Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

‘There’s an Aschinger over on Berliner Strasse,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take half an hour for lunch and warm yourselves up. I’ll hold the fort.’

The two men climbed out. Rath knew he had just collected a few points. A boss who looked after his colleagues and didn’t mind getting his hands dirty? That didn’t happen often at the Castle.

‘Should we get something for you too, Sir?’

‘Not necessary, thank you.’

The two of them set off. Rath sat behind the wheel of the Buick until they disappeared round the corner. Then he went over and entered the house. No one in the stairwell. Rath didn’t have much experience with the skeleton key and needed time to pick the lock. Once in, he pulled the door shut quietly. His colleagues had been in the flat last night to make sure Krempin wasn’t fast asleep or lying dead on the sofa, but Rath wanted to see for himself without having to wait for a search warrant.

The flat didn’t tell him much. A typical bachelor apartment, simple and clean, perhaps a little cleaner than most. The bed was made and the table cleared. Nothing suggested a crazy getaway. More likely a housekeeper came by regularly. Oppenberg seemed to have paid the man well, judging by the record player in the living room. Rath whistled through his teeth when he recognised the model. He’d have liked to borrow a few of the records. There was even a telephone on the desk.

The shelves contained almost exclusively technical books: specialist literature on electrotechnics and photography, some on engineering science too, but few novels. On the desk a typewriter sat gathering dust. Alongside it lay a soldering clamp as well as a few boxes containing little screwdrivers and similar tools, a few electronic replacement parts, switches, some tubes and fuses. Rath read the warning on the tube packaging. For the purposes of sound films please only use tubes (amplifier, rectifier and pre-amp tubes) that carry the KLANGFILM logo on the tube and packaging. The use of other tubes is dangerous and may lead to malfunction. The use of other tubes is also forbidden for patenting reasons.

Rath looked inside the wardrobe. Most of the hangers swung empty on the rail and the dresser drawers were all but cleared. Krempin had calmly packed his things before disappearing. So, either he had made exceptionally good use of the time upon fleeing the studio, or he had everything ready in advance.

The biggest unknown was when Krempin had left the studio.

Rath gave a start. Not the doorbell. The telephone!

He hesitated in front of the black appliance as it rattled away. Before reaching for the receiver he took a handkerchief from his jacket. The last thing he needed was to leave fingerprints on a murder suspect’s telephone.

‘Yes?’ There was no response, but Rath could hear someone breathing. ‘Who’s there please?’

Again, no response. For another second or two he heard nothing apart from that same gentle breathing. Then a click.

He continued looking around the flat but found nothing more of note, and ten minutes later was back in the car. Mertens and Grabowski were still away, so hadn’t registered his little trip.

Who had called? At first Rath feared it might have been one of the officers searching for Krempin, except they knew the flat was being shadowed and that it was pointless to call. Besides, a police officer would have identified himself to provoke a response from the other party. He was growing restless.

Previously, at least, he had been able to smoke during all those interminable hours spent in flats and cars, but then he had gone and given up. What a bright idea. He thought he had seen Grabowski with a carton of Muratti Forever as the latter made off with Mertens.

Where had the pair got to? They’d been gone almost half an hour, and he still had two addresses to visit. Just then he saw Grabowksi’s winter coat in the rear-view mirror and climbed out of the car.

Vivian Frank’s apartment was even more modern than Oppenberg’s office. Three rooms with a roof garden overlooked the Kaiserdamm, and an enormous bed under a champagne-coloured satin quilt that was reflected to infinity by two mirrors. Rath felt more at ease in the comparatively small living room, whose panoramic window looked out onto the Funkturm, the radio tower.

The furniture betrayed the taste of Manfred Oppenberg: simple, modern, elegant – and expensive. Fine woods, lots of leather and chrome, no scroll. Vivian Franck hadn’t furnished the flat herself, nor, most likely, had she paid for it. The woman Manfred Oppenberg called Angel couldn’t have earned so much through her films already. So, perhaps she came from a wealthy family. She certainly carried herself like a spoilt young lady. Was she a fallen princess for whom Manfred Oppenberg provided the last vestige of luxury? What else could tie her to such an old man? The promise of making her immortal on-screen?

The apartment was as polished and arranged as a film set. Only the big glass ashtray on the low, wooden table and the discreet house bar betrayed any hint of vice.

Rath searched every cupboard and drawer without locating any cocaine. He realised the thought of the white powder was almost giving him cravings. He couldn’t help thinking of Vivian Franck, of her bored face, those dead eyes that only began to sparkle once she had taken a dose. He had sworn not to touch the stuff again.

Apart from the bedroom, the apartment didn’t give much away about its owner’s habits, although he had noticed a few empty clothes-hangers in the wardrobe. Oppenberg had already told him that a dozen or so items of clothing were missing along with two suitcases and a travel bag.

Where had Vivian Franck gone, and why hadn’t she returned?

He locked the door twice and took the lift downstairs. The concierge in the marble reception hall looked so old he might have been on duty since the days of Old Fritz. He only started talking when he recognised the Prussian CID badge.

‘So, Herr Oppenberg did go to the police after all,’ he said, removing his glasses. ‘About time too. He called here at least twenty times a day to ask after that Franck.’

‘When did you last see Frau Franck?’

The narrow shoulders shrugged. ‘Just as she was leaving.’

‘Can you be a little more precise?’

‘Must be three, four weeks since she asked for a taxi. The driver had a bit of a struggle with her cases, took a while to get them in the car.’

‘And then?’

‘Then he got in and drove off.’

Rath smiled. ‘Where did they go?’

‘No idea. To some station, I’d say. Or the airport. Wherever you go with big suitcases.’

‘She didn’t say anything?’

‘To me? That Franck’s never even looked at me in the two years she’s lived here. Normal mortals don’t exist for her.’

‘Did you notice anything else?’

‘Nope.’

‘After that you never saw her again?’

‘Nope.’ The concierge considered. ‘Well, that is, I did, once…’

‘Where?’

‘…in Verrucht , her latest film.’ This seemed to be a great joke.

Rath moved towards the exit with the concierge’s bleating laughter in his ears. Suddenly, it stopped. ‘Wait!’

Rath turned at the door. ‘I’ve had my fill of jokes.’

‘No, no more jokes. Seriously, there was something the day she left.’

‘What?’

‘Someone called around midday and asked for her, it was nothing special, but…’

‘Who?’

‘He didn’t give his name, but I recognised him all the same.’

‘Who?’

‘He never called otherwise, always came in person. A very personable fellow, no doubt…’

The concierge winked, slowly getting on Rath’s nerves.