‘Back already? So what did the doctor tell you?’
‘Tasteless jokes.’
Rath could imagine the liberties the pathologist would have taken with the young detective. Novitiates in the hallowed Halls of Death had to take Schwartz’s litmus test, irrespective of whether they were students or police recruits.
‘He could’ve just given me the report. It was finished ages ago. Instead… I feel sick thinking about it.’
‘No doubt he’ll have said something about the cause of death too…’
‘He confirmed what we already suspected: cardiac arrest through electric shock. She’d have survived the burns and breakages – but she’d have paid a high price.’
‘To look like Max Schreck?’
‘Worse. Betty Winter would’ve been confined to a wheelchair, most likely for the rest of her life. The spotlight struck her spine.’
‘Shit.’
‘She could’ve just as easily been killed. Dr Schwartz says it was a matter of centimetres. If the spotlight had hit her head.’
‘She was lucky.’ The words slipped out before he knew what he was saying.
‘You’re just like Dr Schwartz,’ Gräf said. ‘With respect, I find your cynicism inappropriate. We’re talking about a tragic death here.’
‘It’s all my years of service. You’ll have reached that point when you no longer feel sick visiting the morgue.’
‘Thanks, but I’d rather keep puking. When are you coming back, Gereon? Böhm’s longing to see you.’
‘Sure, because he wants us off the case.’
‘He just doesn’t want you leading it.’
‘You know exactly what that means: we do all the legwork and he takes the glory…’
‘On the subject of legwork: Henning and Czerwinski are still with the film lot. Taking their time as usual.’
‘Keep holding the fort.’
‘What should I tell Böhm?’
‘That I’m staying on Krempin’s heels.’
‘How long do you mean to keep that up?’
‘As long as Böhm can’t call me off, we still have the case. With a bit of luck, we’ll solve it too.’
‘And who’ll be taking all the glory then?’
‘How selfish do you think I am? Already forgotten who you owe your promotion to?’
Gräf fell silent.
‘Come on! It’s not too much to ask, is it? I’m this close to Krempin. I might even catch him today. Don’t worry about all the paperwork. Whatever you don’t manage, we’ll take care of on Monday. If Böhm wants to help us then, he can be my guest!’
‘And you’ll pick up the bill in the Dreieck on Monday night.’
‘We might have something to celebrate by then. I’ll call you around one. Böhm’ll be in the canteen then, Voss too.’
He hung up and pushed the telephone over to Oppenberg’s blonde. She didn’t look up from typing.
‘Thank you,’ he said. The typewriter continued to hammer away.
‘Can I ask you a few questions?’
The hammering stopped. ‘I don’t know. Can you?’
Was she flirting with him, or having a go? Even after nearly a year, Rath still couldn’t quite fathom the way Berliners communicated.
He smiled. ‘A few questions about Vivian Franck?’
A shrug of the shoulders. ‘Far as I’m concerned…’
‘How long have you known Fräulein Franck?’
‘Since she’s been under contract with us, about two and a half years.’
‘Is she reliable?’
‘Professionally yes. In private…well.’
‘She isn’t devoted to Manfred Oppenberg?’
She shrugged. ‘Best ask Rudi, he knows her almost as well as the boss. Perhaps even better, if you know what I mean.’
‘Rudi?’
‘Czerny. Our youthful hero. Didn’t you see him? He’s filming out in Babelsberg too.’
‘Perhaps you can give me his address. And a photo.’
‘You wouldn’t believe what I can do,’ she said, looking at him without even the slightest trace of a smile, and noted the address on letter-headed Montana writing paper.
Rudolf Czerny lived in Charlottenburg, like his missing colleague Vivian Franck. First, however, Rath drove to Guerickestrasse, hoping to find Felix Krempin before he started snooping on Manfred Oppenberg’s behalf. Krempin lived a few blocks away from his friend Peter Glaser in northern Charlottenburg. A green Opel was parked on the other side of the street. Rath came to a halt behind it, climbed out, and knocked on the window.
‘Afternoon, Mertens,’ Rath said. ‘Anything doing?’
‘After noon is about right, Inspector,’ said the man in the driver’s seat. ‘The only thing happening is Grabowski’s stomach getting louder and louder.’
‘Nothing suspicious?’
Mertens shook his head. ‘A few wary glances at most. The residents must think we’re a couple of queers. Wouldn’t surprise me if our colleagues from Vice paid us a visit.’
‘Then stop gazing at me so adoringly,’ Grabowski said from the passenger seat.
Rath grinned. The atmosphere in the car seemed good, even though a stake-out was one of the most boring aspects of police work. Mertens and Grabowski had been entrusted to him by Gennat, two recruits fresh from police academy in Eiche. Anyone who wasn’t part of Wilhelm Böhm’s circle was all right by Rath, and they both seemed like decent sorts.
‘There’s an Aschinger over on Berliner Strasse,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take half an hour for lunch and warm yourselves up. I’ll hold the fort.’
The two men climbed out. Rath knew he had just collected a few points. A boss who looked after his colleagues and didn’t mind getting his hands dirty? That didn’t happen often at the Castle.
‘Should we get something for you too, Sir?’
‘Not necessary, thank you.’
The two of them set off. Rath sat behind the wheel of the Buick until they disappeared round the corner. Then he went over and entered the house. No one in the stairwell. Rath didn’t have much experience with the skeleton key and needed time to pick the lock. Once in, he pulled the door shut quietly. His colleagues had been in the flat last night to make sure Krempin wasn’t fast asleep or lying dead on the sofa, but Rath wanted to see for himself without having to wait for a search warrant.
The flat didn’t tell him much. A typical bachelor apartment, simple and clean, perhaps a little cleaner than most. The bed was made and the table cleared. Nothing suggested a crazy getaway. More likely a housekeeper came by regularly. Oppenberg seemed to have paid the man well, judging by the record player in the living room. Rath whistled through his teeth when he recognised the model. He’d have liked to borrow a few of the records. There was even a telephone on the desk.
The shelves contained almost exclusively technical books: specialist literature on electrotechnics and photography, some on engineering science too, but few novels. On the desk a typewriter sat gathering dust. Alongside it lay a soldering clamp as well as a few boxes containing little screwdrivers and similar tools, a few electronic replacement parts, switches, some tubes and fuses. Rath read the warning on the tube packaging. For the purposes of sound films please only use tubes (amplifier, rectifier and pre-amp tubes) that carry the KLANGFILM logo on the tube and packaging. The use of other tubes is dangerous and may lead to malfunction. The use of other tubes is also forbidden for patenting reasons.
Rath looked inside the wardrobe. Most of the hangers swung empty on the rail and the dresser drawers were all but cleared. Krempin had calmly packed his things before disappearing. So, either he had made exceptionally good use of the time upon fleeing the studio, or he had everything ready in advance.
The biggest unknown was when Krempin had left the studio.
Rath gave a start. Not the doorbell. The telephone!
He hesitated in front of the black appliance as it rattled away. Before reaching for the receiver he took a handkerchief from his jack
et. The last thing he needed was to leave fingerprints on a murder suspect’s telephone.
‘Yes?’ There was no response, but Rath could hear someone breathing. ‘Who’s there please?’
Again, no response. For another second or two he heard nothing apart from that same gentle breathing. Then a click.
He continued looking around the flat but found nothing more of note, and ten minutes later was back in the car. Mertens and Grabowski were still away, so hadn’t registered his little trip.
Who had called? At first Rath feared it might have been one of the officers searching for Krempin, except they knew the flat was being shadowed and that it was pointless to call. Besides, a police officer would have identified himself to provoke a response from the other party. He was growing restless.
Previously, at least, he had been able to smoke during all those interminable hours spent in flats and cars, but then he had gone and given up. What a bright idea. He thought he had seen Grabowski with a carton of Muratti Forever as the latter made off with Mertens.
Where had the pair got to? They’d been gone almost half an hour, and he still had two addresses to visit. Just then he saw Grabowksi’s winter coat in the rear-view mirror and climbed out of the car.
11
Vivian Frank’s apartment was even more modern than Oppenberg’s office. Three rooms with a roof garden overlooked the Kaiserdamm, and an enormous bed under a champagne-coloured satin quilt that was reflected to infinity by two mirrors. Rath felt more at ease in the comparatively small living room, whose panoramic window looked out onto the Funkturm, the radio tower.
The furniture betrayed the taste of Manfred Oppenberg: simple, modern, elegant – and expensive. Fine woods, lots of leather and chrome, no scroll. Vivian Franck hadn’t furnished the flat herself, nor, most likely, had she paid for it. The woman Manfred Oppenberg called Angel couldn’t have earned so much through her films already. So, perhaps she came from a wealthy family. She certainly carried herself like a spoilt young lady. Was she a fallen princess for whom Manfred Oppenberg provided the last vestige of luxury? What else could tie her to such an old man? The promise of making her immortal on-screen?
The apartment was as polished and arranged as a film set. Only the big glass ashtray on the low, wooden table and the discreet house bar betrayed any hint of vice.
Rath searched every cupboard and drawer without locating any cocaine. He realised the thought of the white powder was almost giving him cravings. He couldn’t help thinking of Vivian Franck, of her bored face, those dead eyes that only began to sparkle once she had taken a dose. He had sworn not to touch the stuff again.
Apart from the bedroom, the apartment didn’t give much away about its owner’s habits, although he had noticed a few empty clothes-hangers in the wardrobe. Oppenberg had already told him that a dozen or so items of clothing were missing along with two suitcases and a travel bag.
Where had Vivian Franck gone, and why hadn’t she returned?
He locked the door twice and took the lift downstairs. The concierge in the marble reception hall looked so old he might have been on duty since the days of Old Fritz. He only started talking when he recognised the Prussian CID badge.
‘So, Herr Oppenberg did go to the police after all,’ he said, removing his glasses. ‘About time too. He called here at least twenty times a day to ask after that Franck.’
‘When did you last see Frau Franck?’
The narrow shoulders shrugged. ‘Just as she was leaving.’
‘Can you be a little more precise?’
‘Must be three, four weeks since she asked for a taxi. The driver had a bit of a struggle with her cases, took a while to get them in the car.’
‘And then?’
‘Then he got in and drove off.’
Rath smiled. ‘Where did they go?’
‘No idea. To some station, I’d say. Or the airport. Wherever you go with big suitcases.’
‘She didn’t say anything?’
‘To me? That Franck’s never even looked at me in the two years she’s lived here. Normal mortals don’t exist for her.’
‘Did you notice anything else?’
‘Nope.’
‘After that you never saw her again?’
‘Nope.’ The concierge considered. ‘Well, that is, I did, once…’
‘Where?’
‘…in Verrucht, her latest film.’ This seemed to be a great joke.
Rath moved towards the exit with the concierge’s bleating laughter in his ears. Suddenly, it stopped. ‘Wait!’
Rath turned at the door. ‘I’ve had my fill of jokes.’
‘No, no more jokes. Seriously, there was something the day she left.’
‘What?’
‘Someone called around midday and asked for her, it was nothing special, but…’
‘Who?’
‘He didn’t give his name, but I recognised him all the same.’
‘Who?’
‘He never called otherwise, always came in person. A very personable fellow, no doubt…’
The concierge winked, slowly getting on Rath’s nerves.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know his name but I recognised his voice. Even though he must have called from the train station – there was loads of noise.’
Rath took the photo Oppenberg’s secretary had looked out for him from his pocket, and laid it on the counter.
‘Was it this man?’
The concierge took one look at the glossy print of a smiling Rudi Czerny and could barely contain himself. ‘Hats off!’ he said. ‘The Prussian police are on the ball! Who’d have thought it?’
Rudolf Czerny’s flat was nearby on Reichskanzlerplatz. He wasn’t home, of course, as he was still filming in Babelsberg, but Rath visited precisely because he knew Czerny was still filming. All the same, he rang the bell three times and knocked loudly to be certain no one was at home. He was slowly getting the hang of the skeleton key that Bruno Wolter, his first boss in Berlin, had shown him how to use. At first he had resisted, but he had to admit it was a useful tool.
Rudolf Czerny lived more modestly than his lover, but then he wasn’t kept by Manfred Oppenberg.
Rath rummaged through the flat, taking care not to upset the disorder. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, perhaps some evidence of the affair with Vivian Franck, perhaps some indication of her whereabouts. It was perfectly possible she’d made herself scarce. And Czerny? Was he holding the fort until he could join her, or had she left him in the lurch like her benefactor Manfred Oppenberg? If what the concierge had said was true, then she had left without him three weeks ago – or he without her.
There were brochures on the living room table advertising holidays in the Swiss Alps. Freshly washed ski equipment hung in the wardrobe. Czerny had clearly been in the mountains himself. Finally, Rath found a towel with the words Hotel Schatzalp, Davos embroidered on the edge. Rudolf Czerny seemed to collect his holiday souvenirs from hotel supplies.
Rath gazed out of the window onto the wide expanse of Reichskanzlerplatz and the Funkturm. Daylight was fading. The first neon signs were lighting up. He decided to wait and telephoned the station, getting Gräf on the line.
‘Weren’t you going to call at one?’
‘I’ve had my hands full. Has Böhm been in touch?’
‘At five-minute intervals. He’s probably about to come over because the line’s busy.’
‘Listen, I know it’s the end of the day, but there’s something important you need to do.’
‘Hmm?’
‘At just on five, there’s the Wessel funeral. Böhm’s dead Nazi. At the Nikolai Cemetery.’
‘Yes?’
‘Go over there and take a look.’
‘What the hell?’
‘Böhm forced it on us.’
‘Since when do you take his orders so seriously?’
‘One of us has to go, and I can’t get away from here. I’ll tell you more on Monday morning.’
‘Aye aye, Sir.’
Rath didn’t get the chance to wish Gräf a good weekend before he hung up. His Saturday evening was ruined, but then he, Rath, wasn’t crouched in a strange, cold apartment for his own amusement.
Perhaps it was the word ‘amusement’, but suddenly he found himself thinking of the ball at the Resi, for which he still had no costume. He had missed the chance to back out and Kathi had moved heaven and earth to get tickets. If Czerny didn’t appear soon, they wouldn’t be able to arrive together.
Still, Kathi would understand, just like she always understood. He was on duty, simple as that. All he had to do was find a halfway decent costume and see to it that he didn’t show at the Resi too late.
Czerny put him out of his misery at just after half past five. Rath was sitting in one of the comfy chairs when he heard the key in the lock. He remained seated to give the actor a suitably theatrical reception. The light in the hall went on and, from the safety of the dimly lit living room, Rath looked through the crack to see a small, slim man hanging a toffee-coloured coat and brown hat on the hallstand.
The living room door opened and a hand turned the light on. Rath was now visible but Czerny hadn’t seen him, and continued reading a script as he groped his way towards the bar. Vom Blitz getroffen, Rath read on the cover sheet.
‘Good evening, Herr Czerny.’
The actor gave a start. ‘How did you get into my apartment?’ He didn’t sound intimidated: if anything, there was a hint of aggression. The man knew how to look after himself. Rath would have to be on his guard.
‘Through the door,’ he said and showed his police ID. ‘I just wanted to ask a few questions.’
‘But first you had to scare me half to death? Is breaking and entering part of the job these days? I’d call it trespassing.’
‘I’m not here on behalf of the police. In this instance, we share the same employer…’
‘I’m an actor…’
‘…and you work for Manfred Oppenberg?’
Czerny nodded.
‘Me too. At least for the time being.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Your boss wants me to return his lead actress…’ Czerny didn’t say anything when Rath hesitated, but it was clear he would have liked nothing more than to shout out Vivian’s name. ‘…your lover.’
The Silent Death Page 8