The Silent Death

by volker Kutscher

  ‘Where’s it being filmed?’ Rath interrupted, before she could build up a head of steam.

  ‘In Neubabelsberg. But you can’t go out there now.’

  ‘I have a car.’

  ‘They’re sound film recordings, no one’s allowed to interrupt.’

  ‘The police are.’

  ‘Perhaps I can help you.’

  ‘I need to speak to your boss in person,’ he said. ‘Where will I find him in Babelsberg?’

  ‘Near Ufa headquarters. In the great hall. North studio. Right next to the Tonkreuz, the sound stage.’

  ‘Does Montana belong to Ufa?’

  She laughed. ‘Heaven forbid! But the great Ufa have been so gracious as to let out their studios. Now that Pommer has finished shooting the new Jannings film, there are a few of them empty. But, as I said, you mustn’t interrupt.’

  ‘No doubt you’ll be so kind as to telephone ahead. That way I won’t be interrupting anything.’

  She didn’t like it, but she smiled as she reached for the telephone. ‘Perhaps Herr Oppenberg will be able to spare five minutes. But I can’t promise anything.’

  Rath stood up from the chair, put on his hat and tipped it briefly. ‘Tell Herr Oppenberg I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  Folding down the side window to feel the wind on his face, Rath let the breeze blow life back into his tired bones. He had barely slept, having had too much to drink. Still, when his alarm sounded he had felt something akin to relief, because it had been one of those nights. One of those nights when he was frightened of sleep. Because he knew the dreams would return. The dreams that haunted him time and time again. There were weeks when he almost forgot, nights when he achieved a deep, peaceful sleep, before they returned, mercilessly and surely as the seasons. He always knew when the time had come because he felt so on edge and couldn’t, didn’t want to sleep. He only had to close his eyes to see them: the demons that persecuted him, dead people, people he knew, people he had known. People pale as corpses, with bullet holes in their chests, empty eye sockets and flaps of skin hanging from their bodies like moth-eaten cloaks. Time and time again he awoke with sweat on his brow, before trying to take his mind off things, by reading, by sipping from the bottle, but at some point he would fall asleep and be at their mercy. As much as the dead persecuted and pursued him, so did the living seem to flee his presence. Whenever he woke, heart beating and pyjamas drenched in sweat, he was grateful, even if he felt a thousand times more exhausted. Only with a cold shower and a strong cup of coffee could he revive his spirits.

  The blonde secretary had mentioned the name Oppenberg. He had given no indication of how much it had startled him.

  Manfred Oppenberg. The man who had dragged him to an illegal nightclub at Ostbahnhof less than a year before. The film producer with the nymphomaniac companion. The night when everything had veered off course, by whose end there would be another dead man to haunt his dreams.

  At least he was alone. To avoid Böhm, who must by now have realised what a spectacular case he had handed to Rath, he hadn’t put in an appearance at Alex this morning. Instead he had wakened his people early and briefed them by telephone from his living room chair, sending Henning and Czerwinski to Marienfelde to question the rest of Bellmann’s staff, from the producer to the toilet attendant. Gräf he had sent to Dr Schwartz in Hannoversche Strasse. He wasn’t about to go there himself, not after last night. The image of a disfigured Betty Winter lying on the autopsy table… Rath wouldn’t have been able to stand the smell of blood and disinfectant and worse, to say nothing of Dr Schwartz’s humour.

  He felt good, despite his fatigue, and he worked best alone. He thought of Gennat’s words: better to share your knowledge with us.

  Later.

  Driving down Kaiserallee he stepped on the gas. The traffic became slightly heavier at Reichsstrasse but the further out of town the road extended, the quicker his progress. As the city frayed into the countryside Berlin seemed almost idyllic, even on a dismal day like this, with raindrops pounding on the roof of the car. He turned left off Reichsstrasse, reaching Neubabelsberg via Kohlhasenbrück.

  He parked the Buick on Stahnsdorfer Strasse and looked around. The entrance to the studio lot was flanked by two gatehouses with a porter’s office and a barricade. It was noticeably larger than Terra Studios in Marienfelde. A uniformed doorman took a close look at the passport photo on his identification.

  Rath asked for directions.

  The doorman pointed into the lot. ‘Past the glasshouse and through the workshops and you’ll come to the great hall. That’s where Montana are filming.’

  ‘The great hall?’

  ‘You can’t miss it.’

  The studio building behind the gate was glazed, like its counterpart in Marienfelde. Beyond it was a line of huts, and for a moment Rath was distracted by hammering sounds and the screech of a circular saw until, suddenly, he found himself in the narrow bazaar of a Middle Eastern city, set in the Brandenburg winter landscape. It was like a scene from the Arabian nights. He stepped back into the open through the great portal of a mosque and gazed at its unplastered rear side. A plain wooden construction was the only thing preventing it from caving in. He had veered off course somewhat, but understood now what the doorman had meant. In the plain brick hall behind the huts, there was enough space for a Zeppelin.

  The hall seemed tantalisingly close, but he still needed time to find it. At last he came upon a new building, whose windowless brick walls towered into the sky.

  ‘Is this the great hall?’ Rath asked a Prussian fusilier from the Seven Years’ War, who was leaning against the wall with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

  ‘See a greater one? An extra too, are you?’

  ‘I need to get to Montana.’

  ‘Round the corner, a big door, you can’t miss it. The north studio.’

  You can’t miss it seemed to be the line around here, only this time it was true. The steel sliding door was so enormous that the normal-sized door in its front looked like a cat flap. It opened with a slight squeak and Rath stepped inside.

  Behind the cat flap a uniformed guard said, ‘You can’t just march in here! They’re filming.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  The guard was wearing the same fantasy uniform as the doorman. ‘Sound film recording,’ he said and gestured towards the steel door. Above it in black letters was the word: MITTELHALLE II N. A red lamp burned alongside. ‘We can’t just have people bursting in here.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Herr Oppenberg.’

  ‘In the middle of filming?’

  A busybody in uniform. ‘How about you just go through that door and ask?’

  ‘If you don’t give me a name, I won’t know who to say is here.’

  ‘Rath. CID.’

  The guard stood to attention. ‘Why didn’t you say so? You don’t look like a pi…like a police officer. One moment please.’

  The red lamp went out, the guard disappeared through the door and, for a moment, Rath wondered whether he shouldn’t follow. Instead he waited patiently until the guard returned and held the door open. Behind it was a silver-haired man with his back turned, issuing instructions.

  ‘…then why don’t you carry on with scene thirty-nine? We need to make sure we use the time, even if it means making more changes. So, get to work: scene thirty-nine, Schröder’s workshop, Baron Suez and Schröder. Czerny can put on a change of clothes. Half an hour! When I’m back, I want to get cracking.’

  Oppenberg was surprised to see him. ‘My dear friend,’ he said as he shook Rath’s hand. ‘How can I be of service?’

  Don’t let him take you in, Rath told himself. ‘There’s been a murder,’ he said. Oppenberg’s smile turned icy.

  ‘Vivian? Has she…?’

  Vivian. Oppenberg’s pretty companion in Venuskeller.

  ‘I’m looking for your production manager,’ Rath said, as friendly as a head waiter who hasn’t received a tip. ‘Felix Kr
empin.’

  ‘Who is it that’s been murdered?’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers? Betty Winter.’

  ‘Wasn’t that an accident? I thought you were here about Vivian.’

  ‘Why would I be?’

  The producer threw a sidelong glance at the guard and took Rath to one side. ‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk in private. It’ll be quieter backstage, in make-up.’

  Oppenberg led him into a dark, windowless room with film posters hanging on the wall; a giant mirror framed by light bulbs stretched across its entire long side.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything to drink,’ Oppenberg said. ‘I’d have preferred to meet you in my office, but at the moment I’m hardly out of the studio. We have to change the whole schedule, and they can’t manage without me. If you don’t take care of things yourself, nothing gets done. Hold on though,’ he said, ‘I do have a little something.’

  He took a flat silver case from his jacket pocket. For a moment, Rath was afraid he might offer him cocaine, but when he snapped the lid open he revealed only neatly arranged, virgin white cigarettes.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rath said. ‘It’s been two months…’

  ‘New Year’s resolution? You don’t mind if I do?’

  Rath shook his head.

  ‘So tell me,’ Oppenberg continued, lighting a cigarette, ‘if it isn’t about the missing person I reported to your colleagues the day before yesterday, why are you here?’

  ‘Missing person?’

  ‘Vivian’s gone. Didn’t I say? We started filming on Monday and she’s been missing ever since. That’s why things are so chaotic around here.’

  The young woman whose tentacles Rath had only just escaped in Venuskeller. It was no surprise she’d walked out on a man like Oppenberg. ‘I’m afraid I have to disappoint you there,’ he said, ‘but I’m here about a Felix Krempin. He does work for you, doesn’t he?’

  Oppenberg betrayed neither curiosity nor surprise, let alone any sense of having been caught out.

  ‘It’s my turn to disappoint you,’ Oppenberg said. ‘Yes, Krempin was my production manager, but he resigned three, maybe four months ago. No idea what he’s been doing since. I haven’t had any professional dealings with him.’

  ‘Does that go for La Belle Film too?’

  ‘Bellmann? I don’t have much to do with the man.’

  Rath decided to go all out. ‘Allow me to speak candidly, Herr Oppenberg. You smuggled Felix Krempin into your rival’s studio under a false name, and there he triggered the accident which cost Betty Winter her life.’

  ‘Is that what Bellmann told you? I wouldn’t believe everything he says; the man has too much imagination.’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. Your Krempin is a saboteur.’

  ‘He isn’t my Krempin, Herr Rath. Felix Krempin is a free agent who changed his employer. Now, if you’ll allow me to speak candidly…’

  Oppenberg was out of his shell and building up a head of steam. ‘You shouldn’t be carrying on like this given my previous generosity. Your superiors won’t be pleased to hear that you snort cocaine, even if you were off duty at the time.’ He stubbed out a cigarette that wasn’t even half-smoked.

  ‘Cocaine I got from you.’

  ‘I can live with my vices,’ Oppenberg said, ‘and perhaps you can live with yours. But the commissioner really doesn’t approve of that sort of thing.’

  ‘You mean to blackmail me?’

  ‘I just want to be friends again, and I’ll co-operate so long as you promise not to use any information I provide against me.’

  ‘That’s a promise I can’t make. Our friendship stops at murder.’

  ‘This isn’t about murder.’ Oppenberg lit another cigarette and took a long drag. ‘OK, Felix Krempin was working for me at Bellmann’s, but it was never about sabotage or murder. Nothing of the kind!’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Our industry is going through seismic change. To survive, we need to shoot talkies, and that’s an expensive business. Very few production companies are as well off as Ufa. Most are small, creative enterprises lurching from one production to the next.’

  ‘Like yours.’

  ‘Making a talkie is infinitely more complicated and expensive than shooting a conventional film, and now we come to the point. I don’t think much of Bellmann but I have to say he churns them out as cheap as anyone. I sent Felix to have a look round, uncover a few production secrets and exploit them for Montana. That’s all.’ Oppenberg took another drag. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have provoked him. I accused him of not being careful enough with money.’

  ‘So, it is about espionage.’

  ‘It isn’t exactly kosher, but then, my dear Rath, nor does it stretch the limits of our friendship.’

  ‘Why are you helping me? Your employee is a fugitive murder suspect…’

  ‘Precisely! I’m looking for him myself. I don’t know what happened at Bellmann’s but I can tell you one thing: Felix Krempin is no murderer. Nor was he instructed to sabotage the shoot, let alone injure or kill anyone.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Why should I lie? Especially when I know I have nothing to fear from you, my friend.’

  ‘I’m not your friend.’

  ‘Business associate, then.’

  ‘This isn’t business, this is blackmail.’

  ‘If you think it’s so important, we can always do business for real. Come and work for me. I pay well.’

  ‘I won’t be falsifying any results for your sake.’

  ‘I’m talking about a completely normal assignment, one that would have most private detectives licking their fingers.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand…’

  ‘Vivian. Help me find her.’

  ‘That’s a case for my colleagues at Missing Persons.’

  ‘They’ve barely lifted a finger.’

  ‘They’ll have their reasons. Are you sure Vivian hasn’t simply left you?’

  ‘Do you want to work for me?’

  ‘If I’m to work for you, then I need to be able to ask questions. How can you be sure she hasn’t simply upped sticks?’

  ‘Because she isn’t stupid. The new film is tailor-made for her. Vom Blitz getroffen, her first feature-length sound film, will be her breakthrough. Your colleagues didn’t get it, but I thought you would show more understanding.’

  Rath could understand his colleagues. An old crank refused to accept that a youthful beauty had simply upped sticks and left. But why shouldn’t he do Oppenberg a favour and snoop around a little? Perhaps he could use him to get to Krempin. ‘So, you’ve been filming since Monday?’

  ‘Correct. Tuesday would’ve been her first day on set, and she didn’t appear.’

  ‘Didn’t you go look for her yourself?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ve looked everywhere, checked out all her relatives and acquaintances, all the bars and restaurants she frequents. Nothing. No one’s seen her since she went into the mountains.’

  ‘She went away?’

  ‘After the last shoot. She loves skiing.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s broken a leg and is holed up in a hospital somewhere.’

  ‘If that was the case we’d have heard long ago. She’s hardly unknown.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘No idea.’ Oppenberg shrugged his shoulders. ‘Vivian doesn’t like people controlling her.’

  ‘How do you go about filming without your lead actress?’

  ‘We’ve altered the schedule. Heidtmann’s shooting the scenes she isn’t in first.’

  ‘Then everything’s as it should be.’

  ‘All very well for you to say! We keep having to make changes to the set. Do you know how much that costs in time and money? We’ve just about reached our limit. Vivian’s in pretty much every scene of this film. We have to finish sometime and every day I can’t shoot costs me a fortune!’

&
nbsp; ‘In other words: you want me to let you know whether you need a new lead actress…’

  ‘No.’ Oppenberg looked at him seriously. ‘I want you to bring my lead actress back.’

  10

  The blonde secretary was on the telephone again when Rath returned to Kantstrasse. Krempin’s personal file lay on her desk and he wondered if she had removed any pages. He still wasn’t sure he could trust Oppenberg, but at least he had learned a great deal about Krempin, the film obsessive who had enthusiastically taken up the challenge of sound.

  It had been his idea, Oppenberg said, to get to the bottom of Bellmann’s production secrets. He had last seen him a week before, but Krempin hadn’t been able to tell him much, and there had been no mention of sabotage. Rath couldn’t help thinking of Bellmann’s photo of Krempin next to Betty Winter. Had the handsome Krempin made a hobby of picking up film stars? Perhaps he had absconded with Vivian Franck and gone to ground. If so, Rath could imagine the pair not wanting to show their faces to their erstwhile employer.

  The secretary looked a little surprised when Rath took Krempin’s file from the desk and sat in one of the leather chairs, but didn’t break her flow of words. He looked through the papers. Nothing unusual. Krempin had a gift for technology. He had worked for Oppenberg as a lighting technician and cameraman before becoming a production manager. That had lasted until December 1929, when he was dismissed. From then on there was no apparent link between the two men. Whether that was true, or whether Oppenberg had just asked for the entry to be made, Rath couldn’t say, but the ink was dry and the blonde, who had finally hung up, was giving nothing away. Krempin would surely hold dated termination of employment papers.

  ‘Is there something else I can do for you?’ the secretary asked, more curious than friendly.

  ‘I have to make a telephone call for a minute or two. I hope you can manage without it that long.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve got other things to do.’ She passed the black telephone across the desk and turned to her typewriter. Clearly a screenplay had to be copied.

  Rath was put through to Hannoversche Strasse, but Gräf had already left. He reached the detective at his desk.