The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  "You mean the rooms face the street?" "" .

  "Naturally! You can see the ships and the—^"

  "It's no good. Street noise keeps me awake. I want a suite facing the rear."

  The only available suite did not please Jerome. "Great rathole. Thanks a lot, Mr. Kostasch. Thank you very much."

  At least he talked to Kostasch. He had completely ignored me. From time to time he gave me a deprecating glance. Kostasch tried everything to placate him. He didn't want a rest, did not want to eat or have a drink. All he wanted was to talk business. Now.

  It was unbelievable! This was the lecherous old man whose peculiar needs were talked about by the call girls of the West Coast. The little Jerome who for years had told me, "Money is no object. Be a good friend. I buy everything. Books, films, photos. But they must be different, you understand, Peter, different!"

  Ah, well. Money is better than pornography.

  I was not prepared to put up with the little voyeur's impudence and told him, "But Fm going to have a drink."

  "You're back on the booze. That's nice. Very pretty."

  I ignored him and rang for service. To the waiter I said, "Three double whiskys."

  "I said I am not drinking," barked Jerome.

  "I am not either," cried Kostasch.

  "Three doubles," I repeated to the waiter. And to Jerome, "Now stop behaving like a little Caesar—" I knew his small stature bothered him and I added, "—a very little Caesar. We are in this mess just as much as you."

  "George and I are only producers. You should have thought of the old movie and taken precautions!"

  "And you didn't think it necessary?"

  "How could we foresee they were going to throw that old movie back on the market!"

  "It's something which happens very rarely. That's why

  I find it very peculiar ..." I said. Suddenly I had had a flash.

  "You find it peculiar?" Jerome's eyes narrowed. I had the feeling I was on the right track.

  Unfortunately Kostasch, walking up and down in agitation, interrupted me. "Just let's take it easy. We'll find a way." He extracted a cigarette from a case. "Do you mind if I smoke, Mr. Wilson?"

  "Yes, I do. You'll be leaving soon and I have to live with the stink." Kostasch dutifully put away the cigarette.

  I said, "Jerome, I have a few select books for you."

  "Peter, please!" Kostasch implored. "We'll find a way." The huge man's voice was low.

  "I've already found a way," said the short little man who had made millions from selling faulty war equipment. "It's quite a simple remedy." The waiter brought the drinks and Jerome barked at him to hurry it up.

  "The remedy?" asked Kostasch.

  "Three hundred thousand dollars," answered Jerome.

  Kostasch's mouth was gaping.

  "I went to see the president of that studio. It only took me five minutes to realize he was just trying to blackmail us. For three hundred thousand dollars he promised not to release this old movie and to give us all available copies."

  That's when I downed the first double whisky. For a moment there was a dead silence.

  "That's blackmail," Kostasch finally uttered.

  "I call it a trap," said Jerome. "We walked right into it. We have ten days. Either we pay or he will sell the movie to television."

  "Three hundred thousand dollars!" Kostasch stuttered.

  "That's another third of our entire budget! That*s a million two hundred thousand marks!"

  "I know, Mr. Kostasch. I can multiply by four." The miserable little bastard was now as cold and hard as his brother. "I talked to Cosmos Distributors. There are two possibilities: discontinue the shooting—or pay the money."

  "We could make a deal for less money," Kostasch offered.

  "I've already done that. At first he demanded half a million. As I said, either we pay—or we stop production!"

  "Then what happens?" Kostasch looked ill. I pushed a drink in front of him but he ignored it.

  "Then Cosmos and my brother and I will sue you for breaking paragraph fourteen of our contract. But, naturally—" - "Mn Wilson, please—"

  "Would you kindly let me finish? Thank you. But, of course, we are not that cruel—"

  "Aren't you?" I interjected.

  "—and quite willing to help you. We suggest halving the cost. Cosmos and my brother and I will pay one hundred fifty thousand dollars. You will pay the other one hundred fifty thousand."

  "How could we possibly get that kind of money in the next ten days? Right in the middle of production?" yelled Kostasch.

  "Don't shout, Mr. Kostasch. I don't like that at all."

  Obediently Kostasch lowered his voice. "What... what happens if we can't come up with the money?"

  "If you split it it's only three hundred thousand marks for each of you."

  "Yes, yes, I know. What happens if we don't have the money?"

  "In that case," Jerome's voice was gentle, "to salvage the film, we—Cosmos, my brother and I—are prepared to pay the entire sum. Naturally, gentlemen—you will un-

  derstand this—it means that we will become the sole producers with all rights."

  That's when I drank the second whisky.

  "Unfortunately you interrupted me a while ago, Kostasch," I said.

  "I did? When?"

  "Mr. Wilson remembers when."

  The little man's eyes narrowed again.

  "When I said I found it very peculiar they should want to release that old movie right at this time. Just a moment, Jerome, this time I won't be interrupted! Wouldn't you think it a strange coincidence, Kostasch? We have finished one third of our film. We have regularly supplied our partners, the Wilsons, with the rushes. The Wilsons even sent us a telegram because they liked the rushes so very much." I was now sure my suspicion had been correct. Jerome tried to interrupt but I ignored him. "The Wilsons and Cosmos are pretty sure of a success. A financial success which they would have to share with us. Isn't that annoying? It might not have been a bad idea if someone suggested to the president of that studio to release a certain old film!"

  "That's a terrible accusation!" Jerome screamed, his face wrathful.

  Kostasch caught on at last. He clenched his fist, lowered his head, as a pugilist on the offensive.

  I said, "I'm sure neither Mr. Jerome Wilson nor his poor sick brother George went to see the president of the studio. Hollywood has many excellent lawyers. One can remain anonymous."

  Kostasch towered above Jerome. His voice, a mere whisper now. "So that was the idea? You knew we couldn't pay. You'd get rid of us and then it's all yours."

  "If you don't stop ..." Jerome broke off when he saw Kostasch's raised fist.

  "Now you can call him Jerome again," T suggested.

  Kostasch whispered, "You son-of-a-bitch!"

  "Get out!" whispered Jerome.

  Both of them were whispering as angry men do under extreme tension.

  I asked, "How much did you promise them? Twenty percent?"

  "How dare you!"

  "Fifteen? You are misers. For such service!"

  "I forbid you to—"

  "Kostasch, would you believe it? They actually only offered them ten percent!"

  Jerome got out of his chair whereupon, standing before the massive Kostasch, he was even more physically insignificant. "Enough of this. Get out of my room," he said.

  Kostasch's finger jabbed his chest at which he fell back into his chair.

  Jerome cried, "I'm not going to be insulted by you. I must not get excited. I have a weak heart—"

  "I thought your brother had a weak heart?" I said.

  "The way I see it you are not in a position to pay the hundred fifty thousand dollars ..."

  Then the room began to sway. Kostasch and Jerome continued to argue but I could no longer understand what was said.

  The way I see it...

  You bastard. Not in a position to . . . You son-of-a-bitch. You can have the hundred fifty thousand. You cheat. You can have th
ree hundred thousand. A million.

  You can have it

  You could have.

  My wife, my wealthy wife.

  She had given me half of all she owned. Take that into consideration, you lecherous little bastard.

  "Your money. I won't ever touch it. Not one cent." I had said that.

  "Then don't. Throw it away! Give it to the poor!" Joan had answered.

  Give it to the poor. Why give it to the poor? Give it to the rich! Give it to the president of that studio! The film. You must finish the movie. Your future is at stake. You are a scoundrel. You know that. It really would be idiotic if now you would not behave as one.

  "Not one cent..."

  Actually, why shouldn't I?

  "To fall asleep in your arms ... After all this time ..."

  No. No. No.

  Impossible. I cannot do it. In one month at the latest I must tell Joan that I'm going to leave her and of my love for Shirley. I can't take the money. I am a scoundrel. Fine. But one without the necessary format. I'm nothing. Nothing at all. We are finished. Jerome is taking command. He really managed that beautifully. Now I can—

  "What. . . what is it?"

  "Are you deaf, Jordan?"

  "I... I was lost in thought. .."

  "Thoughts! I've already told you twice the call is for you and you just sit there and stare at me! That's what I always say. That's what booze does to you!"

  I quickly took the third glass of whisky and the receiver Jerome held out to me. "Hello ..."

  "Mr. Peter Jordan?"

  "Speaking."

  "I have a long distance caU for you from Mr. Gregory Bates in Los Angeles."

  Something must have happened or Gregory would not call me. What?

  "Peter?"

  "Gregory! Just one moment." Kostasch and Jerome were staring at me. "This is a private call. .."

  "Take it in the bedroom," said Jerome.

  I sat on the bed. "Now I'm alone. What happened?"

  My friend's voice sounded distressed. "You remember ... this deal?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, they held the first hearing."

  "Did you have great difficulties?"

  "Fm afraid so. They wanted to know where Shirley is."

  "Are they looking for her?"

  "I don't think they are any more since I—^you're sure no one can overhear us?"

  "Quite sure."

  "I told them I was the father. Also that Shirley had gone to this man at my request."

  "Gregory ... I don't know how to thank you ..."

  "Never mind. That's not why I'm calling. I am going to have to pay a stiff fine. Shirley too when she returns. That is not so important. Tell me, how is your wife?"

  "She is fine. Very happy."

  "Peter, I don't know how to say this. I'm afraid Joan is putting on an act."

  "What do you mean?"

  Something stirred in my chest. I paid no attention to it I sipped my third drink.

  "Paul came to see me an hour ago."

  Paul was my English valet. He had been with me for fourteen years and was absolutely devoted to me. Paul resented Joan. We had lived carefree bachelors' fives untU I married.

  "Paul?"

  "He was very embarrassed. He told me he had care-fuUy considered aU aspects but he thought it his duty to speak to me as your best friend. He was afraid to write to you. The letter might have—"

  "Yes. Yes. What did he tell you?" "That detectives came to your house."

  "Detectives?" >

  "On October twenty-ninth. He remembered the date

  exactly. They asked for you. Paul told them you were in Europe. Then they asked for Shirley. Shirley was at the studios. Then they asked for Joan. She was at home."

  The glass dropped from my hand. I gasped for air. I could not speak. The spilled liquor made a dark, weird pattern on the light wood of the floor.

  "This is the operator. Do you wish to continue?"

  "Yes. Yes, Operator! Gregory?"

  "I couldn't hear you for a moment."

  "We were cut off."

  "Or does someone listen in?"

  Did someone listen in? Perspiration covered me. In the next room? Kostasch? Wilson? The hotel operator?

  "Did the detectives talk to Joan?"

  "Yes, they did."

  "What... what did they say?"

  **Naturally Paul does not know that. All he could tell me was that Joan was very upset when the men left an hour later. She was crying and locked herself into her room."

  Locked herself in.

  She had done that here in Hamburg too. Just a few days ago.

  "What. .. what do you think they told Joan?"

  "What do you think? Good God, Peter!"

  What could they have told her? That Shirley and Gregory had been arrested in the course of a raid on a gynecologist's ofifice and afterwards she had been found to be pregnant?

  "Supposing they told her that, why doesn't she tell me, Gregory?"

  "That's what I'm worried about. Do you know if she received any unusual mail? From a lawyer?"

  "I don't know."

  Mail!

  My cheek began to twitch. Now I knew why Joan

  I

  swooped down on the mail each morning. She was expecting a letter.

  "She should have told you something. Whether she believes I'm the father or not."

  "But she didn't!"

  "Then there are two explanations for her silence."

  "Which are?"

  "Either she spoke to Shirley secretly so as not to worry you while you're making your movie and they are going to clear up the matter between them."

  "She did not speak to Shirley. I would know about it"

  "Then it must be the other one."

  "Which is?"

  "Your wife beheves you to be the father."

  The fist.

  It hit the pit of my stomach, hot yet cold, with such force that I dropped the receiver and reared up groaning.

  The fist.

  Now I would die.

  And even if I did not die right away it would be the beginning of another attack. If I did not have the injection then I would die. It was unreahstic to think otherwise. I staggered to the drawing room, crushed the glass I had dropped underfoot.

  From the moment I opened the door it seems to me now that I went through the pangs of temporary insanity, of dreadful fear—and a desperate compulsion.

  Huge Kostasch. In my way. Tiny Jerome. Disappears. Carpet sways. Walls slope. Open mouth.

  ".. . with you?"

  "Back ... a moment..."

  "Peter boy ..."

  "Doctor..."

  "Air ... let me go ..."

  Door open. Hall. Elevator.

  No. No elevator!

  Race down the stairs. The fist, rising. Dying. Foyer, street deserted. Sunday. Only car mine. The yellow box with green spot. Trunk compartment. Seize it. Only one person can give me that injection now.

  Drive. Drive madly. Can't drive. Kill people. Must drive. Screeching tires. No people. Sky, air, houses, all black. Go faster. Why don't I die? Must live. Borrow Ufe through an injection.

  Natasha. Faster. EBt the curb. Hard braking. Engine stalls.

  Yellow box in hand. Stagger. Fall. Sticky. Blood on my cheek.

  Door. Jacket tears. Door open. Stairs. Steps, second floor.

  Fall. Pain between eyes.

  "Hel—"

  Cry for help. No sound. Crawl. Third floor. Crawl on all fours. Dying animal. Gasping. Kneel. Ring bell. Again. Again.

  Nothing. No answer.

  Gone out. Futile. All for nothing. Fist opens. Closes around heart. Closes.

  I fell forward and dove into a red flaming eternity. I died a second death. It was not to be the last one.

  Rome, April twenty-fourth.

  In his laboratory Professor Pontevivo lectured. "The human brain, as well as the body, develops until its twenty-fifth year. After that a gradual degeneration begins."

  Bian
ca, once more recovered, was permitted to run free in the laboratory. She was drinking pure milk again and her fur was becoming smoother.

  "I would like to familiarize you with the mind," said the professor. "The subject is much too complex. So, I will deal only with its simplest factors: those two parts which are interdependent; tJie conscious and the subconscious mind."

  Bianca jumped on my knees and licked my hands. When I stroked her she curled up in my lap. I felt glad that she had come to me.

  "Everything you have experienced since earliest childhood leaves a memory trace, reinforced when it is connected with an emotion. Whatever makes you happy or unhappy, scares, depresses, or tortures you is stored in the archives of your mind. The conscious and the subconscious are constantly interacting. Your conception of father, mother, wealth, poverty, disease, travel, profession, love and so on has left a trace, an engram which has been stored in a subjective archive. Subjective since engrams represent memory traces of experiences you have had from birth to about your twenty-fifth year. Each engram therefore has a definite emotional value—either pleasant or unpleasant."

  Bianca suddenly jumped from my lap.

  "You feel sad because Bianca left you?" The professor inquired.

  "Yes, I do."

  "You like cats."

  "I always have. My mother did too. Even when we were very poor we had a cat." i

  "Thank you for your help, Bianca," the professor bowed to the little animal.

  "Help?"

  "I was just about to say: Each situation which involves your emotions is checked against what has already been stored from a similar previous experience. The subcon-

  scious impulses travel in fractions of a millionth of a second. You have loved cats. You loved your mother. So now you are sad because Bianca deserted you. Do you understand everything I have been explaining?"

  "Yes."

  "On the basis of past experiences, even long-forgotten ones, a person reacts to each situation with either negative or positive feelings. An alcoholic has had negative experiences which, as soon as checked, again torture and depress him. It is easy to see what he will do,"

  "Continue to drink."

  "Exactly. Alcohol blocks the connection between the memory center and the mind. Alcohol can chemically change negative feelings into—^"

  "Positive ones?"

  "At least for a period of time. It removes inhibitions, prejudices, tension, shyness, fear. It creates a situation an alcoholic can master. Initially it does something positive. The ideal medicine—at first. Then it becomes poisonous. Given time it destroys the mind."