Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

It was Rosenmontag, Carnival Monday, his first in Berlin, and he was glad he had enough work. K ö lle Alaaf . He drank a second cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette before setting off. On the way to Schöneberg he stopped at the petrol station on Yorckstrasse and filled up. By half past seven he was in Cheruskerstrasse. He had thought about whether he should call so early but, with the exception of the mother, the family had already left for the day.

‘You’ll have to get up earlier,’ she said. ‘My Friedhelm’s already out and about by this time.’

He gave her his card and requested that her husband get in touch urgently. ‘He should ask to be put through to this number,’ he said, writing his private telephone number. ‘Best after six in the evening.’

‘You think we can afford a telephone? It costs twenty pfennigs at the salon downstairs. Blum, that shark!’

Rath rummaged in his pockets and pressed fifty pfennigs into her outstretched palm. ‘In case you should dial the wrong number,’ he said. ‘But I can count on you, can’t I? It’s important.’

‘Of course, Inspector.’

She closed the door behind her. A rough exterior doesn’t necessarily hide a heart of gold, he thought, but she seemed reliable.

He didn’t have any photos to show the taxi driver, but it was the suitcases he was interested in. Ziehlke must have taken them somewhere; he certainly hadn’t put them on the pavement beside Vivian Franck when she alighted from the taxi on Hohenzollerndamm.

He arrived at Marienfelde early too, but any hopes he might have had of looking for the wire Krempin had mentioned were dashed. On his last visit the place had been guarded by police officers but now, as in Babelsberg, there was just a lone watchman, this time in civilian clothing. The man placed a finger to his lips and gestured towards the red light above the door. Rath nodded. He already knew the soundproofing in this glasshouse wasn’t perfect.

He showed his badge, offered an Overstolz, and this time it was the guard’s turn to nod. The pair smoked in silence and were still smoking when the light above the door went out.

‘You can go in now, but make sure you put your cigarette out first. Fire hazard.’

Rath took another drag before treading the butt out on the concrete floor and entering. It was eerie. The scenery in the fireplace room was still there, and everything had been patched up, even the spot on the parquet where the heavy spotlight had fallen to the floor.

What confused him most though, were the two people chatting by the fireplace. The man was wearing the same outfit as Victor Meisner three days before, the woman, a green evening dress that looked exactly like the one in which Betty Winter had died. Drawing nearer, he picked up a few scraps of conversation. The two actors were speaking in English.

‘Well, there’s a surprise! I didn’t know police officers were up and about so early.’ Heinrich Bellmann stepped out from behind the line of spotlights and shook him by the hand. ‘Do you have any news? Were my suspicions accurate? Did Oppenberg have a hand in it?’

‘Do you know Vivian Franck?’ Rath asked.

‘Oppenberg’s floozy? Why do you ask?’

‘So you do know her. Can you tell me where she’s staying?’

‘Has Oppenberg told you I’m pinching his third-rate actresses? No, thanks. I don’t need a slut like that Franck!’

‘Verrucht was relatively successful…’

‘Because she spends most of the time gambolling half-naked through the set. Betty didn’t need to do that, none of my actresses do. If Oppenberg’s girls are running away from him, he needn’t look for them here!’

Bellmann didn’t give the impression that he knew anything about Vivian Franck’s whereabouts. Time to change the subject. ‘Actually, I’m here for another reason,’ Rath said. ‘I need to speak to Herr Lüdenbach again, and take a closer look at the spotlight mounting.’

‘Go up to the lighting bridges? I’m afraid that’s not possible during filming.’

‘Correct, which is why you won’t have anything against taking a little break.’

‘For how long? You know that…’

‘…time is money,’ Rath completed the sentence. ‘That’s true for me too, by the way. Where’s your senior lighting technician?’

Bellmann waved Dressler over from talking to the sound engineer. ‘We’re taking a short break,’ he said. ‘The inspector would like to go back onto the lighting bridges with Lüdenbach.’

Dressler disappeared into the dark behind the spotlights. In the meantime, the two actors left the parquet and advanced curiously. ‘What’s going on?’ the man asked in English.

‘Short break,’ Bellmann answered in heavily accented English, gesturing towards Rath, ‘because of the Prussian police.’ When he saw Rath’s quizzical expression, he introduced the man. ‘Keith Wilkins,’ he said, in German now, ‘male lead in Thunder of Love .’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Wilkins said, shaking the inspector’s hand before disappearing behind the set. Rath suspected he would make use of the unexpected break to top up on cocaine.

He looked at the woman as if she were a vision from the hereafter. She was cast in an eerily similar mould to Betty Winter, only younger and prettier. He was searching for the correct English phrase when she greeted him in accent-free German.

‘Eva Kröger,’ she said.

Rath gazed at her, even more astonished than before.

She laughed. ‘I was raised bilingual,’ she explained. ‘My father is a Hamburg businessman, my mother a variety artist from Boston.’

‘Eva has all the makings of an international star,’ Bellmann said. ‘Not with that surname, however. We’re looking for something more sophisticated. Thunder of Love is her first major film.’

‘You shoot English films too?’

‘ Thunder of Love is the English version of Liebesgewitter ,’ Bellmann said. ‘If you want to maintain an international presence with sound films, you have to film several language versions. Or at least an English version for the American and British markets. That way you’re killing two birds with one stone. Two big birds, if I may say so.’

The actress turned to accompany her colleague backstage. From behind she was the spitting image of Betty Winter.

‘We’ve taken her on as Betty’s double.’ It was as if Bellmann had read Rath’s mind. ‘So that we can finish Liebesgewitter… ’

‘…as you owe it to the great Betty Winter, after all,’ Rath said.

If Bellmann noticed his sarcasm, he ignored it. ‘We’ve caught up on the production schedule by working through the weekend. Editing starts this afternoon. The distributors are pestering us to bring out the film earlier than planned. The cinemas are positively scrambling to get their hands on it.’ He sighed. ‘If only Betty had been alive to see it!’

No doubt demand wouldn’t be quite so overwhelming were it not for the press sensation following Betty’s violent death, Rath mused, but kept his thoughts to himself.

‘So, thanks to Eva Kröger, you’re actually killing three birds with one stone,’ he said instead.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, if she passes for Betty Winter’s double, then you can shoot all original versions with her in future, and the English ones on top of that.’

‘Multilingualism is just one of many advantages Eva brings,’ Bellmann said, a little peeved.

‘And her fee will be lower than that of the great Winter. You really have done well out of this.’

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, Inspector,’ Bellmann said, his face reddening after Rath’s remark. ‘But you should be aware that I have good lawyers.’