Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

Ziehlke pulled his braces over his shoulders and stood up. ‘Is this a new police method, descending on a Sunday afternoon?’

‘I apologise if it’s a bad time, but this is urgent. Just a few questions, and I’ll be on my way.’

‘What’s it about?’ The man spoke with a Berlin accent.

‘Can we go somewhere more…’

Ziehlke shrugged his shoulders, opened a door and led Rath into the bedroom. Three beds, a large one and two small ones, as well as a giant wardrobe, meant there was barely room to stand. Nevertheless, there were two chairs inside, one of which was in front of a table by the window. It didn’t smell much better here than in the kitchen.

‘Please sit,’ Ziehlke said, showing Rath to a chair. ‘It’s the best I can do.’

‘No, thank you.’ Rath remained standing and took the piece of paper from his pocket. ‘You drive taxi number two-four-eight-two?’

‘Correct. Is something the matter with it?’

‘No, no. It’s about a passenger you picked up on the eighth of February, a famous passenger, an actress…’

‘Well, there’s plenty of them in this city!’

‘Vivian Franck.’

‘Old Franck! Yes, I remember. That was on the eighth?’

‘I need to know where you took her.’

‘Somewhere near Wilmersdorf, I think… But wait, I make a note of everything.’

He fetched a dark chauffeur’s jacket from the wardrobe and rummaged in the inside pocket.

‘Here it is!’ He showed Rath a little brown notebook. ‘So,’ he said after leafing quickly through. ‘ Sonnabend. Eighth of February, nine thirty from Charlottenburg, Kaiserdamm. Drove on till Wilmersdorf. Hohenzollerndamm. Corner of Ruhrstrasse.’

‘Then?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Did she make you wait? Did you go on somewhere? To a station perhaps, or the airport?’

Ziehlke shook his head. ‘There was a man there, he picked her up, and then…’

‘Someone picked her up?’

‘He was standing on the corner with flowers. Looked like an actor.’

‘Did you recognise the man?’

‘No, never seen him.’

‘What makes you think he was an actor?’

Ziehlke shrugged his shoulders. ‘Because that’s what he looked like. Good-looking, elegant. And Vivian Franck is an actress unless I’m mistaken.’

Rath took the photo of Rudolf Czerny from his jacket. ‘Was it this man?’

‘Czerny? Nah, I’d have recognised him. It was someone I haven’t seen in the pictures.’

Rath put the photo back in his pocket. ‘Can you remember where the pair of them went?’

‘Didn’t see. I went straight to the taxi rank and waited for my next fare.’ He took another look inside his book. ‘Reinickendorf. Not until quarter to eleven. I was waiting for ever. Stood there waiting and unwrapped my sandwiches.’

‘And you didn’t see Vivian Franck again. You’re certain she didn’t come back onto the street. Or her companion perhaps?’

‘Sure did, she’s on billboards everywhere. But seriously, I didn’t see her again. Why do you want to know all this? Has something happened? Is it drugs? Because I don’t tolerate that sort of thing in my taxi, believe me!’

Rath gave a wry smile and took his leave.

Outside on Cheruskerstrasse he lit a cigarette before getting into the car and folding the window down to get the smell out of his nose. He had despised fried liver since childhood when his mother had tormented him with it on a regular basis. It was his eldest brother Anno’s favourite food but, even after he was killed in action, she continued to serve it up…

He started the car and drove off. There wasn’t much traffic.

He parked the Buick in front of a wine dealership on Hohenzollerndamm. The junction of Ruhrstrasse seemed like a perfectly normal street corner. One end house was home to a ground-floor restaurant, the other a menswear store; the rest were solidly middle-class residences. Rath climbed out and took a look around. Who on earth could Vivian Franck have been visiting here? The plaques on the houses indicated lawyers, doctors and tax advisors, but there was no sign of any film producers. Nor did the names on the mailboxes tell him anything – but most likely film celebrities didn’t give their real names. There wasn’t even a travel agent where she might have collected her ticket for the crossing. The restaurant, on the other hand, was definitely unusual: Chinese. Yangtao , the neon sign said, whatever that might mean.

Why had Vivian Franck taken a taxi to Hohenzollerndamm on the eighth of February, and not to Anhalter Bahnhof where Rudolf Czerny was waiting for her? And what had she done after getting out of the taxi?

Showing her photo around on a Sunday when there were so few people about was unlikely to be much use. Perhaps he should ask Oppenberg if the address meant anything to him. If there was a film producer living nearby it would be a big step in the right direction.

Rath returned to the car and glanced at the time: half past one. He was getting hungry but had no appetite, and not just since his visit to the taxi driver. He slammed the heel of his hand against the wheel in rage. Damn it! When he had just about managed to forget about her.

Who the hell was this bastard! A man dressed as a cowboy, ridiculous! Probably some pompous lawyer.

He didn’t want Charly in his head, but what could he do? Don’t stop, keep moving. Drive, drive, drive! He started the engine with nowhere specific in mind and simply drove all over town, taking whatever turn he fancied. Somehow his route took him towards Moabit, and into Spenerstrasse where, slowly…

…he rolled past her house. What did he think, hope, fear he might see?

He took another turn around the block and pulled over on the opposite side of the road from her house, before switching the engine off and lighting a cigarette. The last in the pack. Pretty good going, considering he still called himself a non-smoker only yesterday.

He watched the front door, peering occasionally up at the windows. No one, but then he thought he saw a thin gleam of light behind one of the panes. Shouldn’t he just go over and ring the bell? Then what? Start another brawl if a cowboy opened the door?

He threw the cigarette butt out of the window and started the engine.

Half an hour later, armed with a fresh carton of Overstolz, Rath climbed the stone steps of police headquarters. He had left the car in Klosterstrasse and walked to the Castle, as Böhm or one of his dogsbodies might have noticed the Buick in the atrium. The huge construction site at Alex was getting worse by the month anyway, and it was now barely possible to get through by car. Aschinger and the few other stores that, until now, had been spared demolition clustered round the station like condemned men. Rumour had it that Aschinger would be granted a home in the new building. It wasn’t known what would happen to Loeser & Wolff but, for now, Rath could keep himself in cigarettes there. As long as the police commissioner smoked cigars, there was bound to be a tobacconist’s at Alex.

On Sundays most units were reduced to a skeleton staff. He had hoped not to meet anyone but, at precisely the moment he emerged from the stairwell, the great glass door to Homicide opened.

‘Afternoon, Lange,’ Rath said, tipping his hat.

The man from Hannover was surprised. ‘Inspector! You’re not on weekends.’

‘But you clearly are.’

Lange nodded. ‘With Brenner, but he’s reported sick.’ Lange hummed and hawed before coming out with it. ‘He mentioned… well… is it true that you… beat him up?’

‘Let’s just say I taught him a little lesson. No need to shout it from the rooftops.’

‘I’m afraid someone already has.’ Lange lowered his voice. ‘It looks as if Brenner wants to make a big deal out of it: disciplinary proceedings. Prepare for trouble, Sir. The boss was already pissed off with you yesterday because he couldn’t find you anywhere.’