The Silent Death

by volker Kutscher

  Ziehlke shook his head. ‘There was a man there, he picked her up, and then…’

  ‘Someone picked her up?’

  ‘He was standing on the corner with flowers. Looked like an actor.’

  ‘Did you recognise the man?’

  ‘No, never seen him.’

  ‘What makes you think he was an actor?’

  Ziehlke shrugged his shoulders. ‘Because that’s what he looked like. Good-looking, elegant. And Vivian Franck is an actress unless I’m mistaken.’

  Rath took the photo of Rudolf Czerny from his jacket. ‘Was it this man?’

  ‘Czerny? Nah, I’d have recognised him. It was someone I haven’t seen in the pictures.’

  Rath put the photo back in his pocket. ‘Can you remember where the pair of them went?’

  ‘Didn’t see. I went straight to the taxi rank and waited for my next fare.’ He took another look inside his book. ‘Reinickendorf. Not until quarter to eleven. I was waiting for ever. Stood there waiting and unwrapped my sandwiches.’

  ‘And you didn’t see Vivian Franck again. You’re certain she didn’t come back onto the street. Or her companion perhaps?’

  ‘Sure did, she’s on billboards everywhere. But seriously, I didn’t see her again. Why do you want to know all this? Has something happened? Is it drugs? Because I don’t tolerate that sort of thing in my taxi, believe me!’

  Rath gave a wry smile and took his leave.

  Outside on Cheruskerstrasse he lit a cigarette before getting into the car and folding the window down to get the smell out of his nose. He had despised fried liver since childhood when his mother had tormented him with it on a regular basis. It was his eldest brother Anno’s favourite food but, even after he was killed in action, she continued to serve it up…

  He started the car and drove off. There wasn’t much traffic.

  He parked the Buick in front of a wine dealership on Hohenzollerndamm. The junction of Ruhrstrasse seemed like a perfectly normal street corner. One end house was home to a ground-floor restaurant, the other a menswear store; the rest were solidly middle-class residences. Rath climbed out and took a look around. Who on earth could Vivian Franck have been visiting here? The plaques on the houses indicated lawyers, doctors and tax advisors, but there was no sign of any film producers. Nor did the names on the mailboxes tell him anything – but most likely film celebrities didn’t give their real names. There wasn’t even a travel agent where she might have collected her ticket for the crossing. The restaurant, on the other hand, was definitely unusual: Chinese. Yangtao, the neon sign said, whatever that might mean.

  Why had Vivian Franck taken a taxi to Hohenzollerndamm on the eighth of February, and not to Anhalter Bahnhof where Rudolf Czerny was waiting for her? And what had she done after getting out of the taxi?

  Showing her photo around on a Sunday when there were so few people about was unlikely to be much use. Perhaps he should ask Oppenberg if the address meant anything to him. If there was a film producer living nearby it would be a big step in the right direction.

  Rath returned to the car and glanced at the time: half past one. He was getting hungry but had no appetite, and not just since his visit to the taxi driver. He slammed the heel of his hand against the wheel in rage. Damn it! When he had just about managed to forget about her.

  Who the hell was this bastard! A man dressed as a cowboy, ridiculous! Probably some pompous lawyer.

  He didn’t want Charly in his head, but what could he do? Don’t stop, keep moving. Drive, drive, drive! He started the engine with nowhere specific in mind and simply drove all over town, taking whatever turn he fancied. Somehow his route took him towards Moabit, and into Spenerstrasse where, slowly…

  …he rolled past her house. What did he think, hope, fear he might see?

  He took another turn around the block and pulled over on the opposite side of the road from her house, before switching the engine off and lighting a cigarette. The last in the pack. Pretty good going, considering he still called himself a non-smoker only yesterday.

  He watched the front door, peering occasionally up at the windows. No one, but then he thought he saw a thin gleam of light behind one of the panes. Shouldn’t he just go over and ring the bell? Then what? Start another brawl if a cowboy opened the door?

  He threw the cigarette butt out of the window and started the engine.

  Half an hour later, armed with a fresh carton of Overstolz, Rath climbed the stone steps of police headquarters. He had left the car in Klosterstrasse and walked to the Castle, as Böhm or one of his dogsbodies might have noticed the Buick in the atrium. The huge construction site at Alex was getting worse by the month anyway, and it was now barely possible to get through by car. Aschinger and the few other stores that, until now, had been spared demolition clustered round the station like condemned men. Rumour had it that Aschinger would be granted a home in the new building. It wasn’t known what would happen to Loeser & Wolff but, for now, Rath could keep himself in cigarettes there. As long as the police commissioner smoked cigars, there was bound to be a tobacconist’s at Alex.

  On Sundays most units were reduced to a skeleton staff. He had hoped not to meet anyone but, at precisely the moment he emerged from the stairwell, the great glass door to Homicide opened.

  ‘Afternoon, Lange,’ Rath said, tipping his hat.

  The man from Hannover was surprised. ‘Inspector! You’re not on weekends.’

  ‘But you clearly are.’

  Lange nodded. ‘With Brenner, but he’s reported sick.’ Lange hummed and hawed before coming out with it. ‘He mentioned…well…is it true that you…beat him up?’

  ‘Let’s just say I taught him a little lesson. No need to shout it from the rooftops.’

  ‘I’m afraid someone already has.’ Lange lowered his voice. ‘It looks as if Brenner wants to make a big deal out of it: disciplinary proceedings. Prepare for trouble, Sir. The boss was already pissed off with you yesterday because he couldn’t find you anywhere.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ Rath said.

  Lange nodded and went on his way.

  Brenner, that back-stabber! Of course he’d run to Böhm. It had been stupid to lose his temper but Brenner had deserved it. In spite of his painful knuckles and the trouble that lay in store, Rath had the rare feeling of having done exactly the right thing.

  It was cold again in his office. Perhaps he should spend more time here during normal working hours, he thought, at least then it would be heated. To avoid Böhm, he was currently out of sync with the Castle, carrying out private assignments by day and only appearing in the office after hours.

  Everything he was looking for was on Gräf’s desk: the report from Dr Schwartz as well as the initial analysis of the evidence secured by Kronberg’s people. Gräf had been busy, even managing to get Plisch and Plum to set their interviews down on paper.

  Still in hat and coat, Rath sat at Gräf’s chair and opened the forensic report. He was now accustomed to how Schwartz composed his texts, and knew which parts he could skim and which parts to read more closely.

  There was no doubt about the cause of death: cardiac arrest due to electric shock. No internal injuries, but severe burns to the head and shoulders, a total of five fractures to the clavicle, upper arm and ulna – as well as a spinal trauma. Had Betty Winter survived, she’d have spent the rest of her life disfigured and in a wheelchair.

  Clearly, Betty Winter and Vivian Franck were cut from different cloths. There was no trace of opiates, cocaine or hashish in Winter’s system, only a liver that suggested frequent alcohol consumption.

  He had intended to skim the section about the contents of the deceased’s stomach, but his gaze fell on a single word: yangtao.

  An alien element, more alien than the recurring medical terminology, and yet it stirred his memory. The Chinese restaurant in Wilmersdorf, or was he confusing two Asian-sounding words? It was Chinese at any rate.

  Schwartz loved to show off his general knowledge
and worldliness, and here he could do both. Thus: yangtao was a fruit from China, a berry about the size of a hen’s egg, with a tough, thin, brown, hairy skin, green flesh and little, hard, dark brown seeds. Satisfying and easy on the stomach, the doctor had added, which suggested he had tried yangtao himself. He had found the exotic fruit in conjunction with banal foodstuffs such as mushrooms, rice and chicken, inferring that the deceased had eaten a Chinese meal on the day of her death.

  That was typical of Dr Schwartz. Instead of limiting himself to the facts of his forensic analysis, he liked to make inferences. Rath welcomed the contributions of any departments assigned to the CID, but sometimes Schwartz could be a damn nuisance. Still, as long as he only had to read what the doctor thought, he could put up with it.

  ED officers had already examined the spotlight mounting. The technical analysis had concluded that there were no material defects. All threads were in order, and the bolt Gräf had found was intact. It must have been unscrewed by someone, and that someone was who they were looking for.

  He reached for the telephone and was put through to the search unit: no trace of Krempin. A few citizens claimed to have seen him following the newspaper appeal, but so far everything had proved a dead end.

  He returned his attention to the ED file. His colleagues had also taken in the deceased’s clothing for analysis: the scorched silk dress, as well as her shoes, stockings and underwear. There was something uncanny about the pedantry of these Prussians. Kronberg’s people had done everything to the letter. They had found blood on Betty Winter’s dress (her own, naturally) and several hairs that didn’t come from her (but probably from her cloakroom attendant or co-star). What insight was that supposed to provide in a case like this, a fatality that had actually been filmed?!

  He reached for the interview records. Plisch and Plum had been busy. He leafed through the statements, not noticing any contradictions. Everyone who had witnessed Betty Winter’s death had described it in exactly the same terms as Jo Dressler. If it really was murder then there had to be a motive, and the statements about the dead woman were more revealing. Soon Rath realised that lack of motive wasn’t the problem; quite the opposite, in fact.

  Betty Winter had been a regular dragon. Although those questioned had chosen their words carefully following her appalling death, reading between the lines, it was clear she hadn’t had many friends amongst her colleagues. She was respected but not well liked. Others hadn’t minced their words, listing all the people who hated her – always careful to except themselves, of course. It was difficult to know what to take at face value, and Rath had to keep asking himself who was trying to damage whose reputation with what remark. Quite a web of intrigue and slander was forming. He would have to take another look at Bellmann’s little family, as the producer called it, since he couldn’t rely on tracking Krempin down.

  Henning had dictated a summary of the deceased’s life to Erika Voss. Born Bettina Zima on July 17th 1904 in Freienwalde, she had never undergone classical training, but many colleagues testified to her natural ability. The inflation years had brought her to Berlin, where she had tried her luck in variety, achieving success in a number of revues, before landing smaller roles in stage plays. In 1925 she played in her first film, alongside Victor Meisner, who was four years her senior. It was Meisner who advanced her in film, and not Bellmann as Rath had suspected. He was already well established, above all as a hero in adventure films and crime thrillers.

  With Bettina Zima at his side, or Betty Winter as she was now known, Meisner had made the leap into romantic comedy. In the last five years, the pair had filmed about a dozen pictures together, becoming one of the most popular on-screen couples – a fact that had completely escaped Rath, who couldn’t bear schmaltzy love stories – as well as an item in real life, following their second film, Fallstricke des Verlangens. This information didn’t come from La Belle circles alone. Henning had peppered the dossier with references to film and gossip magazines, clearly indulging a secret passion.

  According to his research, Betty Winter and Victor Meisner, who had married in 1927 but retained their respective stage names, were regarded as the happiest couple in the industry. No doubt because they hadn’t been divorced after the first three months. It looked as if Meisner was the only one for whom Betty Winter’s death was a personal tragedy.

  Rath had felt from the start that Bellmann’s mourning for his star was purely financial.

  Nevertheless, Victor Meisner, actor and husband, was missing from the list of those who had been questioned. He still hadn’t returned to the studio yesterday, and it would have taken more than a miracle for Plisch and Plum to have shown some initiative and visited him at home. Still, they had managed to question everybody else in the studio, where Dressler had recommenced filming despite the death of his lead actress.

  Time is money, Rath recalled Bellmann’s words. Or was it Oppenberg? The producer hadn’t allowed his people a single day of mourning. They were probably filming now, making use of every day they had access to Terra Studios. Time is money…

  He couldn’t help thinking of his father’s motto. Knowledge is power. For some people the ability to reduce everything to simple equations brought order to the world, but Rath couldn’t do it and didn’t want to. He was afraid he might no longer be able to see reality, and reality, after all, was what his work was about: shedding light on what had really happened, however complicated, chaotic and illogical it might sometimes be, however complicated, chaotic and illogical it usually was.

  Rath glanced at the time, carefully gathered the files and returned them to their rightful place. It was time to go.

  15

  She can’t hide the impression the surroundings are making on her. It’s less the paintings on the walls and the remnants of the room’s former pomp than its sheer size and incomparable view of the park and lake. She hasn’t seen anything like this before. He can sense it.

  Most film producers are too tight. If they receive an actress then, at most, it’ll be a grimy apartment, a love nest, but never their real home, never their real life.

  Albert hovers discreetly in the background, refilling their glasses when necessary and serving individual courses from the elaborate menu.

  He doesn’t want any other staff around him today. As always, when he has guests like her.

  The enormous table just for the two of them.

  He raises his glass. ‘To your future, Jeanette.’

  She smiles. ‘To our future.’

  ‘Then we are agreed?’

  ‘You’re offering a lot of money. Artistically it’s also a challenge, especially now, at a time when people are only shooting talkies. How could I say no?’

  It’s only about the money for her. He can see in her eyes that she doesn’t care about art. Albert serves the fruit salad, and she uses her dessert fork to impale a small, green piece of fruit, before carefully placing it in her mouth and making a delighted face.

  ‘Mmmh! What’s that?’

  ‘Yangtao. You can only get it from the Chinese in Kantstrasse.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘And healthy.’ He takes a forkful himself. ‘You won’t regret signing with me. I am financially independent and can devote myself entirely to the creation of cinematic art.’

  ‘You don’t view talkies as art?’

  ‘How can they be?’ He has said it too loud, but she is more surprised than startled. He lowers his voice. ‘Sound film is destroying cinematic art. A technical fad that turns film, which has reached its artistic pinnacle, back into a spectacle, like in the beginning when it was just a fairground sensation. As an artist you must refuse to be part of it. You don’t belong in the fairground!’

  ‘Refuse? I don’t know. I’d still like to make films with other people, I’m not signing an adhesion contract.’

  ‘No one is asking you to.’

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ she says. ‘I’m extremely grateful for the opportunity, and that you’re taki
ng me seriously as an artist. However, it doesn’t mean I’m prepared to close myself off to new developments. You have to understand that. As for a fairground sensation… Aren’t you exaggerating a little?’

  He was waiting for this moment even before seeing the greed in her eyes.

  ‘I understand you perfectly well. Of course you want to make other films. Personally, I hold your older, silent films in higher esteem, and it’s that sort of film I’d like to make with you again.’ He raises his glass and offers another placatory smile. He has faith in the power of his smile, and in the power of his voice. ‘Forgive me for getting so worked up, but you see film…film is my life.’

  That is only a half-truth. Without film he would be dead, would have died long ago.

  The day he shattered the mirror…

  …there is a crunch as his mother steps on the broken glass. She halts in the midst of a sea of glittering shards and gazes at the clouded frame, on which there are still a few sharply serrated pieces, a wreath of frozen flames. Her voice, distant and yet so near. ‘What has happened?’

  He doesn’t respond, but stares at her out of the dead eyes he can no longer stand. He tried to banish them with the heavy tumbler, whose shards are now mixed with those of the mirror and the drops of water that glittered between them before seeping into the carpet.

  He has banished his ghost forever from his room.

  Mother seems to understand. She doesn’t ask any more questions. The glass crunches under her feet as she makes her way towards the bed.

  He must have been dreaming. He didn’t notice her entering the bedroom. Yet he has been awake since five, reading. The hours according to which those outside organise their day mean nothing to him. The days mean nothing to him anymore.

  What does she want from him at this hour? For him to come to breakfast? Hardly, she never fetches him to eat. She leaves that to Albert. She is never there when he wolfs down the few bites his hungry stomach can manage. Or when he takes minutes over each, waiting until his saliva has lubricated every last piece before swallowing the warm paste.