Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

‘Where’s it being filmed?’ Rath interrupted, before she could build up a head of steam.

‘In Neubabelsberg. But you can’t go out there now.’

‘I have a car.’

‘They’re sound film recordings, no one’s allowed to interrupt.’

‘The police are.’

‘Perhaps I can help you.’

‘I need to speak to your boss in person,’ he said. ‘Where will I find him in Babelsberg?’

‘Near Ufa headquarters. In the great hall. North studio. Right next to the Tonkreuz, the sound stage.’

‘Does Montana belong to Ufa?’

She laughed. ‘Heaven forbid! But the great Ufa have been so gracious as to let out their studios. Now that Pommer has finished shooting the new Jannings film, there are a few of them empty. But, as I said, you mustn’t interrupt.’

‘No doubt you’ll be so kind as to telephone ahead. That way I won’t be interrupting anything.’

She didn’t like it, but she smiled as she reached for the telephone. ‘Perhaps Herr Oppenberg will be able to spare five minutes. But I can’t promise anything.’

Rath stood up from the chair, put on his hat and tipped it briefly. ‘Tell Herr Oppenberg I’ll be there in half an hour.’

Folding down the side window to feel the wind on his face, Rath let the breeze blow life back into his tired bones. He had barely slept, having had too much to drink. Still, when his alarm sounded he had felt something akin to relief, because it had been one of those nights. One of those nights when he was frightened of sleep. Because he knew the dreams would return. The dreams that haunted him time and time again. There were weeks when he almost forgot, nights when he achieved a deep, peaceful sleep, before they returned, mercilessly and surely as the seasons. He always knew when the time had come because he felt so on edge and couldn’t, didn’t want to sleep. He only had to close his eyes to see them: the demons that persecuted him, dead people, people he knew, people he had known. People pale as corpses, with bullet holes in their chests, empty eye sockets and flaps of skin hanging from their bodies like moth-eaten cloaks. Time and time again he awoke with sweat on his brow, before trying to take his mind off things, by reading, by sipping from the bottle, but at some point he would fall asleep and be at their mercy. As much as the dead persecuted and pursued him, so did the living seem to flee his presence. Whenever he woke, heart beating and pyjamas drenched in sweat, he was grateful, even if he felt a thousand times more exhausted. Only with a cold shower and a strong cup of coffee could he revive his spirits.

The blonde secretary had mentioned the name Oppenberg. He had given no indication of how much it had startled him.

Manfred Oppenberg. The man who had dragged him to an illegal nightclub at Ostbahnhof less than a year before. The film producer with the nymphomaniac companion. The night when everything had veered off course, by whose end there would be another dead man to haunt his dreams.

At least he was alone. To avoid Böhm, who must by now have realised what a spectacular case he had handed to Rath, he hadn’t put in an appearance at Alex this morning. Instead he had wakened his people early and briefed them by telephone from his living room chair, sending Henning and Czerwinski to Marienfelde to question the rest of Bellmann’s staff, from the producer to the toilet attendant. Gräf he had sent to Dr Schwartz in Hannoversche Strasse. He wasn’t about to go there himself, not after last night. The image of a disfigured Betty Winter lying on the autopsy table… Rath wouldn’t have been able to stand the smell of blood and disinfectant and worse, to say nothing of Dr Schwartz’s humour.

He felt good, despite his fatigue, and he worked best alone. He thought of Gennat’s words: better to share your knowledge with us .

Later.

Driving down Kaiserallee he stepped on the gas. The traffic became slightly heavier at Reichsstrasse but the further out of town the road extended, the quicker his progress. As the city frayed into the countryside Berlin seemed almost idyllic, even on a dismal day like this, with raindrops pounding on the roof of the car. He turned left off Reichsstrasse, reaching Neubabelsberg via Kohlhasenbrück.

He parked the Buick on Stahnsdorfer Strasse and looked around. The entrance to the studio lot was flanked by two gatehouses with a porter’s office and a barricade. It was noticeably larger than Terra Studios in Marienfelde. A uniformed doorman took a close look at the passport photo on his identification.

Rath asked for directions.

The doorman pointed into the lot. ‘Past the glasshouse and through the workshops and you’ll come to the great hall. That’s where Montana are filming.’

‘The great hall?’

‘You can’t miss it.’

The studio building behind the gate was glazed, like its counterpart in Marienfelde. Beyond it was a line of huts, and for a moment Rath was distracted by hammering sounds and the screech of a circular saw until, suddenly, he found himself in the narrow bazaar of a Middle Eastern city, set in the Brandenburg winter landscape. It was like a scene from the Arabian nights. He stepped back into the open through the great portal of a mosque and gazed at its unplastered rear side. A plain wooden construction was the only thing preventing it from caving in. He had veered off course somewhat, but understood now what the doorman had meant. In the plain brick hall behind the huts, there was enough space for a Zeppelin.

The hall seemed tantalisingly close, but he still needed time to find it. At last he came upon a new building, whose windowless brick walls towered into the sky.

‘Is this the great hall?’ Rath asked a Prussian fusilier from the Seven Years’ War, who was leaning against the wall with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

‘See a greater one? An extra too, are you?’

‘I need to get to Montana.’

‘Round the corner, a big door, you can’t miss it. The north studio.’

You can’t miss it seemed to be the line around here, only this time it was true. The steel sliding door was so enormous that the normal-sized door in its front looked like a cat flap. It opened with a slight squeak and Rath stepped inside.

Behind the cat flap a uniformed guard said, ‘You can’t just march in here! They’re filming.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

The guard was wearing the same fantasy uniform as the doorman. ‘Sound film recording,’ he said and gestured towards the steel door. Above it in black letters was the word: MITTELHALLE II N. A red lamp burned alongside. ‘We can’t just have people bursting in here.’

‘I’d like to speak to Herr Oppenberg.’

‘In the middle of filming?’

A busybody in uniform. ‘How about you just go through that door and ask?’

‘If you don’t give me a name, I won’t know who to say is here.’

‘Rath. CID.’

The guard stood to attention. ‘Why didn’t you say so? You don’t look like a pi… like a police officer. One moment please.’

The red lamp went out, the guard disappeared through the door and, for a moment, Rath wondered whether he shouldn’t follow. Instead he waited patiently until the guard returned and held the door open. Behind it was a silver-haired man with his back turned, issuing instructions.

‘…then why don’t you carry on with scene thirty-nine? We need to make sure we use the time, even if it means making more changes. So, get to work: scene thirty-nine, Schröder’s workshop, Baron Suez and Schröder. Czerny can put on a change of clothes. Half an hour! When I’m back, I want to get cracking.’

Oppenberg was surprised to see him. ‘My dear friend,’ he said as he shook Rath’s hand. ‘How can I be of service?’