Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

‘She might have survived the accident?’

Gräf shrugged his shoulders. ‘Let’s see what the doctor says. At any rate her career as an actress was over the instant the spotlight struck her. Even if she had survived, she’d hardly have been making romantic comedies.’

‘Looks as if that poor wretch realises what he’s done.’ Rath pointed towards the sobbing Meisner.

‘Seems that way.’

‘Spoken to him already?’

‘Our colleagues have tried. Pointless…’

‘Unresponsive?’

‘Nothing we can use anyway…’

A loud crash stopped Gräf in his tracks. He glanced at Czerwinski and Henning, who had begun to unfold the camera stand somewhat awkwardly. ‘Perhaps I should take the photos,’ he said. ‘Before those two dismantle the camera completely.’

Rath nodded. ‘Do it. Let them question the rank and file. Most likely they all saw something.’

Gräf shrugged. ‘The cameraman saw everything . The director too. That’s part of their job.’ The detective gestured towards a wiry-looking chap who was talking quietly but no less forcefully to a balding, well-dressed man in his mid-fifties.

Rath nodded. ‘I’ll have a word with him in a moment. Where’s the man responsible for the spotlights?’

‘No idea. I can’t take care of everything.’

‘Tell Henning to find him and send him to me.’

Gräf turned away and Rath moved towards the blubbing Meisner. When Rath was standing directly in front of him, he stopped sobbing and looked up. The woman in grey stroked his shoulders reassuringly as Rath produced his badge. The man gazed at him beseechingly until, suddenly, despair erupted from him.

‘I killed her,’ he cried, ‘I killed Betty! My God, what have I done?’ His hands dug into Rath’s trouser legs. The woman in grey came to his aid.

‘It’s all right, Victor,’ she said softly.

She took the actor’s slender hands and dragged him away from Rath onto the director’s chair, where he buried his face in her grey skirt.

‘Surely you can see he can’t talk now,’ she said, ‘he’s in shock! I hope the doctor gets here soon.’

Rath knew that Dr Schwartz was on his way, but he doubted whether the acerbic pathologist was the right man to comfort a tender soul like Victor Meisner. He gave the woman his card.

‘There’s no need for Herr Meisner to make a statement just now. He can come to the station when he’s feeling better. Monday at the latest.’

Rath had the feeling she was gazing right through him. He wrote the date on the card, as well as a time. Eleven o’clock. He couldn’t afford to give the poor devil any more grace than that.

‘You look after him for now,’ he said. ‘The best thing would be to take him to hospital.’

‘Do what the man says, Cora,’ a deep voice said, ‘it’s better if Victor doesn’t stay here any longer than necessary.’

Rath turned to the balding man who had been speaking to the director. Cora led Victor Meisner to the exit.

‘Bellmann,’ the man said, introducing himself. ‘La Belle Film Production. I’m the producer of Liebesgewitter. ’

‘La Belle?’ Rath shook his hand. ‘I thought this was Terra Film.’

‘The rooms, but not the production. Very few film companies can afford their own studio. We’re not Ufa, you know,’ Bellmann said, and it sounded almost apologetic. He pointed towards the director. ‘Jo Dressler, my director.’

‘Jo?’

‘Josef sounds too old-fashioned,’ the director said and stretched out a hand. ‘Good day, Inspector.’

‘We still can’t believe it.’ Bellmann said. ‘In the middle of the shoot!’ He looked genuinely shaken. ‘ Liebesgewitter was supposed to be screening in cinemas in two weeks.’

‘So soon?’

‘Time is money,’ Bellmann said.

‘We still had two days of filming scheduled,’ Dressler explained. ‘Today and tomorrow.’

‘The film’s nearly finished?’

Dressler nodded.

‘A tragedy,’ Bellmann said. Then he gave a nervous laugh and corrected himself. ‘The accident, I mean. The accident is a tragedy. The film, of course, is a comedy. A divine romantic comedy, something completely new. Divine in the true sense of the word.’

Rath nodded, though he didn’t understand a thing. ‘Did you see how it happened?’

Bellmann shook his head. ‘By the time I arrived she was already lying motionless on the floor. But Jo, you can tell the inspector…’

The director cleared his throat. ‘Well, as I said to your colleagues… it was just before the end of the scene. We were already shooting it for the second time, and it was going well. We just needed the slap and the thunder, then it’d have been a wrap…’

‘Thunder?’

‘Liebesgewitter is the story of Thor, the Norwegian God of Thunder, who falls in love with a girl from Berlin and courts her as Count Thorwald. Whenever the two of them come together, it thunders.’

Rath thought it sounded completely insane. This was the film that was supposed to launch Betty Winter’s sound career?

‘Well,’ Dressler continued, ‘suddenly the flood crashed down from the ceiling.’

‘The flood?’

‘The spotlight that struck Betty. It knocked her to the floor and buried her underneath it. My God, the way she was lying there screaming, and no one could help her – it was just dreadful…’

‘Why didn’t anyone help her?’

‘Do you know how hot a spotlight gets? It isn’t just something you can manhandle.’

‘But there was one person who tried…’

‘You mean Victor?’ Dressler shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know what came over him. It was their scene and he was standing right next to her. Well, who knows what goes through a person’s mind? There’s someone right next to you, and you smell their burnt skin, hear them scream – you want to help, don’t you? And the way she was screaming!’ He shook his head. ‘We all stood as if paralysed. Before we understood what he was doing he’d tipped the fire bucket over her.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘She stopped screaming immediately, and started… her whole body started twitching… in protest, almost… and then there was a bang. All the fuses had tripped and the lights went out.’

‘Then?’

‘It took a few seconds before we could see anything again. I was first there, after Victor, I mean. Betty was dead.’

‘How could you tell?’

‘I… I felt her carotid artery. There was no pulse.’

‘Incomprehensible, isn’t it?’ Bellmann said. ‘A devastating loss for the German film industry.’

Rath looked at the producer. ‘Do things like this often happen?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like spotlights falling from the roof? The structure up there looks a bit wobbly to me.’

Bellmann flew off the handle. ‘Listen to me, Inspector, it might look a little temporary, but believe me, it’s all checked and approved. Ask your colleagues from the Department of Building Regulations!’ He grew louder. ‘This is a glasshouse, perfect for shooting films, but not for recording sound. That’s the reason for the renovations – we’re still in the middle of them. Soundproofing, you see. With talkies it’s more important than daylight, which is something we must unfortunately make do without. As far as lighting is concerned, we’ve always had the best equipment. Our spotlights are among the most state-of-the-art in the industry today, Nitraphot lamps…’

It was an inappropriate remark given that an actress had died under just such a modern spotlight. Bellmann fell silent and Rath did nothing to ease his embarrassment.

Some people allowed their reserve to be broken by this sort of thing, but Bellmann kept himself in check, probably a useful skill in his profession. The director seemed less assured, transferring his weight from one leg to the other as if he needed to go to the bathroom. Before he could say anything unguarded, however, Henning appeared with a slightly built man in tow whom he introduced as Hans Lüdenbach. In his grey work overalls he had the look of an underpaid caretaker.