What filthy weather! Rath had to turn on the windscreen wipers. At lunchtime the sun had been shining, now it was coming down in buckets. To cap it all, soft hail was drumming on the roof of the car. Some pedestrians had been caught out and, without an umbrella, pulled their hats down or held their briefcases above their heads.
He didn’t even know if there was any point in this journey, but the secretary at La Belle Film Production had left him no other choice. No sooner did she realise she was talking to the police than her voice had taken on a layer of ice.
‘I’m afraid I must disappoint you there,’ she said, sounding anything but apologetic, ‘but I have no idea where you can reach Herr Meisner today.’
‘Isn’t he filming?’
‘Our production schedule is with you at Alexanderplatz. Why don’t you have a look there?’
Rath had chosen to do something else. He had grabbed Kirie and headed for the car.
‘Where are you off to?’ Erika Voss asked.
‘To look for an actor.’
‘Then you’ve got the right search dog.’
Where to start? Meisner’s private address or the studio in Marienfelde? Rath decided on the man’s private apartment.
Victor Meisner lived in Lietzensee, a nice residential area near Kantstrasse, which was nevertheless right on the lake with a direct view of the park and the swans. The house even had an elevator.
The door still said Meisner/Zima. He pressed the button and there was a shrill ring behind the door, but no one answered.
He rang again and waited. Even in the stairwell there was a nice view of the lake and the Funkturm, its steel struts glistening wet in the sun that was just beginning to peer through the grey clouds.
When no one had answered by the third ring, he went back downstairs. There was still the caretaker, or concierge as the sign on his lodge described him.
The man even wore a uniform. Remembering Vivian Franck’s apartment building, he thought actors probably needed that sort of thing. He knocked on the glass.
The man opened the sliding window. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’
‘I’m looking for Victor Meisner.’
‘Herr Meisner isn’t at home.’
‘I’ve realised that.’
‘If you had asked me just now, instead of waving your badge, I could have spared you the trip.’
‘My dog likes to take the elevator,’ Rath said. ‘Perhaps you can tell me where I might find Herr Meisner?’
‘Herr Meisner is working.’
‘He’s only just completed a film.’
‘Herr Meisner is always working. Probably best for him, after the tragedy with his wife.’
‘How is he coping?’
‘With dignity. In those first few days he was inconsolable. Luckily Fräulein Bellmann was there to look after him. He seems to have a hold of himself again. Still, even with all his acting gifts he can’t hide the fact that this quirk of fate has made a broken man of him.’
‘A broken man…’
That wasn’t Rath’s impression, but he didn’t want to destroy the image the concierge had of his most celebrated resident.
‘He no longer needs Frau Bellmann’s support then?’
‘She hasn’t been here for a long time, if that’s what you mean.’
‘And has he been there?’
‘I’m a concierge, not a private detective.’
‘What would you say, did he love his wife?’
‘You do ask indiscreet questions!’
‘It’s one of the things I love about my job. So?’
‘Of course, he loved her. Even if recently…’
‘What?’
‘Well, Frau Winter… I don’t think she loved him. At least not latterly.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘She was always a little cold, thought she was above people, never greeted yours truly. And it seems she wanted to leave him…’
‘She wanted a divorce?’
‘I’m not talking about that. She wanted to make other films. Without him, with another producer.’
‘How do you know that?’
The concierge shrugged. ‘I overheard it. They had a fight right outside my lodge. She wouldn’t lend her good name to it, she said, he could forget about that.’
‘What did she mean?’
‘No idea. I’m just telling you what I heard that morning by chance.’
‘Which morning?’
‘You know, that morning. He came back in the evening looking a picture of misery. Must have been reproaching himself for having fought with her on the day she died. Yet the whole thing was her fault.’
‘A huge fight on the day Betty Winter died… Why didn’t you tell us before?’
‘Because no one asked. Your colleagues went into the flat last week, and came straight back out. Nobody was interested in what I had to say.’
They were still working in the studio at Marienfelde and Rath had to wait before the guard let him in. It looked like an adventure film, at any rate a set with windows that had been shot to pieces. Eva Kröger was there again. Had she found a stage name in the meantime? She gave him a brief smile when she recognised him, in contrast to Jo Dressler, whose gaze had followed her smile.
The director rolled his eyes. ‘You as well,’ he said. ‘I hope that’s it for today. Your people have been in and out all afternoon. How are we supposed to get any work done?’
‘You must have experience of working in difficult conditions by now,’ said Rath.
Dressler gave a forced smile. ‘Who are you after then?’
‘Victor Meisner.’
‘In his dressing room; he’s finished filming for the day.’
Rath nodded. ‘Don’t mind me, I know the way.’
‘You can’t just go bursting in there,’ Dressler called, but Rath continued backstage as if he hadn’t heard, towards the door with Meisner’s name on.
He knocked and entered.
Victor Meisner sat in front of a large mirror, wiping make-up from his brow. He was scarcely recognisable. The pale face that gazed at Rath from the mirror, still partly smeared with greasepaint, had nothing to do with the heroes Victor Meisner embodied on-screen. There was something else that fitted even less with the image of the glorious hero, however, a discovery that instantly put Rath on high alert. The electric bulbs above the dressing table were reflected by a receding hairline.
The actor was clearly embarrassed at being seen like this. He made a grab for his hairpiece and hastily arranged it on his head. Only then did he sport the hairstyle Rath was familiar with. He still didn’t look like a hero though, nor did he sound like one.
‘Can’t you wait until you are invited to enter?’ he asked.
‘You wear a wig,’ Rath said, trying to sound casual. ‘I never knew that.’
‘Not a wig, just a hairpiece,’ Meisner said. ‘Nobody knows. I’m warning you, if I should read about it in the press I’ll hold you responsible.’
‘Don’t worry, I can keep quiet.’
‘But that’s not why you’re here.’
‘No.’ Rath moved a chair so that he could see Meisner’s face in the mirror, and tied Kirie’s lead round one of the legs. ‘You don’t have anything against me sitting down,’ he said, fetching a notebook and pencil from his coat. ‘I have a few more questions for you.’
‘Shouldn’t you have asked them last week? Then we’d be through with all this.’
‘The police are always asking new questions, Herr Meisner, as well as repeating old ones. We know that we annoy people like you in the process, but it’s our job.’
‘Some job.’
‘You’re shooting a new film,’ Rath said. ‘With Eva Kröger, I see. You seem to have coped rather well with the death of your wife.’
‘The world keeps turning, Inspector. The show must go on, as the English would say. Eventually you have to get back on an even keel. Betty’s funeral is on Thursday and, believe you me, that will be hard enough.’ He tapped his index finger against his breast. ‘Do you have any idea what things look like in here?’
‘No, but I’d like to.’
Meisner looked at him suspiciously. ‘What do you want? Ask your questions and leave me in peace!’
‘Did your wife leave you much?’
Meisner let out a brief, jerky laugh. ‘Why don’t you just say you’re after a motive. Well, the inheritance isn’t one! Betty left me very little. Feel free to speak to the notary. If you thought that was a motive for murder, then Bellmann would have more reason. He had Betty insured for a lot of money; her death really pays off for him.’
Rath sketched a stick man in his notebook.
‘Another question,’ he said, still drawing, ‘how was your wife familiar with yangtao?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Yangtao.’ Rath left the stick man unfinished for the time being and looked up. ‘Chinese gooseberry. An exotic fruit.’
‘No idea. What makes you think Betty was familiar with it?’
‘We found it in her stomach,’ he said, and continued with his drawing.
Meisner made a disgusted face. ‘Don’t you think you’re being excessively tactless? You could show a little more consideration. Just because I have myself under control doesn’t mean I’m not mourning the loss of my wife. We were married almost five years.’
‘You weren’t quite so close in recent times, were you?’
‘How dare you…?’
‘You quarrelled with her. On the morning of the twenty-eighth of February, the day of her death.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘That’s beside the point. Did you or did you not?’
‘Who doesn’t quarrel in their marriage? It’s no reason to kill someone.’
‘She wanted to leave La Belle and stop making films with you.’
‘And that’s why I killed her, so that she might make films with me again? Where’s the logic in that?’
‘I never said you killed your wife.’
‘You know that I killed my wife, and I know it too, but it was a mistake. You ought to find the one who’s responsible for the spotlight.’
Rath drew the stick man a little dog, dark and woolly, with a smiling face.
‘That’s why I’m here,’ he said, adding a lead, ‘and it’s why I need to ask you something else. Where were you…?’
‘You know that! I was standing next to her when she died. I had to witness the whole thing with my own eyes.’
‘I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the morning of the twenty-eighth of February. Can you tell me what you did that day?’
‘I was filming, you know that.’
‘When did you set off from home, arrive at the studio, film your first scene. Which scenes? Can you give me times?’
‘Not off the top of my head. I’d need to think about that. Betty’s death overshadowed everything else that day.’
Rath took his pencil and waited eagerly.
‘We set off from home about half past eight as usual,’ he said. ‘We must have arrived at the studio just before nine.’
‘You went together?’
‘Yes. I have a car, and usually gave her a ride.’
‘What did you do when you arrived at the studio?’
‘The usual. Said hello to everyone first, chatted a little. We had a look at the schedule and went through the scenes we’d be filming that day with Dressler.’
‘You started filming straight after?’
‘Yes. That is, first we had to go into make-up. The actors, I mean.’
This time Rath really had made notes. ‘Thank you, Herr Meisner.’ He snapped the book shut. ‘That’s it for today from my end.’ He stood up and took Kirie’s lead. ‘I must ask you, however, to come to the station tomorrow at ten. Superintendent Gennat would like to speak to you.’
‘And the shoot?’
‘Most of your colleagues will also be at Alex. Dressler has almost certainly altered the schedule.’
Meisner sighed and continued wiping greasepaint from his face.
‘Just one more thing,’ Rath said when he was standing in the door. ‘Your hairpiece – is it a spare or did you have to get a new one?’
He didn’t wait for a response but followed Kirie, who was already pulling on the lead, and closed the door behind him.
On the drive home, he made a detour via Oranienstrasse and picked up supper for himself and Kirie from the local Aschinger. This time he played it safe and bought half a dozen Buletten and a little potato salad. At least Kirie wouldn’t be competing for that.
Tonight, their evening walk only took them as far as Oranienplatz. He fetched their supper from the car and took the matted hairpiece along with the little blue package out of the glove compartment. The present from the Funkturm. Charly and her crazy idea!
Charly!
The thought of her cut him to the quick.
The grinning man at her door.
Shit.
‘You dogs have it good,’ he said, holding the Aschinger bag safely away from Kirie. ‘All you think about is eating.’
Kirie looked at him and smiled expectantly.
‘Come on then,’ he said, and the dog trotted ahead across the yard, turning again and again to look at the bag of food. Once inside the flat he gave her a few Buletten, as well as a little food in her bowl. He fetched her some fresh water and opened a beer for himself.
While the dog ate, he looked at the toupee. It was matted and soiled, but perhaps still of some use. If only to snap that arrogant Meisner out of his complacent self-assurance.
The only problem: in theory he wasn’t allowed to be in possession of the hairpiece.
Then again perhaps he wasn’t; perhaps someone else had found it, someone who the police already knew had been at the Funkturm that day.
He took his beer and the Aschinger bag into the living room, made himself comfortable at the table with the tele-phone and, having given the operator the number, took a bite from his Bulette. At that moment Elisabeth Behnke came on the line, his former landlady, who had thrown him out because of Charly.
‘Merthold Meinert, bleathe,’ Rath said.
‘He’s eating,’ Behnke said, ‘as, clearly, are you!’ If there was one thing she couldn’t abide it was bad manners.
‘Jushth a momemt,’ Rath munched down the line. There was a click and he heard her shouting: ‘Herr Weinert, it’s one of your vulgar colleagues.’ It took a moment before someone lifted the receiver again.
‘My dear Binding,’ he heard Weinert curse. ‘Surely the matter isn’t so urgent that you need to interrupt my dinner.’
‘Very urgent,’ Rath said. ‘The Reich Chancellor has pissed on the government bench in the Reichstag, and we need an exclusive.’
‘Gereon, is that you?’
‘Careful with my first name! Behnke might smell a rat, and you’re the one who’ll have to put up with her bad mood.’
‘Thanks for the warning. Where were you on Sonnabend, damn it? Not in that Dreieck anyway. Or at home either.’
‘Something came up, sorry, I tried to ring you,’ Rath lied.
‘And I’ve been trying to ring you for three days!’
‘Best not to mention your name when you call Alex. The journalist Berthold Weinert is on file as part of the Krempin case. If they find out you know me, we could be in trouble.’
‘All right, but back to our abortive meeting. Is the wig no longer of interest to you?’
‘Of course it is. That’s why I’m calling.’ He glanced at the time. ‘Can I bring it round tonight?’
‘I have a reception with the Reich Chancellor.’
‘Tomorrow then.’
‘In the evening, I can’t manage before. I’m up to my eyes in work, and this time, there’s a price.’
‘Which would be?’
‘I need the car.’
‘For Wednesday night?’
‘Inclusive of Thursday morning.’
‘Come by and pick it up, together with the wig.’
‘I’ll come straight to yours from Kochstrasse. Around eight?’
‘OK.’
‘Woe betide you if you should stand me up again.’
‘Don’t worry, it won’t happen again. Cross my heart! Otherwise I’ll address you as Your Worshipfulness for a whole month.’
‘Well then, it must be serious,’ Weinert laughed. ‘By the way, there was something I wanted to warn you about. There’ll be an article on Krempin tomorrow. He’ll be mentioned by name for the first time. It couldn’t be withheld any longer.’
‘So long as my name doesn’t appear. No matter who asks: I wasn’t at the Funkturm.’
‘You were on Sunday.’ Weinert’s voice sounded as if he was grinning. ‘A few nice photos landed on my desk yesterday. The Funkturm’s millionth visitor. Looks pretty damn similar to you. And that little cutie next to you! A film actress apparently. Seems like it pays to investigate in those circles.’
‘Are you going to publish the picture?’
‘It’s not exactly the silly season, but I think it would be a good filler. Besides, the tourist office has almost certainly sent the press release and photo to the other papers. The millionth visitor is better than the hundredth suicide.’
‘Quit joking, Berthold. If the picture appears somewhere, and one of the Funkturm witnesses recognises me it’ll be goodnight.’
‘I wouldn’t be too worried there. The most likely thing is a nice little text report without the picture. Unless, that is, someone finds out who the actress in the photo is.’
‘They won’t.’
He hung up and ate the Buletten and potato salad. When he had finished he reached again for the telephone. He’d have liked to get drunk with Paul, but the Excelsior informed him that Herr Wittkamp had gone out again.
‘We’ll have to make do on our own,’ he said to Kirie as he attached her lead.
He made his way to the Dreieck with her. The pub was already full to bursting, which wasn’t saying much given the building’s narrow triangular structure. He positioned himself at the bar and ordered a beer with corn schnapps. He wasn’t the only patron with a dog. They clearly served as an alibi for others to get out of the house in the evening. Kirie got along just fine with the alibi-dogs. She sniffed curiously at an ugly Boxer who let the whole thing wash over him with an expressionless face. Schorsch set down a bowl for the dogs, which he filled with water before taking care of his two-legged guests.
With Kirie, Rath thought as he drained the corn schnapps and took his first sip of beer, at least he would find his way home.