The Silent Death Page 3

  ‘You’re well informed!’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to the cameraman.’

  The spotlight that had struck the actress was much bigger than those CID used to illuminate crime scenes at night. The steel cylinder’s circumference was at least the size of a bass drum. The power cable had barely checked its fall, let alone prevented it. Only the lagging had slowed it, with the result that in some places naked wire was exposed.

  ‘And this hulking brute has the poor lady on its conscience?’ Rath asked.

  Gräf shook his head. ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘She didn’t die immediately. The spotlight practically roasted her, especially as the connection hadn’t been cut and the light was still on. And her partner was standing right beside her . . .’

  ‘The heap of misery in the smoking jacket?’

  ‘Yes, Victor Meisner.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of him.’

  Gräf raised his eyebrows. ‘So you do go to the cinema?’

  ‘I saw him in a crime film once. He spent the whole time brandishing a gun, rescuing various women.’

  ‘He was probably in rescue mode just now too. Only instead of a gun he used a pail of water. They’re everywhere here, because of the fire risk. Anyway, it seems he gave old Winter a massive electric shock. At any rate she stopped screaming right away, and all the fuses tripped out.’

  ‘She might have survived the accident?’

  Gräf shrugged his shoulders. ‘Let’s see what the doctor says. At any rate her career as an actress was over the instant the spotlight struck her. Even if she had survived, she’d hardly have been making romantic comedies.’

  ‘Looks as if that poor wretch realises what he’s done.’ Rath pointed towards the sobbing Meisner.

  ‘Seems that way.’

  ‘Spoken to him already?’

  ‘Our colleagues have tried. Pointless . . .’

  ‘Unresponsive?’

  ‘Nothing we can use anyway . . .’

  A loud crash stopped Gräf in his tracks. He glanced at Czerwinski and Henning, who had begun to unfold the camera stand somewhat awkwardly. ‘Perhaps I should take the photos,’ he said. ‘Before those two dismantle the camera completely.’

  Rath nodded. ‘Do it. Let them question the rank and file. Most likely they all saw something.’

  Gräf shrugged. ‘The cameraman saw everything. The director too. That’s part of their job.’ The detective gestured towards a wiry-looking chap who was talking quietly but no less forcefully to a balding, well-dressed man in his mid-fifties.

  Rath nodded. ‘I’ll have a word with him in a moment. Where’s the man responsible for the spotlights?’

  ‘No idea. I can’t take care of everything.’

  ‘Tell Henning to find him and send him to me.’

  Gräf turned away and Rath moved towards the blubbing Meisner. When Rath was standing directly in front of him, he stopped sobbing and looked up. The woman in grey stroked his shoulders reassuringly as Rath produced his badge. The man gazed at him beseechingly until, suddenly, despair erupted from him.

  ‘I killed her,’ he cried, ‘I killed Betty! My God, what have I done?’ His hands dug into Rath’s trouser legs. The woman in grey came to his aid.

  ‘It’s all right, Victor,’ she said softly.

  She took the actor’s slender hands and dragged him away from Rath onto the director’s chair, where he buried his face in her grey skirt.

  ‘Surely you can see he can’t talk now,’ she said, ‘he’s in shock! I hope the doctor gets here soon.’

  Rath knew that Dr Schwartz was on his way, but he doubted whether the acerbic pathologist was the right man to comfort a tender soul like Victor Meisner. He gave the woman his card.

  ‘There’s no need for Herr Meisner to make a statement just now. He can come to the station when he’s feeling better. Monday at the latest.’

  Rath had the feeling she was gazing right through him. He wrote the date on the card, as well as a time. Eleven o’clock. He couldn’t afford to give the poor devil any more grace than that.

  ‘You look after him for now,’ he said. ‘The best thing would be to take him to hospital.’

  ‘Do what the man says, Cora,’ a deep voice said, ‘it’s better if Victor doesn’t stay here any longer than necessary.’

  Rath turned to the balding man who had been speaking to the director. Cora led Victor Meisner to the exit.

  ‘Bellmann,’ the man said, introducing himself. ‘La Belle Film Production. I’m the producer of Liebesgewitter.’

  ‘La Belle?’ Rath shook his hand. ‘I thought this was Terra Film.’

  ‘The rooms, but not the production. Very few film companies can afford their own studio. We’re not Ufa, you know,’ Bellmann said, and it sounded almost apologetic. He pointed towards the director. ‘Jo Dressler, my director.’

  ‘Jo?’

  ‘Josef sounds too old-fashioned,’ the director said and stretched out a hand. ‘Good day, Inspector.’

  ‘We still can’t believe it.’ Bellmann said. ‘In the middle of the shoot!’ He looked genuinely shaken. ‘Liebesgewitter was supposed to be screening in cinemas in two weeks.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Time is money,’ Bellmann said.

  ‘We still had two days of filming scheduled,’ Dressler explained. ‘Today and tomorrow.’

  ‘The film’s nearly finished?’

  Dressler nodded.

  ‘A tragedy,’ Bellmann said. Then he gave a nervous laugh and corrected himself. ‘The accident, I mean. The accident is a tragedy. The film, of course, is a comedy. A divine romantic comedy, something completely new. Divine in the true sense of the word.’

  Rath nodded, though he didn’t understand a thing. ‘Did you see how it happened?’

  Bellmann shook his head. ‘By the time I arrived she was already lying motionless on the floor. But Jo, you can tell the inspector . . .’

  The director cleared his throat. ‘Well, as I said to your colleagues . . .it was just before the end of the scene. We were already shooting it for the second time, and it was going well. We just needed the slap and the thunder, then it’d have been a wrap . . .’

  ‘Thunder?’

  ‘Liebesgewitter is the story of Thor, the Norwegian God of Thunder, who falls in love with a girl from Berlin and courts her as Count Thorwald. Whenever the two of them come together, it thunders.’

  Rath thought it sounded completely insane. This was the film that was supposed to launch Betty Winter’s sound career?

  ‘Well,’ Dressler continued, ‘suddenly the flood crashed down from the ceiling.’

  ‘The flood?’

  ‘The spotlight that struck Betty. It knocked her to the floor and buried her underneath it. My God, the way she was lying there screaming, and no one could help her – it was just dreadful . . .’

  ‘Why didn’t anyone help her?’

  ‘Do you know how hot a spotlight gets? It isn’t just something you can manhandle.’

  ‘But there was one person who tried . . .’

  ‘You mean Victor?’ Dressler shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know what came over him. It was their scene and he was standing right next to her. Well, who knows what goes through a person’s mind? There’s someone right next to you, and you smell their burnt skin, hear them scream – you want to help, don’t you? And the way she was screaming!’ He shook his head. ‘We all stood as if paralysed. Before we understood what he was doing he’d tipped the fire bucket over her.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘She stopped screaming immediately, and started . . .her whole body started twitching . . .in protest, almost . . .and then there was a bang. All the fuses had tripped and the lights went out.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘It took a few seconds before we could see anything again. I was first there, after Victor, I mean. Betty was dead.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘I . . .I felt her carotid artery.
There was no pulse.’

  ‘Incomprehensible, isn’t it?’ Bellmann said. ‘A devastating loss for the German film industry.’

  Rath looked at the producer. ‘Do things like this often happen?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like spotlights falling from the roof? The structure up there looks a bit wobbly to me.’

  Bellmann flew off the handle. ‘Listen to me, Inspector, it might look a little temporary, but believe me, it’s all checked and approved. Ask your colleagues from the Department of Building Regulations!’ He grew louder. ‘This is a glasshouse, perfect for shooting films, but not for recording sound. That’s the reason for the renovations – we’re still in the middle of them. Soundproofing, you see. With talkies it’s more important than daylight, which is something we must unfortunately make do without. As far as lighting is concerned, we’ve always had the best equipment. Our spotlights are among the most state-of-the-art in the industry today, Nitraphot lamps . . .’

  It was an inappropriate remark given that an actress had died under just such a modern spotlight. Bellmann fell silent and Rath did nothing to ease his embarrassment.

  Some people allowed their reserve to be broken by this sort of thing, but Bellmann kept himself in check, probably a useful skill in his profession. The director seemed less assured, transferring his weight from one leg to the other as if he needed to go to the bathroom. Before he could say anything unguarded, however, Henning appeared with a slightly built man in tow whom he introduced as Hans Lüdenbach. In his grey work overalls he had the look of an underpaid caretaker.

  ‘Are you the lighting technician?’ Rath asked.

  ‘Senior lighting technician.’

  ‘Then you’re responsible for the spotlight that grew a mind of its own up there?’

  The little man opened his mouth to say something, but Bellmann got in first. ‘It goes without saying that the responsibility is mine alone.’ He sounded like a has-been politician attempting to forestall the opposition’s demand for his resignation.

  ‘Well, someone’s messed up, and if it wasn’t the manufacturer of the lighting system, then it must have been one of your people.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Lüdenbach said.

  ‘Don’t you make regular checks to ensure everything up there is screwed in tight? You are the senior lighting technician.’

  ‘Of course we do! We can’t do any filming until the light’s right.’

  ‘And everything with the flood was OK?’

  ‘Optimum settings. The light was perfect. I don’t know why the fixtures gave way. I’d need to have a closer look.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t done that yet?’

  Lüdenbach shook his head. ‘Your people prevented us. We shouldn’t touch anything was the first thing they said.’

  ‘Then show me where the flood was hanging.’

  Lüdenbach made for a narrow steel ladder, which seemed to lead straight into the sky, and Rath wondered whether you needed to be as thin as Hans Lüdenbach for the trestles to hold. Heights of ten metres were enough to make him break out in a cold sweat, so he didn’t look down as he climbed, focusing on the grey overalls moving above. Nor did he gaze downwards as he followed the technician across the rickety grating, the structure rattling and squeaking with every step.

  He groped his way forward, hands gripping the rail, but couldn’t help looking at the tips of his shoes whenever he took a step. The studio floor seemed impossibly distant through the iron grille beneath his feet.

  A curious floor plan was beginning to emerge as viewed from above. Next to the fireplace room that housed the dead woman was a hotel reception and a simple servants’ quarters, and next to it a pavement café. The door of the fireplace room, meanwhile, led straight into a police office with holding cell. Most likely all part of the Liebesgewitter set. From below came the glare of a flash. Gräf had started his work. Rath forced himself to look up. The senior lighting technician had disappeared.

  ‘Hey!’ Rath cried. ‘Where have you got to?’

  The maze of steel grates was more confusing than it looked from below, mainly because of the heavy lengths of fabric hanging everywhere from the ceiling and obscuring his view.

  ‘Here it is.’ The voice of the senior lighting technician sounded muffled, but seemed nevertheless to be close at hand. ‘Where have you got to?’

  Having worked his way forward by a few metres, Rath saw Lüdenbach again, crouched by the floor of the grating, three metres away at most. ‘Be right with you,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch anything!’

  His hands were knotted in pain and there was sweat on his forehead, but he didn’t let it show as he inched his way forwards. Lüdenbach indicated a mounting. ‘Here,’ he said as Rath crouched beside him, ‘take a look at this. I don’t believe it! There should be a threaded bolt here. It must have come loose. Impossible really, they’re all secured with a cotter pin.’

  Rath looked at the mounting close-up. ‘Maybe the bolt’s broken!’

  Lüdenbach shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘There’s still the one on the other side.’

  The picture was the same there, however: no threaded bolt.

  Lüdenbach shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he muttered. ‘I just can’t believe it!’

  They stood up. Rath held onto the swaying platform and his sweaty hands immediately cramped up again. He felt decidedly queasy, while Hans Lüdenbach stood by the railing, as secure as a helmsman in stormy seas.

  ‘This sort of thing shouldn’t happen.’ Lüdenbach said. ‘That’s why the spotlights are doubly secured.’

  ‘Perhaps someone wanted to adjust the spotlight and forgot to screw the bolt back in place.’

  ‘But not in the middle of a shoot!’

  ‘Still, the spotlight must have come loose somehow. Double metal fatigue seems far less likely than the possibility that someone’s been a little careless.’

  ‘My people are not careless!’ Lüdenbach was outraged. ‘Glaser above all! He knows what he’s doing!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Peter Glaser. My assistant. He’s responsible for the flood.’

  ‘Why, in that case,’ Rath asked, with growing impatience, ‘haven’t I seen him already?’

  ‘Because you wanted to come up here with me! Don’t you think I’d have spoken to him long ago if I knew where he was?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘He was up here this morning setting everything up.’

  ‘And now?’

  Lüdenbach shrugged. ‘Now he’s not here.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘No idea. I haven’t seen him for a while. Since lunchtime today, perhaps longer. Maybe he’s sick.’

  ‘He hasn’t reported absent?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  Rath lost his patience. ‘If you want to be of any use at all today, then I suggest you show me how to get down from here right now!’

  Peter Glaser was not in the studio. Bellmann had provided his address, though not before emphasising what a reliable worker the man was, and Rath sent Henning and Czerwinski on their way. In the meantime, the men from ED, the police identification service, arrived with the pathologist, and began searching the floor for two threaded bolts. Dr Schwartz crouched next to the corpse and examined the burns to the head and shoulders. Kronberg’s people searched as systematically as only ED officers could but it was Gräf who made the find, an unremarkable oily-black piece of metal that had rolled underneath a spotlight tripod.

  Lüdenbach confirmed that it was from the mounting. It had no cracks and was unscathed. They consigned it to an ED crate for further examination.

  The second bolt remained elusive, however, and they found no trace of the cotter pin.

  ‘Have we just cleaned their floor for nothing?’ asked an ED officer.

  ‘At least we have one of the bolts,’ Gräf said.

  ‘Perhaps Glaser has the other,’ Rath said. ‘Tried to dispose of the evidence, only he couldn’t find the
second bolt before he had to scram.’

  ‘Do you really believe he meant for the spotlight to fall?’ Gräf asked. ‘Maybe he was just too much of a coward to admit responsibility for the accident.’

  Rath shrugged. ‘What I believe won’t get us anywhere. Someone here really messed up, that much is clear . . .’

  ‘Inspector?’

  A young man approached them, waving a film canister.

  ‘The cameraman,’ Gräf whispered. ‘Harald Winkler.’

  ‘Inspector,’ Winkler said. Despite his youth, his hair was already starting to thin. ‘I think this might be of interest to you.’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The accident. You can see how it happened for yourself.’ Winkler raised the film canister. ‘Everything’s on here.’

  ‘You filmed the accident?’

  ‘I filmed the scene. The camera kept on running. I . . .well, it was instinct, I suppose. I just continued filming until the lights went out. Maybe it’ll be of use. There’s no better eyewitness than my camera at any rate.’

  ‘When can we see what’s on it?’

  ‘Not before Monday. It needs to be processed. If you like, I can book us a projection room.’ Winkler handed Rath a card. ‘Give me a call . . .’

  Suddenly the cameraman was no longer looking in Rath’s eyes, but over his shoulder. Gräf, too, was looking to one side. Rath turned and gazed straight into half a dozen press lenses. A swarm of reporters had somehow managed to get past the policeman on the door. Before any of the officers could intervene there was a flurry of flashing lights.

  At least the corpse was covered.

  ‘Who let this rabble in?’ Rath asked.

  Gräf sprang into action. ‘This is a crime scene not a press club, gentlemen.’ He gave one of the officers a decisive nod of the head, but the boys in blue were already pushing reporters towards the door. There was a round of protests.

  ‘Stop! You can’t do this to us!’

  Rath positioned himself. ‘Please be so kind as to leave the room without disrupting our investigations, and no more photos please!’

  The press bunch didn’t stand a chance against the uniformed officers, but a few of them fired questions into the air as they retreated.