The Silent Death

by volker Kutscher

  ‘Don’t you want to say hello to my guest?’

  ‘A pleasure.’ Bellmann stretched his right hand across the desk towards Glaser. ‘Bellmann.’

  ‘Glaser,’ said the other as he shook the producer’s hand.

  ‘You don’t know this man?’ Rath asked.

  ‘Should I?’ Bellmann asked.

  ‘This is Peter Glaser.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Your lighting technician.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Did you bring the photo I asked for?’

  Bellmann reached inside his jacket. ‘It’s from the Christmas party,’ he said, hunching his heavy shoulders apologetically.

  The photo showed a good-looking man holding a punch glass, smiling cheerfully into the camera with his arm around a woman. Rath had never seen the man before, but the woman was Betty Winter. Alarm bells started to ring quietly, but insistently.

  ‘Here,’ Bellmann said, tapping the photo, ‘that’s Glaser. He got on well with Betty, especially that night.’ He shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it. That she’s no longer with us, I mean.’

  The whole time Peter Glaser had been eyeing the photo curiously. By now he was craning his neck, eyes almost popping out of his head. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘That’s bloody Felix! What’s he doing next to Betty Winter?’

  The matter was soon resolved. Bellmann’s missing lighting technician was called Felix Krempin, and he had obviously used the identity of his unsuspecting friend, Peter Glaser, to sign up with La Belle Film Production. In reality, Krempin worked as a production manager at Montana Film.

  No sooner had Glaser mentioned the name Montana than Bellmann hit the roof, going on about espionage, sabotage and worse. ‘Those criminals! I should have known! They’ll stop at nothing! Not even murder!’

  Rath called for the guard to accompany Bellmann outside. They could still hear him through the closed door as Rath began a quick-fire interview of Peter Glaser about his friend, Felix Krempin.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Rath said, by way of goodbye. ‘It seems your friend has played a nasty trick on you – and on us too.’

  A trick wasn’t how Bellmann saw it. He had calmed down by the time he re-entered the office, but wasn’t about to retract his accusations. At least his suspicions could now be substantiated. He claimed that La Belle had frequently had trouble with Montana, with some disputes even going to court. Plagiarism was the least of it; it was a question of poaching artists, sabotaging premieres and all kinds of other dirty tricks. Similar accusations, ‘all of them rather far-fetched’, as the producer would have it, had also been made against Bellmann by Montana, resulting in the La Belle owner being ‘hauled in front of a judge’ on several occasions. A long list, therefore, to which could now be added sabotage of filming and the murder of the incensed Heinrich Bellmann’s most important actress.

  Murder as the ultimate means of sabotage seemed unlikely to Rath, but he could understand the film producer’s rage. There had to be a reason why Krempin had signed on at La Belle under a false name.

  Rath was deathly tired but his hunter’s instinct had been wakened. He would sound Montana out first thing tomorrow before Böhm could call him off.

  The search for Krempin had already begun by the time Rath returned to Homicide, though Brenner and Lange had since departed. Instead there was a fat man sitting at the desk, engrossed in the files.

  ‘Superintendent Gennat!’

  The fat man looked up. ‘Rath! What are you still doing here? Don’t get your hopes up! You’re not getting my bed. I need it myself!’

  Buddha kept a bed in the box room next to his office, which in truth was more like a living room.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Sir,’ Rath said. ‘Just back from Düsseldorf?’

  Gennat nodded. ‘Somehow the way from the station always leads straight to Alex. Funny, isn’t it? I should have got married, then this wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘Perhaps it would. Are you making any progress?’

  ‘Don’t ask! You wouldn’t believe how much information we’ve gathered, or how many tip-offs we’ve received from the Düsseldorf public. We now have a pretty clear idea how each murder was committed, but even that hasn’t brought us any closer.’

  Gennat took a B.Z. from his leather bag and unfolded the paper. ‘I see you’ve been busy too,’ he said and placed the newspaper on the table in front of Rath. ‘I bought it in the station just now. Can you explain this to me?’

  Rath stared at the paper. A special edition of B.Z. am Mittag with a headline in bold on the front page.

  Death in film studio! Betty Winter struck dead by spotlight! Sabotage?

  Alongside the story were two photos, a perfect portrait of Betty Winter and a slightly blurred image which showed Gereon Rath against the backdrop of a film studio. In the background you could even make out part of the covered corpse – assuming you knew it was there in the first place.

  ‘There isn’t much to explain,’ he said. ‘An actress died and her producer wanted to make the headlines. The body wasn’t even cold before he called a press conference.’

  ‘And you helped him. Or is there some other reason you’re quoted here?’

  ‘The pack had already smelt blood. I had all journalists removed from the crime scene immediately, but the police can’t prevent anyone from holding a press conference. Detective Gräf and I took part to maintain control, and to ensure speculation didn’t run wild.’

  ‘Well, you did a great job, I must say.’

  Rath skimmed the text and saw that Bellmann’s sabotage theory had been reported at length, yet he had said nothing about it at the press conference. Clearly the journalist was aware of the running battle with Montana – even if there was no mention of the studio by name. Rath swallowed hard when he realised that his own pronouncements had been so skilfully woven into the text that it appeared as if police officially supported the sabotage theory.

  ‘I didn’t authorise any of this,’ he said.

  Gennat nodded. ‘That’s OK, Rath, no one’s saying you did. You have to be damn careful when dealing with the big city press. Their reporters can be very useful, but don’t harbour any illusions about keeping them under control.’

  ‘I’d be happy just to keep them off my back.’

  ‘Don’t take it so hard,’ Gennat said. ‘Tell me in your own words what happened in that film studio. Betty Winter isn’t just anybody, you know. Böhm only jotted something down about a fatal accident he’d entrusted to you.’

  Rath gave a concise report, right up to the bogus lighting technician. ‘The false name, allied to his flight, makes the man highly suspicious,’ he said. ‘In the meantime everything points to sabotage. Perhaps Betty Winter wasn’t meant to die, but it looks as if someone intended to cause her serious harm, and whoever it was, they were at least willing to entertain the possibility of her death. Right now it looks as if Felix Krempin is our man.’

  Gennat nodded. ‘Highly plausible, but be sure you don’t draw any hasty conclusions. You’ve come a cropper like that before.’

  ‘Mistakes are there to be learned from, Sir.’

  ‘Where did you get that from? Is that what they teach you at police academy these days?’

  ‘My father, Sir.’

  ‘A shrewd man, your father. Policeman, isn’t he?’

  Rath nodded. ‘Police director.’

  ‘Then heed his advice and don’t give too much away to the press. Better to share your knowledge with us at A Division.’

  Gennat gazed at him sternly. Rath knew that Buddha respected him, but that he had no truck with high-handedness.

  ‘How long are you staying in Berlin, Sir?’

  ‘Until Wednesday. Düsseldorf is unbearable at the moment anyway. Carnival. Zörgiebel might see the attraction in cheering Helau, but it’s not my thing at all.’

  ‘The commissioner is from Mainz,’ Rath said.

  ‘And you? You’re a Rhinelander too, aren�
��t you?’

  ‘Cologner,’ Rath said. ‘We say Alaaf instead of Helau, but I’m more than happy to do without all the fuss this year. It’s more civilised in these parts.’

  ‘There are plenty of Fasching balls in Berlin this weekend, if you should feel homesick.’

  The telephone rang and, before Rath could respond, Gennat picked up.

  ‘Yes,’ Buddha nodded. ‘Inspector Rath is still here. Just a moment.’ He handed him the receiver. ‘The search unit,’ he said. ‘It looks as if your suspect really has gone to ground.’

  7

  Saturday 1st March 1930

  Deathly tired, Rath finally dragged himself up the stairs at Luisenufer. With Gennat’s blessing he had intensified the search for the fugitive Krempin and, tomorrow, every police station in Berlin would receive a picture of the man. ED were still in the lab, duplicating a cutting of Bellmann’s Christmas party photo. Felix Krempin had disappeared. Whatever motive there might have been to drop a heavy spotlight on a dainty actress, the production manager clearly had it.

  In this light, Bellmann’s suspicions were plausible, even if his priority was most likely making trouble for Montana Film. Rath glanced at the time: half past twelve. He wouldn’t get much sleep now, as he wanted to be at Montana as early as possible tomorrow, ready for action. His keys were in his hand when he remembered that Kathi would be waiting for him.

  Suddenly time was frozen.

  He couldn’t get into bed as if nothing had happened. For a moment he considered turning on his heel, driving out to Schlesisches Tor and spending the night on Gräf’s sofa. Instead he cursed his own cowardice and turned the key in the lock, surprised at how loud it was. He pulled the door quietly shut and crept through the hall without turning on the light. Closing the living room door behind him, he groped towards the chair, reaching for the switch on the standard lamp. One click and it cast its dim light around the room. He laid his hat and coat over the second chair. She had cleared away the glasses, but the bottle of cognac was still on the table. Rath fetched a new glass from the cupboard, sat in his chair and poured.

  You’re such a fool, he thought, creeping around like a burglar, like a stranger in your own home. He washed the thought down with cognac and poured another. He wouldn’t go through to her until he’d had enough.

  Hazy and blurred in the warm, yellow island of light gleaming in the window pane, he lifted the glass to his reflection. The only company he could stand right now. ‘Cheers!’ he said drowsily…

  He gave a start; had he been asleep or merely nodded off? His mouth tasted like a wrung-out cleaning rag and his glass was on the carpet next to the chair. Luckily he had drained it already.

  Only now did he realise how much he must have had to drink. He needed a glass of water. In the kitchen he fetched a glass from the cupboard and held it under the tap, allowing the cold water to pour over his hands. It felt good. He drank and held the glass under the tap again.

  He didn’t see the note until he was heading back to the door. Lying in the middle of the table was a little sheet of paper from the spiral-bound notebook she used to make her shopping lists.

  Sorry, darling, he read, and felt his stomach cramping at the words, but I just couldn’t stand it any longer. I feel so alone in this flat when you’re not here. It really isn’t easy loving a policeman, but I’ve almost got used to it. Almost. Seems like today just wasn’t meant to be. I’ve called for a taxi and gone to my sister, she needs someone to comfort.

  We’ll see each other at the ball tomorrow. I’ll try to be at yours by half past six, then we could go together.

  With love

  Kathi.

  P.S. There’s some stew left on the stove. Remember it tastes best when it’s hot.

  Rath placed the note back on the table.

  On the one hand, he felt relief. On the other, now that he knew she was no longer in the flat, he was overcome by a loneliness that pained him almost physically. He was freezing, even though she had left the heating on. Only moments ago he had been trying to avoid her, seeking refuge in cognac, and would’ve sooner wished her in hell. Now he felt her absence like a stabbing pain to the heart.

  At least he could go to bed, but was that what he really wanted? All of a sudden, he felt choked by a dreadful fear. The night wasn’t over yet; it had only just begun.

  He went back into the living room, put on a Coleman Hawkins record and opened the bottle again.

  8

  He stares at the headline and tries to tell himself they are only letters. Bold, black letters on cheap paper.

  Death in film studio! Betty Winter struck dead by spotlight!

  They are only letters.

  Letters are not reality.

  Just a day later and he’d know they were lying. Death would no longer be able to claim her, not anymore, because she’d already be immortal.

  He lets the paper drop. The smell of fresh coffee drifts towards him, suddenly seeming less real than the letters in the paper, than what the letters in the paper are telling him; it intensifies the feeling of impotence, an impotence he hasn’t felt for years.

  She has been wrested from him.

  ‘Would Master like anything else?’

  Albert is standing there, just as he has always stood there, even in those grim, chill years he would sooner erase from his life.

  Albert is always there, has always been there. Every day, every single one.

  The day the world…

  On the day the world withdraws from his life, Albert stands at the window, closing the room’s heavy velvet green curtains. It is growing dark, only the dim gaslight remains, and the concerned faces, the stern faces, that look at him as if they mean to pin him down with their gaze, pin him down forever in this room.

  They have caught him.

  In the larder.

  What were they thinking? What did they expect from a fifteen-year-old boy tormented by hunger and reduced to skin and bones in one of the city’s wealthiest homes – whose kitchen alone employs six staff? Whose larder can compete with those of the most expensive restaurants?

  He’s been at it for weeks. He knew when the kitchen would be empty and the coast would be clear. Stomach rumbling, he would stand in front of all the delicacies and pick tentatively at things he wasn’t allowed to eat.

  At sweet things.

  It doesn’t matter how much he eats, he won’t get fat, that’s the way it’s been ever since he’s been afflicted by this disease.

  And yet they realised.

  Father realised and laid a devious trap for his son.

  The shame of standing in the larder under their gaze, mouth smeared red, the bottle of juice in his hand. If only they were reproachful, but they are merely disappointed.

  He’s just a child, Richard, Mother says. She has tears in her eyes.

  We have to protect him from himself, Father says. Otherwise he’ll never grow up.

  The servants are silent.

  Albert closes the heavy door, the key turns loudly in the lock, and it is done. His imprisonment has begun; the world is now on the outside.

  True, they still let him out, but only under supervision, two minders constantly at his side. No, he can’t accept that.

  He bows to his fate.

  Accepts that he can no longer have friends.

  No longer find love in this world.

  Fifteen years in which a dark curtain settles over everything.

  Don’t let it! Create your own reality!

  Free from pain, free from hunger, free from disease.

  ‘Would Master like anything else?’

  Albert is the only constant in his life, the only enduring presence. He shakes his head and the old servant leaves the room in silence.

  He folds the paper, as he always does.

  For a brief moment, he would like to be another person, in another world, like on those long evenings in front of the screen; but reality won’t allow it, not this time.

  Perhaps it is just
a dream? But who decides what is dream, what reality?

  The pain bores its way into his heart, dream or reality, for a long time it has made no difference.

  Betty Winter struck dead by spotlight.

  And then, in big letters, he sees that one word, framed by a question mark.

  Sabotage?

  His pain transforms into rage, into rage that knows no bounds. He reaches for the carefully folded newspaper and tears it, rips it into smaller and smaller pieces that swirl around him like oversized snowflakes.

  Who has done this to him?

  Who?

  He loved her, damn it!

  9

  The Montana office was located at the expensive end of Kantstrasse. The blonde woman who had let him in indicated with a wave of the hand and a chilly glance that he should take a seat in one of the modern leather chairs in front of her desk, with no choice but to listen while she prattled into the telephone.

  ‘…but of course you can view our sound films with American devices; although you are then obliged to pay a small licensing fee, which you will naturally…’

  The caller finally managed to get a word in. The blonde listened open-mouthed, waiting for her opportunity and – snap – let fly once more.

  ‘But of course! We’ll have the copies sent over to you with the paperwork, all you have to do is sign, that’s no problem; the rest is done automatically, I’ll see that the necessary steps are taken. We’ll be in touch, goodbye!’

  She hung up and smiled at Rath. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to your managing director.’

  ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

  Rath took out his badge. ‘CID.’

  ‘Missing Persons?’

  ‘No, Homicide.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m afraid Herr Oppenberg hasn’t arrived yet.’

  ‘When are you expecting him?’

  ‘Could be a while. At the moment he heads to the shoot first thing, as there’s so much to do there. The schedule has to be changed daily since dear Fräulein Franck…’