In the Seyfrieds’ former bedroom Rath struck gold. Krempin hadn’t left much, just a few stubbed-out cigarettes in a tin. Enough for the boys from ED. It was time to disappear before things got too hectic and Wilhelm Böhm showed up in person.
He went downstairs and knocked on the car roof. Czerwinski folded down the side window.
‘Enjoy it?’ Rath asked.
‘Thanks.’ Czerwinski passed him the empty container.
‘You can bring it to my office tomorrow.’
‘Very tasty, by the way. Who’s the cook?’
‘A secret, but I’ll tell you something else.’ Rath leaned over so that Henning could hear too. ‘If you want to score some points with your boss, call the Castle and have ED come out. Seyfried, on the third floor.’
Czerwinski’s eyes practically popped out of his head.
‘Krempin,’ Rath said. ‘I fear we’ve been watching the wrong side of the street.’
It wasn’t easy finding a parking space at Potsdamer Platz. Rath drove past Haus Vaterland and parked under a double street sign opposite Europahaus. The old name Königgrätzer Strasse had been crossed out, and its replacement housed on a snow-white sign below. Stresemannstrasse. Rath recalled his deep sadness on the dull autumn day on which news of Stresemann’s death had done the rounds. Although hardly interested in politics, he felt that something had been destroyed that day, and that more had died with this man than simply the foreign minister. He had been a strict but loving father to Germany, and Rath could see no one capable of replacing him. A strong politician who loved his country, who neither spread the hollow pathos the German National People’s Party used to mask their feelings of inferiority, nor behaved with the arrogance Goebbels’s Nazis mistook for patriotism.
Walking back to Potsdamer Platz, he wondered what was happening in Guerickestrasse. He hadn’t waited for his colleagues to arrive, simply taken leave of Plisch and Plum. Böhm would be annoyed, first because he hadn’t discovered Krempin’s hiding place himself, and second because Rath had slipped through his fingers again. Krempin too, the fact that they had discovered his hiding place didn’t change that.
Rath knew exactly when Felix Krempin had left the flat. Yesterday, when Mertens and Grabowski had gone for food and their replacement, Detective Inspector Gereon Rath, had left his observation post to take a look around. Krempin had telephoned to make sure the street remained clear before leaving his hiding place, which had been turned into a trap thanks to the permanent lookout stationed outside the door. Even if no one else knew, Rath realised he had screwed up. He swore to rectify his error.
As he crossed the square a little BMW emerged from a parking space, creating the ideal spot for a Buick. Pschorr Haus was situated on Potsdamer Platz and Rath had often driven past without entering the building. Cigarette smoke and the smell of beer greeted him in the dark, wood-panelled bar. He stopped a waiter balancing a tray full of beer steins and asked where today’s meeting was taking place.
‘You mean the movie theatre owners?’
He nodded.
‘Go past the bar, and through the big door on the right. They’ve already started.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Rath said. ‘They always save the best till last.’
He opened one of the double doors and saw the backs of people’s heads. Someone was speaking from the platform at the front and all were spellbound. A few heads turned when he entered, their faces ranging from curious to reproachful. He quickly closed the enormous oak doors behind him, shutting out the mishmash of voices and clinking of glasses from the bar.
With the audience’s attention having returned to the speaker, he allowed his gaze to wander. He couldn’t see Oppenberg anywhere.
He made his way slowly along the rows of tables, careful not to obscure anyone’s view or be too conspicuous. Everyone was looking at the speaker, who was saying something about the art of film-making and how sound film was destroying that art. Sound film, in short, signified the death of cinematics. It wasn’t a subject Rath was particularly interested in. He liked films the way they were, particularly when the cinema employed an orchestra and not just an organist or piano player; but these new films, in which people spoke, were a different matter. Although what was being said onstage meant little to him, he couldn’t resist the effect of the slightly husky yet pleasant voice delivering the words of protest into the microphone.
The room was almost full, and he was surprised that so many cinema owners were going to the barricades against sound film. Wasn’t it progress? Shouldn’t they be happy? There were posters on the walls, some of which he had already seen hanging in cinema displays.
Sound film is the death of cinematics, proclaimed one. The picture palaces die when films talk.
Manfred Oppenberg was seated at a table in the front row, his white-haired head resting thoughtfully in his hand.
The man on the platform finished his speech and Rath made his way towards Oppenberg’s table through the applause. Before he could reach him, however, the producer stood up to shake the speaker, who had just descended the platform, by the hand, only then to step onto the platform himself.
Rath would have to listen to another speech.
‘Good evening!’
Rath turned round. The speaker proffered a hand. Tall and thin, in his mid-twenties at most, the type of person who enters a room and is immediately the centre of attention.
‘It’s good that you came, even if you are a little late. We need all the support we can get. Though I…I’m afraid I don’t remember which movie theatre you run…’
‘The one at Alex. I’m here to speak to Herr Oppenberg.’ Rath showed his badge. ‘In private,’ he added.
‘Then please take a seat while Herr Oppenberg is speaking,’ the man said, gesturing towards a table in the second row. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a beer.’
Rath sat down, gratefully accepting the beer brought to him by a waiter, and listened.
Oppenberg was defending talkies. No wonder, he was filming a number himself. He admitted that it wasn’t easy making the switch to the new, expensive technology, but if you missed the boat you’d find yourself stranded at the harbour. Realising he was in danger of incurring the audience’s displeasure, he skilfully changed tack.
‘It goes without saying that Montana Film will continue to produce the high-quality silent films for which it is renowned,’ he said. ‘And that we will gladly deliver them to your theatres.’ He saw no tension between sound and silent films: ‘both art forms are legitimate, and both will find their audience – and their theatres.’ He continued on the technical and licensing aspects of sound film, and Rath was soon lost.
‘We all know that the question of whether to use optical or stylus sound is above all a patenting issue. A struggle is being waged for patents and licences, for market control and for monopolies, and it is being waged at our expense, at the expense of film-makers, theatre operators and the public.’ Oppenberg took a sip of water and assessed the effect of his words. ‘What pains you, gentlemen, is not knowing which technology to invest in. Believe me: I don’t merely understand your despair, I share it. Why should installing technology from Western Electric preclude you from playing films made in Germany? And why should choosing Klangfilm machines mean you have to miss out on American films? Or pay high licensing fees in addition to all the costs sound film already entails. It is, and let me make this perfectly clear, an unsatisfactory state of affairs. Not just for cinema owners and for myself as a producer of motion pictures. No, above all it is unsatisfactory, indeed completely unacceptable, for those people for whose pleasure we all work tirelessly – that is, for our viewers!’
Despite isolated catcalls, the majority of cinema owners applauded courteously, if still a little warily. Oppenberg had managed to turn it around. He thanked his audience briefly and descended the platform, looking more pleased than surprised to see Rath.
‘Herr Rath, what a surpri
se. I hope you’re bringing good news!’
Before Rath could respond, the previous speaker had clasped Oppenberg’s hand and was thanking him for his contribution.
‘It was no more than anyone would have done, my dear Marquard,’ Oppenberg said. ‘We’re in the same boat: cinema owners, producers, it doesn’t matter!’
‘I had hoped, however, that you might delve a little more closely into the artistic side of things. Shouldn’t that be of greater concern to you as a film-maker?’
He really did have an impressive voice. Even when it was expressing disapproval, it sounded warm and reassuring.
Oppenberg genuinely seemed embarrassed. ‘Everybody has their own opinion, Herr Marquard. For me it’s a question of whether we can overcome the challenges sound film presents. That ought to be of interest to you too, with your film lab and distribution firm. We can’t leave everything to Ufa.’
‘For me, it’s always been about the art. That’s the reason I manage movie theatres. You, however, are in the happy position of being able to make films, which, sadly, is not a talent I possess.’
‘Cinematics as we know it is flourishing, that is true, but I am certain that sound film can become an art form in its own right. That’s what we’re working towards.’
‘I hope nevertheless that you continue to confer real films upon us.’
‘My duty is to my public, Herr Marquard. Now if you’ll excuse me, Herr Rath has come here especially to see me.’
‘Rath?’ Marquard raised an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you investigating the death of Betty Winter?’
Rath nodded.
‘The papers say her accident could have been murder. Do you have any leads?’
‘It’s still early days.’
Oppenberg took Rath to one side and led him to the cloakroom. ‘You must have news if you’re visiting me here,’ he said.
‘Depends. News for me, but not news for you.’
Oppenberg considered this, only for the attendant to interrupt his thoughts and pass him his heavy winter coat with fur collar, together with leather gloves and homburg.
‘Let’s go down to the Esplanade,’ he said. ‘We can speak freely there.’
Rath couldn’t wait that long. ‘I’ve spoken to Krempin,’ he said, as they crossed Potsdamer Strasse.
‘So you found him!’
‘No, he found me. He called me.’
‘Where’s he hiding?’
‘No idea. Not in your flat anymore, anyway.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘The empty flat in Guerickestrasse. In your block of flats. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.’
‘I swear I had no idea. I own several houses in that street, including the one Felix lives in.’
‘He manipulated the lighting on your behalf, in return for which you found him a hiding place.’
‘I have no idea…really.’
‘Herr Oppenberg, you’ve lied to me once already. I can only work with you if I know I can trust you.’
A few pedestrians turned as Rath’s voice grew louder.
‘Calm down,’ Oppenberg said. ‘Let’s talk like adults, and not in the middle of the street.’ He took Rath by the arm and pulled him down Bellevuestrasse. ‘Come on, we’ll be there in a moment. Let’s have a drink. We can discuss these matters at our leisure.’
Moments later they were sitting in a recess at the Esplanade Hotel bar, waiting for the bottle of wine Manfred Oppenberg had ordered. He seemed to be known here. ‘So,’ he said, already looking more cheerful than he had done on the street. ‘Tell me what Krempin said and why you’re so worked up.’
‘You lied to me! You smuggled your man into Bellmann’s studio knowing full well about his sabotage plans. He was supposed to delay the shoot.’
‘Delaying the shoot is not sabotage.’
‘What else would you call dropping a heavy spotlight on an expensive sound film camera?’
‘That was his plan?’
‘Stop acting the innocent, he was there on your behalf.’
‘I can assure you, I knew nothing of his plans. Felix had completely free rein. Yes, he was to delay the shoot, but how he did so was his business.’ Oppenberg shook his head. ‘Felix tried everything. He even made a move on Winter, but…’
‘And when none of that worked, he came up with the camera idea. Without telling you?’
‘It was probably too late anyway. Bellmann had smelled a rat and cast everything aside, put the new adventure film with Victor Meisner completely on ice and started shooting this schmaltzy rubbish.’
‘And you couldn’t allow that to happen…’
‘Our film is supposed to be out first. That’s all that counts. Vom Blitz getroffen is a completely new departure, a divine romantic comedy, and the divine is meant literally. I bought the book a year ago, and had it adapted last autumn. Somehow Bellmann must have got wind of it, and now he’s trying to pip me to the post with one of his sorry efforts… And then there’s Vivian’s disappearance… It’s enough to make you despair.’
‘And your despair was so great that you were prepared to risk the life of an actress. I’ve warned you, if you should be involved in a murder I won’t be able to make any allowances.’
‘Your imagination’s getting the better of you. I don’t know what Felix was planning, but it certainly wasn’t murder.’
‘Let’s call it manslaughter then.’
‘It’s Victor Meisner you ought to be accusing, if the newspapers are to be believed.’
‘Don’t get confused now! Without the spotlight, this wouldn’t have happened. And the lighting was manipulated. We know that much for certain.’
Oppenberg shook his head. ‘It just isn’t his way.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Felix would never risk the life of another person. Whatever he figured out with the spotlight, believe me, it was perfect.’
‘So perfect that Betty Winter’s lying dead in the morgue?’
‘I don’t know why she’s there.’ Oppenberg shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s your job.’ The waiter arrived with the red wine and poured. Oppenberg raised his glass. ‘I will support you as best I can.’
‘Why should I believe you when you’ve already lied to me?’ Rath asked when the waiter had withdrawn.
‘I didn’t lie to you. Perhaps I didn’t tell you the whole truth.’
‘Why didn’t you say that the houses in Guerickestrasse belong to you?’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
‘And the empty flat? Didn’t it stand to reason that Krempin would be hiding there?’
‘Right under the noses of the police?’
‘Fair enough,’ Rath conceded. Perhaps Oppenberg was right. ‘Still, in future you have to tell me everything, whether you think it’s important or not. Otherwise this won’t work. Don’t go thinking you can do as you please.’
‘My dear Rath, I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression. I will help you solve your case as best I can. As long as you keep to your side of the bargain. Have you discovered anything about Vivian’s whereabouts?’
Rath was speechless at how easily Oppenberg reverted. ‘Speaking of bargains, I’ve kept to my side more than you have to yours.’
Oppenberg reached inside his jacket pocket. ‘You’re right.’ He counted out five twenty-mark notes on the table. ‘A down payment.’
Rath gazed at the notes. He could certainly use the money; the car wasn’t cheap to run, and the money he had found in his mailbox one morning in late summer had mostly gone on its purchase. Still, something inside him resisted Oppenberg, who seemed to think all problems could be solved by money. He pushed the notes back over the table. ‘I think we’re friends,’ he said.
Oppenberg returned the money to his pocket with a shrug. ‘Tell me what you have found.’
‘Vivian Franck’s final taxi journey,’ Rath said. ‘After she left her apartment.’
‘On the day of her departure?’
‘She was neve
r in the mountains. She never made it to the station, even though she loaded her cases into the taxi.’
As he was speaking it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked Ziehlke, the taxi driver, what had happened to her cases.
‘Where did she go?’
‘Wilmersdorf, Hohenzollerndamm. Does that mean anything to you? Does Vivian know anyone there? An actor, or a producer perhaps?’
Oppenberg shrugged. ‘In Wilmersdorf? Not that I know of.’
‘Someone picked her up. If you could put together a few photos of Vivian’s acquaintances, I could visit the taxi driver again. Perhaps he’d recognise the man.’
‘No problem.’
‘Good, then I’ll be in touch.’
Rath left the table without finishing his glass of wine.
17
Monday 3rd March 1930
The demons had gone. Rath never knew when, but at some point they would simply vanish from his dreams as unexpectedly as they had arrived.
He had slept peacefully, but wakened early. He hit the alarm before it rang, got out of bed and, by half past six, was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. The sound of Duke Ellington’s piano rippled through from the living room. In his notebook he wrote down what he had to do that day.
It was Rosenmontag, Carnival Monday, his first in Berlin, and he was glad he had enough work. Kölle Alaaf. He drank a second cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette before setting off. On the way to Schöneberg he stopped at the petrol station on Yorckstrasse and filled up. By half past seven he was in Cheruskerstrasse. He had thought about whether he should call so early but, with the exception of the mother, the family had already left for the day.
‘You’ll have to get up earlier,’ she said. ‘My Friedhelm’s already out and about by this time.’
He gave her his card and requested that her husband get in touch urgently. ‘He should ask to be put through to this number,’ he said, writing his private telephone number. ‘Best after six in the evening.’
‘You think we can afford a telephone? It costs twenty pfennigs at the salon downstairs. Blum, that shark!’
The Silent Death Page 13