‘Marquard isn’t just my distributor,’ Oppenberg said. ‘He’s also one of my most important donors. You can see how rich he is, but he simply doesn’t want to acknowledge that his beloved silent film is dead, and that we will die with it if we don’t change. Perhaps he can afford that, but I can’t!’
Marquard was waiting for them outside the house. Once more, Rath marvelled at the man’s warm, pleasant voice. ‘It’s you, Inspector,’ he said, proffering a hand, ‘I thought I recognised the name when Albert gave me your card.’
‘Please excuse the interruption,’ Rath said, ‘but you may now continue your meeting.’
‘Clearly you haven’t brought good news. What has happened?’
‘Let’s go inside,’ Oppenberg said, ‘I’d rather not tell you out here.’
The two men disappeared inside the house, Marquard taking Oppenberg by the arm. Rath gazed after them, until Albert, the servant, closed the door, casting him a final, contemptuous glance. Although it might have looked like friendship that bound them, in reality the two men were nothing more than business partners. If Marquard hadn’t been willing to focus on talkies when Vivian Franck was alive, what chance did Oppenberg have of persuading him now?
Rath took the AVUS for the return journey too, more on a whim than because of any time pressure. It was fun to drive the Buick at full speed, even if he had to rein himself in upon rejoining the city traffic. There was a telephone booth level with the Städtische Oper on Bismarckstrasse, where Rath tried the taxi office again. At last he got Friedhelm Ziehlke on the line. He told him whose body they had found, and summoned him to the Castle.
Just after half past one Rath stepped out of his car in the atrium feeling very pleased with himself. Fortune favours the brave! was another one of his father’s sayings. The Oppenberg problem was ticked off, and soon the Ziehlke problem would be too. After lunch, the taxi driver’s statements would officially find their way into the new Vivian Franck file. Now it was time to see what his colleagues in Breslau had found.
When Rath entered his office, however, Lange was no longer sitting at Gräf’s desk. ‘He’s with Böhm,’ Erika Voss said, ‘and they’re expecting you, I was told to say.’
Rath went over. Böhm had just returned to the Castle, with everyone gathered around his desk like it was the campfire of an Indian chief: Henning, Christel Temme and Lange, who gave Rath an apologetic shrug as he entered the room.
‘There he is, the prodigal son,’ Böhm said. ‘Why didn’t you take Herr Lange with you as I requested?’
Rath cleared his throat. Why did he always have to justify himself in front of Böhm? ‘Vivian Franck has no relatives in Berlin,’ he said. ‘Her family lives in Breslau, which is why Herr Lange…’
‘So why didn’t you go to Breslau?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Why are you and Lange not in Breslau informing the relatives of the murder victim?’
‘It seemed a little excessive, Sir. Assistant Detective Lange was to ask our colleagues in Breslau for assistance. I thought that in the wake of the Interior Ministry’s saving measures…’
‘You shouldn’t think! You should do as you’re told.’
‘As far as thinking is concerned, Sir – with respect, I must beg to differ.’
‘Don’t get fresh with me, Inspector.’
‘A trip to Breslau is unnecessary because it is highly doubtful whether any family members will come to her funeral, let alone to identify the body.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Vivian Franck had fallen out with all her relatives. Her father is a respected Breslau rabbi – and Vivian – well, she was the black sheep, so to speak, whom no one mentions at family gatherings.’
‘That may be,’ Böhm said, ‘but death changes many things.’
‘Contact with Breslau has been established, so we’ll see,’ Rath said. ‘As a precaution, however, I have asked Franck’s producer to identify the body. He was also privately involved with her. He can be at the morgue at three.’
‘All right,’ Böhm snarled. ‘Let’s leave it at that.’
‘If he identifies the actress beyond any doubt, we could arrange a press conference for this afternoon.’
‘Pardon me?’ Böhm looked as if Rath had just made an indecent proposal. ‘Get that thought out of your head, and that goes for everyone in this room. I don’t want to read anything about this case in the press for the time being! Another dead actress, the second inside a week! It’s possible that the press will uncover more connections.’
‘But the two fatalities have nothing to do with each other,’ Lange objected. ‘Nothing at all, except that they’re both actresses.’
‘The hacks aren’t interested in that,’ Böhm said, and Lange blushed. ‘No press conference, no press release, and I don’t want anyone in this room leaking anything. Not until we have closed the Franck file and can say to Berliners that there is no serial killer at large in their city.’
Everyone fell silent, examining their shoes or fingernails.
‘I’ve something to add, Sir!’ Rath ventured, despite Böhm’s ill temper.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve been able to trace a witness, the taxi driver who picked up Vivian Franck when she left her flat with a few suitcases. That was…’ Rath leafed through his notebook even though he knew the date by heart, ‘…on the eighth of February.’
‘How did you find all that out so quickly?’ Böhm sounded suspicious.
‘Just a few calls, Sir. The concierge in Franck’s block of flats, then the taxi office. Herr Oppenberg gave me the…’
‘Who?’
‘Manfred Oppenberg. Vivian Franck’s producer, whom I visited in order to…’
‘Isn’t that the man we’ve already questioned as part of the Winter case? Felix Krempin’s former employer, who claims to know nothing?’
‘That’s him. He was kind enough to give me the telephone numbers…’
‘You shouldn’t be associating with people who are possible suspects in a murder enquiry!’ Böhm barked.
‘Oppenberg is suspected of murder?’
‘He certainly isn’t out of the woods if his former employee has committed murder. As for the Vivian Franck case, he’s a suspect just like anyone else connected to the deceased. That goes without saying, even if you have clearly made friends with him already. If you carry on like this, I’ll have you withdrawn from the case on the grounds of bias.’
‘I haven’t made friends with him, I’ve been investigating! When I have a piece of information, I pursue it, instead of wedging it between two folders and letting it go mouldy!’
Henning and Lange hunched even further over their files. Christel Temme wrote something on her pad, although no one was dictating. For a moment the only sound was the scratching of her pen. Böhm took a deep breath.
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, young man!’ he said. ‘I’m still the one who assigns the tasks! Where would we be if everyone simply worked for themselves? Investigative work has to be co-ordinated, and that is precisely what you still have to learn. How to work with other people!’
Rath had to let a lot of air out of his lungs before continuing. ‘What task have you assigned me then, Sir?’ he asked.
‘You’re coming with me to the morgue,’ Böhm decided. ‘That way you won’t get any stupid ideas. You might as well postpone lunch. Better to see Dr Schwartz on an empty stomach.’
Damn it! ‘I can’t. I have to take care of Herr Ziehlke. He’s arriving at the station any minute.’
‘Who?’ the DCI barked.
‘Friedhelm Ziehlke. The taxi driver I was speaking about just now.’
Böhm glanced at his watch and waved him away. ‘Herr Lange can deal with that. You’re coming with me!’
Dr Schwartz had worked quickly, eager to be rid of bodies like Vivian Franck’s. It was still lying there, however, when Rath and Böhm entered the autopsy room in the cellar of the morgue. Schwartz was washing h
is hands when they arrived, an activity he engaged in with unusual frequency. He greeted his visitors with a brief nod in the mirror.
‘Well I never,’ he said, without turning around, ‘Messrs Böhm and Rath. You’ve been inseparable lately!’
Böhm gave an involuntary grunt.
‘Good that you could come so quickly,’ Schwarz continued, greeting the police officers with a freshly washed handshake, before leading them to the marble table. Rath couldn’t help but swallow when he saw what death had done to such a beautiful woman. Her face looked more dead than at the crime scene, not that it fazed the doctor. ‘Should we get something to eat afterwards?’ he asked.
‘No time,’ Böhm said, ‘there’s someone coming to identify the corpse at three. So, whenever you’re ready.’
‘In short, this is one of the strangest corpses you’ve ever entrusted me.’ Schwartz produced a pencil and pointed towards the dead face. ‘She was heavily made up. We had to give her a good wash. Don’t worry: ED took a few samples of the make-up beforehand. Without wishing to pre-empt Kronberg, I’d say theatre make-up, or rather, film make-up. She was done up for a shoot.’
There wasn’t much left of it now. Vivian Franck’s face looked like most four-week-old corpses, pale and blotchy, a little deformed in places, fingernails yellow and a little too long.
‘And now we come to the strangest part.’ Schwartz pointed his pencil towards her throat. ‘Her film career was finished before she died. Acting’s a tough job without vocal cords, I should think.’
‘Pardon me?’ Böhm said.
‘Someone cut out her vocal cords.’
‘And that’s how she died?’
Schwartz shook his head. ‘You don’t die from having your vocal cords cut. Though you are right about one thing: this was done to her ante-mortem. I took a look at the incision under the microscope. It must have been carried out shortly before she died.’
‘Her death having being caused by?’ Böhm asked.
‘That question isn’t always so easy to answer, my dear Böhm; and sometimes it can’t be answered at all.’ Schwartz could make even Böhm seem like an impertinent student.
‘I wonder what the meaning of it all is,’ Böhm said. ‘Why maim a person like this?’
‘Torture?’ Rath ventured, receiving two disapproving glances.
Schwartz shook his head. ‘That doesn’t fit. It’s as painful as having tonsillitis, perhaps less so. If it wasn’t an accident during an operation – and complete removal would seem to go against that – then the person who did this meant to humiliate her, I think. Or to prevent her from crying out.’
‘Did she suffer a painful death?’ Rath asked, reintroducing the subject a little more diplomatically than Böhm.
‘No idea.’
‘What do you mean, no idea?’ Böhm asked. ‘That you still don’t know?’
‘I found an injection site in her skin, probably from a hypodermic needle. It must have been administered shortly before she died.’
‘And?’
Schwartz shrugged. ‘So far we have found no sign whatsoever of poison,’ he said. ‘If that remains the case, I would say that she died a natural death. Perhaps she just couldn’t bear no longer having a voice.’
‘Don’t forget drugs,’ Rath said. ‘Perhaps that’s what she died of.’
‘For me they come under poison, no need to mention them specifically.’
Böhm shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Does that mean what we have here might not even be murder?’
Schwartz shrugged. ‘Or a very skilful one.’
31
The pathologist disappeared for a late lunch while Rath waited for Oppenberg with Böhm and Schwartz’s assistant. He appeared promptly at three, as subdued as Rath had ever seen him. The body had been covered; all the assistant had to do was expose the head and show Oppenberg the pale, blotchy face. A brief nod and he signed. His expression was inscrutable but his silence said everything.
Rath hated moments like these. What could be worse than identifying the body of someone close to you? Perhaps standing alongside and having to watch. He always felt strangely responsible. As once upon a time he had been.
The corpse of a madman had lain on an autopsy table, his life ended by a bullet from Rath’s service revolver. He would never forget the stony face of the father who had come to identify the body: Alexander LeClerk, one of the most important newspaper publishers in Cologne. Nor would he forget the gaze that bore through him like the beam of an X-ray, much less the devastating press campaign that followed, that changed his life and forced him to relocate to Berlin.
Still, there was no reproach in Oppenberg’s gaze, just silent humility, the acceptance of one’s powerlessness against the raging of arbitrary, meaningless fate. There was something else in those eyes though: deep sorrow. Oppenberg seemed to have genuinely loved Vivian Franck. She wasn’t just an investment that had to pay off, as Betty Winter appeared to have been for Heinrich Bellmann.
Rath noticed that Böhm was eyeing Oppenberg suspiciously. He had a few questions still to ask. ‘Did Fräulein Franck have any problems with her voice?’
‘Not at all!’ Oppenberg seemed surprised. His gaze flitted briefly to Rath, before realighting on Böhm. ‘There was scarcely a film actress of her generation more predestined for sound film than Vivian Franck!’
‘Then she didn’t undergo a procedure recently on her vocal cords…’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Why should she have?’
‘Shortly before her death, her vocal cords must have been cut out,’ Böhm said. ‘Can you explain how that happened?’
‘Her vocal cords were removed?’ Oppenberg’s calm voice was mixed with horror. Again his gaze darted towards Rath.
Böhm nodded. ‘A failed operation would be one explanation. Against that is the fact that they weren’t simply cut, but completely removed. Besides, her doctor knows nothing about it.’
‘Did they…did they torture her?’
‘Hard to say, but no, she probably wasn’t in pain.’
‘What does that matter if they took her voice away? Don’t you think that’s torture enough for an actress?’ Suddenly Oppenberg was shouting, ‘That crook! What devil did Bellmann unleash on her, poor girl?’
Not so clumsy after all, the bulldog: he had actually managed to break down the producer’s reserve. For a moment Rath feared Oppenberg might forget himself and reveal his special relationship to Gereon Rath.
‘Those are some serious accusations you’re making,’ Böhm said. ‘Do you have any basis for them?’
‘You only have to read the newspaper to know that he’ll use any means he can to destroy me.’
‘Bellmann at least makes a case for your smuggling a saboteur onto his shoot,’ and with that Böhm had arrived at the Winter case and pushed Oppenberg into a corner.
Oppenberg cast Rath another brief glance, but soon had himself back under control.
‘I can make just as strong a case for Bellmann having abducted my lead actress in order to sabotage my shoot. She’s been missing for weeks!’ He had decided to go on the attack. ‘Before you adopt the untenable assumptions of my rival, you could ask your colleagues from Missing Persons why they did nothing. Perhaps Vivian would still be alive if they had begun their search in good time!’
‘You think your actress was abducted?’
‘She never set out on the holiday she’d planned. Instead of going to the train station three weeks ago there was a stranger waiting for her, in Wilmersdorf somewhere. No doubt that’s where you found the corpse too.’
Oppenberg had said too much; Rath had no choice but to intervene. ‘Why didn’t you tell us all that just now, Herr Oppenberg?’
The producer played along. ‘Quite simple,’ he said. ‘You never asked me.’
‘But I’m asking you now,’ Böhm said. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I engaged the services of a private investigator, since your colleagues in Missing Persons did nothin
g.’
Rath began to sweat.
‘You put a watch on your lover because you were jealous?’ Böhm was really going for it now. ‘Caught her unawares and then killed her?’
Oppenberg shook his head. ‘Stop talking nonsense! If I really was the type of man who kills out of jealousy, then I might have killed her lover, but not Vivian. You’re on the wrong track, my good man, I’m not about to kill my best actress.’
Böhm backed down. The missing vocal cords, if they were indeed the work of the killer, didn’t tally with a murder committed out of jealousy. He had wanted to break down Oppenberg’s reserve, and he had managed. ‘You understand that you must continue to remain at our disposal,’ Böhm said.
‘I will support you in any way I can, if you and your young colleague just find Vivian’s killer. What kind of devil does something like that? Taking an actress’s voice?’
Böhm shrugged. ‘If we knew that we’d have our killer.’
The meeting with Oppenberg had been relatively painless, but Rath was relieved when they could finally leave the morgue, having already said goodbye to Oppenberg.
Böhm seemed positively cheerful as he opened the door to Hannoversche Strasse, and they emerged from that unprepossessing brick building that housed more of the dead than living. ‘I don’t mean to boast,’ he said, ‘but did you see how much you can learn from just a brief conversation? The same witness you interviewed three or four hours ago, when he said no more about this private investigator than he did about the stranger in Wilmersdorf.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Don’t be offended, Inspector!’ Böhm looked Rath in the eye. ‘That wasn’t meant as a criticism of your interrogation methods, but you should understand that your colleagues can get results too. Even your superiors.’
Only now, in the fresh air, did Rath realise how hungry he was. It was almost four o’clock.
Böhm seemed to read his mind. ‘We won’t get anything in the canteen now,’ he said. ‘We’ll make a stop at Aschinger. My treat.’
Rath was speechless. What had he done to deserve this? Was it a thank-you for allowing Böhm to dispense advice without interruption? Less than quarter of an hour later, they were sitting together at a dimly lit corner table, breathing in the fug of beer and studying the menu.
The Silent Death Page 25