Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

At some point he had climbed a set of stairs, not the large staircase in the vestibule or the small spiral staircase, but another, and now he had the chance to go either right or left down a long corridor. He turned to the right because he thought he could hear Kirie barking in that direction, and then found himself standing in front of a large, bolted double-leaf door.

This was surely no longer part of the servants’ quarters, but something more formal. He hesitated before opening it. Kirie couldn’t get through a bolted door. He must have taken the wrong turn, so back he went until he heard her barking again. He could hear her through the door.

He plucked up his courage and carefully opened it only to find himself in the vestibule once more.

It was dark, but he didn’t dare switch on the light. The gleam from the door through which he had just entered helped him find his way, as well as Kirie’s barking, which now sounded afresh.

If he had heard correctly, it was coming from somewhere he had already been that afternoon. When he had followed the old servant into Marquard’s reception room. Why had she chosen to go back there, of all places, rather than dash for freedom through some open door, some open window?

He sighed. To his right he felt the call of the main front door. Just one step and he would be out in the open, where he could call for backup. But he couldn’t leave without the stupid dog! Who knew what Marquard might do to her?

If only she would stop barking.

At least Kirie granted him that wish. Since her last bark, when he entered the vestibule, he hadn’t heard a thing.

He opened the door which Albert had opened for him a few hours before and stepped into a dark room. If he remembered correctly, he still had to pass through two rooms to reach the drawing room. Gradually he groped his way towards the next door.

Hopefully Marquard had already gone to bed.

Wishful thinking. A flickering gleam of light shone through the crack in the door. Evidently the master was having a little drink by the fire. Kirie had nothing better to do than come running here ?

You’re on your own, Rath thought, you stupid, ungrateful little mutt.

He was about to turn and creep back towards the vestibule, and the main front door, when he heard a voice he recognised.

Charly?

That couldn’t be right. What on earth was she doing here?

Perhaps he was mistaken, and it was the latest actress Marquard meant to immortalise, as he put it. Then he heard another familiar voice.

Paul!

What were the two of them doing in Wolfgang Marquard’s drawing room?

Or perhaps it wasn’t Wolfgang Marquard’s drawing room at all? Perhaps he was long since back at home and hadn’t realised? There were a few gaps in his memory. They were in there at any rate, his friends, no doubt they’d been waiting for hours already and it was high time he went in. What was he doing still standing out here anyway? He was so tired, he needed to sit down in his chair and listen to music and fall asleep. Yes, that was exactly what he wanted.

He opened the door to his living room, but someone had stolen the record player and put a fireplace there instead. Wolfgang Marquard was standing by the fire. What business did he have here? He ought to let him be, he was the one who was trying to kill him and Kirie. Now he even had a gun. Rath recognised his own Mauser. Did a man like Marquard even know how to handle it? Someone ought to show him.

And there was Paul, who seemed suddenly to take off from the floor and fly, old Wittkamp had never told him he could fly, he was probably showing off in front of Charly, the swine, for Charly really was sitting there.

Charlotte Ritter had returned and was gazing at him with those wide eyes. Those great big, wide eyes. How lovely!

He managed a smile… then someone turned the room upside down, just like that, and switched off the lights. The darkness had him once more, dragging him inexorably into its murky depths.

Wolfgang Marquard looked at Gereon Rath as if he had seen a ghost. Gereon Rath, who was swaying in the door, with sweat on his forehead and a bottle in his hand, a monument to drinkers everywhere.

He turned towards Rath to cover him, and Paul seized the advantage. He made straight for the hand holding the gun and knocked it with a clatter to the floor, where it slid across the gleaming parquet towards the fireplace.

What did Gereon do? He gave Charly a blissful smile, as if she were everything he wanted from this life, and doubled up like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

What had they done to him? She had no time to think about that now. Paul and Marquard were rolling in front of her on the floor, dangerously close to the fire, each trying to gain the upper hand or get hold of the pistol. At one point it looked as if Paul had managed, but Marquard was strong and resisted stoutly. All the while Kirie danced round the two men barking.

Charly hated physical violence, but she had to intervene or things would come to a sticky end. She approached the tangle of arms and legs, waited until Wolfgang Marquard turned his face towards her and kicked as hard as she could.

Marquard threw his head backwards and stayed down, while Paul looked at her gratefully.

She ran to Gereon, whom Kirie was already sniffing and licking. It looked bad. There was sweat on his forehead, his skin was deathly pale and his pulse was alarmingly weak. She patted his cheeks, spoke to him and finally shouted and slapped him, but Gereon refused to stir.

She ran through the patio door into the dark garden, put the whistle to her lips, tried to orient herself in the direction of the road and blew, kept on running and blowing, running and blowing until, by the time she reached the gate, a group of uniformed officers came marching towards her. Pistols drawn, they stormed in the direction of the house.

‘We need a doctor,’ she cried and noticed how, for the first time that evening, she was on the verge of losing control. ‘Quickly, a doctor!’

Just then a shot rang out from inside.

Through a narrow window, just below the ceiling, he can see a patch of sky. It is grey. A heavy grey, heavy with snow. Soon it will snow, he sees it, smells it, for the final time this year it will snow.

He told them everything, those police officers, but they are stupid, they don’t understand. They ask the wrong questions, interrupt him, probe at the wrong times, and ignore him at critical points. They don’t listen to a word he says. He can’t talk to them.

They haven’t let him keep anything, not even his syringes. A doctor comes to his cell to give him insulin in the exact dosage. They take his blood regularly, they don’t want to get anything wrong.

He stretches out on the plank bed, the snowy sky outside soothes him.

It is over. He must accept that his life is at an end.

For half of his life he perceived his own body as his worst enemy. Since then he is aware just how rarely man realises his potential so long as he is trapped inside his body. To achieve his true essence, man must free himself from that body, must leave it behind. And he can do so only in art. Or in death.

He knows because he has fused the two together.

And he regrets nothing.

Only that they didn’t let him finish his final work; it would have been better than ever.

Perfect.

Why have they locked him up, he who can make people immortal – while Betty Winter’s killer, who desecrated her and deprived her of her immortality, is allowed to roam free?

He doesn’t understand. And they don’t understand him. Nothing he has told them, nothing he has done. You can’t talk to them.