Ritter stopped. He then looked across at Hoffner. “No murders in Prenzlauer Berg to keep you busy this afternoon, Herr Chief Inspector?”
“None that needed my attention.”
“None yesterday, either, I hear.”
Hoffner let the obvious slap pass. “That must have been quite a shock to hear that the girl had gone missing, especially when Vogt was so close to completing the device. Thyssen must have been in quite a state when he told you.”
Ritter took hold of his cigarette case. He pulled one out and lit it. His silence was no less affecting than his charm. Hoffner finally said, “Where else did you think the ledger would take me, mein Herr?”
Ritter reached for an ashtray. “Ah. The ledger.” He nodded to himself. “Of course. That’s why you’re here.” He began to curl the cigarette into the glass as he spoke. “I imagine you’re very good at what you do, Herr Chief Inspector, but you might want to ask the Fräulein that question.”
Leni had been trying to follow. Her confusion gave way to a less than convincing defiance. “He might not have given it to me exactly. What difference does it make?”
“Apparently none,” said Ritter, still focused on the ashtray.
Leni continued to stare at Hoffner. “What device? What are you talking about?”
Hoffner had to remind himself that they had come to confront Ritter. How she had managed to get them here was of little importance. Hoffner said, “She’s asked the perfect question, mein Herr, wouldn’t you agree?” Ritter was too well practiced to show a reaction. Even so, Hoffner continued to stare at him. “Sound, Fräulein. We’re talking about sound. Talking pictures.”
It took her a moment to respond. “And you knew this last night?” Hoffner thought to answer, but knew there was nothing he could say. The silence hardened her. “That doesn’t make any difference, either, does it?”
Hoffner asked Ritter, “So when did she go missing?”
“About two weeks ago,” he said. “Give or take.”
“And Thyssen told you she had the device and the blueprint?”
Leni said, “You’re a real bastard, aren’t you, Nikolai?”
Hoffner did his best to ignore her. “When did he tell you?”
Ritter let go of the cigarette. “He didn’t need to tell me once the girl went missing.”
Hoffner was beginning to see things more clearly. “The Americans. They called you. They wanted to know where she was.”
“There was a new film of hers due. It never arrived. They were very fond of her, yes.”
“But not for the same reasons you were.”
“No, not for the same reasons.”
“It was just the sex for them.”
“Yes,” Ritter said coolly. “Just the sex.”
It was good to hear Ritter admit it. Hoffner said, “A bit risky, then, using Fräulein Coyle to hunt down the device for you once Thyssen was dead.”
“The device?” Ritter was mocking him. “Fräulein Coyle was looking for sex, Herr Chief Inspector. You’ve just said so yourself. That’s what the Volker girl was to the Americans. Why would Fräulein Coyle have seen her as anything other than that?”
“And if she had found the girl?”
“Then she would have brought her to me. Sex delivered. I can assure you that Ingrid Volker would never have mentioned anything about a sound device to an American.”
“Unless she was planning on selling it to them.”
Ritter dismissed the idea out of hand. “That, Herr Chief Inspector, is absurd.”
“You really think the Americans had no idea what you were doing?”
A sourness crept in as Ritter spoke. “The Americans are trying to buy Ufa out from under us, Herr Chief Inspector. If they had any idea about Herr Vogt and his sound machine, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We wouldn’t be here. The Americans would, having bought the studio before we could get the thing to work. And if I was very lucky—and they very forgiving—I would still have a job, trying to find Vogt’s little device for them. Chances of that, though, would be slim.”
The shock of what Ritter had just said took a moment to register. If not for the venom in the eyes, Hoffner might not have believed him. But Ritter wanted this crystal clear. The trouble was, it made no sense. Hoffner said, “The Americans already control the studio. The Parufamet agreement took care of that two years ago.”
“Did it?” said Ritter. “Distribution’s a very different thing from full ownership, Herr Chief Inspector. Significant, yes, but nowhere near what they’ve always had their eyes on.”
“So why didn’t they simply take what they wanted?”
“Because up until Herr Lang’s monumentally brilliant Metropolis, we were managing. Struggling, but managing. The Americans were waiting to make their offer until we were desperate. And then Lang’s masterpiece hit the theaters and the roof fell in.”
Now Ritter was talking nonsense. “Struggling? Metropolis is bringing in money hand over fist.”
“Is that what Lang told you?” There was no need for Hoffner to answer. “Of course he did. I think he actually believes it himself. Tell me, Herr Chief Inspector, have you seen the great work? It’s incomprehensible. And dull. Deadly dull. And I’m being kind. That’s a rare feat, to manage both, but Lang is really quite gifted.”
It was all coming too fast now. “And the Americans knew that?”
“Knew it was crashing? Of course they did.”
“So how much has it cost you?”
“Initially? I think it was about two million marks over budget. Now, it’s closer to four.”
Hoffner was amazed at how easily Ritter could toss around these figures. “And that would be enough to make you desperate?”
“Oh, well beyond desperate, Herr Chief Inspector.”
That still didn’t explain the sex. “So you’re telling me your only recourse was pornography? That’s ridiculous.”
Ritter nodded easily. “I couldn’t agree more.” For the first time in minutes he turned to Leni. “Your friends in Hollywood have some rather peculiar tastes, don’t they, Fräulein?”
It was all she could do to look at him. “Tastes you were happy to indulge.”
“Was I?”
It was not the response she expected.
Ritter retrieved his cigarette and said, “These films, they revolt me as much as they do you.”
“Really?” said Leni.
Ritter’s tone grew colder. “As I recall, Fräulein, you were sent here to bring back a girl who was expected to do unspeakable things for these friends of yours in America, and you’re accusing me of something? Please.”
“Then why produce them in the first place?” she said.
“Because I didn’t produce them.” Ritter took a long drag and Hoffner wondered if anything was ever going to remain clear for more than a moment.
“You’ll have to explain that,” said Hoffner.
Ritter took a last drag. “Will I?” He crushed out the cigarette. “All right. Let’s make this very simple for you, Herr Chief Inspector. Up until about two months ago I was on the telephone probably two, three times a day with the Americans trying to convince them that their information about Metropolis was wrong, that we were in fact well beyond the worst of it. Of course, they knew it was only a matter of time. They were getting ready to make an offer, finish off what they had started two years ago with the distribution deal—following so far? Naturally, the bleaker the news on Metropolis, the lower the price. And down, down, down it went. I was on the verge of having to take it, when one day—just like that—I stopped getting buyout offers. Instead, the Americans were now calling to talk about future joint productions. They had a sudden new faith in the great Ufa. And I had no idea why.”
Hoffner said, “And this happened the same time the films started being produced?”
“The exact same day, as it turns out.”
“So Thyssen was doing this on his own?”
Ritter wiped the ash from his hands. “Evidently
.”
“And when did he decide to enlighten you?”
“Only when he needed more money.”
Hoffner decided to take a little jab of his own. “And he told you what was in these films being shipped to the Americans?”
“He said he’d found a way to pull the rug out from under them without their knowing.”
Again Hoffner asked, “Did he tell you what was in the films, Herr Ritter?”
Ritter waited before answering. “Yes.”
“And you were appalled.”
“Don’t sound so smug, Herr Chief Inspector. Whatever had placated the Americans, it had given us more time. I couldn’t concern myself with how we had gotten that time.”
“So for a few despicable acts on film, these very savvy American businessmen were willing to forgo full control of Ufa and give the studio a second life? That’s . . . remarkable.”
Hoffner saw the first dip in Ritter’s seamless arrogance. “They’re Americans, Herr Chief Inspector. There’s no explaining what they do. And they’re rather peculiar when it comes to sex.”
Hoffner was no less glib. “You just didn’t care, did you? Whether it made sense or not.”
“Oh, it made sense,” said Ritter, once again in full control. “They were calling with specific requests—breast sizes, shapes of feet and asses, various positions. They weren’t shy in asking for what they wanted.”
Hoffner tried to forget that Leni was in the room. “As I said, you just didn’t care.”
“No,” said Ritter. “I didn’t.”
“Even though you knew Herr Vogt was using the films to perfect his sound machine?”
Ritter paused. “But you see, I didn’t know Herr Vogt was involved. I don’t believe that was something Herr Thyssen thought I needed to know at the time.”
Once again, Hoffner found himself trying to keep up. “What do you mean you didn’t know?” When Ritter said nothing, Hoffner pressed: “You’re telling me you had no idea about Vogt?”
Ritter shook his head. “Not then, no.”
“Then when?”
“A few weeks later,” Ritter said easily. “I found him the same way you did—when I came across the ledger. I’d seen enough of them. I knew where to look. And the moment I unearthed Tri-Ergon—and our old friends Vogt, Massolle, and Engl—it wasn’t too difficult to understand what Thyssen was doing. One set of silent films for the Americans to sate their needs. And one set of sound ones for us—so we could figure the thing out and put Ufa back on track. Maybe Thyssen knew it was better to keep me in the dark. Obviously he was right. What he knew got him killed.”
Hoffner took another moment before asking, “So how much money did he want?”
“More than we could give without making the Americans aware that something was up.”
“Then where did he get it?”
Ritter smiled. “That’s a very good question, Herr Chief Inspector. I have no idea.”
As ever, the crucial questions were being left unanswered. Thyssen had been stringing everyone along. And if it wasn’t the Americans who had killed him, that meant the Thulians and their Ostara Company were growing more interesting by the minute.
Leni had been standing patiently, waiting. She finally said, “Well, then it looks like the Americans are going to know something is up now, aren’t they?”
Ritter turned to her. “Really? And why is that, Fräulein?” His gaze showed nothing. “You think you’re the one who’s going to tell them?” He shook his head. “You’re completely expendable. That’s why they sent you. You have a knack for this sort of thing. You know your way around the filth and the muck. Their words, not mine. My guess, if you were a bit younger they’d have expected you to perform whatever they had in mind for Fräulein Volker. But you’re not.” For just a moment, Ritter’s face showed some pity. “Look at where you are, Fräulein. Are these really the men you want to help?”
Hoffner saw the sudden paleness in her face before Ritter managed a moment of remorse. “Find the Volker girl, Fräulein—find me that sound device—and I’ll convince your friends in America to let you stay on with Ufa. They don’t have to know why. They let you go, and we forget what brought you here.”
Leni stood unmoving, her gaze distant.
Ritter said, “I’m going to have a swim.” He stepped out from behind the desk and toward Hoffner. “Usually takes me about an hour.” He glanced back at Leni and said, “You’ll have her on the road by then, I imagine.”
Ritter moved past him and out the door, taking with him what air there was in the room.
LENI BREATHED IN, her eyes lost on something beyond the window.
“One thing to know you’re worth nothing,” she finally said. “Another to hear someone say it.” She turned with an unconvincing ease. “I’ll take a cigarette.” Hoffner reached into his coat, and she said, “No, one of his. Yours are . . . Just one of his. He left the case on the desk.”
Hoffner stepped over, took two, and handed one to her. He lit it, then his own.
“Talking pictures,” she said vacantly as she let go with a long stream of smoke. “And here I thought we’d already done that.”
Hoffner laid the lighter on the desk. “You could always go to the Americans, tell them what Ritter’s doing, use the leverage you have.” He was barely convincing himself.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s horrible being weak, you know. Men seem to be drawn to it, though. Are you one of those, Nikolai?”
“Never really given it much thought.”
“That’s a lie, but at least it’s an answer. The better one is ‘No, of course not. And you’re not weak, Leni dear. You’re vibrant and cunning,’ and on and on and on. It’s all so pathetic standing in an empty office trying to decide who’s going to save you.”
Hoffner wondered why these moments always seemed to find him. The pity he had felt for women in the past was never the demeaning kind, but more a feeling of sadness, and not because they had ended up with him. That would have been too infantile. They made their choices: choosing him was not something to earn them his compassion. No, his pity was for their hope, and that had nothing to do with him. Still, it had been upsetting to watch them dig around knowing there was no depth to be found. Martha had been the worst. Maybe that was what came with children.
“You’re probably one of those who felt sorry for his wife,” she said. Hoffner’s eyes snapped into focus. “What’s worse, she probably thought it made her stronger.”
Anywhere else, Hoffner would have struck back. Protecting the dead required no depth, just a bit of anger, and he could always find that. For some reason, though, he felt none of it. “Strength is what the hopeless have,” he said. “All it requires is a little self-pity.”
She gave up on the cigarette and crushed it out. “You thought that little of her?”
“You don’t need to know what I thought of her. What are you going to do now?”
She let go of the cigarette. “Not something you really care about, is it?”
“It’s easier for you that way?”
The bitterness in her smile told him to expect the worst. “You don’t have to try and save me, Nikolai. We both know you’re not terribly good at it. I suppose that’s why your boys blame you.”
Hoffner tasted the first acid in his throat. “So what are you going to do?”
“You’ve asked that.”
“Yes, I have.”
She waited. “Find the Volker girl.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it’s something you haven’t done. I do what I was told to do, then at least I’ve done it.”
Even grasped-at arrogance had a power. He said, “There doesn’t seem to be much sense in that.”
“No, there doesn’t, but it hardly makes any difference.” She started past him and he reached back for her arm. He held her there and felt the heat from her cheek. “Don’t do this,” she said, without looking at him.
He tried to let go. “My choice, isn’t it?”
Had he been anyone else, Hoffner might have managed something caring. Instead, he slowly let go and followed her out.
FOUR-THIRTY ON A WEDNESDAY usually put Georg in some distant basement cataloguing film stock. This, however, was the second Wednesday of the month, which meant—according to his supervisor on the third floor—he was fencing at the Fechtschule Liechtenauer until seven o’clock. That the boy would be holding a saber in his hands the next time they met was only slightly more worrying than the thought of actually speaking with him.
The ride into town was little better than the ride out. Leni said nothing until they reached the outskirts of Wilmersdorf, and then only to point out the sudden brightness of the streetlamps. At quarter to six, Hoffner pulled up in front of the building and tried not to recall the distant tremors from his own lessons here a lifetime ago. He had hated the place then. He hated it now, even if, like his own father, he had brought his boys here every week until the age of fourteen so that they, too, could develop a talent they believed would somehow bring them closer to him. It was a failure of cross-generational proportions.
“You don’t have to do this on my account,” Leni said as she walked with him across the street.
“That’s not why we’re here.”
The building was four stories tall, of once-gray stone, now black, which only made the pristine white of the front steps all the more glaring. They had grown uneven from two centuries of Prussian dedication, the place now more a club than a school. Passing through the front doors, Hoffner was at once struck by the stifling scent of military privilege. The sitting rooms off the main cathedral hall stunk of old leather and brandy, while the life-sized portraits of men in full regalia hung with a suitable disdain under the pale yellow glow of chandeliers. Off to the side, a few recent combatants from upstairs were strutting in their whites, helmets in one hand, glasses in the other. Two or three turned to peer out into the hall as one of their own called out to Hoffner.
“Yes, hello there,” the voice shouted.
Hoffner stopped just before the grand staircase. He turned to find the man almost at his side.
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