Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

The Luxor looked run-down and dirty, as if nobody had cleaned the strip lights or electric bulbs on the façade for years.

Böhm and Rath greeted the uniformed officer at the door silently as they entered, while the stenographer uttered a shy ‘good morning’. Henning took the camera from the boot of the car. A second officer led them down past rows of seats to the screen.

Despite all the lights being on, even on the artificial firmament, the auditorium was still dark and gloomy. A few people from ED were clambering between the pipes of the organ, which looked as miserable as the cinema itself. The musty smell inside the room intensified the impression of decay.

‘Up there,’ the officer said, gesturing towards a steep, wooden staircase. ‘I don’t need to see it again.’

The staircase led inside the organ where the smell was abominable, and the higher they climbed, the worse it got. Rath let Böhm lead, following with a handkerchief held to his nose. Christel Temme remained below with her writing pad.

The corpse lay on a service platform beside the battered organ pipes, which an ED man with a mask over his mouth was dusting for fingerprints. Next to the pipes were a glockenspiel, a drum, a rainstick and even a miniature version of Bellmann’s thunder machine. The body took up most of the space between the organ pipes and the back wall. There wasn’t much room left on the platform, so that the ED man, who didn’t seem to mind the smell, had to be careful where he stood.

Rath recognised her the moment he saw her face.

Shit, he thought involuntarily. Now you can tell Oppenberg what’s become of her. No Hollywood star. Vivian Franck’s dead eyes stared out of a perfectly made-up face that appeared to have been done up for a shoot; the glittering dress might have come from a film fund.

Rath remembered her lust for life and felt sick looking at what was left of her. He pulled himself together and decided to look instead at the organ pipes that rose like metallic stalagmites. The last thing he needed was to pass out in front of Böhm.

‘Doctor here yet?’ Böhm asked the ED man. Even the bulldog was having trouble breathing. The ED man gestured with his head towards the back.

They found the pathologist at a small table in an adjoining room. Dr Schwartz sat in hat and coat, making notes in his little red book. He glanced at Böhm and Rath as they entered, before reassuming his indifferent, slightly cynical expression. Two men stood behind him, and by the look on their faces neither had quite got to grips with the situation. The first, a gaunt figure, was kneading his hat in his hands nervously, blinking in embarrassment out of a pale face, while the second was mildly overweight and blushing grimly under his light-coloured felt hat.

‘Morning, Doctor,’ Böhm said. ‘Now that’s what I call hard-working. What can you say about the cause of death?’

‘Not much.’ Schwartz said. ‘The only certainty is that the woman is dead. No external agencies, at least not at first glance, but I haven’t turned the corpse yet. Didn’t want to tread on your toes.’

‘How long has she been dead?’

‘Based on the degree of decomposition, I’d say three to four weeks. But it could be longer.’

Böhm nodded. ‘Smells about right. Strange that she wasn’t found earlier.’

‘No one’s been in here for weeks,’ the gaunt man chipped in. It sounded apologetic.

‘Who are you?’ Böhm asked.

‘Riedel, the broker. We’re looking for new tenants, and today was the first visit with an interested party. I was showing Herr Strelow here the premises… we were just wondering about the smell, and then on inspecting the organ…’

‘It had to be Vivian Franck,’ said Strelow, shaking his head. ‘That was a real shock.’

‘Do you know the woman?’ Böhm asked. Which suggested that he didn’t.

‘Not personally. But I saw her in Verrucht !’

‘A film actress?’ Böhm mumbled. ‘That fits.’

‘I was going to open the Luxor with her new sound film,’ Strelow said.

‘ Vom Blitz getroffen ?’ The words slipped out before Rath had a chance to think.

Strelow nodded, but Böhm looked at him disapprovingly. ‘You’re well informed,’ he said. ‘No doubt you spend too much time in the cinema. Do you know the film?’

‘It doesn’t exist yet,’ Rath said. ‘They were about to film it.’

‘Her most expensive production to date,’ Strelow added. ‘Her first full-length talkie. Eagerly anticipated by the whole industry.’

‘Well, nothing will come of it now,’ Böhm said.

‘Do you still need me?’ Dr Schwartz asked in his calm, sonorous voice as he pocketed his notebook. ‘If you want to question the witnesses, perhaps I could apply myself to the remains.’

‘It’s yours, as soon as Henning has everything in the can,’ Böhm said.

No sooner had the doctor taken his leave than Böhm turned the space into an interrogation room, questioning the broker and cinema owner separately. Rath he told to stand aside, but it was unclear whether his purpose was to act as a doorman or a heavy, or something else entirely. Böhm assigned Christel Temme the remaining place at the little table.

The two men didn’t have much to say, apart from the fact that they had found the body. There were no contradictions in their statements. The broker explained that the Luxor had been out of commission since the start of the year because its former owner had taken it to the brink of ruin. Now, thanks to a progressively minded cinema enthusiast – he pointed to the door behind which Strelow was waiting – they were using an opportune moment to convert it into an ultramodern sound film cinema. As for who might have brought the body here, Riedel had no idea. There were no signs of a break-in. Böhm had then asked the broker for a list of everyone who had a key to the Luxor.

While Böhm questioned the two men, Rath immersed himself in his thoughts. The intersection where Vivian Franck had been picked up by a stranger almost four weeks ago was only a few streets away. Had she gone willingly to that ominous stranger waiting by the roadside?

‘Inspector!’ Böhm’s voice startled him. For the first time since that morning, when he had fetched him to his team with a brusque ‘Rath, you’re coming too!’ the DCI had addressed him.

‘Inspector, please check whether the woman has any relatives in the city who might be able to identify her.’

‘Now?’

‘When do you think? We’re investigating a murder.’

‘But I’d need to go back to the station…’

Böhm was unmoved. ‘And when you’ve finished that, you can deliver news of her death. Take Lange from the Winter team if you like. He’s the right man for a job like that.’

‘How am I supposed to get to Alex without a car?’

‘Do I look like your chauffeur?’

For the first time in a long while Rath was obliged to take the underground. He was annoyed: Why had Böhm brought him along, only to make him hang around for three-quarters of an hour and then send him back to the Castle? The journey from Fehrbelliner Platz to Alex took about half an hour, but at least he didn’t have to change. It was his old route, past Nürnberger Platz, and he couldn’t help thinking back to his first few weeks in Berlin, and a journey he had made with Charly. He gazed past his reflection into the darkness and tried to order his thoughts, carried as they were by the rattle and judder of the train.

Vivian Franck was dead.

His private assignment had become an official case.

It would be better if Böhm didn’t learn of his connection to Oppenberg. Somehow he had to sell the groundwork he had carried out privately as freshly acquired and, if possible, collect a few rewards for his endeavour. He had to speak to Oppenberg and the taxi driver as quickly as possible and weave them into the official investigation, but hadn’t managed to get hold of either from the underground station. Oppenberg was back in Babelsberg, while Ziehlke was out and about with his taxi. At least he had been able to keep Erika Voss busy with a few tasks.