Rath heard a ringing from the stairwell that had to be coming from his flat. He was the only person who owned a telephone in the rear building. It rang a final time as he opened the door.
After hanging up his hat and coat, he went to the living room, put on a record and sank into his chair. Coleman Hawkins’s saxophone performed pirouettes, as unpredictably beautiful as a leaf in the wind. Rath closed his eyes.
Where would he be without the records from Severin? He wouldn’t have lasted three weeks in this city. No matter how he tried to regain control of his messed-up life, it always went wrong. Professionally, he felt like a hamster trapped in a wheel. Would he ever make police director like his father? It seemed increasingly unlikely. And his private life? His group of friends was limited to Reinhold Gräf, with whom he occasionally got drunk in the Nasse Dreieck, and Berthold Weinert, with whom he occasionally went for dinner and to exchange information. Of his Cologne friends, Paul was the only one who hadn’t turned his back on him after the fatal shooting in the Agnes quarter. His fiancée, Doris, the woman with whom he had intended to start a family, had dropped him like he had the plague.
He had seen Berlin as an opportunity to start afresh with women too, but the way things were looking he would be a bachelor forever, like Buddha. Well, as long as he didn’t become like Brenner or Czerwinski, running after pneumatic delivery tubes in the Resi…
He lit an Overstolz. At least he could smoke again in his flat without anyone moaning. He didn’t miss Kathi, not really. If she wanted to stay with that gypsy from the Resi, then why not? No, he didn’t miss her one bit.
He missed Charly.
He couldn’t get her horrified expression out of his mind. Had she recognised him?
So what if she had? He had ruined things anyway, completely ruined them months and months ago. Sometimes he thought his life with her might have taken a different turn, that she represented one of those rare opportunities you had to grasp with both hands. But what had he done? He had waved the opportunity goodbye with his damn lying, returned to his hamster wheel, and carried on turning.
Perhaps he had finally set something in motion after dealing Brenner that beating, but most likely in the wrong direction.
The telephone rang again. Who could it be? Kathi phoning to tell him it was over? Brenner challenging him to a duel? Or Böhm taking him off the case? He lifted the black receiver and responded with an innocuous ‘Yes?’
‘There you are at last! I thought you weren’t coming home tonight.’
‘Father?’
‘Listen, my boy,’ said Engelbert Rath, ‘I don’t have much time. Your mother and I are about to go over to the Klefischses. I’m seeing the mayor tomorrow on the parade route. What news can I give him?’
He hadn’t lifted a finger in the Adenauer matter. ‘It’s Sunday today. The Ford plant is closed, and yesterday I didn’t have any time.’
‘You still haven’t done anything? Do you know how pressing this matter is, boy? And how important?’ Engelbert Rath was appalled. ‘I’m staking my good name on ensuring the honour of our city and mayor is not besmirched.’
Why shouldn’t your honour and name be a little besmirched for a change? Rath thought. ‘I’ll take a look at the Ford plant in the next few days,’ he said dutifully. ‘The blackmailer’s probably around there somewhere.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Who else would have an interest in keeping Ford in Berlin at all costs?’
‘Maybe the blackmail is just a ruse to put us off the scent. It’s in the interests of Konrad’s political opponents to put one of our Party’s most capable men out of action, perhaps even inflict serious harm on the Catholic cause as a whole.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘How could a Ford worker, even the plant manager or managing director, get hold of such confidential information from Deutsche Bank? More likely it’s someone from a completely different circle.’
‘First we need to uncover the leak. If Adenauer could make a list of everyone who knows about the secret agreement between him and the bank.’
‘He has already. All people of integrity.’
‘Of course,’ said Rath ironically. ‘So you already have a list of names?’
‘That’s the first thing you do in a case like this.’
‘How about sending it to me?!’
‘I’ll send it straightaway, but see to it that this matter is dealt with as quickly as possible.’
‘If it really is his political opponents, how am I supposed to stop them from spilling the beans in future?’
‘Once you have a name, everything will take care of itself. Everyone has their dirty secrets.’
The call ended. Rath always forgot that his father was more politician than policeman. Still, he was right about one thing: the blackmailer must have good links to Deutsche Bank. Someone must have spilled a few secrets in confidence, a conversation that had been overheard by chance or deliberately monitored.
The telephone rang again. Rath tore the receiver from the cradle. ‘What is it now?’
Not his father. At the other end of the line, Rath heard only gentle breathing. Then finally a male voice. ‘Inspector Rath?’
Not a voice he recognised. ‘Speaking.’
‘You’re the inspector in charge of the Winter case, aren’t you?’
‘What gives you that idea?’
‘It’s in the paper. I…’
‘What’s this about, please?’ Rath couldn’t stand it when people didn’t get to the point, or when they pestered him with police matters at home.
‘The Winter case, as I said.’ The caller cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Inspector, you’re looking for the wrong man.’
‘Krempin, is that you?’
It took a moment for the answer to arrive. ‘You have to believe me. Otherwise there’s no point continuing.’
‘It’s good you called. You’re an important witness.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish! I’m not a witness, I’m your chief suspect.’
The man wasn’t stupid. Rath held the receiver in his hand, frantically considering how he could bring Krempin in. First, keep him on the line.
‘So,’ Krempin continued. ‘Do you believe me?’
‘You haven’t told me what all this is about.’
‘It’s about whether you trust me, and whether I can trust you.’
‘If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear. I’ll do everything I can to help you.’
Krempin paused before continuing. ‘I didn’t kill Betty Winter, that’s the most important thing. You have to believe me! It’s just a series of stupid coincidences. No one meant for her to die.’
‘Why did you disappear from the studio after the accident?’
‘That’s not what happened! I didn’t leave after the accident; I left before it. I had been at home for hours when it happened.’
‘How do you know when it happened?’
‘From the paper, where else? How do you think I know you’re the one chasing me, or that I’m being chased in the first place?’
‘Are you surprised we’re looking for you? Why did you just clear off like that?’
It took a moment for Krempin to answer. ‘Because I’d been exposed. It had to happen sooner or later, I simply waited too long. And then the false name…’ The man fell silent once more.
‘Herr Krempin, you can tell me everything. I’ve spoken to Oppenberg, I know that you…’
‘You spoke to Manfred?’ There was relief in his voice, as if a weighty confession had been heard. ‘Then you’ll know that it was simply a question of delaying Bellmann’s shoot. That’s the only reason I came up with the spotlight idea. The camera’s insured, he could’ve had it replaced. Just not that quickly. It takes a long time to deliver these new, soundproof special cameras, especially at the moment. One or two weeks’ delay would’ve been enough. Especially now, with Vivian not here.’
Oppenberg, that rat! So he had lied to him! Krempin was talking about deliberate sabotage, about manipulating the lighting system to destroy the sound film camera. Too many thoughts were racing through his mind, distracting him. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Rath asked.
‘That my cards are on the table. I know I’ve done bad things, and I want to take responsibility for them. But I’m no murderer!’
‘Then why are you hiding?’
‘Because you’re after me.’
That sounded plausible. People wanted for murder hide. They had those damn newshounds to thank for that! ‘Perhaps it was only involuntary manslaughter. Perhaps you didn’t mean for the spotlight to kill anyone. But that’s what happened, and you need to face up to it.’
‘I removed the wire before I left, deactivated the whole thing. Nothing else could’ve happened. It’s a mystery to me.’
‘Then come to the station and we’ll talk things through.’
Krempin gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘How stupid do you think I am? You’ll arrest me. You don’t have any other choice. That’s why you have my flat under surveillance.’
‘You called me once already,’ Rath said. ‘Yesterday, when I was in Guerickestrasse.’
‘You have good instincts, Inspector, but don’t expect me to come to Alex. I have good instincts too.’
‘Then tell me what you did. How you prepared the spotlight. When…’
Felix Krempin hung up.
Rath kept the receiver in his hand, gave the cradle a quick tap with the side of his hand and had himself put through to the private number listed on Manfred Oppenberg’s card. A maid told him that the master of the house wasn’t home. She wasn’t expecting him until late, as he was attending an important meeting tonight. Rath swallowed his rage for a moment and used all his charm to get the time and address.
That left him a few hours to drive back to Guerickestrasse. The green Opel was still parked outside the door, though with a different team this time. Plisch and Plum looked bored.
‘What are you two doing here?’ Rath asked. ‘I thought you were part of my investigation team.’
‘Your team doesn’t exist anymore,’ said Czerwinski. ‘Böhm’s taken it over, and proceeded to ruin our weekend. By the way, he was fuming that you were nowhere to be found.’
‘I’ve got things to do. Besides, I’m here now.’
‘You definitely can’t be accused of lacking commitment.’ He gave Rath an appraising look. ‘What’s got into you, giving Frank a bloody lip like that?’
‘He provoked me.’
‘He told me you started laying into him out of the blue.’
‘He’s lying.’
‘He was pretty mad!’
‘Well, did he calm down?’
‘No idea. He said something like I’ll tear strips off him, before going after you.’
‘Didn’t catch me though.’
‘Listen, Gereon,’ Czerwinski said. ‘You don’t have many friends in the Castle as it is, and you’re not making your life any easier. Frank is livid and baying for your blood, with a good chance of getting it, given his relationship to Böhm.’
‘What about my relationship to the commissioner?’
‘Like I said: you’re not making yourself any friends in the Castle. Between us, it’d be a good idea to show your colleagues a little more loyalty.’
Rath hunched his shoulders. ‘I am loyal. I’m paying you a visit, aren’t I? And look, I’ve even brought something for you.’ He passed him the container he’d used for Kathi’s reheated stew. ‘Here,’ he said, producing two spoons. ‘Silesian lentil stew. There should still be two portions inside, if you split it fairly.’
‘Sure,’ Czerwinski said, ‘according to rank.’
‘And girth,’ Henning piped up from the back seat.
‘Are you just here to feed the troops?’
‘No, I have an idea. Tuck in and keep an eye on things. I’ll be back in a minute.’
There were two possible houses, and Rath decided on the left-hand one first, beginning on the ground floor. A grey-haired man opened and eyed him suspiciously.
‘CID,’ Rath said, only to be interrupted.
‘I’ve already told you I didn’t see anything! I don’t spend all day staring at the house opposite.’
Rath remained friendly. ‘It’s about this house, not the one opposite. Have you noticed anything unusual, particularly in the last two days?’
The man looked at him from top to bottom. ‘No,’ he said and slammed the door.
He scarcely had any more luck in the remaining flats. Even where people were friendlier, their information was similarly vague. Nor did he find anyone he thought capable of hiding Felix Krempin.
‘You think he might have taken cover in someone’s flat?’ a small, bespectacled man in a grey cardigan asked, a resident from the third floor. ‘Save yourself the effort. No one here’s stupid enough. Better to ask next door.’
Again, Rath worked his way up from the ground floor, only to receive the same answers. On the second floor was a bell that appeared to be broken. He knocked, but no one answered. He knocked again.
‘You can knock as long as you like, no one will open.’
A full-faced woman was standing in the entrance to the flat opposite, her eyes alert.
‘Why not?’
‘No one lives there anymore.’
‘Since when?’
The woman shrugged. ‘The cops came about two or three weeks ago to kick the Seyfrieds out. They hadn’t paid their rent for months.’
‘No one’s replaced them?’
‘If Oppenberg wants as much for that dump as he’s charging us, then I’m not surprised.’
‘Oppenberg?’
‘The landlord.’
Rath nodded. ‘Have you noticed anything in the last few days? Was anyone in the empty flat?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?’
The woman looked surprised when he showed his badge. ‘The man you’re looking for? I don’t know, but he’d have to be pretty brazen to hide opposite his own house. How’s he supposed to have got in anyway?’
Rath rattled the handle, making the answer superfluous: the door wasn’t locked.
The woman continued to peer over nosily. ‘Thank you,’ Rath said, ‘you’ve been very helpful.’
It took her a moment to understand, then she withdrew to her flat and closed the door.
Rath entered. There was no furniture, only a telephone that had been left on the hallway floor. A series of sharp contours on the yellowing wallpaper revealed where the furniture had stood. The place smelt of cold cigarette smoke.
The living room looked directly onto the street below. When Rath looked out of the window, and leaned forward a little, he could make out the green Opel on the street corner. Across the way he was looking straight into the flat he had visited yesterday. He could even see the telephone.
In the Seyfrieds’ former bedroom Rath struck gold. Krempin hadn’t left much, just a few stubbed-out cigarettes in a tin. Enough for the boys from ED. It was time to disappear before things got too hectic and Wilhelm Böhm showed up in person.
He went downstairs and knocked on the car roof. Czerwinski folded down the side window.
‘Enjoy it?’ Rath asked.
‘Thanks.’ Czerwinski passed him the empty container.
‘You can bring it to my office tomorrow.’
‘Very tasty, by the way. Who’s the cook?’
‘A secret, but I’ll tell you something else.’ Rath leaned over so that Henning could hear too. ‘If you want to score some points with your boss, call the Castle and have ED come out. Seyfried, on the third floor.’
Czerwinski’s eyes practically popped out of his head.
‘Krempin,’ Rath said. ‘I fear we’ve been watching the wrong side of the street.’
It wasn’t easy finding a parking space at Potsdamer Platz. Rath drove past Haus Vaterland and parked under a double street sign opposite Europahaus. The old name Königgrätzer Strasse had been crossed out, and its replacement housed on a snow-white sign below. Stresemannstrasse. Rath recalled his deep sadness on the dull autumn day on which news of Stresemann’s death had done the rounds. Although hardly interested in politics, he felt that something had been destroyed that day, and that more had died with this man than simply the foreign minister. He had been a strict but loving father to Germany, and Rath could see no one capable of replacing him. A strong politician who loved his country, who neither spread the hollow pathos the German National People’s Party used to mask their feelings of inferiority, nor behaved with the arrogance Goebbels’s Nazis mistook for patriotism.
Walking back to Potsdamer Platz, he wondered what was happening in Guerickestrasse. He hadn’t waited for his colleagues to arrive, simply taken leave of Plisch and Plum. Böhm would be annoyed, first because he hadn’t discovered Krempin’s hiding place himself, and second because Rath had slipped through his fingers again. Krempin too, the fact that they had discovered his hiding place didn’t change that.
Rath knew exactly when Felix Krempin had left the flat. Yesterday, when Mertens and Grabowski had gone for food and their replacement, Detective Inspector Gereon Rath, had left his observation post to take a look around. Krempin had telephoned to make sure the street remained clear before leaving his hiding place, which had been turned into a trap thanks to the permanent lookout stationed outside the door. Even if no one else knew, Rath realised he had screwed up. He swore to rectify his error.
As he crossed the square a little BMW emerged from a parking space, creating the ideal spot for a Buick. Pschorr Haus was situated on Potsdamer Platz and Rath had often driven past without entering the building. Cigarette smoke and the smell of beer greeted him in the dark, wood-panelled bar. He stopped a waiter balancing a tray full of beer steins and asked where today’s meeting was taking place.
‘You mean the movie theatre owners?’
He nodded.
‘Go past the bar, and through the big door on the right. They’ve already started.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Rath said. ‘They always save the best till last.’
He opened one of the double doors and saw the backs of people’s heads. Someone was speaking from the platform at the front and all were spellbound. A few heads turned when he entered, their faces ranging from curious to reproachful. He quickly closed the enormous oak doors behind him, shutting out the mishmash of voices and clinking of glasses from the bar.
With the audience’s attention having returned to the speaker, he allowed his gaze to wander. He couldn’t see Oppenberg anywhere.
He made his way slowly along the rows of tables, careful not to obscure anyone’s view or be too conspicuous. Everyone was looking at the speaker, who was saying something about the art of film-making and how sound film was destroying that art. Sound film, in short, signified the death of cinematics. It wasn’t a subject Rath was particularly interested in. He liked films the way they were, particularly when the cinema employed an orchestra and not just an organist or piano player; but these new films, in which people spoke, were a different matter. Although what was being said onstage meant little to him, he couldn’t resist the effect of the slightly husky yet pleasant voice delivering the words of protest into the microphone.
The room was almost full, and he was surprised that so many cinema owners were going to the barricades against sound film. Wasn’t it progress? Shouldn’t they be happy? There were posters on the walls, some of which he had already seen hanging in cinema displays.
Sound film is the death of cinematics, proclaimed one. The picture palaces die when films talk.
Manfred Oppenberg was seated at a table in the front row, his white-haired head resting thoughtfully in his hand.
The man on the platform finished his speech and Rath made his way towards Oppenberg’s table through the applause. Before he could reach him, however, the producer stood up to shake the speaker, who had just descended the platform, by the hand, only then to step onto the platform himself.
Rath would have to listen to another speech.
‘Good evening!’
Rath turned round. The speaker proffered a hand. Tall and thin, in his mid-twenties at most, the type of person who enters a room and is immediately the centre of attention.
‘It’s good that you came, even if you are a little late. We need all the support we can get. Though I…I’m afraid I don’t remember which movie theatre you run…’
‘The one at Alex. I’m here to speak to Herr Oppenberg.’ Rath showed his badge. ‘In private,’ he added.
‘Then please take a seat while Herr Oppenberg is speaking,’ the man said, gesturing towards a table in the second row. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a beer.’
Rath sat down, gratefully accepting the beer brought to him by a waiter, and listened.
Oppenberg was defending talkies. No wonder, he was filming a number himself. He admitted that it wasn’t easy making the switch to the new, expensive technology, but if you missed the boat you’d find yourself stranded at the harbour. Realising he was in danger of incurring the audience’s displeasure, he skilfully changed tack.
‘It goes without saying that Montana Film will continue to produce the high-quality silent films for which it is renowned,’ he said. ‘And that we will gladly deliver them to your theatres.’ He saw no tension between sound and silent films: ‘both art forms are legitimate, and both will find their audience – and their theatres.’ He continued on the technical and licensing aspects of sound film, and Rath was soon lost.
‘We all know that the question of whether to use optical or stylus sound is above all a patenting issue. A struggle is being waged for patents and licences, for market control and for monopolies, and it is being waged at our expense, at the expense of film-makers, theatre operators and the public.’ Oppenberg took a sip of water and assessed the effect of his words. ‘What pains you, gentlemen, is not knowing which technology to invest in. Believe me: I don’t merely understand your despair, I share it. Why should installing technology from Western Electric preclude you from playing films made in Germany? And why should choosing Klangfilm machines mean you have to miss out on American films? Or pay high licensing fees in addition to all the costs sound film already entails. It is, and let me make this perfectly clear, an unsatisfactory state of affairs. Not just for cinema owners and for myself as a producer of motion pictures. No, above all it is unsatisfactory, indeed completely unacceptable, for those people for whose pleasure we all work tirelessly – that is, for our viewers!’
Despite isolated catcalls, the majority of cinema owners applauded courteously, if still a little warily. Oppenberg had managed to turn it around. He thanked his audience briefly and descended the platform, looking more pleased than surprised to see Rath.
‘Herr Rath, what a surprise. I hope you’re bringing good news!’
Before Rath could respond, the previous speaker had clasped Oppenberg’s hand and was thanking him for his contribution.
‘It was no more than anyone would have done, my dear Marquard,’ Oppenberg said. ‘We’re in the same boat: cinema owners, producers, it doesn’t matter!’
‘I had hoped, however, that you might delve a little more closely into the artistic side of things. Shouldn’t that be of greater concern to you as a film-maker?’
He really did have an impressive voice. Even when it was expressing disapproval, it sounded warm and reassuring.
Oppenberg genuinely seemed embarrassed. ‘Everybody has their own opinion, Herr Marquard. For me it’s a question of whether we can overcome the challenges sound film presents. That ought to be of interest to you too, with your film lab and distribution firm. We can’t leave everything to Ufa.’
‘For me, it’s always been about the art. That’s the reason I manage movie theatres. You, however, are in the happy position of being able to make films, which, sadly, is not a talent I possess.’
‘Cinematics as we know it is flourishing, that is true, but I am certain that sound film can become an art form in its own right. That’s what we’re working towards.’
‘I hope nevertheless that you continue to confer real films upon us.’
‘My duty is to my public, Herr Marquard. Now if you’ll excuse me, Herr Rath has come here especially to see me.’
‘Rath?’ Marquard raised an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you investigating the death of Betty Winter?’
Rath nodded.
‘The papers say her accident could have been murder. Do you have any leads?’
‘It’s still early days.’
Oppenberg took Rath to one side and led him to the cloakroom. ‘You must have news if you’re visiting me here,’ he said.
‘Depends. News for me, but not news for you.’
Oppenberg considered this, only for the attendant to interrupt his thoughts and pass him his heavy winter coat with fur collar, together with leather gloves and homburg.
‘Let’s go down to the Esplanade,’ he said. ‘We can speak freely there.’
Rath couldn’t wait that long. ‘I’ve spoken to Krempin,’ he said, as they crossed Potsdamer Strasse.
‘So you found him!’
‘No, he found me. He called me.’
‘Where’s he hiding?’
‘No idea. Not in your flat anymore, anyway.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘The empty flat in Guerickestrasse. In your block of flats. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.’
‘I swear I had no idea. I own several houses in that street, including the one Felix lives in.’
‘He manipulated the lighting on your behalf, in return for which you found him a hiding place.’
‘I have no idea…really.’
‘Herr Oppenberg, you’ve lied to me once already. I can only work with you if I know I can trust you.’
A few pedestrians turned as Rath’s voice grew louder.
‘Calm down,’ Oppenberg said. ‘Let’s talk like adults, and not in the middle of the street.’ He took Rath by the arm and pulled him down Bellevuestrasse. ‘Come on, we’ll be there in a moment. Let’s have a drink. We can discuss these matters at our leisure.’
Moments later they were sitting in a recess at the Esplanade Hotel bar, waiting for the bottle of wine Manfred Oppenberg had ordered. He seemed to be known here. ‘So,’ he said, already looking more cheerful than he had done on the street. ‘Tell me what Krempin said and why you’re so worked up.’
‘You lied to me! You smuggled your man into Bellmann’s studio knowing full well about his sabotage plans. He was supposed to delay the shoot.’
‘Delaying the shoot is not sabotage.’
‘What else would you call dropping a heavy spotlight on an expensive sound film camera?’
‘That was his plan?’
‘Stop acting the innocent, he was there on your behalf.’
‘I can assure you, I knew nothing of his plans. Felix had completely free rein. Yes, he was to delay the shoot, but how he did so was his business.’ Oppenberg shook his head. ‘Felix tried everything. He even made a move on Winter, but…’
‘And when none of that worked, he came up with the camera idea. Without telling you?’
‘It was probably too late anyway. Bellmann had smelled a rat and cast everything aside, put the new adventure film with Victor Meisner completely on ice and started shooting this schmaltzy rubbish.’
‘And you couldn’t allow that to happen…’
‘Our film is supposed to be out first. That’s all that counts. Vom Blitz getroffen is a completely new departure, a divine romantic comedy, and the divine is meant literally. I bought the book a year ago, and had it adapted last autumn. Somehow Bellmann must have got wind of it, and now he’s trying to pip me to the post with one of his sorry efforts… And then there’s Vivian’s disappearance… It’s enough to make you despair.’
‘And your despair was so great that you were prepared to risk the life of an actress. I’ve warned you, if you should be involved in a murder I won’t be able to make any allowances.’
‘Your imagination’s getting the better of you. I don’t know what Felix was planning, but it certainly wasn’t murder.’
‘Let’s call it manslaughter then.’
‘It’s Victor Meisner you ought to be accusing, if the newspapers are to be believed.’
‘Don’t get confused now! Without the spotlight, this wouldn’t have happened. And the lighting was manipulated. We know that much for certain.’
Oppenberg shook his head. ‘It just isn’t his way.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Felix would never risk the life of another person. Whatever he figured out with the spotlight, believe me, it was perfect.’
‘So perfect that Betty Winter’s lying dead in the morgue?’
‘I don’t know why she’s there.’ Oppenberg shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s your job.’ The waiter arrived with the red wine and poured. Oppenberg raised his glass. ‘I will support you as best I can.’
‘Why should I believe you when you’ve already lied to me?’ Rath asked when the waiter had withdrawn.
‘I didn’t lie to you. Perhaps I didn’t tell you the whole truth.’
‘Why didn’t you say that the houses in Guerickestrasse belong to you?’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
‘And the empty flat? Didn’t it stand to reason that Krempin would be hiding there?’
‘Right under the noses of the police?’
‘Fair enough,’ Rath conceded. Perhaps Oppenberg was right. ‘Still, in future you have to tell me everything, whether you think it’s important or not. Otherwise this won’t work. Don’t go thinking you can do as you please.’
‘My dear Rath, I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression. I will help you solve your case as best I can. As long as you keep to your side of the bargain. Have you discovered anything about Vivian’s whereabouts?’
Rath was speechless at how easily Oppenberg reverted. ‘Speaking of bargains, I’ve kept to my side more than you have to yours.’
Oppenberg reached inside his jacket pocket. ‘You’re right.’ He counted out five twenty-mark notes on the table. ‘A down payment.’
Rath gazed at the notes. He could certainly use the money; the car wasn’t cheap to run, and the money he had found in his mailbox one morning in late summer had mostly gone on its purchase. Still, something inside him resisted Oppenberg, who seemed to think all problems could be solved by money. He pushed the notes back over the table. ‘I think we’re friends,’ he said.
Oppenberg returned the money to his pocket with a shrug. ‘Tell me what you have found.’
‘Vivian Franck’s final taxi journey,’ Rath said. ‘After she left her apartment.’
‘On the day of her departure?’
‘She was never in the mountains. She never made it to the station, even though she loaded her cases into the taxi.’
As he was speaking it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked Ziehlke, the taxi driver, what had happened to her cases.
‘Where did she go?’
‘Wilmersdorf, Hohenzollerndamm. Does that mean anything to you? Does Vivian know anyone there? An actor, or a producer perhaps?’
Oppenberg shrugged. ‘In Wilmersdorf? Not that I know of.’
‘Someone picked her up. If you could put together a few photos of Vivian’s acquaintances, I could visit the taxi driver again. Perhaps he’d recognise the man.’
‘No problem.’
‘Good, then I’ll be in touch.’
Rath left the table without finishing his glass of wine.