Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

The sun rose behind the bare trees of the zoo. It promised to be another fine day. Rath leafed through the papers. The Wessel funeral had been accompanied by one or two unpleasant scenes on the fringes of the cortège. Nothing more serious had occurred, though the Communists had done their best to provoke the Nazis. Thanks to Gräf, he hadn’t needed to be there. He mustn’t forget to show his partner a little appreciation; the detective had had to carry the can for him on a number of occasions over the last few days.

The resignation of Interior Minister Grzesinski was no longer much of a story; instead the headlines were dominated by speculation about a possible government crisis. Was the Great Coalition not quite as stable as Rath senior, the old centrist, maintained? Not all those in the Centre got on as well with the Social Democrats as Police Director Engelbert Rath, who had them to thank for much of his career.

Speculation was the order of the day in the Winter case too, with the papers relying in the main on Bellmann’s sabotage theories. They were careful not to mention Oppenberg by name, even though Rath felt sure Bellmann would have gone to great lengths to spell out the identity of his hated rival to any journalist who’d listen, no doubt while whispering: ‘But you didn’t get this from me.’ One way or another, the rumours were running wild. No wonder, given that there was nothing new from the station. Böhm had been unable, or unwilling, to tell journalists anything they didn’t already know and didn’t come off well in the articles. Rath registered with satisfaction that the majority of crime reporters had written Inspector Böhm although they must surely have been aware of his rank. That would make the bulldog very angry.

Gradually the time came. Rath finished his cup. He gave only a small tip, as the waiter could help himself to the coffee left in the pot.

Weinert was on time; the clock in the station forecourt showed half past eight as the Buick pulled up alongside a bus stop sign. He left the engine running and climbed into the passenger seat while Rath got behind the wheel.

‘Where to?’ Rath asked.

‘Nürnberger Strasse, then you’ll be rid of me.’

Rath stayed in the car outside Weinert’s apartment. Looking at the entrance to the next door house, he remembered how he and Charly had once hidden there from Elisabeth Behnke. It seemed so long ago.

He arrived at the Castle shortly after nine carrying a brown leather briefcase, feeling like an insurance salesman. Normally he didn’t bring anything to work apart from hat, coat and service weapon.

Erika Voss was expecting him. ‘There you are! Inspector, you’ll never believe what’s happening here! DCI Böhm…’

‘Then call him and tell him I’m here. Actually, wait a moment, I still have to file some things.’

‘You’ve got a nerve!’

‘As a matter of fact, I do. Is Gräf here yet?’

‘Already come and gone. Nine o’clock briefing in the small conference room. For all those working on the Winter ca…’

‘Henning and Czerwinski?’

‘Böhm’s detailed them for surveillance duty in Guerickestrasse.’

‘You’re well informed.’

‘Someone has to hold things together here, Inspector.’ She gave a wry grin under her blonde fringe.

‘Speaking of holding things together. You can start with this.’ He took the report he had typed on Weinert’s machine from the briefcase. She nodded dutifully, rummaged for a new file in the drawer and reached for the big black punch.

‘Any other documents on the Winter case?’ he asked, as she wedged the paper under the punch.

She shook her head. ‘Gräf took them all with him.’

‘Then the report will have to do.’ Rath returned the file to his briefcase. ‘Now, into the lion’s den.’

‘Good luck, Inspector,’ she said compassionately. In all the months they had worked together, Erika Voss had never offered him so much encouragement; he was almost touched.

Carrying the leather case he at least felt somewhat armed, as he entered the small conference room. The briefing had been going for twenty minutes and the air was thick with smoke. He resisted the temptation to reach for his carton of Overstolz, and met any curious glances with a nod. A few colleagues whispered to each other when they saw him.

He sat next to Gräf. ‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘Gereon, damn it!’ Gräf hissed. There was trouble in the air.

Up on the podium, Kronberg from ED was going through yesterday’s findings. Böhm stood listening with arms folded, and when he darted a glance at Rath he seemed to gaze right through him.

‘…manually removed, so that by now the spotlight is attached to a single bolt, which, itself having been loosened, is being held in place by a cotter pin alone,’ Kronberg droned. The crime scene man was reading aloud from a sheet of paper. One or two colleagues couldn’t help but yawn. ‘Now, if, using the abovementioned lever and the wire cable attached to it, one were to remove the cotter pin from the bolt, the bolt would consequently come loose, causing the spotlight, now deprived of support, to fall. This appears to have occurred on the eighth of February this year, the intention clearly being to cause death or serious injury to the actress Bettina Winter.’

Rath was continually astonished at the formulations of the Prussian police. It wasn’t just them, however: the whole of the Prussian civil service would have been capable of describing a person’s agonising death as though it were a technical process, a physics experiment in school.

Kronberg gazed at the assembled company over the rim of his glasses, probably to make sure that every last person in the room had given up trying to follow his report. ‘Based on the positioning of this construction, it seems reasonable to assume that…’

‘How about you leave the assumptions to us, my dear Kronberg?!’ Clearly Kronberg hadn’t managed to lull Böhm to sleep. The bulldog had been paying attention. The ED man looked slightly aggrieved, but didn’t dare protest. Instead he cleared the way for the DCI.

‘Many thanks, Herr Kronberg.’ Böhm could make a ‘thank you’ sound like an insult. ‘Inspector Rath?’ he continued. ‘I thought I saw you come in just now?’ The room fell silent, like a classroom after the teacher has asked who left the wet sponge on his chair. Everyone turned to look at Rath. ‘Ah, there you are. Would you be so kind as to come to the podium and tell us about your recent work in the Winter case?’

Rath moved towards the front, taking the report from his leather case as he went. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Good morning, Detective Chief Inspector.’ He lifted the file in the air. ‘I have taken the liberty of summarising my findings in a report, which I…’

‘Get to the point!’

Böhm was glaring at him, his eyes like two frozen glass marbles. Very well, Rath thought, the whole nine yards it is.

‘Herr Kronberg has already told you a thing or two about the device that I discovered yesterday in Terra Studios,’ he said, taking the screenplay and production schedule from the brown case. ‘Here I have the time frame according to which the… saboteur, as I will call him for now, proceeded. The script and production schedule for Liebesgewitter , Betty Winter’s final film.’

He looked across the group. Curious faces, tense silence. He outlined his theory: that Krempin had devised the wire construction to release the spotlight and destroy the film camera, but had been exposed. He had therefore neutralised the device at the last minute and left the studio in a hurry. Someone else must have reconnected it.

Böhm actually let him finish. ‘Where did you get such a fanciful idea?’ he asked.