Other things had evolved as well. A wide, empty space dominated the wall across from his desk. There had been a time when he had kept a map of Berlin there, a new one for each case. For years, Hoffner had trusted in the city’s moods as the surest clues to any crime: watch the map and eventually Berlin would assert herself in the temper and personality of her districts. It had always been just a matter of seeing the variations, finding what didn’t belong, and allowing those idiosyncrasies to guide him. Berlin called for deviation, not patterning. That was what made her unique and knowable.
Now, however, nothing belonged: Where were the deviations when there was nothing genuine to deviate from? He might have blamed the war, or Weimar, or even the whim of democracy itself, but Hoffner knew better. Berlin was simply aging too quickly. She was now grasping at a misspent youth she had never lived. Life was gay and reckless and fully abandoned, and the city looked foolish trying so desperately to please. Crime was merely one more wild escapade on a night that was stretching on for far too long. Hoffner did not want a map. He had no need to be reminded of the city’s pitiableness.
He tossed his coat and hat onto the desk and opened the filing cabinet. He was trying to remember the year as he leafed through—’23, ’22. He stopped as he ran across the second folder in February 1921: L. Rosenthal, F. Lang. He pulled it out and sat at his desk.
There was a picture of Frau Rosenthal a few pages in, her ashen face and small breasts peeking up through the water. It was all identical, from the position of the body in the tub, to the angle of the arm and the Browning revolver, to the placement of the bullet hole. Even the hollow gaze of the eyes seemed intent on the same distant point. It was as if Herr Thyssen had taken this as his guide.
Hoffner closed the file and grabbed his coat and hat. Out of habit, he shot a parting glance at the mapless wall. There was nothing to see. All that the faded plaster managed now was a matting of lifeless shadows.
BAUER REQUIRED only another signature before letting them through the gate. Hoffner dropped Georg at the Great Studio, where they made arrangements to meet each other midweek, but both knew it was pointless.
Ten minutes on, Hoffner found himself in the foyer of Die Abteilung Redigierungen Meisterstücken—Department of Editorial Masterworks—far grander in name than in person. Its foyer reminded him of a dentist’s surgery, with its long glass partition and single door leading off somewhere into the dull rectangularity of the building. Waiting for the girl behind the desk to slide back the glass, Hoffner felt a tedium that seemed to penetrate the wallpaper.
“Yes?” she said, and pointed to yet one more sign-in sheet.
Hoffner had rarely heard a more dismissive invitation. He scribbled his name and said, “I’m looking for Herr Lang, Fräulein.”
“Herr Lang is not available, mein Herr.”
Hoffner produced his badge. “Yes, Fräulein, he is.” Her eyes widened and she reached for the telephone. “No, no, Fräulein. You’ll just tell me where I can find him. All right?”
The building was one narrow corridor, with doors in perfect intervals along either side. Room 17 merited a double space. Hoffner turned the handle and slowly stepped in.
Except for a sputtering of white light from a projector’s lens—focused through the central of three small openings in the far wall—the half-room was covered in red haze. To the right was a long table with various contraptions for cutting and splicing film, viewers of different sizes, and tall stacks of canisters. There were also several cups of half-finished coffee, bits and pieces of sandwich and pastry on various trays. A single operator stood under the red bulb manning the projector: clearly, he had been here for some time. He turned and waved a hand for Hoffner to close the door and keep quiet. Hoffner did as he was told before pulling his badge from his coat pocket. He mouthed the word “Lang.”
The man stared at the badge for what seemed an inordinately long time. He then looked up at Hoffner’s face, as if to see if metal and flesh somehow matched. Hoffner noticed a set of stairs to the left. He pointed over to them, but the man continued to stare.
A single crackling “Focus!” barked from an intercom somewhere on the wall. The man turned at once to the projector, and Hoffner took that as his cue to head for the steps.
The viewing room was insulated by a second door, which Hoffner now opened with great care. At once, a brightness from the screen forced his hand to his face. As his eyes adjusted, Hoffner saw a single figure sitting amid the four or five rows of plush chairs. Even from the back and in half-shadow, Lang had the look of authority. Hoffner closed the door and waited silently.
He watched as the screen filled with a mass of people in the shape of an ever-widening triangle. Ahead of them lay the steps to a grand building, pale, flat, and endless. The whole thing seemed to dull as they moved, humanity lost in the thickening wave of gray. Its oppression was strangely hypnotic.
“It’s much better from up here.” Lang kept his eyes on the screen: he spoke with the deep resonant roll of Austrian German. “Or you can continue to stand.”
Hoffner obliged and took a seat in the last row.
Still gazing up, Lang said, “Coward.” He then leaned forward, flipped a switch on some unseen gadget, and shouted, “Take it off!”
The screen went black, and a wash of golden light settled on the small room.
Lang turned, his arm held casually over the back of the chair. He stared at Hoffner for only a moment and then said, “A policeman. Of course you’d have sat in the back. I love policemen.”
Crisp would have been the best word to describe Lang in person. He wore a riding jacket and tie, and his hair was slick above a workable forehead. He had high cheeks and a full, long nose. Most compelling, though, was the effortless smile. He looked as if he was expecting someone to take a magazine photograph.
“You’re surprised?” Lang said no less easily. “That I should spot you like that. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Hoffner remained where he was. “You are, mein Herr. No one called, then?”
The nonmonocled eye narrowed. The other seemed to grow wider by comparison, lending his confusion a hint of lunacy. “I don’t permit calls while I’m viewing my films.” He turned his head to the back wall and raised his voice. “I don’t permit any interruptions.” He turned back to Hoffner, his eyes once again in their normal contrapuntal state. “And who would have called, Herr—?”
“Hoffner.” He stood. “Chief Inspector Nikolai Hoffner.”
The smile returned. “Chief Inspector. I didn’t have you so advanced.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
Lang seemed to like the candor. He nodded to the screen. “You’ve seen my latest effort, then?”
Hoffner nodded. “Of course.” He hadn’t.
“It’s a lie,” said Lang as he pulled a cigarette from a silver case. “No one has. I haven’t finished it myself.” He tapped the cigarette on the case. “It should never have gone out, but then there’s always some marketing genius to bring up distribution cycles or advertising schedules, or whatever it is that runs their tiny lives, and out it goes.” He lit up. “And then they’re all shocked when it isn’t what they thought it should be. Still, it’s making them money hand over fist.”
He looked at Hoffner as if the two had had this conversation a thousand times: the intimacy was oddly engaging.
“I’ve spent a good deal of time at Alexanderplatz,” Lang continued, his eyes fixed on Hoffner. “At the Alex.” He was pleased with his familiarity. “There has to be an authenticity to film, an honesty of purpose.” The cigarette dabbed at the air like a baton. “You can’t make a Mabuse or a Destiny without it. You have to be inspired by truth and then find the reality beyond it. You see what I’m saying?”
Hoffner had never considered a reality beyond truth, but in this little room it might have made sense. He nodded over to Lang’s silver case. “You have another, mein Herr?”
Lang measured Hoffner, then stood. “Of course.”
He held out the case. “My apologies. You smoke American?”
Hoffner stepped over and took one. “When I have to.” He lit up. “So—how many cases did our First Sergeant Bauer let you take a look at over the years, Herr Lang?” Hoffner picked at a stray piece of tobacco on his tongue while Lang smiled with that same, odd intimacy.
“Very good, Herr Chief Inspector. Too many to count. I miss him there.”
“I’m sure there’s someone new.”
“There always is, isn’t there?” Lang took another pull on the cigarette. This time it was too self-conscious. “And now, Herr Chief Inspector, what is it I’ve done?”
“There’s been a suicide.” Hoffner opted for the direct approach. “One of your executives in the new studio building.”
Lang seemed mildly intrigued. “How unfortunate.”
“Sometime last night. A single bullet to the chest. From a Browning. In a bathtub.”
Lang’s gaze grew colder. “As I said, unfortunate.”
“You were here from—”
“All night, Herr Chief Inspector. Since eight. You can ask Karl in the booth.” Lang leaned over for the intercom.
“That won’t be necessary, Herr Lang. I’m sure you were here.”
For the first time, Lang seemed on uneven ground. “What has this to do with me?”
“Your wife. Frau Rosenthal—”
“My first wife. And how do you have any of that information?”
“They also let me leaf through the files at the Alex, from time to time.”
“They had those files sealed or destroyed.”
“I’m sure that’s what they told you.”
Lang was now almost aggressive. “And?”
“The decision came down that it was suicide.”
“The ‘decision.’ You don’t sound convinced.”
“It didn’t matter then.”
“And now?”
Hoffner had taken him far enough. A man like Lang could be helpful, if kept willing. Baiting him for too long would only cause problems down the line. Hoffner took another pull and then held out the cigarette. “It’s quite good. A little mild, but good.”
Lang seemed momentarily put off. Just as quickly, the smile returned. “You like something a bit tougher, Herr Chief Inspector?”
“With a bit more bite, perhaps.”
Lang nodded and headed for a small table at the end of the row. He picked up a decanter. “Would a brandy do?” He poured out two glasses.
“Very kind.”
Lang returned and handed Hoffner a glass. They drank. “My Lisl was an unstable woman,” he said, again on intimate terms. “We’d seen several specialists, but there was a deep sadness there. It was only a matter of time. I told all of this to the detectives six years ago.”
Hoffner took another sip. “You remarried quite quickly.” Hoffner had followed Lang’s goings-on for several months after the suicide: it was all in the file. The woman whom the unstable Frau Lisl had caught Lang with on that deeply sad night had become the second Mrs. Lang in a matter of weeks. To his credit, Lang was still married to this one.
“A very difficult time for me,” Lang said with almost too much recollection. “Thea—Fräulein von Harbou—was a great friend and comfort.” Hoffner finished off his glass. He said nothing. “You think I’m somehow involved with this?” said Lang. “Because a man chooses to take his life with a gun in a bathtub? I don’t imagine it’s the first time for either, Herr Chief Inspector.”
“No, I don’t imagine it is.” Hoffner placed his glass on a nearby armrest. “You’ve no interest in who’s dead this time, mein Herr?”
“Are you accusing me of something, Herr Chief Inspector?”
It was a fair point. “Someone goes to great lengths to make sure that a death looks identical to a suicide—”
“A death?” Lang perked up. “Are you implying something other than suicide?”
Hoffner ignored the obvious point. “Whatever questions may still be lingering from that earlier case, mein Herr, there seems to be only one possible conclusion. Who would want to lead me directly to you?”
This had not been so obvious. Lang stood silently for a moment. He then placed his glass next to Hoffner’s and asked, “Who was in the bathtub?”
“Gerhard Thyssen.”
Lang nodded as he thought. “Thyssen. Clever man.” He spoke with genuine appreciation.
“Was he bringing any pressure to bear on the release date?”
“I’m sure he was. They all were. He was probably one of the few who knew it was a mistake. But no one—” Lang stopped himself. For a man who trafficked in the illusion of murder, deception, and betrayal, he seemed curiously squeamish when faced with its reality. It made him almost human.
Hoffner said, “You have no enemies, mein Herr?”
“Of course I have enemies, Herr Chief Inspector. It’s the friends one would be hard-pressed to find. But this seems—clumsy. Obvious.”
“Agreed.”
Lang took a moment, then retrieved his glass and headed to the table. “Another?”
It was an odd reaction, somehow too easy. Hoffner watched as Lang lifted the decanter. “Thank you, no,” said Hoffner. He then took a last pull on his cigarette and crushed it into the ashtray. Lang knew something; Hoffner could see it. The man just didn’t realize it yet.
Lang was placing the decanter back on the tray when Hoffner caught the instant of recognition in his eyes. It was as if Lang was searching for something in the pale crystal. When he found it, he turned to Hoffner. “The Volker girl,” he said. “An actress. She was sleeping with Thyssen.”
Hoffner had expected something more convincing. “And this makes her unusual?”
Lang’s smile returned. “Fair enough. We’d all slept with her. Thyssen’s turn, I suppose. She’d been on a picture of mine. Meant to do a few scenes a week ago or so. She never made it to the set.”
“Again, this makes her unusual?”
Lang seemed surprised by the question. “A nineteen-year-old starlet in a Fritz Lang production? A girl like that doesn’t miss a moment of shooting.”
It was the first bit of perfect truth Lang had given up. “And someone tried to contact her?”
“I’m sure.”
“And she hasn’t been back?”
“Not that I’m aware of, no.”
Hoffner knew there was nothing more Lang could give him. “I’ll need her information.”
“I’ll make a call.”
Twenty minutes on, Hoffner watched as the studio gate slipped from sight in his rearview mirror, the afternoon glare forcing a momentary wince. As if on cue, his tooth began to throb.
Passing on the second brandy, he thought. That was a mistake.
LENI
IT WAS ODD finding himself back in this part of town.
Hoffner had stayed away ever since Georg had gone off to Gymnasium, the old flat now lost to memory. Even toward the end, though, the place had been little more than a string of darkened rooms, only his own, the boy’s, and the kitchen showing any willingness to life. The rental agent had commented on the strange patterns of dust; he had also pointed out the lone cup of something once-liquid brown on a side table in the living room. Hoffner had felt an instant of purpose at its discovery, as if this had been Martha’s last, and he was somehow meant to remember it. He had thrown it away with the rest of the china.
Truth to tell, a two-room walk-up near the Alex was hardly the place to transplant twenty years of accrued furnishings, even those bits and pieces accustomed to living in empty silhouette. He had tossed it all.
Fräulein Volker’s flat was a few blocks farther south from the old place, in that part of Kreuzberg that believed it had outrun its seaminess. There were no flophouses this far out, and the smell of boiling cabbage and root stock took on a tanginess that might even have passed for a bit of flavor.
The building was exactly what he imagined, five or six stories nestled in and among more of the same on
a pleasant little square: just the place for a budding starlet, especially one who might be finding herself back behind a shop counter within the month. It had that freshly scrubbed air of assistant salesclerk or legal secretary evident in the well-kept flower boxes atop each stoop. Promise and hope hung in the air like the smell of diluted ammonia.
Naturally, Fräulein Volker’s name appeared next to the bell for the top-floor flat. Wonderful. There was no point in ringing: Hoffner knew he would find no one there. That left the porter, who was less than delighted to be summoned, even more impatient at the sight of the badge.
“Not for me to know, Herr Detective.” The man spoke with a dry certainty. His leather suspenders were speckled with crumbs from something flaky and green. In a strange twist, the pieces in his mustache were a cottony red. “I don’t keep track of them.” He combed a few fingers through the mustache. “They pay once a month, keep things clean, it’s their business.”
“No one’s asked after her, or come by?”
“No.” Still more certainty. “There was a telephone call, yesterday, the day before. Where she works. I don’t know.” An overly eager voice called from behind him. The man turned and shouted, “A minute!” He looked back at Hoffner with a smile meant to convey some unspoken bond between men. “A friend,” he said, the yellow teeth rounding out the color scheme. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “Take it.” He handed Hoffner a small silver one. “Look around. Just slide it under my door when you’re done.”
Hoffner heard a woman’s cackling laughter through the wall as he headed up the stairs, followed by what sounded like “Then put your knickers back on the phonograph,” but it was only a guess. Maybe, then, the flower boxes were meant merely as a distraction?
The flat was at least three rooms, with a long corridor stretching to the back and a separate kitchen tucked in up at the front. The size notwithstanding, Hoffner had expected something more modest. Instead, the decor was a collision of that stark, metallic aggression so popular nowadays—low, boxy bookcases and reedy, narrow tables. He always thought that this particular trend had everything looking like a letter of the alphabet: the L-shaped sofa, the S-shaped chairs, the V-shaped lamps with their two-headed bulbs. Somehow it was all meant to suggest a kind of coherence. The only thing that made any real sense was how well Herr Thyssen had been keeping his little friend.
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