Shadow and Light

by Jonathan Rabb

  Hoffner said, “Yours, not mine. Your wife’s name was in one of the files.”

  Lang’s gaze remained unchanged. “Has she written a script for them, Detective? That would be a breach of contract. Naughty, naughty.”

  Hoffner was done with the charming Lang. “She’s loaned them some money. A great deal of money, I think. Would that be your money, Herr Lang?” Lang’s face hardened, but he continued to stare ahead. Hoffner said, “I believe you’re making some rather dangerous films.”

  “Am I?”

  “And using some rather unfortunate women.”

  “I believe you have me at a loss, Herr Inspector.”

  “No, I don’t believe I do.”

  For the first time Lang turned to Hoffner. The coldness in the gaze was to be expected. “Then you’d be wrong there.” Genuine truth was not something that came easily to Lang. It made its appearance all the more surprising. Lang said, “What’s happened to your mouth?”

  “Lunch!”

  The barked command rose from somewhere in the house, but the actors were already off the stage, one of them moving up the aisle toward Lang too quickly for his slender and awkward little body. “Fritz!” he called out as he began to slide himself down the row in front of them.

  Before turning, Lang said under his breath, “You’ll like this fellow, Detective. Remarkably talented, but don’t let on you know.” Lang turned, and the careless sheen of camaraderie swept across his face. “How nice of you to come and say hello.”

  “Have you been watching?”

  “Of course. You have to tell Klaus to keep a better hold on that bucket.”

  The little man looked momentarily confused, and then gave in with a smile that seemed to squeeze his face into a mass of cheekbones. “Very funny. Yes, I’ll tell him to keep hold.”

  Lang motioned to Hoffner. “This is a friend of mine, Nikolai Hoffner.”

  “You’re not an actor, are you?” said the man.

  “No,” said Hoffner.

  “Good. For a moment I thought Fritz was giving you my part. You won’t be giving him my part, will you, Fritz?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve given you a part, so no worries there. Nikolai, this is Peter Lorre. Peter Lorre, Nikolai Hoffner.”

  The two shook, and Lorre said, “You could be an actor. You’ve a nice sort of look to you. Something beaten down that would work wonderfully.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Hoffner.

  “Don’t,” said Lang.

  Hoffner asked, “So you’re good with beaten down, Herr Lorre?”

  “Oh no,” Lorre said, smiling. “I’m an ugly little Jew. I make people laugh. What else is there for me to do?”

  Lang said, “You could scare them, Peter. Jews are very good at that.”

  Lorre produced an impish smile. “But then I like playing against type. What excuse have you got, Fritz?”

  Lang seemed surprised by his own laughter. “You find me that frightening?”

  “You say you’re only half a Jew,” Lorre said, “so maybe not that scary, but I don’t believe it. I think you’re one hundred percent. It’s Nikolai here who’s the real half-breed. Aren’t I right, Nikolai?” Hoffner’s expression was enough to prod Lorre on. “You see, Fritz, that’s what an actor does. He sees through it all.” He looked again at Hoffner. “Your mother?”

  Hoffner waited before answering. “Very good.”

  Lorre said, “It was the name. Hoffner. Not really Jewish.”

  “As opposed to Lorre,” said Lang.

  Lorre laughed. “Fair enough. Not likely to see a László Lowenstein up on a Fritz Lang poster anytime soon.”

  “Not likely to see a Peter Lorre up there, either,” said Lang.

  Lorre smiled again at Hoffner. “He tries to be cruel, but he’s not very good at it.” Lorre reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of newspaper. “You’ve seen it, of course, Fritz?” Not waiting for an answer, Lorre opened the page and began to read: “ ‘Noteworthy is only the young comedian Peter Lorre for whom no part, not even the smallest and the silliest, is routine, but a chance for a grotesque human portrayal. This theatrical gift, perhaps the strongest and most original of the entire ensemble at the Kammerspiele, deserves the most attentive encouragement and cultivation.’ ”

  “Did you write it yourself?” said Lang.

  “I wouldn’t have been so subtle,” said Lorre. “You didn’t see Girls on the Couch, did you?”

  “Not in the theater,” said Lang.

  Someone down by the stage called out, and Lorre turned and waved a hand. “It’s only half an hour for lunch,” he said to Lang. “You’ll be here when I get back?”

  “Probably not.”

  “But you will have something for me soon?”

  Lang said, “Think about fear, Peter. Think about what you could do with that.”

  Lorre tried another smile, but this one seemed less willing. “My own or someone else’s?”

  “There’s a difference?” Lang removed his monocle and began to wipe it on his lapel. “So—you make people laugh. Good for you. It’s just a flick between that and terrifying them.”

  Lorre’s smile was all but gone. “You think I don’t know this, Fritz?”

  “Look at you,” said Lang. “It’s because they want to laugh when they see you. They need to laugh. And you let them do it because otherwise, you’d have to let them see what you’re so frightened of.”

  Lorre shot a glance at Hoffner and let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Fritz knows me so well.”

  “You see,” said Lang. “Even now it’s too much for you.” Lang replaced his monocle and smiled. “And that’s what makes you extraordinary, Peter.”

  Lorre did his best to return the smile. It was an awkward moment for all of them. He looked again at Hoffner. “Good to meet you, Nikolai. Fritz.” His return to the aisle was no less clumsy.

  Lang said quietly, “He’s going to change the way people watch films. He just doesn’t know it.”

  Hoffner finished his cigarette and crushed it into the seat’s ashtray. “So you’re a Jew. That’s something of a surprise.”

  Lang kept his eyes on Lorre. “I don’t make a secret of it.”

  “You don’t advertise it, either.”

  “The people who need me to be one, for good or bad, do the advertising. That’s what it is to be a German.” He turned to Hoffner. “And it seems, by all rights, you’re one as well.”

  “But not your wife.”

  Lang studied Hoffner before answering: “No. Not my wife.”

  Perhaps the Thulians had been willing to overlook Fräulein von Harbou’s indiscretion. Lang’s direct involvement as a Jew, though, was now not a possibility.

  “Still,” said Hoffner, “all that money. One wonders where she’s getting it.”

  Hoffner expected another icy stare. Instead, Lang’s expression showed a precision unseen until this moment. “Think, Herr Inspector. I’m not stupid. Whatever Thea has gotten herself involved in, it has nothing to do with me, my companies, or any of my projects. Thea might have made some money on the side from one of her books, but there’s very little money in books, and please don’t think I don’t know exactly where every pfennig of it is. The truth is, Herr Inspector, this is my reputation as well, and it’s not something I take lightly. Which means, from now on, I’m going to need to know how far things take you. I suppose we’ll both be keeping an eye on my wife for the time being.” The sharpness in the gaze retreated, and Lang said easily, “Still, some very nice digging, Detective.” He stood and called out, “Peter.” Lorre was down at the stage. “Don’t skulk off. You’ll have lunch with me next week and I’ll show you a script. Fair enough?”

  Lorre forced a smile and then quickly ushered his friend through the door.

  Lang continued to stare ahead. “It’s what I said. The reality beyond the truth. That’s where you’re heading now.” He looked down at Hoffner. “Very new ground for you, Herr Inspector
. Very familiar to me.”

  METROPOLIS

  SHE WAS AT ONE OF the window tables, with two cups, one of them placed in front of the empty seat.

  “I got you a coffee,” she said, refusing to look up at him.

  Hoffner sat and placed a hand around his. It was ice cold. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Leni raised a hand, and a waiter stepped over. “We’ll have two more. And menus.”

  The man took the cups, moved off, and Hoffner pulled out a cigarette. It was only then that she noticed his face. “My God. What happened to you?”

  “I fell.”

  “How many times?”

  He smiled. “You had a pleasant morning?”

  She wasn’t in the mood. “I had a pointless morning. Ritter called to find out if you’d made any progress.”

  “Really?” Hoffner lit up. “So who else does he have looking for her?” Not that Hoffner had considered the possibility until this moment, but it seemed logical enough.

  “I have no idea.”

  That, on the other hand, did not.

  The waiter arrived, and Leni scooped a healthy spoonful of sugar into her coffee. Hoffner said, “So you’re letting Ritter run the show?”

  She continued to stir. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The ledger. Thyssen’s apartment.” He looked at the waiter. “I’ll take a roll and cheese.” The man moved off, and Hoffner said, “You do what Ritter tells you to do, and he tells you nothing.”

  If he was trying to provoke her, he had succeeded. She looked up and said, “Having me last night gave you second thoughts, is that it?”

  “I just wanted to make sure the wounded lady from this morning was gone. She wasn’t much use.”

  She continued to stare at him. “The scabbing on your mouth, it’s an improvement.”

  “Anything would have been an improvement.”

  “Now who’s playing the wounded female?”

  He smiled again and poured some cream into his cup.

  She said, “Ritter doesn’t want this to get out. He’s playing it all very close to the chest. That’s what Metro and Paramount told him to do.”

  “Better to be discreet than to find her.”

  “Exactly.”

  Just as casually, he said, “Then why involve the Berlin Kriminalpolizei?” Something in what Lang had said—something about the unfamiliar—had hit a nerve. Murder masked as suicide was such an old card to play. Ritter could easily have swept it all away that first morning—the body removed from the tub, a story about a failed romance, anything to make it seem mundane and plausible; Hoffner had dealt with the whitewash before—but instead, Ritter had left it all too perfectly in place. He had known it would send Hoffner in search of Lang. He had known it would send him after the Volker girl. And he had known it would send him to Thyssen’s, where he would find Leni. How better to manipulate a man than to throw him into the unknown, but with all the trappings of the known around him.

  Leni said, “Thyssen was dead. Who else were they going to call?”

  “You tell me. It’s your business.” He saw the now familiar calculation in her eyes before she answered. “You think I’m not telling you something,” she said.

  “I think you’re choosing not to see certain things. Your friends have Thyssen killed—”

  “That wasn’t my friends.” She spoke with such certainty that it took Hoffner a moment to respond.

  “How do you know that?” he said.

  “Because they still have me looking for the girl.”

  And there it was, the most obvious point: and the one he had somehow, once again, missed. More important, he needed Leni to understand what exactly she was admitting. “And why would they have you doing that?” he said.

  She waited before answering. “What difference does it make?”

  “Because you said the only reason they wanted Thyssen’s girl was to get to him. They’re not going to have sent you all the way to Berlin just to find some sex toy. It was about Thyssen. With him dead, why keep you looking for her?”

  This time her hesitation forced a momentary glance at her cup. “That’s not something I have to care about,” she said. “They want me to do it. I have no choice.”

  “And they’ve told you this?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve spoken with them directly?”

  “This is about discretion, Nikolai.” She was almost aggressive. “They talk to Ritter. Ritter talks to me.” It was only saying it aloud that brought the first doubts to her eyes.

  Hoffner let them take root before saying, “Very convenient, isn’t it? Or at least convenient for Ritter.” Hoffner knew where her mind was going. All he needed was to help it along. “If you’re not doing what the Americans sent you here to do, where exactly does that leave you?”

  Doubt turned to something darker. The waiter approached with the roll and cheese, but Leni was already on her feet, gathering up her coat.

  GRAVEL KICKED UP into the housing, and Hoffner pulled the car into one of the spaces in front of the Grosse Halle.

  She had said nothing on the trip out. Even now, Leni continued to stare through the window, her cigarette more ash than paper, until Hoffner said, “You’re going to burn yourself,” as he turned off the motor. She looked at her hand and then crushed the stub into the ashtray. With nothing more for him, she opened the door and headed up to the studio.

  The elevator ride up was equally charming, the man at the lever smart enough to know when to keep his eyes locked on the arrow gliding along the numbered floors.

  Ritter’s anteroom was empty save for a too-blond secretary and a boy sitting on a chair with an envelope. Leni moved to the desk with a surprising warmth. “Good afternoon, Fräulein,” she said. “What a delightful brooch.”

  The girl returned a less than inviting smile. “Yes. Thank you, Madame. Herr Ritter is unavailable. Can I take a message?”

  Leni said easily, “He’ll want to speak with me, Fräulein. Why don’t you just put the call through.”

  The girl picked up her pen and pad. “What message may I leave, Madame?”

  Leni’s smile took on a nice chill. “Pick up the telephone, Fräulein, or my guess, you’ll be in some sub-basement sorting through old costumes by this afternoon. Don’t worry. Herr Ritter will still find the time to screw you. He just won’t feel the need to give you such nice trinkets as his thanks.”

  Hoffner saw the slightest grin appear on the boy’s face.

  The girl waited a moment and then picked up the telephone. “Herr Ritter. Yes, there’s a—”

  “Fräulein Coyle,” said Leni.

  “Fräulein Coyle here to see you . . . Yes, sir.”

  The girl placed the telephone in the cradle, moved back her chair, and stood. She walked around the desk and opened the door to Ritter’s office.

  Moving past her, Leni said, “That’s a good girl.”

  Hoffner did his best with an awkward nod.

  Ritter was standing behind his desk. “Fräulein,” he said affably. “And the Herr Chief Inspector. We didn’t have an appointment, did we?”

  Leni said, “You wanted to be told the instant we had anything on the girl. I hope this is all right?”

  “Of course,” said Ritter. “Please, have a seat.” He sat.

  “Tell me again,” Leni said no less easily. “Why is it we’re looking for this girl, Herr Ritter?”

  Ritter showed only a moment’s concern. “What is it you’ve found, Fräulein?”

  “Maybe we should get Los Angeles on the telephone. Let them hear the news.”

  Again Ritter hesitated before glancing at his watch. He nodded slowly. “Nine hours. That makes it, what, a little before seven in the morning?” He looked up at her. “You’re quite sure they get in this early, Fräulein?”

  “They’ll want to be woken for this.”

  “Will they?” He peered over at Hoffner. “Is there anyone you need to speak to in California, Herr Chief Inspector,
or are you here just for show?”

  Hoffner said nothing. Better to see where Leni was taking him.

  She asked, “What is it you really want with the Volker girl?”

  Ritter waited before saying, “Why don’t you have a seat, Fräulein.”

  “Why don’t I stand.”

  Ritter smiled casually. “You know, I usually have an actress or two rushing in here every day, always hysterical, and always better when they take a seat. Nothing, Fräulein, is ever as tragic as it seems.”

  “No one mentioned tragedy, Herr Ritter, just the truth.”

  Ritter remained unflappable. “There’s nothing I want from the Volker girl. It’s your friends in Los Angeles who can’t seem to live without her.”

  “Thyssen’s dead,” she said. “They’ve gotten what they wanted.”

  Hoffner wondered if any of Ritter’s actresses had ever stripped things down to such a cold reality. He had to admire Leni’s recklessness.

  Ritter glanced at Hoffner before answering. “Is that what they wanted? Then I was misinformed.”

  “You can stop all that, Ritter,” she said. “He knows. He knew before I did.” Half true, but Hoffner liked the way she was playing it. Make the cop seem smarter than he is. Lawyers always blanched at disheveled intelligence.

  “She isn’t even that pretty, is she?” Leni continued. “Whatever she was willing to do on film, my boys in Hollywood wouldn’t have wasted the time on her once Thyssen was out of the picture.”

  What Hoffner had taken for sulking on the ride out had evidently been far more productive. Leni had put enough together to see beyond the sex. That she had no idea what that might be was no reason to make her play out the bluff.

  Ritter said, “Maybe you’re right, Fräulein. Maybe we should put that call in to Los Angeles.” He reached for the telephone, and Hoffner said, “Do the Americans know about Herr Vogt, mein Herr, or is that something you’re keeping from them?”