey suit, his eyes were closed and he looked as if he were sleeping. Only the blood, which had trickled down his mouth and chin and seeped into the padded seat, suggested violence. In the luggage rack were two suitcases. One held mostly dirty washing and used socks, extra shirts and a sponge bag, the other was full to the brim with clean, pristine-white ladies’ underwear. At least now they knew how Hermann Wibeau made his living.
All the duty staff, from drinks attendant to driver, had been gathered together in a third class car to await dismissal. Most hadn’t noticed anything suspicious.
‘The gentleman had company most of the way,’ the conductor said. ‘I can’t fathom how anyone…’ He broke off, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say what it was he couldn’t fathom. That someone had driven a long, sharp object up the passenger’s nose and into his brain, a simple, efficient kill.
‘How often do you check the compartment during the journey?’
‘After each station. For new passengers.’ The conductor listed the stations on the fingers of his hand: ‘Lehrte, Peine, Braunschweig, Königslutter, Helmstedt…’
‘No need to be so precise,’ Rath interrupted. ‘When was the last time you saw the deceased alive?’
‘When I checked after Eilsleben.’
‘Who was with him?’
‘By that stage he was alone.’
‘You’re certain he wasn’t already dead?’
‘He looked up from his paper and smiled.’
‘Then his killer must have got off here in Magdeburg.’
‘There was no one left in the man’s compartment.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘I’ve a good memory for faces. You have to in our line of work.’
‘Then did you notice anything suspicious here, at the train station?’ Rath looked around, so that staff could see he was addressing everyone, not just the conductor.
‘What kind of thing are we talking about?’ the chief of staff asked.
‘Perhaps someone was in a rush, or elbowed other passengers to get off the train. Something like that.’
All fell silent and made helpless faces. Rath fetched the photograph of Benjamin Engel from his pocket.
‘What about this man? Could he have been on board?’ The picture elicited a few shrugs and shakes of the head. ‘The man looks different these days, of course. This photograph was taken almost twenty years ago, his hair will most likely be grey, and it isn’t known what injuries he sustained in the war. Only that they were serious.’
‘He was in the war, you say?’ The conductor, who had just passed the photograph on, hesitated. ‘I had a disabled veteran in car fifteen. Boarded at Braunschweig.’
‘Could it be the man from the photo?’
The photo was passed back and the conductor examined it once more. ‘Hard to say. At first glance, I’d say no, but he was pretty badly disfigured, with nasty facial scars and he dragged his leg. Well-dressed though.’
‘He wasn’t in military dress?’
‘No, a lounge suit. Simple and dark, wore a bowler hat.’
‘How do you know he was a veteran?’
‘I know a veteran when I see one.’
‘Where did this man get off the train?’
‘Here, in Magdeburg.’
63
Hermann Wibeau’s corpse consigned Rath to weekend duty for the third Saturday in a row. Despite this he decided to take Charly out. It wasn’t that she resented his overtime, in fact she envied his work, but he wanted to treat her all the same. And himself.