Читать книгу Battlefield Berlin - Reginald Rosenfeldt - Страница 3

Michael Herold closed his car and looked thoughtfully at the sleepy houses on the other side of the street. In the few shops was the light turned off automatically, and on the nearby Town hall-place whined the typical sound of a BVG Bus.

Michael grinned wryly. "No balls in the pants." Or how they used to say it much more appropriate in the other districts of Berlin, the Spandau night watchman, employed as a tourist attraction, had closed the sidewalks.

Amused, Michael stuck the car keys in his trouser pocket and looked at his watch: 23:10 clock, only forty-five minutes to midnight. That was exactly the right time for a cozy meeting with Poland-Charley. Michael pulled high the zipper of his jacket, crossed the street, and entered the park. Behind the trunks of the few trees lurked the shadow of the war-memorial, and at the end of the short sandy path, waited the pedestrian bridge for the Linden-Shore.

Michael walked to the middle of the slightly curved concrete footbridge and looked at the lonely shore. The promenade was on the western banks of the Havel, the second major river of Berlin, and a few months ago, wandered here the good citizens of Spandau. Now, was the only memory of these carefree, sunny times a wooden sign of the "star and circle shipping". Sadly, it reminded Michael of his so often planned, and then cancelled trip to the great lake of "Wannsee". At the deserted docks wintered now the steamers of a Spandau ship-owner and at that view, Michael heard again Charley's broken voice in the telephone receiver

"See you on the "Cheerfulness”. Can you not miss the boat, is it right in front of the bridge to the Stabholz-garden. Can you come on board; I've agreed that with the captain. We drink first one or two brandy and then we'll talk. Please Michael, I have great news, you'll be amazed!"

Michael shook his head, and tried not to think on Charley's last tip. In the end, the so promising-sounding information was totally worthless gossip, trash for the feature. Yes, Harald Seib and his gossip column were just the right buyers for Charley's creepy tales.

Michael grinned against his will at the thought on his special colleague and walked to the shore. Large chestnuts lined the wide promenade and behind a low metal grid lay a small steamer. First, Michael checked the name on the ship's prow, to make sure that he stood before the "Cheerfulness", and mustered her then in detail: On her front deck lay a staple of decayed chairs under a tarp and behind the closed restaurant curtains glowed a flickering light.

Herold nodded approvingly and enters the ship over a small plank. Behind a sliding door waited a square room on him, only illuminated from the street lamps, and he remained at his center point.

Carefully, Michael scanned for a moment the stairs to the upper deck and registered the eerie silence on the steamer. Was Charley not on board? Yes, this was possible! Michael knows only too well, that the old man hated any kind of rules, specially the German punctuality.

All right then, decided Michael, if Charley was really late, he would not wait longer than a half hour. This was more than a friendly behavior for the old bugger! Grinning went Michael to the door next to the empty souvenir stand and pushed the handle down. The door swing back and he looked straight into the eyes of two suspicious, completely unknown men. The broad-shouldered guys blocked with loosely hanging arms the passage and Michael cursed silently.

"Shit, Charley had not told me, that his dubious business partner also wanted to come!" With an arrogant smile Michael Herold overplayed his surprise and looked at the silent strangers. But yes, of course: the expressionless faces, accurate hairstyles, and loosely cut weather jackets; the picture were now so clear, that Michael relaxed. With an excessively slowly movement, he held his right hand up in the air and nodded encouragingly.

"There’s no reason, to be nervous, gentlemen, I pull just the press card from the jacket!"

"No jokes! Come over here!" The rumbling voice has a frighteningly familiar tone and Michael opted not to answer. Still smiling, he pushed past the policeman and walked through the half-dark room. At its end, stood a white painted wooden counter and behind him turned a big man his back to Michael. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hip-length leather jacket and looked bored on the three pictures above the bottle rack. "Poor guy, you may think, the nostalgia has led him back to St. Pauli."

The broad man taps with his right index finger against the frameless glass slide. "Everybody remembered the old UFA film and the white doves, and then the reality is so horrible banal. The blond movie star was just in town and took advantage of the break for a promotional photo.”

"Please, Kowalski! I’m in no mood, to talk over Hans Albers. "Herold ignored the black and white photo of the Hamburg jetties and looked around searching. "So what is it this time? Let me guess, your colleagues from the customs office have Charley caught with illegal duty-free goods?”

"Once again, come simply over here!"

"Whatever you say, this is your show." Herold ignored the reproachful look of the pale gray eyes and walked to the bar counter. Externally totally unconcerned, he circled the with a rescue ring decorated piece of furniture, and then hit him the truth with the intensity of an unexpected electric shock.

"Crap!" Michael looked motionless on the white mark on the ground. Without any doubt it represented the outline of a lying body and in the height of the head smeared a red spot the worn planks.

"Charley?"

"Yes. Your old pal Poland-Charley." With a pensive expression chief commissioner Hans Jürgen Kowalski looked down on the white chalk line. "It happened very quickly. The old man has not felt the fatal blow. Crash, boom, bang, and past it was with the handling of stolen goods!"

"Very vividly expressed, Kowalski. This could almost be a headline from me."

"Oh come on, your readers loves completely different dirt!"

Herold ignored the obvious provocation and tried not to show his concern. He stepped out from behind the counter, and immediately Kowalski growled irritably. "The violent death of your old buddy is no surprise for you."

"My God, you know as well as I, that it eventually had to end this way. That was just a matter of time."

"Oh yes?"

"Please Kowalski! I must not tell you, that I begged Charley more then once, finally stop his thoughtless bragging. After a few glasses of vodka he shamed himself and his best friends, and for the correct sum, he was capable of almost any mess."

"Yeah, and the thirty pieces of silver were just paid out of petty cash." Kowalski's broad face twisted into a grimace of contempt and he pointed with a vague gesture into the room. “It`s about time, that we talk seriously!"

"No problem." Michael Herold turned around and looked briefly in the room: On both sides of the center aisle, were five rows of tables that were screwed just like the benches on the ground. Michael walked to the nearest bank, sat down and dug a Zippo from the jacket. Infuriatingly calm, he let the flame lick over the head of a menthol cigarette, and shut the Zippo with a loud click. "Well, what do you want to hear?"

"First, calm down!" Commissioner Kowalski sat down on the other side of the table and pulled thoughtfully a plastic calendar from his leather jacket. With pursed lips he leafed through it until the last third and then shows it Herald with a provocative smile. "Please look at the entry in the second line."

Herold leaned over and looked at the strange abbreviations next to Kowalski's thumb: "3.10.-23.00 clock, MH !!! 1000 S!" The terrible scrawl was without a doubt the handwriting of the old man.

"Twenty-three clock tonight! Yes, of course, that was Charley’s deadline!"

"Well, well, then at least, that’s finished! Otherwise, my congratulations, thousand whatever, that's quite an impressive sum for a lousy information."

"If you accept Austrian shillings, I will put you on my list."

"Save your strange humor for the next scribbling." Kowalski gave Herold the caricature of a warm-acting grin, that has been intimidated so many tough guys. "The ominous meeting! Have you any idea what Charley wanted to sell?"

"Not definitely. He called me last night and promised me once again the moon and the stars. Very flowery and pathetic, without anything really palpable..."

"You waste your precious time for the senseless ramblings of an old man?"

"Even hollow phrases often contain a grain of truth." Michael Herold leaned back and stared through the glass window next to his shoulder into the night. On the other shore shone the yellowish light points of two windows like distant fixed stars and above them moves restlessly Kowalski mirror image. The Commissioner clarified loudly his throat, and Michael turned around again.

"I research in the moment for a serial about transit-smuggling. It's work that would not been possible, without Charley's quite profound insider knowledge." Herold smiled challenging. "I guess, my revelations about the city cleaning are not gone completely unnoticed by you."

"Ah yes, the tiresome BSR affair. The front pages were not to be overlooked."

"The report gave the teams of three garbage trucks a significant fine and the entire executive-floor stands pretty in the rain!" Michael Herold laughed softly. "From today's point of view, I can only admire the audacity of the garbage men. The guys were members of a special squad, which once a month drove to the landfill in East Germany. They welded on their trucks unobtrusive metal boxes and disguised them as an additional dumpster. Then they went to the landfill as usual, took over from middleman duty-free American cigarettes, and smuggled them on the return trip through the checkpoint. The trick would probably never come out, if the gentlemen have not contacted a Polish receiver of stolen goods. The guy informed Charley and already I typed my first report."

"Good old Charley." Hans-Jürgen Kowalski grabbed once again the calendar and looked at the last entry on the side. "What`s about this night? Expected you actually similarly highly explosive material from your chatty friend?"

"Please Kowalski! Charley was basically nothing more than a tireless storyteller. In his very mysterious manner, he called me on yesterday, and named me the damn boat as meeting place. Of course, without the slightest hint about the upcoming topic; exact details I will learn tonight, that was his speech!"

"Too bad, that you missed this interview..."

"Be not so damn cynical! Maybe Charley needed only a little chat with a friend over a bottle of vodka.”

"How sad!" Irritated, Kowalski ran a hand through his thinning reddish hair. "Before I say something, that both of us do not like, we'd better come back to the topic. So, Charley noted: 23:00 clock; that was exactly two hours after his meeting with the Spree-Heinz."

"I know nothing about that. Charley has not mentioned to me another meeting."

"The Spree-Heinz is the honorable bartender of this ailing boat and a pretty smart fellow. According to his own testimony, he planned a cost-covering deal with Charley. Unfortunately, a rendezvous delayed the noble intentions, and the good Heinz left his lady not before 21:15 clock. But at this time, the mess was finished, and he could only stumble across Charley's corpse."

With an indefinable spark in his eyes, Kowalski turned his head to the side and looked gloomily over the crime scene. "Charley's unexpected departure saved him from a lot of trouble with the customs authorities."

"Your sarcasm is sometimes unbearable!"

"Life is unbearable. Look Herold: If the Spree-Heinz climbed from the lady only a little bit earlier, he would perhaps have prevented the murder. But no, he found not his pants, and already fate took its course."

"Yes, yes, life is hard and the Spree-Heinz has an alibi. Speaking of alibi, let's talk about my alibi!" Michael flicked his cigarette into the ashtray and pulled a notepad from the jacket pocket. Calmly he tore a side off, grabbed the pen from Charley’s calendar, and began to write down several names. "With these gentlemen I had a meeting at the Balkan-Grill and deserted them only twenty minutes ago. You should be able to verify this easily, especially, five of the persons are not entirely unknown for you."

"A working lunch with the Socialists! Probably even at the expense of the taxpayers." With a contemptuous snort Kowalski scanned the list and then leaned back. "Well! You are, despite all our dialectical differences, not on my list, although I've seen horses puke."

The creaking of the dark brown painted wooden planks interrupted Kowalski's already almost ended conversation. With a decidedly important expression walked the smaller of the two policemen to the table and announced: "Our colleagues from the crime scene are now finished with the front deck. We can move away, or do you need us for something special?"

"Not really, I finish that crap better alone and Mr. Herold is on his way." Kowalski's very red facial features twisted into a false smile, as he appraisingly looked over the reporter. "If you should still come up with something really new, please call. You know my number!”

"I know my duties."Michael Herold stubbed out his cigarette. Then he walked without looking back, thru the room, that smells now of a strong disinfectants. Behind him, the officer shook his head, and looked disapprovingly at his superior.

"Honestly, sometimes I do not understand you, Hans-Jürgen. Why do you let this wretched scribbler disappear so easily?"

"Do not worry; he will not get lost. We only need to follow our noses, if we need him. He stinks three miles upwind of fresh printer-ink."

Amused by his own joke, Kowalski strolled over to the bar. At the rough marking of the forensic team, he stopped and stared reluctantly down on the dried stain. Just a few hours ago laid here Charley's motionless body, twisted strangely, with a bloody temple. The lethal wound was almost unrecognizable, and if the deadly blow hits the head only ten centimeters higher, who knows?

Kowalski shook his head and nodded imperceptible to the colleagues. "I think we can seal the store now."

"That's what I'm saying. It`s all just routine, and there was not much to wipe up."

"What do you mean?"

“Well, at least the guy is not totally leak out, like this chick last week. I never thought that a single person can make such a mess." The officer looked with a contemptuous glance at the crime scene. "Fucking scum, slowly but surely, they changed every file in garbage!"

"This file? This is your personal nightmare, Schneider! I promise you that!" Hans-Jürgen Kowalski's quiet voice now has a sharp undertone. "Pull yourself together; here is perhaps more trouble, than you can digest."

Kowalski turned away, grabbed the documents, that lay scattered on the bar counter, and stuffed them in his leather backpack, while only a few meters from him, Michael Herold breathed deeply the cold night air. Thoughtfully, he leaned against the railing of the mooring and looked down at the river. A tiny light reflection danced over the black mirror and the rising wind blow from the near market place a familiar tune.

"Üb`immer Treu und Redlichkeit", murmured Herald and listened for a moment to the soft chimes. The bells hung above the entrance of a jewelry store, and tonight they played exactly the right lullaby for the good citizens of Spandau. "Exercise always trust and honesty, right up to your cool grave."

Michael Herold twisted his face into a sneer and turned around. Slowly, he let his gaze wandering over the Linden-Shore, and recognized even the most insignificant details. The little steamer, the reddish heaven, illuminated by the distant West-Berlin City, and the Charlotte-bridge at the end of the promenade. The steel construction spanned a path into darkness, and beyond the bridge Michael recognized the outline of several vessels. Without a doubt, the ships waited for a passage through the nearby, at that time of day closed floodgate.

Vessels from Charley's homeland; what for a coincidence! Michael Herold kicked a stone with the toe of his shoe to the side and looked again to the "cheerfulness". Charley had ordered him not only on a whim to the decayed steamer. Somewhere on this ship, or in the immediate area, lay the key to the events of the last few hours.

An obscene curse on his lips, Michael looked again to the lighted windows of the ship-restaurant and then turned his back to the ugly sight. With great strides he walked down the sandy way, crossed again the dark park, and hurried in the Charlotte-Street to his parked car. In a light daze, he climbed in the Datsun, launched him, and drive away from the scene of the crime.