“A meeting with Herr Lang, Inspector?” Ritter said.
“Yes, mein Herr. Did the Fräulein say if she was meeting with him?”
“With Lang? I—Yes. I believe she did. Herr Lang is in town today. I can get you the address and telephone number.”
Twenty minutes later Hoffner stood outside Lang’s apartment building, a high-rise in the Wilmersdorf area of town, very expensive and very restricted. Just in case the streakless windows or porcelain white of the stone, or even the paperless gutters, failed to initiate the unsuspecting to affluent Berlin, the doormen along the street made it clear just how valuable those inside were. Broken noses, swollen knuckles, and necks of faded welts all pointed to years lost in the ring. Hoffner wondered how many of these boys he might have seen at a beer-and-sausage brawl up in Rixdorf, the chance at a prizefight with the likes of a Diener or a Walter Neusel, or maybe the new boy Schmeling tearing up the place: memories where the scent of blood and ammonia lingered in the nose. Hoffner had actually been at the Sportpalast the night Breitenstrater—Blond Hans—had shattered some Italian’s jaw, August of ’24, teeth and bone flying to the pock-pock-pock of flashbulbs and jeers. You could fill two dental surgeries now with the number of molars Berliners claimed to have smuggled off the canvas that night.
None of these, however, had ever made it to those ranks. They were sponge and muscle boys, big enough to keep the street clean, but little more. A badge was sufficient to render them harmless.
“And how can I help you today, Captain?” Lang’s doorman spoke in a dull German, the tongue heavy from too many years failing to get his hands up.
“Herr Lang,” Hoffner said. The man looked unconvinced, and Hoffner added, “I’m guessing the young lady’s already gone up?” A moment of recognition, and Hoffner said, “For the film. I’m the one who’s going to be bringing in the ‘true-life’ flavor, if you know what I mean.”
The man nodded, even if he was still thinking things through. “She’s been up there awhile.”
Hoffner smiled. “Always takes them time to get to the real stuff. The fellow who’s lived it. Still it’s a few marks in my pocket. ‘The reality beyond the truth.’ ” Hoffner raised his eyebrows, and the man nodded more eagerly. This he had heard before.
“Yah, yah,” he said. “Herr Lang’s come to me for some pointers, too.” The hands rose up in a few leaden swings. “Mabuse. The bit in the casino. I was the one to show him that.”
Hoffner laughed and headed for the elevator. “Which floor?”
“All the way at the top. Six.”
Hoffner pressed the button and watched as the last few jabs disappeared behind the sliding door.
LANG’S VALET WAS LESS TRUSTING. Even so, the badge had the desired effect. Hoffner was escorted to the edge of a sunken living room with a derisive “A policeman, mein Herr.”
Three heads turned at once—Lang’s, Leni’s, and a woman’s Hoffner had never seen. She was seated on a sofa by the window, blond hair that was her own, and a face that seemed devoid of character. Everything was pale and round: even the eyes looked more suited to the man he had just finished with downstairs. It made the bite in her voice all the more unexpected.
“And this must be our Inspector Hoffner, sneaking up on us,” she said as she lifted her cigarette in greeting. “Thea von Harbou. The second Frau Lang. He’s kept me around a bit longer than the last one.”
The place was a clutter of African art and modern sculpture, the furniture reminiscent of the same mindless angularity that had caged the Volker girl’s flat, although here the self-conceit was kept off the walls and reserved for a long, narrow desk that ran the length of one side of the room. Lang was standing behind it, notebooks and drawings scattered across the top, its focal point a large sheet that had evidently just been pulled out for Leni’s benefit. She was standing at his side, the look on her face relief, as if she had done all she could to weather the Langs’ hospitality.
“The Herr Chief Inspector never sneaks up,” Leni said, her eyes on him. “There are very few surprises there.”
Von Harbou laughed as she leaned over and crushed out her cigarette. “Is she making fun of you, Herr Inspector?”
Hoffner pulled out a cigarette and stepped down. “She’s an American. I imagine so.”
Von Harbou smiled and sat back. “You’ve come to take a look at our bathtub?”
A certain callousness always rounded out this brand of intelligence, thought Hoffner, as if knowing more than everyone else permitted a bending of the rules. He had met it before, the malice reasoned away with a laugh or, in the face of genuine sensitivity, a disdain for feeling altogether. That a man was dead hardly mattered. After all, von Harbou had never really meant it.
“I managed one this morning, Madame,” he said as he lit up. “But I’ll keep the offer in mind, thank you.”
Lang said, “She wants to know if you’ve figured it all out. That way she can steal it for her next script.”
“Our next script,” von Harbou said. “Drink, Inspector?”
Hoffner noticed a wooden mask propped up on one of the shelves. It was a dark brown with elongated Negro features. The nose was particularly flat. “Thank you, no.”
“They don’t really look like that in Africa,” Lang said. “At least that’s what I’ve been told. I’ve never been. I do remember the Negroes in New York looking a bit similar. Not quite so drawn out, but still, something like it.”
“Either way,” said von Harbou, standing, “not terribly attractive. Brandy, Inspector? Or is it whiskey?”
Hoffner stepped over to the desk. “No, nothing, thank you.” She seemed almost disappointed.
Lang said, “I was showing Fräulein Coyle the drawings I made while I was there. Quite inspiring, New York.”
The sheet was filled with charcoal renderings of skyscrapers, bridges, endless little dots at the bottom of the page.
“And these?” said Hoffner, pointing to them.
“The people,” said Lang, sweeping an errant hair from the sheet.
“That’s Fritz’s idea of humanity, Inspector.” Von Harbou was pouring herself another drink. “Specks to be flicked from a page. Rather sad, don’t you think?”
Lang eyed the drawing with a healthy reverence. “This was where I found my Metropolis. Hopeless isolation amid all that vitality. The modern world destroying the inner man.”
Hoffner let Lang linger a few moments longer before asking, “The girl hasn’t been in touch, has she?”
Lang continued to stare at the drawing. “The girl . . . ?” He looked up. “Oh, the girl.” Lang peered past Hoffner. “Has anyone called?” Von Harbou shook her head, and Lang said, “There you have it, Inspector. I gather you haven’t figured it all out, then.”
It was an odd response. Lang had needed to be reminded. “I thought Fräulein Coyle would have already asked.”
Lang looked at Leni with a coy smile. “Are you a detective as well, Fräulein? I had no idea.”
Leni was more than a match for him. “The Herr Chief Inspector gives me too much credit, mein Herr. I’m here simply to see if we can’t steal you away from Ufa. Let Metro and a bit of money—”
“An obscene bit of money,” said Lang.
“Yes,” she said. “See if either might tempt you to make your next film with us. You’re not being terribly receptive, are you?”
Lang shrugged with the careless indifference of a man desperate for adulation. Von Harbou said lazily, “How we all love our Fritz.”
“It’s just we’ve had a call from her,” Hoffner said. “Very brief, anxious. Rang off before we could get much out of her. Probably realized a policeman wasn’t the answer she was looking for.” Hoffner enjoyed the shift in Leni’s expression. “I thought she might have gone back to what she knows. Evidently not.” He looked directly at Leni. “Herr Ritter, Fräulein. He was kind enough to tell me where I might find you. I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”
It was masterful the wa
y she brought things to a close: a few laughs about nothing, the effortless finishing off of her cigarette, the sudden recollection of a meeting, one last honey-mouthed plea to von Harbou to let her husband venture west, inching to the door, her coat and wrap . . .
“Are you driving out that way, Herr Chief Inspector?” It was as if the thought had just occurred to her.
Hoffner let her twist for a moment before saying, “I suppose I could, Fräulein.”
“And so gallant to boot,” said von Harbou, back at the sofa. Her afternoon drunk had begun to strip her of what little charm she had: plain and clever held an allure; ordinary and tight was simply ugly. “If I end up in a tub, Herr Inspector, I’ll make sure they send you to find me.”
Lang was already at the door. He had learned over the years to keep his wife’s audiences to a minimum. “You’ll let me know when the girl turns up.”
Hoffner followed Leni into the corridor, leaving Lang to sort through his own complications.
SHE HAD HER ARM THROUGH HIS the moment they stepped out onto the street.
“For the doorman’s sake,” Leni said as they moved along. “He’s already looking at you in an entirely different light.”
“You’re that much of a prize?”
“Do you really want to go down that road?”
“A rather well-traveled one, I imagine.”
She smiled. “Now you’re just being cruel. I suppose that’s the charm in the German art of seduction. Does it ever work?”
“I’ve no idea. I’ve never tried it.”
“When did the girl call?”
Hoffner enjoyed how easily she got to it. “She didn’t,” he said, and felt the slightest tensing in her grip. “Who gave you the ledger?”
He half expected another instant of hesitation, but she was too good to give in to it. “Ritter,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Why?”
She reached into her purse for a cigarette. “The same reason I gave it to you. Because he thought it would help me find the girl.” She stopped and waited for a light.
Hoffner obliged and said, “So you knew about the films before last night.” Leni let out a long stream of smoke but said nothing. “Quite a performance.”
“Not really. I’d never seen them before.”
“And that justifies it?”
“We should find a bar,” she said, pocketing the cigarette case. “One that sells American whiskey. I’m getting tired of all this watered-down stuff.” She turned to find a cab, but Hoffner held her arm.
“It’s a little early for me,” he said.
“That’s not true.”
“That doesn’t seem to be at much of a premium right now, does it?”
She said coyly, “Don’t tell me you’re taking any of this personally? That would be a real disappointment.”
“What do you want from the girl?”
Her eyes narrowed as though she were trying to locate the source of his confusion. “We’ve been through this. Metro wants—”
“No,” he said evenly. “It doesn’t.” He was surprised to find himself still holding her arm. “Why would they want what they already have?”
She continued to search his eyes. “What was in that ledger?”
“Whatever I was supposed to find, I imagine.” His grip remained firm. “Why do you want the girl?”
Uncertainty slipped into something less comfortable and she pulled away. It was the last thing he expected—vulnerability, defensiveness. It made her all the more unknowable. “You’re baiting me,” she said. “It’s not terribly attractive.”
“You have my apologies.”
“Then try not to enjoy it quite so much.” She dropped her cigarette and began to crush it into the pavement.
“You knew about Metro and Paramount,” Hoffner said. “Parufamet.” Leni stopped but refused to look at him. “Ufa was at their beck and call. All the Americans had to do was make a telephone call and the girl would have been on the next flight to Los Angeles. But they didn’t do that, did they?”
“No—they didn’t.”
“So the rising starlet story doesn’t really hold water, does it?”
She slowly looked up at him. “No. It doesn’t.”
“Then why are you looking for this girl?”
He could see her struggling for control. She reached into her purse for a cigarette.
“Why?” he repeated.
She found one and said, “The man—the men who sent me—they wanted this particular girl.”
“Why?”
“Because she was Thyssen’s. Because they wanted Thyssen’s girl.”
Hoffner knew the reason: Vogt had made that crystal clear. Even so, he needed to hear it from her. “And what had Herr Thyssen done to deserve this attention?”
She lit up. “Maybe he was tired of ponying up and decided to use the films as leverage.”
“For what?”
“Distribution, another loan—I don’t know. Hollywood’s not exactly filled with the most savory types.” She pinched at a piece of tobacco on her tongue and flicked it to the ground. “Remind them they control the most powerful business in the world and they’ll think they can do whatever they want, to whomever they want. And they’re always willing to pay.”
Hoffner stopped himself from answering. She was taking them down the wrong path: this was sex—not sound—and that made no sense given how Vogt had dismissed the sex as nothing more than a distraction. “So why kill the golden goose?”
“Maybe Thyssen was getting greedy.”
Or maybe he had another egg in the basket. The trouble was, why did Leni know nothing about that? “So Ritter was willing to give up the girl that easily?”
“He’s a lawyer,” she said. “I don’t think they like dying any more than anyone else.” She took a drag.
“And that was the message you were sent to bring him?” When she said nothing, Hoffner pressed, “And the girl, when and if you find her—I don’t imagine there’s anything terribly savory waiting for her.”
“That doesn’t really concern me.”
“And here I’d heard Los Angeles was all sunshine and warmth.”
“I do better in a cold climate.”
“As I’m discovering, yes.”
She stared at him. He said nothing and she began to shake her head. She then took a last pull—she had a knack for giving up on a cigarette too soon—and tossed it to the ground. “Everything laid out in front of you,” she said, “and still you need me to say it. And you think I’m heartless.” She looked up at him. “It was because they gave me no choice.”
The banality of the phrase, read in too many bad novels, made her frailty no less a beacon to him. “You don’t seem the type.”
She continued to hold his gaze. Her face was suddenly soft, her eyes stripped of pretense. It was an honesty he had never imagined. “Neither do you,” she said quietly. “But then you’re no less worn down than I am. Makes us pretty easy prey, doesn’t it?”
He said, “So what do they have on you?”
Her laugh was at once dismissive and pitiful. “Have on me. You make it sound like there’s an envelope somewhere—daring pictures, a scribbled note, the deed to the family farm. You don’t really think the world works that way?”
The resilience of women amazed Hoffner. She had gutted herself in front of him, and yet there were no signs of a scar, not even an incision. A man would have asked him to stare at the entrails, recognize the pain and self-loathing it had taken to bring them out. Men needed that sort of admiration for their powerlessness. She stood atop hers with a careless defiance.
“Then why not just let it go?” he said. “Tell them she disappeared and then disappear yourself.”
“And do what?” Her disbelief bordered on contempt. “The girl in the bar—the one you so cleverly pointed out yesterday. The way out isn’t any more complicated than the way back in. Trust me.”
And there it was. Hoffner was struck by how effortlessly s
he had said it—and how stupid he had been to miss it. The way back in. Her year drying out in Los Angeles spent on her back. For her, it was always there, the permanent mark across her chest, written in bold scarlet letters, all of it so terribly American. At least this was a novel he had read.
“They won’t care,” he said.
“Then you don’t know them.”
She continued to stare up at him, and it was all he could do not to pull her in.
He finally said, “The booze you want is back east.” He found a cigarette. “They haven’t the stomach for it out here.”
A cab appeared at the top of the street, and he raised his hand to hail it.
THEY DRANK FOR AN HOUR, talking about nothing, until he insisted he drop her off at her hotel. Luckily, she was too far gone to give him much of a fight. That had been half an hour ago.
Now Hoffner was in that sour-mouthed duskiness where the gray-black of the sky seems almost an illusion, as if the day might still be hiding somewhere behind it: if only he knew where it had gone. It was a long time since he had had this much to drink by six in the evening. His only way out was another drink. At least that way he could keep the smell of his own breath out of his nose.
Pimm was standing at the edge of a dock, the river beyond him. A gathering of his boys stood at the far end loading crates onto a barge. Pimm kept his hands in his coat pockets as he watched Hoffner work his way down the gangway.
“Twice in one week,” said Pimm.
“Not even waiting for full-on dark.” Hoffner was doing his best to keep his legs under him. “No shame at all.”
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