The Silent Death

by volker Kutscher

  ‘It isn’t my first time.’

  When they arrived at Wassertorplatz Rath parked the Buick directly outside the Nasse Dreieck. ‘Fancy a beer?’ he asked.

  Weinert nodded and a few moments later they were sitting at the counter. They were the only patrons at this hour, and Rath suspected they had his status as a regular to thank for the fact that Schorsch, the landlord, had served them at all. He hadn’t even taken all the chairs down, and the boiler hadn’t been on for long. Fortunately the pub wasn’t very big and it would soon warm up.

  Rath had taken his things out of the car, and placed the typewriter, film reels and script one after the other onto the counter. Schorsch gave the items no more than a sideways glance, placing two beers and two shorts in front of the early birds, before returning to polishing glasses. The men toasted, drank the shorts and washed them down with beer.

  ‘Strange place,’ Weinert said, ‘do you come here a lot?’

  Rath nodded. ‘Since I moved. By the way, did you know that Zille, the illustrator, used to come here regularly?’

  ‘Well, not anymore, I guess.’ Weinert raised his glass. ‘God rest his soul.’

  ‘Do you know a journalist called Fink?’ Rath asked. ‘From B.Z. am Mittag.’

  ‘Has he been trying to pump you for information?’ Weinert shook his head. ‘Be careful. You won’t be able to make the same sort of arrangement with him as you can with me. A real hard-nosed type. Sensation before truth.’

  ‘I thought that was all journalists’ motto.’

  Weinert laughed. ‘You should revise your opinion on our profession. With the exception of Stefan Fink, perhaps. So, who has Betty Winter on their conscience?’

  ‘I haven’t got that far yet, but there’s lots of news. See what you make of it.’

  Rath told Weinert everything that he intended to present to Böhm in written form the next morning. The only thing he omitted were Felix Krempin’s telephone calls, but he didn’t want to tell anyone about them, not even his colleagues at the Castle.

  Weinert listened attentively. ‘So what are you doing with the script?’ he asked.

  ‘It says in which scenes the thunder effect was to be triggered. The murderer deliberately chose a scene in which Winter was standing under the spotlight.’

  Weinert took the script in his hand and gazed at it thoughtfully. ‘An innocent script as timeline for a murder?’

  ‘Actually it would be the production schedule that determined the timeline. But in essence, you’re right.’

  The journalist hesitated when he read the name on the title page. ‘One of Heyer’s scripts.’ He nodded appreciatively. ‘He isn’t the worst.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Willi Heyer used to be a journalist. We met once; I needed a few technical hints for my first film.’

  ‘You write film scripts?’

  ‘You’ve got to look out for number one. I haven’t sold any yet, but there are few lying on producers’ desks, awaiting discovery. The problem is, if you don’t have a name then no one reads your script; and you don’t get a name until one of your scripts makes it onto the screen. It’s a vicious circle.’

  ‘I could introduce you to a couple of producers,’ Rath said.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I’m not in Bellmann’s good books at the moment, but I might be able to persuade Manfred Oppenberg. And if Oppenberg wants you, Bellmann will probably be keen on you too.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Weinert said.

  ‘If you could introduce me to this Heyer in return?’

  ‘Why? Because you think he writes scripts you can use to kill people?’

  ‘Not intentionally, anyway. I’m hoping he might be able to provide some of the background to Bellmann and Oppenberg’s rivalry.’

  Weinert nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘It’s on me.’ Weinert snapped his fingers for Schorsch, a habit that the Dreieck landlord couldn’t stand, but the journalist was too euphoric to notice.

  Rath only had to cross the intersection to get home. A few minutes later, with the script, production schedule and film reels balancing on the heavy typewriter, he negotiated the courtyard at Luisenufer. When he entered the rear building, he discovered he had post. First he had to unload his things at the flat. With great difficulty, he managed to fish the keys out of his coat pocket and open the door.

  He unpacked the typewriter and film paraphernalia on the kitchen table, went straight back downstairs and opened his mailbox. Two letters without stamps caught his eye; they reminded him of the envelope containing the five thousand marks last September. He opened the first while still in the stairwell. It wasn’t money, but glossy prints showing grinning male faces. So, Oppenberg had taken care of the photos. There was a fifty-mark note in the envelope, evidence of the producer’s guilty conscience.

  The second letter was more official. Rath opened it in the kitchen, recognising the police letterhead.

  It was from Böhm!

  Since it appears impossible to reach you through the normal channels, we are taking the unusual step of advising you in writing that the investigation into the death of Betty Winter has passed into the hands of Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm with immediate effect. Please report to the right-hand signatory without delay upon receipt of this letter.

  The right-hand signatory was Wilhelm Böhm. The left-hand side had been signed by Ernst Gennat. So, the bulldog had snitched to Buddha.

  Gennat had expressly warned him about going it alone, but did Rath really have anything to reproach himself for? He had kept Gräf, Czerwinski and Henning busy; as well as initiating the search and calling in Forensics and ED. The fact that Böhm was too stupid to reach him was hardly his problem. Gereon Rath wasn’t one of those police bureaucrats who sat around on their fat arses waiting to be put out to pasture. No, he was out there, on the street. The truth could only be uncovered there, on the ground where crime took place, rather than between two file covers.

  Rath flung Böhm’s letter in the waste-paper basket, hung his coat and hat on the stand, went into the living room to put on a record, found some paper in the dresser drawer, fetched the open bottle of cognac from the cupboard, and returned to the kitchen where he inserted the first sheet into the typewriter.

  Progress was slow initially; he couldn’t help thinking of Charly. Was she worth all the trouble he had landed himself in with Brenner?

  Of course she was worth it. She was worth a whole lot more too, whatever the consequences. Rath banished the thought of her with another sip of cognac and got back to his report.

  He hammered the letters word by word onto the paper. Gradually he gained momentum. They wouldn’t be able to bite his head off tomorrow. Böhm would have to acknowledge that Detective Inspector Rath had done a good job – or rather that Rath’s team had done a good job; which was how he’d have to present it. He had fetched ED to Guerickestrasse yesterday and back out to Terra Film today. Hardly the work of someone who was going it alone!

  The telephone rang a few times; he let it ring.

  The stack of crumpled paper on the floor grew as the bottle of cognac became emptier. He needed the entire afternoon and evening, pausing only to change the record and for a light supper. He felt halfway at peace with himself by the time he laid the final sheet on top of the, by now, considerable mound of papers. The bottle of cognac was empty. Something told him he wouldn’t be having any nightmares tonight either.

  21

  Tuesday 4th March 1930

  Rath had set the alarm for early but it was the telephone that startled him out of sleep. Who the hell was calling at quarter to six? Whoever it was, they were persistent. He got up, determined to give the caller a piece of his mind only to find it was someone he had to be friendly to.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me urgently, my wife said?’

  ‘Herr Ziehlke! Good of you to call!’ Rath didn’t sound quite as cheery as he would have liked. ‘If a little early.’

  ‘I co
uldn’t get hold of you yesterday, chief. So, Friedhelm, I thought, try again before your shift begins. The cops are on the ball.’

  ‘Ever ready,’ Rath said, yawning silently.

  ‘At least here in the garage we have a telephone. Once I’m on the move, it’ll be trickier. What can I do for the boys in blue?’

  ‘Could you come to the station later today? I’d like to show you a few photos. You might recognise the man who picked up Vivian Franck.’

  ‘How about twelve? Or, better, make it half past, in case I have to drive across town to get to Alex.’

  ‘Half past twelve is perfect. I’ll buy you lunch at Aschinger.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Ah, Herr Ziehlke…there is one thing I haven’t asked yet. When you drove Frau Franck that day, what did you do with her luggage? I’m sure you didn’t just leave all those suitcases on the pavement beside her on Hohenzollerndamm?’

  ‘We’d already got rid of the luggage. From Kaiserdamm we went first to Bahnhof Zoo, where I had to wrestle with her cases again, and only then did we go on to Wilmersdorf.’

  ‘Where did you take the suitcases? To check them in for a train journey?’

  ‘I just delivered them to left luggage.’

  ‘Do you know what number Fräulein Franck had?’

  ‘Well, you’ve a nerve!’ Ziehlke gave a dry laugh that sounded like something had gone down the wrong way. ‘If I could remember that I’d be a variety performer, not a taxi driver!’

  ‘See you later. Have a good day at work.’

  ‘You, too.’

  Rath hung up and considered for a moment. Why not, he said to himself and asked to be put through. To his surprise, it only took a few seconds for someone to pick up.

  ‘Behnke.’

  ‘Herr Weinert, please.’

  ‘You again? Didn’t you call yesterday?’ Rath remained silent. ‘I’m afraid Herr Weinert is still in bed.’

  ‘Then wake him up, please. It’s important.’

  It was unlikely that the landlady would catch Weinert with one of his girls, since he normally sent them home in the middle of the night when she was too drunk to notice. Still, there was no harm, Rath thought, in a little schadenfreude.

  Weinert seemed genuinely dozy, announcing himself with a ‘Yes?’ that sounded more like a yawn.

  ‘We need to rearrange.’

  ‘Gereon?’

  ‘Are you crazy, shouting my name like that? Do you want to make yourself unpopular with Behnke?’

  ‘What are you doing getting me out of bed in the middle of the night?’

  ‘You mean early in the morning. Your landlady is up and about anyway.’

  ‘She wasn’t as late as me yesterday.’

  ‘I’m calling about the car. What do you think about returning it half an hour later than agreed…’

  ‘Great, that way I can have a lie-in!’

  ‘…and not to me. We’ll meet at Bahnhof Zoo, that’s nearer for you.’

  ‘No problem. You’ll bring the typewriter?’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on dragging it through the underground. Can I bring it round later? Tonight?’

  ‘This is my livelihood we’re talking about. If I can take it on the train, then so can you. Otherwise, get a taxi.’

  At half past seven Rath was standing at the Bahnhof Zoo left-luggage office with a jet black Remington tucked under his arm alongside a brown briefcase. He felt pretty stupid, especially when the man at the counter asked if he wanted to leave the typewriter in the checkroom.

  ‘Taking our favourite pet for a walk, are we? You should buy a lead.’

  Rath didn’t blink. ‘I need some information,’ he said, putting the typewriter down to reveal his badge.

  ‘Well, what do you know! CID have mobile offices these days, do they? And the crooks? Give ’em a piggyback when you catch them, do you?

  ‘You should be a variety performer…’

  ‘That’s what my Ilse always says.’

  ‘…but save your jokes for your audition at the Wintergarten.’

  ‘All right, all right. Is humour against the law now too?’

  Rath showed the man a photo of Vivian Franck. ‘Do you remember this woman?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ The little eyes behind the counter twinkled. ‘Saw her in Verrucht. Divine! Vivian Franck, isn’t it?’

  ‘She must have checked in several large items of luggage about three weeks ago. On the eighth of February to be precise, around ten in the morning. Have the items been collected?’

  ‘That’s a lot of questions at once,’ the baggage porter said in his thick Berlin accent. ‘A Sunday, wasn’t it? I wasn’t on that day, but I can take a look and see what I can find. It’s rare for something to be left that long.’

  ‘If you could.’

  ‘Might take a moment, though.’

  ‘Fine, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘As far as you’re concerned perhaps, but what about my customers? I don’t get any help till ten.’

  ‘I’ll take care of things here, you go and look.’

  ‘You do have a typewriter,’ the baggage porter said, ‘which ought to make filling out forms easier.’ He paused, perhaps wondering if he could think of a better joke, before disappearing behind a door that led to a windowless, neon-lit room. After five minutes he returned without any cases, but with a stack of index cards which he laid on the counter.

  ‘So, this is everything that’s been here longer than two weeks. Let’s have a look.’

  He leafed through the pile and, amazingly, found what he was searching for.

  ‘Here it is. Eighth of February. Three items, checked at nine forty-five. Number three-seven-zero-seven. Pretty expensive to redeem by now.’

  ‘Can I take a look?’

  The man put on his most officious face. ‘Either you have number three-seven-zero-seven or a court order, or everything stays where it is. Rules is rules.’

  ‘And if you were to take a quick look and report back…’

  ‘That’s even more illegal! Do you think we fiddle about with our customers’ luggage? Don’t worry, Inspector, if there was a corpse inside we’d smell it.’

  Rath took his leave politely and sat down in the station restaurant with a stack of newspapers. At least the waiter didn’t comment on the typewriter. It wasn’t very busy. Most Berliners didn’t have time for coffee at eight o’clock.

  The sun rose behind the bare trees of the zoo. It promised to be another fine day. Rath leafed through the papers. The Wessel funeral had been accompanied by one or two unpleasant scenes on the fringes of the cortège. Nothing more serious had occurred, though the Communists had done their best to provoke the Nazis. Thanks to Gräf, he hadn’t needed to be there. He mustn’t forget to show his partner a little appreciation; the detective had had to carry the can for him on a number of occasions over the last few days.

  The resignation of Interior Minister Grzesinski was no longer much of a story; instead the headlines were dominated by speculation about a possible government crisis. Was the Great Coalition not quite as stable as Rath senior, the old centrist, maintained? Not all those in the Centre got on as well with the Social Democrats as Police Director Engelbert Rath, who had them to thank for much of his career.

  Speculation was the order of the day in the Winter case too, with the papers relying in the main on Bellmann’s sabotage theories. They were careful not to mention Oppenberg by name, even though Rath felt sure Bellmann would have gone to great lengths to spell out the identity of his hated rival to any journalist who’d listen, no doubt while whispering: ‘But you didn’t get this from me.’ One way or another, the rumours were running wild. No wonder, given that there was nothing new from the station. Böhm had been unable, or unwilling, to tell journalists anything they didn’t already know and didn’t come off well in the articles. Rath registered with satisfaction that the majority of crime reporters had written Inspector Böhm although they must surely have been aware of his rank. T
hat would make the bulldog very angry.

  Gradually the time came. Rath finished his cup. He gave only a small tip, as the waiter could help himself to the coffee left in the pot.

  Weinert was on time; the clock in the station forecourt showed half past eight as the Buick pulled up alongside a bus stop sign. He left the engine running and climbed into the passenger seat while Rath got behind the wheel.

  ‘Where to?’ Rath asked.

  ‘Nürnberger Strasse, then you’ll be rid of me.’

  Rath stayed in the car outside Weinert’s apartment. Looking at the entrance to the next door house, he remembered how he and Charly had once hidden there from Elisabeth Behnke. It seemed so long ago.

  22

  He arrived at the Castle shortly after nine carrying a brown leather briefcase, feeling like an insurance salesman. Normally he didn’t bring anything to work apart from hat, coat and service weapon.

  Erika Voss was expecting him. ‘There you are! Inspector, you’ll never believe what’s happening here! DCI Böhm…’

  ‘Then call him and tell him I’m here. Actually, wait a moment, I still have to file some things.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve!’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do. Is Gräf here yet?’

  ‘Already come and gone. Nine o’clock briefing in the small conference room. For all those working on the Winter ca…’

  ‘Henning and Czerwinski?’

  ‘Böhm’s detailed them for surveillance duty in Guerickestrasse.’

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘Someone has to hold things together here, Inspector.’ She gave a wry grin under her blonde fringe.

  ‘Speaking of holding things together. You can start with this.’ He took the report he had typed on Weinert’s machine from the briefcase. She nodded dutifully, rummaged for a new file in the drawer and reached for the big black punch.

  ‘Any other documents on the Winter case?’ he asked, as she wedged the paper under the punch.

  She shook her head. ‘Gräf took them all with him.’