Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

‘Anyway, it turns out that this Max Abs guy was Albers’ servant, driver and general dogsbody, so it kind of looks as if he was honouring his old boss. The Albers family was killed in an air-raid, so I guess there was no one else to erect a stone in his memory.’

‘Rather an expensive gesture, wouldn’t you say?’

‘You think so? Well, I’d sure hate to get killed minding your ass, kraut.’

Then Belinsky told me about the Pullach company.

‘It’s an American-sponsored organization, run by the Germans, set up with the aim of rebuilding German commerce throughout Bizonia. The whole idea is that Germany should become economically self-supporting as quickly as possible so that Uncle Sam won’t have to keep baling you all out. The company itself is located at an American mission called Camp Nicholas, which until a few months ago was occupied by the postal censorship authorities of the US Army. Camp Nicholas is a big compound that was originally built for Rudolf Hess and his family. But after he went AWOL Bormann had it for a while. And then Kesselring and his staff. Now it’s ours. There’s just enough security about the place to convince the locals that the camp is home to some kind of technical research establishment, but that’s no surprise given the history of the place. Anyway, the good people of Pullach give it a wide berth, preferring not to know too much about what’s happening there, even if it is something as harmless as an economic and commercial think-tank. I guess they’re good at that, what with Dachau just a few miles away.’

That seemed to take care of Pullach, I thought. But what of Abs? It didn’t seem to be in character for a man who wished to commemorate the memory of a hero of the German Resistance (such as it had existed), to kill an innocent man merely in order to remain anonymous. And how could Abs be connected with Linden, the Nazi-hunter, except as some kind of informer? Was it possible that Abs had also been killed, just like Linden and the Drexlers?

I finished my coffee, lit a cigarette and for the present moment I was content that these and other questions could not be asked in any forum other than my own mind.

The number 39 ran west along Sieveringer Strasse into Dobling and stopped just short of the Vienna Woods, a spur of the Alps which reaches as far as the Danube.

A film studio is not a place where you are likely to see any great evidence of industry. Equipment lies forever idle in the vans hired to transport it. Sets are never more than half-built even when they are finished. But mostly there are lots of people, all drawing a wage, who seem to do little more than stand around, smoking cigarettes and nursing cups of coffee; and these only stand because they are not considered important enough to be provided with a seat. For anyone foolish enough to have financed such an apparently profligate undertaking, film must seem like the most expensive length of material since Chinese silk, and would, I reflected, surely have driven Dr Liebl half-mad with impatience.

I inquired after the studio manager from a man with a clipboard, and he directed me to a small office on the first floor. There I found a tall, paunchy man with dyed hair, wearing a lilac-coloured cardigan and having the manner of an eccentric maiden aunt. He listened to my mission with one hand clasped on top of the other as if I had been requesting the hand of his warded niece.

‘What are you, some kind of policeman?’ he said combing an unruly eyebrow with his fingernail. From somewhere in the building came the sound of a very loud trumpet, which caused him to wince noticeably.

‘A detective,’ I said, disingenuously.

‘Well, we always like to cooperate with them at the top, I’m sure. What did you say this girl was casting for?’

‘I didn’t. I’m afraid I don’t know. But it was in the last two or three weeks.’

He picked up the telephone and pressed a switch.

‘Willy? It’s me, Otto. Could you be a love and step into my office for a moment?’ He replaced the receiver, and checked his hair. ‘Willy Reichmann’s a production manager here. He may be able to help you.’

‘Thanks,’ I said and offered him a cigarette.

He threaded it behind his ear. ‘How kind. I’ll smoke it later.’

‘What are you filming at the moment?’ I inquired while we waited. Whoever was playing the trumpet hit a couple of high notes that didn’t seem to match.

Otto emitted a groan and stared archly at the ceiling. ‘Well, it’s called The Angel with the Trumpet ,’ he said with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s more or less finished now, but this director is such a perfectionist.’

‘Would that be Karl Hartl?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘Only The Gypsy Baron .’

‘Oh,’ he said sourly. ‘That.’

There was a knock at the door and a short man with bright red hair came into the office. He reminded me of a troll.

‘Willy, this is Herr Gunther. He’s a detective. If you’re willing to forgive the fact that he liked The Gypsy Baron you might like to give him some assistance. He’s looking for a girl, an actress who was at a casting session here not so long ago.’

Willy smiled uncertainly, revealing small uneven teeth that looked like a mouthful of rock salt, nodded and said in a high-pitched voice: ‘You’d best come into my office, Herr Gunther.’

‘Don’t keep Willy too long, Herr Gunther,’ Otto instructed as I followed Willy’s diminutive figure into the corridor. ‘He has an appointment in fifteen minutes.’

Willy turned on his heel and looked blankly at the studio manager. Otto sighed exasperatedly. ‘Don’t you ever write anything in your diary, Willy? We’ve got that Englishman coming from London Films. Mr Lyndon-Haynes? Remember?’

Willy grunted something and then closed the door behind us. He led the way along the corridor to another office, and ushered me inside.

‘Now, what is this girl’s name?’ he said, pointing me to a chair.

‘Lotte Hartmann.’

‘I don’t suppose you know the name of the production company?’

‘No, but I know that she came here within the last couple of weeks.’

He sat down and opened one of the desk drawers. ‘Well, there were only three films casting here this past month, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.’ His short fingers picked out three files which he laid on the blotter and started to sort through their contents. ‘Is she in trouble?’

‘No. It’s just that she may know someone who can help the police with an inquiry we are making.’ This was true at least.

‘Well if she’s been up for a part this last month or so, she’ll be in one of these files. We may be short of attractive ruins in Vienna, but one thing we’ve got plenty of is actresses. Half of them are chocoladies, mind you. Even at the best of times an actress is just a chocolady by another name.’ He came to the end of one pile of papers and started on another.

‘I can’t say I miss your lack of ruins,’ I remarked. ‘I’m from Berlin myself. We’ve got ruins on an epic scale.’

‘Don’t I know it. But this Englishman I have to see wants lots of ruins here in Vienna. Just like Berlin. Just like Rosellini.’ He sighed disconsolately. ‘I ask you: what is there apart from the Ring and the Opera district?’

I shook my head sympathetically.

‘What does he expect? The war’s been over for three years. Does he imagine that we delayed rebuilding just in case an English film crew turned up? Perhaps these things take longer in England than in Austria. It wouldn’t surprise me, considering the amount of red-tape the British generate. Never known such a bureaucratic lot. Christ knows what I’m going to tell this fellow. By the time they start filming they’ll be lucky to find a broken window.’