Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

Upstairs the doorbell rings. He hears Albert making his way through the hall.

It can’t be her; he still has a couple of hours.

The Chinahaus had delivered as promised. Their van was just turning onto the road as Rath parked the Buick in front of the villa. He climbed out and put the dog on the lead. Better to take Kirie with him than have her make another fuss. The house lay behind a veil of drizzle that spattered the light from the windows into millions and billions of tiny droplets, and seemed even more forbidding than he remembered from his visit the week before.

He felt a tingle as he walked along the path. Still in the grips of the fever, he could sense how close he was to something. Somewhere here was a link between the three women. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he ought to know already that this visit was superfluous, that he only need pause and think and he would understand what had been plaguing him since his telephone call with the Chinahaus.

‘Be good,’ he said to the dog. ‘We’re in polite company now.’

Kirie sat as he rang the bell.

It took a little while before the white-haired servant opened. Despite his wealth, Marquard didn’t keep many staff. The old man ought to have retired long ago, but continued to perform his duties.

‘Yes?’ he said, gazing arrogantly at Rath.

‘I’d like to speak to Herr Marquard.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s a police matter.’ He showed his badge. Did the old man really not recognise him, or was dim-wittedness to be expected from a servant?

This time at least, the man didn’t make him wait outside. They proceeded to the large hallway, which was called the vestibule here, and the old servant disappeared through one of the great double doors into the enormous house. Kirie sniffed at a suit of armour that was done up to look old but couldn’t have more than thirty years on the clock. The dog had seemed agitated since she entered the house. No doubt there was a lot for her nose to discover in a place like this.

After two minutes, the servant returned.

‘The master will see you now,’ he said, ‘but he wishes to make it known that he doesn’t have much time.’

‘If you had let me in straightaway, I’d be on my way by now,’ Rath said.

The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘I must ask you to leave the dog in the vestibule,’ he said, looking at Kirie as if she had rabies.

Rath tied the lead to a halberd that was supporting a suit of armour, and bent down towards Kirie. ‘Be good,’ he said. ‘Remember what I told you outside.’

He followed the old servant through several rooms – almost all with a fireplace, some even with tapestries, into a small drawing room whose great lancet window would have afforded a fantastic view of the lake but for the veil of drizzle. A door led out onto a little terrace.

Wolfgang Marquard awaited him at a small, dark, wooden table on which there stood a bottle of Armagnac and two glasses. He rose to his feet as Rath entered.

‘Inspector,’ he said, shaking Rath’s hand. ‘Last time, you didn’t come bearing good news. I hope… it’s nothing to do with Oppenberg, is it?’

‘I can reassure you on that front. No bad news. Just a few questions regarding a small, unremarkable fruit.’

Marquard poured himself a little Armagnac. ‘I’d like to offer you a glass, but no doubt you’re on duty.’

‘Strictly speaking I’m on holiday. I’ll take a glass.’

Marquard passed him a beaker of bronze liquid. Rath brandished it under his nose and sniffed. Being rich had its advantages.

‘To your holiday,’ said Marquard. ‘I’m curious, Inspector. Why are you here?’

Rath had never tasted such good Armagnac. ‘It concerns yangtao, the Chinese gooseberry. Something very exotic…’

‘Yangtao? A delicacy. Perhaps you have come to the right man after all. You must know that my chef is Chinese, but how does a policeman learn of such an exotic fruit?’

‘Purely from duty. Although I did try it recently, and must say it tasted very good.’

‘Not many people in Berlin know of yangtao. Unless, that is, you eat Chinese food regularly, and have the courage to order something unfamiliar for dessert.’

‘That’s what I was thinking. That yangtao isn’t as widespread here as, say, Buletten.’

‘A strange comparison, but no doubt you’re right.’

‘That’s why it could be a lead. Things that are rare always make you sit up and take notice, especially if they keep cropping up. I don’t know how much Herr Oppenberg has told you about the murders we’re investigating. Murders of actresses. Vivian Franck is one of them…’

‘A tragic case. I always admired Vivian Franck, you know. I still do.’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Her art is immortal.’

‘That’s hardly a comfort.’

‘Do you think? Isn’t it the only comfort we have? The immortality of art?’

‘Most people take comfort from the immortality of the soul. Don’t you believe in that?’

‘The soul? That’s something you only find in art. In music, in its purest form. But also in paintings, books, films…’

‘Only not in sound film, if I’ve understood you correctly.’

‘Sound film is not art, it’s a spectacle. It shows us how we are, and not how we should be. Where is the art in that?’

From far away there was a clatter, then a bark, and shortly afterwards the servant knocked on the door.

‘What is it, Albert?’

‘The inspector’s dog… well, it’s rather restless.’

‘You have a dog? Why didn’t you bring it in?’

‘I thought it advisable to recommend that the inspector leave the dog in the vestibule, on account of the cats. However, it has…’

‘Stop prattling on, Albert! Bring the dog to its master.’

‘Very well, Sir.’

The servant disappeared again.

‘Strictly speaking, I’m not its master,’ Rath said. ‘I’m only looking after it. It belongs to an actress. Jeanette Fastré. Do you know her?’

‘Of course, that goes with the territory.’

‘Personally too?’

‘Not as well as I knew Vivian Franck. I’ve seen her two, maybe three times.’

‘But you never invited her for dinner – as you did Herr Oppenberg recently?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Frau Fastré has a fondness for yangtao. I thought perhaps she had acquired it at your house.’

‘I must disappoint you there. Does Frau Fastré have anything to do with the murders you were just talking about?’

Rath nodded. ‘Regrettably, yes. As a victim.’

‘I haven’t read anything about that.’

‘We don’t want to trigger a hysterical reaction amongst the population. That’s why we’re withholding the news. I must also ask that you maintain your silence on the matter. The press have already linked the dead actresses Vivian Franck and Betty Winter, and are talking about a serial killer. Never mind that Betty Winter’s death is completely different in background.’

‘Do you know who is responsible for her death? The lighting technician, as reported in the papers?’

‘No, but let’s return to the reason for my visit, Herr Marquard. It was I who wanted to ask you some questions, not the other way around.’

‘Of course, I apologise.’

‘So back to the subject of yangtao…’

There was a knock on the door and the old servant returned, dragging a reluctant Kirie on her lead. Only once she had smelled Rath did she give up her resistance, bounding into the room with her tail wagging.

‘There you are, sweetie,’ he said. ‘I thought I told you to behave!’

‘I’m afraid nothing could be further from the truth,’ the servant said. ‘The dog caused the Maximilian armour in the vestibule to fall, and dragged the halberd to the cellar door.’