Metropolis

by Philip Kerr

  At dawn the following morning we marched the corporal around to the church graveyard where death sentences were carried out and there, in the presence of the French military governor, we tied him to a small obelisk erected to the victims of the Franco-Prussian war—which struck me as ironic. The morning was as beautiful a morning as I’d ever seen in that benighted country; the graveyard was full of evening primrose flowers and reminded me of a perfect May morning at Oxford. I offered him a blindfold, but he shook his head stubbornly and stared bravely at his comrades, nodding encouragement at them as if trying to give them the strength to carry out their appointed task. His final words were the battalion calling cry: “Stick it, the Welch.” A braver man I never saw, which also struck me as ironic since we were shooting him for an act of gross cowardice. The lads botched it, however, and missed the cardboard target pinned over his heart, which left it to me as the officer commanding to finish the poor bastard off.

  The French call this shot delivered to the head the coup de grâce, but there is nothing graceful about it. And the worst part of it was that the corporal’s blue eyes were wide open throughout his final ordeal. I say his final ordeal, but it was, of course, an ordeal for me, too. He looked at me as I unbuttoned the holster of my Webley and I swear he smiled. That was bad enough, but then he whispered after the health of my foot; for the rest of my life I shall remember his expression and even today, ten years afterward, I can remember these events as if they were yesterday; many’s the time I have awoken from a most vivid nightmare in which I am back in Frise with that Webley in my hand. The nightmare alone is enough to cause me to suffer the most severe depression for days afterward and there have been many times when I have wished it had been me who had been shot in the head, and not the poor corporal.

  Even as I write this now I can see his skull implode like a burst football; I choose my words carefully. The corporal had played football for Wrexham United before the war and helped to win the Welsh Cup three times. Meanwhile, the sight and scent of evening primrose is always enough to reduce me to a gibbering wreck.

  It was there that Rankin had stopped typing his book although according to the original text he was only halfway through the chapter and but for my lack of English I might have read that, too. I put aside the manuscript, took a puff on my Salem, and thought for a moment. It felt strange reading the account of a man who’d once been my enemy even if he was half German, but if anything it made me realize how much more we had in common than what had divided us. It felt a little as if we were brothers-in-arms. And like Frau Weitendorf, I realized that I, too, was now feeling a little worried about Rankin.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  I’d almost forgotten that I was not alone in the Englishman’s rooms.

  “Those flowers on the sideboard in the dining room,” I said. “The yellow ones. What are they called?”

  “Evening primrose,” said Frau Weitendorf. “I pick them from the Heinrich-von-Kleist-Park. At this time of year there are thousands of them. Lovely, aren’t they? Why?”

  “When did you put them there?”

  “Saturday afternoon. Is it important?”

  “I think in future it might be a good idea to choose something else. It seems those particular flowers awaken terrible memories in our Englishman’s mind. Suicidal memories, perhaps.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. But it certainly fits with my own experiences. The smallest thing can trigger all sorts of unpleasant thoughts of the war.” I finished my cigarette and stubbed it out. “I’ll make some inquiries at the Alex and have someone check the hospitals. Just in case.”

  I might also have mentioned the Hanno showhouse but for the fact that I’d just been there and I was more or less sure I hadn’t seen a corpse who resembled Robert Rankin.

  * * *

  —

  THE ALEX TELEPHONED, asking me to cut short my leave and come in the following day, which left me only enough time to have dinner with Thea von Harbou. She suggested we meet at the Hotel Adlon.

  * * *

  —

  THEA WAS TALL, handsome rather than beautiful, full figured, and about forty. Looking at her, it was hard to believe she’d written the screenplay of a movie about robots and an industrialized future. I might more easily have believed she was an opera singer; she certainly had the chest for it. She was wearing a light tweed two-piece suit, a man’s shirt and tie, white stockings, and a pair of silver earrings. Her shortish blond hair was parted to one side, her mouth was maybe a bit too wide, and her nose a bit too long, but she was as elegant as Occam’s razor and just as sharp. She had come armed with some expensive stationery from Liebmann and a variety of accessories that made me think she might have been to India: a gold enameled cigarette case that resembled a Mughal’s favorite rug; a variety of silver and ivory bangles; and a green clutch bag with an embroidered Hindu god that was home to a lorgnette and several large banknotes. This was just as well; the Hotel Adlon’s restaurant was the most expensive in Berlin. I knew that because I saw the ransom demands that were amusingly called prices on the menu, and because Fritz Thyssen was at the next table. Naturally Thea von Harbou was a friend of his; I expect she knew everyone who was worth knowing and Thyssen was worth a lot more than that. He was wearing an extremely fine double-breasted gray suit that made my own gray suit look more like the hide on a dead rhinoceros.

  “So when did you become a policeman?” she asked.

  “Immediately after the war.”

  “And it’s taken until now to get into the Murder Commission?”

  “I wasn’t in any hurry. How about you? How did you get into the picture business?”

  “The usual way. A man. Two men, if I’m honest. My husband. And the husband before him. I suppose I always wanted to be a writer more than I wanted to be a wife. Still do, if the truth be known.”

  Hers was the kind of voice that licks your ear slowly, inside and out, as if it contained the sweetest honey: dark and sexy and very assured, with just a hint of whisper on the edge of it, like the lace on a pillowcase. I liked her voice and I liked her, too. It’s hard not to like a woman who buys you a good dinner at the Adlon.

  “How does your husband feel about that? The present one, I mean.”

  “We have an understanding. He sees other women—a lot of women; actresses, mostly—and I try to be understanding. There’s a club he enjoys going to. The Heaven and Hell, on Kurfürstendamm. He’s probably there with some little minette right now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. In many ways Fritz is a very selfish, narcissistic man. But he’s also enormously talented. And I admire him a lot. So most of the time we’re a pretty good team.”

  “I know. I saw your last picture. Metropolis.”

  “What did you think?”

  “What didn’t I think? I thought it was very thought provoking. I especially enjoyed the part when the workers rise up against their masters. I’m only surprised they haven’t done it already. That’s what I think.”

  “Then we think the same way.”

  “Although not so as you’d notice from the people you know.” I glanced sideways at Thyssen.

  “Thyssen? He’s not so bad. He puts money into a lot of our pictures. Even the losers. And that’s good enough for me.”

  “So how did Metropolis do?”

  “It’s had a mixed reception. Even from my darling husband. When he hears bad things about Metropolis he blames me; but when he hears good things about the movie, he prefers to take full credit. But that’s directors for you. It’s not just our movie cameras that need a tripod, it’s his ego, too. Writers are a lesser species. Lesser and cheaper. Especially when they’re women. Anyway we’re through making pictures about the future. Nobody in Germany gives a damn about the future. At least for the present. If they did, they wouldn’t keep voting for the
communists and the Nazis. We’d have a proper government that could get things done. So right now we’re focusing on something very different, something with more popular appeal. In particular, the subject of mass murderers like Fritz Haarmann and this other man who’s been killing and scalping Berlin prostitutes: Winnetou. Fritz is fascinated with sex murders. These murders, in particular. You might even say he’s obsessed.”

  “Why’s that, do you think?”

  “Sometimes I wonder, you know?”

  “And what answers do you come up with?”

  “It might be the fact that the victims are prostitutes. Fritz has always had a thing about Berlin’s demi-monde. But it might also be the scalping. Yes, I think it must be that. It’s so very extreme. If Fritz wasn’t a film director and interested in all sorts of other extreme stories I might even be worried about him.”

  “I don’t think he’s the only one, Thea. Sex murder seems to be an obsession he shares with a lot of Berlin artists.” I mentioned my meeting with George Grosz and what he’d told me about Otto Dix and Max Beckmann.

  “I guess that doesn’t surprise me. Fritz says Berlin has become the sex-murder capital of the Western world. And maybe it has, I don’t know. Certainly you’d think so from what’s in the newspapers. So we’ve decided we want to make a picture right here in Berlin about a sex killer like Winnetou. And a detective like Ernst Gennat.”

  “He’ll be delighted.”

  “What sort of man is he, anyway?”

  “Gennat? Buddha with a large cigar and a voice like a black bear with a heavy cold. Berlin’s best detective and probably Germany’s, too, but don’t say it to his face. Fat, a bit clownish to look at, grumpy and easily underestimated.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “You’d have to teach him how that kind of thing works these days. And I doubt he’s got the time or the inclination.”

  She nodded and sipped some of the excellent Mosel she’d ordered with dinner. Then she smiled. Her smile was bright and full of warmth and meant, I realized too late, for the man seated behind me.

  “That’s what Kurt Reichenbach said.”

  “I’m not sure I can improve on anything he’s already told you.”

  “Perhaps. But Fritz says our investors are very keen on us having a source who actually works for the Murder Commission. It’s the sort of thing that impresses such people. Fritz says that having you to advise me will help persuade them our film is as true to life—as realistic—as possible. And that you’ll be able to help explain why the killer does what he does. How he gets away with it, for a while at any rate. And eventually how he’s caught.”

  “You make that part sound like a foregone conclusion.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Not at all. You’d be surprised how many killers get away with it. If murderers were all that easy to catch I’d be directing traffic on Potsdamer Platz. Or looking for missing cats and dogs.”

  “That’s a comforting thought.”

  “There’s a lot of thumb twiddling and navel-gazing in the detective business, Thea. And a good measure of luck. Not to mention incompetence and stupidity.”

  I might have added dishonesty, too, but for the fact that I’d already gained the impression that she and Fritz Lang wanted to make a detective the hero of their movie.

  “Would it surprise you to learn that most detectives are dependent on professional criminals to help them solve crimes? Criminals who for one reason or another become informers. Fact is, most cops would be lost without them. Even in the Murder Commission we often have to rely on Berlin’s lowlife to get a handle on what’s what. Sometimes the best detective is just the guy with the most reliable informer. Or someone who’s better at squeezing a lemon, if you know what I mean. You want to know the reason that most murderers get away with it?”

  “Do tell.”

  “Because they’re people who look just like you and me. Well, me, anyway. There are not so many women killing prostitutes. Even in Berlin. You want realism? Then make your murderer nice. The guy next door. That’s my advice. The type of clean-shirt and bow-tie sort of guy who is kind to children and animals. A respectable fellow who takes a regular bath and wouldn’t hurt a fly. At least that’s what all the neighbors will say when he’s arrested afterward. No hideous scars, no hunchback, no staring eyes, no long fingernails, no sinister rictus smile. So you can forget about Conrad Veidt or Max Schreck. Make your character insignificant. A little guy. Someone hardly like a villain at all. Someone whose life has run out of meaning. It might lack drama but that’s realistic.”

  Thea was silent for a few minutes. “So tell me about Winnetou.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m allowed to tell you. Another time, I’ll invite you back to the Commission offices, maybe introduce you to Gennat himself, show you the murder wagon, but tomorrow I have to work.”

  “Do you mind me taking notes? Only, my secretary will type them up and Fritz will read them, too.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Thea lit a cigarette, spread her notebook expectantly on the table, and started writing down everything I told her as if I were dictating holy writ. Which was probably why, when I’d finished talking, I told her that a lot of people at the Alex—which is to say, a lot of men—didn’t think the Winnetou killings were important.

  “What I mean is this, Thea. Dead prostitutes in this city are ten for a penny. And while I’m very keen to catch this bastard, as are Weiss and Gennat, there are plenty of others at the Alex who really don’t give a damn. And not just at the Alex but across the whole city: there are Berliners who believe that many of these girls got what was coming to them. Who think that Winnetou is doing the Lord’s work, and cleaning out the Augean stables. They’re probably the same misguided people who think Germany needs a strongman to lead her out of our current situation. Someone like Hitler. Or the army perhaps. Hindenburg. Or maybe the Pied Piper of Hamelin, I don’t know.”

  “So what are you saying? That I shouldn’t write this movie?”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying why take the risk of choosing a murderer who preys on people who are already perceived by some to be part of the problem? Why not choose another sort of killer? Another kind of victim. For maximum sympathy. The kind of victim no one could argue with.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a cop, not a writer. But if you were to choose a killer who preys on children, perhaps, then there’s no one who could ever suggest that they deserved it, that they were courting disaster. Everyone likes children. Even Gennat.”

  “A child murderer.” Thea’s eyes widened. “That is something new. But it might be too much. Could people stand a film like that?”

  “Make them stand it.” I lifted my glass, leaned back in my chair, and watched Thyssen screw a cigarette into a gold holder; vulgarly I wondered how much he was worth and what kind of house he was going home to. I expect he was looking at me and doing the same.

  “But there’s another reason why I’m saying this. If you’re writing about a child murderer, then your screen killer will look very different from Winnetou. This helps put a bit of distance between Bernhard Weiss and your husband.”

  “And that’s important? Why? Because they’re both Jews, I suppose.”

  “Because they’re both Jews. The Nazis love to see conspiracies where none exist. So let’s give them as little ammunition as possible. And by the way, this is Weiss’s thinking, not mine. I’m just a detective.”

  She gave me a ride home in her car. When I got inside the house on Nollendorfplatz, I found Rankin had turned up safe and sound. He’d been on a bender with some old friends who were over from England and had stayed in the house they’d rented over in Schmargendorf.

  “I’m sorry but it simply didn’t occur to me that any o
f you would worry,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “We’ll know the next time that you’re probably all right. Won’t we, Frau Weitendorf?”

  “Well, I think you’ve been very selfish,” she said. “Fraulein Braun and I thought something dreadful must have happened to you, Herr Rankin. All those broken records on the floor of your room. And the empty bottles of whiskey. What were we supposed to think? Even Herr Gunther was concerned about you.”

  “It’s true, I drink too much sometimes. And when I do I get very strong opinions about music. I should never have bought those records. You might say they were a sort of failed experiment in taste. The fact is, I much prefer Wagner and Schubert.”

  “That is no excuse,” said Frau Weitendorf, and waddled off irritably.

  “I think she’d almost have preferred it if you were dead,” I said.

  “I think you’re right. But she’ll come around. They always do. I’ll give her a bit extra for cleaning the room and she’ll be fine.” Rankin grinned at me sheepishly. “Women, eh? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”

  I thought about my pleasant evening with Thea von Harbou and reflected that possibly her husband felt exactly the same way as Rankin. My own opinion of women wasn’t in the least bit equivocal: Living without my own wife was much less preferable than living with her. In fact, there were times when it was nothing short of intolerable. If women were good for one thing it was this: that they take the sharp edge off feeling forever like a man.

  part two

  decline

  Deep below the earth’s surface lay the workers’ city.