The porter was sitting in his lodge behind the revolving door.
‘I have a meeting,’ Rath said, wondering which name would make the greater impression, ‘with Herr Heyer…’ the porter furrowed his brow ‘…and Herr Weinert.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know these gentlemen,’ the porter said, ‘but you could take a look among the non-swimmers.’ He gestured towards the big room to the right of the entrance, which was full to bursting. Rath took off his hat and coat and looked around at not so many writers as onlookers trying to catch a glimpse of writers. That was his impression. Weinert was nowhere to be seen, and if one of the figures sitting at the tables chatting, reading the papers or simply staring into space was Willi Heyer, or if he was one of the many more scribbling in their notebooks, Rath couldn’t say.
He looked for a table on the glazed veranda, which was mostly populated by tourists hoping to do some celebrity spotting. Rath ordered a coffee and requested a copy of Tageblatt from the newspaper waiter. It was very pleasant in this glass case; the view of Berlin life as it raged around the stoic mass of the Gedächtniskirche was spectacular. The coffee was good too, and even came with a glass of water. Rath smoked a cigarette with his coffee, leafed through the newspaper and waited.
At shortly after one, Berthold Weinert entered the glass case together with a lean, tallish man who couldn’t have been much older than thirty, but whose hair was already thinning. He wore thick glasses and hadn’t shaved for at least two days. Weinert saw Rath, showed his companion to the table and made the introductions.
‘You write screenplays?’ Rath asked.
‘And you put murderers behind bars,’ Heyer replied. ‘Berthold told me about your work. Perhaps I can ask for your advice next time I’m writing a crime film.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt. The crime thrillers I’ve seen have precious little to do with real police work.’
The men took their seats at table. Weinert ordered a glass of Bordeaux, Heyer a vodka Martini. Rath sipped on his coffee, a little envious of the others’ drinks. He offered Heyer a cigarette but Weinert, the dedicated non-smoker, wasn’t afforded a look at Rath’s new case.
‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ he said, while lighting Heyer’s cigarette. ‘You sold the same story twice. Is that normal in your line of work?’ Not a good start, Rath noted, realising he had touched a sore point.
‘I don’t know what’s normal in this line of work,’ Heyer said. ‘It seems normal, at any rate, to take a story from an author and pass it on to a complete stranger.’
‘You’ll have to elaborate there,’ Rath said.
‘Gladly.’ Heyer drew greedily on his Overstolz. ‘I’ve been working with Oppenberg’s Montana for a long time, and we always got on well until I sold him my Zeus story.’
‘Didn’t he pay?’
‘He paid well, in fact, and on time, as always. The problem is that he bought the script about a year ago and wanted to turn it into a conventional silent film. However, as sometimes happens in the film industry, the project stalled, others were brought forward, and things kept getting in the way. Then finally something huge got in the way.’
Heyer paused theatrically, as the waiter served the drinks.
‘Talkies,’ the author continued. ‘Oppenberg decided to turn my film into a talkie, but in order to do so the script had to be rewritten. A silent film manuscript has very little dialogue, and if it does, it needs to fit on an intertitle.’ Heyer took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Sound film is different; there, dialogue is far more important.’
‘Let me guess,’ Rath said. ‘Oppenberg didn’t pay you for the additional work.’
‘Worse,’ Heyer said, ‘he had the dialogue written by someone else. To crown it all, he even changed the title. Vom Blitz getroffen – how poetic. Ha!’
‘What’s your script called then?’
‘Olympische Spiele. You get it? Zeus, the Olympian, is playing games with the mortals…’ Heyer aided his explanation by frantically waving his hands.
‘And you can just do that, can you?’ Rath asked. ‘Turn a script into a completely different film?’
‘Oppenberg bought my script, it belongs to him. He can do whatever he chooses with it. At least the story hasn’t changed.’ Heyer took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘But for some reason Oppenberg must have thought I couldn’t write dialogue. Anyway, he left it with someone else, some snotty little theatre upstart. And the worst thing? It’s his name that’ll be appearing in the opening credits. All I’ll have to show for my creative efforts is that fair but fickle phrase: based on an idea by Willi Heyer.’
‘Haven’t you spoken to Oppenberg about it?’
‘Spoken? I’ve crawled on my knees, but in vain. The man is hard as nails. All my demands came up against a brick wall. Oppenberg showed me what screenplay authors are worth in this business: nothing.’ Heyer stubbed his cigarette out. ‘That’s when I got really angry, and thought: I’ll show him I can write dialogue. So, I transferred my Zeus story to the Nordic pantheon and offered it to Bellmann. With talking characters.’
‘Liebesgewitter with Thor, the God of Thunder, instead of Zeus, the Olympian…’ Rath nodded. ‘And Bellmann went for it straightaway?’
Heyer grinned. ‘Of course. He takes any chance he can get to hurt Oppenberg, the old anti-Semite. I have to say, I don’t particularly like Bellmann. Give me Oppenberg a thousand times over, both as producer and as a person, but in this case I made no allowances for that! I’m still hoping that Liebesgewitter will be a massive success and Vom Blitz getroffen comes a cropper. Then Oppenberg will realise who writes the better dialogue, and how important a good script is for a successful film: a thousand times more important with talkies.’
‘Unfortunately, Bellmann’s leading actress didn’t survive the shoot.’
‘I doubt that’ll harm the film’s chances of success,’ said Weinert, sipping his wine. ‘Quite the opposite. Bellmann is using the attention her death has caused. The title has been mentioned in almost every newspaper article, even made headlines.’
‘Death as a means of propaganda,’ Rath said.
‘You could see it like that,’ Heyer said. ‘Do you really think that Bellmann’s behind it? That he paid this technician to kill Betty Winter?’
‘If he wanted her to die, then he didn’t pay anyone. He did it himself,’ Rath said. ‘Felix Krempin might have devised the mechanism, but someone else triggered it. Someone who knew the script.’
Weinert nodded in agreement. ‘I can’t see Bellmann being that someone. Even if he’s an arsehole, he has his limits, and Betty Winter is one of them. His best actress! Now he only has Meisner, whose best days are behind him.’
‘Bellmann has already appointed Winter’s successor,’ Rath said. ‘Eva Kröger. Heard of her?’
Heyer shook his head. ‘Must be new.’
‘She still needs a stage name,’ Rath said. ‘Perhaps you can think of one, and sell it to Bellmann.’
‘He won’t pay for that. Anyone can think of a name. I don’t think they’re protected by law.’
‘And a story?’ Rath asked. ‘Can you really sell a story twice? Isn’t that open to a legal challenge?’
‘The lawyers are currently arguing that, but it looks bad for Oppenberg because I sold him a silent film manuscript, and Bellmann a talkie. That’s what Bellmann told me a few days ago. They’re completely different things, in terms of the number of pages alone. Besides, it was stupid of Oppenberg to change the title. The way things look, the race will be decided at the box office and not in the courtroom.’
‘Do you know Vivian Franck?’ Rath asked, changing tack.
Heyer nodded. ‘I’ve written a few films for her, though not her latest. Oppenberg got Verrucht from the same amateur who ruined my script.’
‘You know that she has disappeared?’
‘There are a few rumours going around.’
‘What kind of rumours?’
‘In the industry,’ Heyer said, ‘people are saying that Franck was going to leave Oppenberg and change producers. Even move across the pond.’
‘Across the pond?’
‘America, to Hollywood.’
‘Is her English good enough?’
‘No idea.’ The author shrugged. ‘If they want her, it must be. Unlike Jannings. They gave him an award and then sent him on his way.’
‘The great Jannings, a victim of sound film?’
‘If you like. We’ll soon see if the best actor in Hollywood can still hold his own here in Germany. The new Jannings film is out shortly.’
‘I know,’ Rath said. ‘If Vivian Franck really is in Hollywood, then why doesn’t anyone know?’
‘She doesn’t have to tell everyone. If she makes the big time, we’ll all hear about it, and if she’s a flop…well, who knows what she’ll say?’
‘You don’t think it’s possible that something might have happened to her? Did she really have no enemies, people wanting to harm her, or out for her blood?’
‘That’s a bit much. No one’s out for her blood, even if she is a spoilt little madam who’s always bullying her entourage. Then again, she’s isn’t the only one in this business.’
‘If you had to find Vivian Franck, where would you look?’
‘Me?’ Heyer gave it a moment’s thought. ‘I’d book a passage on the Bremen.’