Shadow and Light

by Jonathan Rabb

  Hoffner stepped over and poured himself a glass. “Does that actually work with actors?” he said. He pulled on one of the nipples and found the ice. “I mean, I think it’s terribly intimidating—especially the way you rest your hand on your thigh—but I’m just wondering if it sets your actors and producers all atremble.” Hoffner dropped two cubes into the glass. “It’s certainly got me shaking in my pants.” He took a drink.

  Lang remained perfectly posed. “I know the woman’s dead, Detective, so I can understand why you feel so inadequate—the need to posture in front of me. The motivation is obvious, if a little over the top.”

  Hoffner said, “And what’s your excuse for it?”

  “Enough,” said Pimm. He tossed his hat onto a table and sat in the only chair that looked remotely comfortable. It wasn’t. “We all know Nikolai’s mucked this up, and we both know you and I had a hand in that. Where is it?”

  Lang sat a moment longer before leaning forward and placing his glass on the table. “You’ll need to move that hat, Alby. She hates water stains on the wood.”

  “Where is it?” Pimm repeated as he reached over and tossed his hat onto a chair.

  “It’s safe,” said Lang. “No worries.” He looked at Hoffner. “The young ones, Inspector. They tremble at anything. And the ones desperate to please.”

  A woman’s voice cut in from the balcony: “So that would make you either a terrible judge of age, Fritz, or a terrible judge of character—or both—at least when it comes to the detective here.” Hoffner looked up and saw Thea von Harbou standing by a spiral staircase. She was in a silk robe as well, and looked surprisingly more attractive than the last time he had seen her. She began to make her way down. “The question is,” she continued, “how do you manage to survive as a director if you can’t get either of those right?” She stopped on the last step and said, “Good evening, Detective—Alby. A pleasure to see you both.”

  Hoffner’s surprise left him with only one response: “I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Madame.”

  She laughed. “Oh, be a sport, Detective. If Fritz can forgive me, you certainly can. Or have I misjudged your character, too?”

  Hoffner looked at Lang, who put up a reassuring hand. “She’s drunk, Inspector. Very drunk. Par for the course, given what she’s been through tonight. She just happens to be exceptionally good at it.” He looked over at her. “Wake up Marget, dear. You always like doing that. Tell her we want something to eat. Eggs, I think.”

  Von Harbou thought a moment. “What a good idea,” she said, and headed for the hall. There was nothing in her speech or gait to give her away.

  Hoffner waited until she was through the archway to say, “How far gone is she?”

  “Not so far that she won’t remember everything,” said Lang. “It’s just the pain she’s putting off. And the humiliation. Telling her that I’ve had the device the whole time—stringing her along with everyone else—I’ve got one up on her now. That’s going to kill her tomorrow.”

  Pimm said, “I could take care of that tonight, if you want.”

  Lang smiled. “No,” he said. “She’ll find a way to put it in a script, and that’s ultimately good for me. Dead she wouldn’t write quite so well.”

  “And speaking of the dead,” said Hoffner, “you wouldn’t happen to have the Volker girl lying around here somewhere, would you?”

  “The Volker girl?” said Lang. “She’s far from dead, Inspector.”

  “Then lurking about?”

  “With Thea in the house? God, no. We shipped her off to Oslo ten days ago. She was a rather brave little thing, delivering the device and the blueprints. I promised her a role in something, but I think she’s clever enough to stay where she is.”

  Pimm said, “Does Thea have any idea the device is here?”

  Lang shook his head. “That was meant to be a surprise. See her reaction when the Coyle woman destroyed it right in front of her.”

  Pimm said, “You’ve an interesting marriage, Fritz.”

  Lang laughed to himself. “I’m not completely heartless, Alby. Thea would also have seen the inspector’s face the moment he figured it all out. That would have been fun for her.”

  Hoffner said, “She did try to frame you for murder.”

  Lang looked over. “You mean that Thyssen-in-the-tub business, Inspector?” He nodded. “Thea’s a clever girl with a flair for the dramatic. I won’t deny it. Bit of a shock, but I think it was more a scare tactic than anything else. Make sure that I knew that they knew that I knew—so forth and so on.” Lang retrieved his glass. “Come to think of it, I might actually have deserved it.” He stared into the whiskey. “After all, I was the one to tell the Americans about Herr Vogt and his device in the first place.” He looked up at Hoffner. “You did see that, Inspector, didn’t you?” Lang drank.

  A day ago Hoffner might have cared. Now Lang’s confession just seemed irritating. “So you’re afraid of Hugenberg as well?” he said.

  Lang set the glass down. “Isn’t everyone? Not that I think Alfred would be such a terrible head of Ufa. In fact, he might actually get us out of the red.”

  “Then why?”

  “Does there always have to be a single reason, Inspector?”

  “It helps with people like me.”

  Lang laughed quietly. “You’re very good. You’ll make a wonderful character for Thea to play with. I’m sure you can guess who I have in mind for Alby here—No? You’ve met him.”

  Hoffner took a few seconds before answering, “The little one. At the theater. Lorre.” He looked at Pimm. “Sorry, Alby.”

  Lang said, “Excellent, Inspector.” He looked at Pimm. “Oh, come on, Alby. You won’t be disappointed. The fellow’s remarkable. I’ve got something else in mind for him before he does you, but you’ll meet him and like him. And let’s face it, you are small.”

  Pimm said, “Are we done?”

  Hoffner said, “I’m still waiting on my single reason.”

  “Lubitsch,” Pimm said impatiently. “That’s why, Nikolai. Can we get on with this?”

  Lang let go with a long laugh. “Jealousy is hardly going to be enough of a reason for the inspector, Alby.” He looked at Hoffner. “Alby thinks it’s because I want to make films in America, and I can’t say it doesn’t burn a little that my dear old friend Lubitsch is now the toast of Hollywood—even if he is churning out meaningless little comedies. But Hollywood means money and prestige and distribution. I suppose you could see Fräulein Coyle’s offer as a bit of quid pro quo. I tell them about the device, and they bring me over to make some real films. Naturally she had no idea I had the device—I couldn’t have just given it to them—but she knew I was the one to tell her friends all about it. She finds it, and off I go to America.”

  Hoffner said, “So it all comes down to ego. How—obvious.”

  Lang laughed again and said, “Fair enough. If you believe Alby.”

  “And, of course, I shouldn’t.”

  “Well,” Lang said, standing, “not entirely.” He moved across the room to a poster of his Siegfried: two lovers sat holding hands in a garden, dressed in medieval garb. Except for the man’s oddly large hands, Hoffner might have taken them for two women. “Did you see it?” Lang asked.

  “I can’t say I did.”

  “Shame. It’s very good. When we were allowed to make serious films.” Lang pulled back the frame and revealed a large safe. He spun the dial, opened it, and pulled out what looked to be an oversized lantern. “You know what this is?”

  “I can take a guess,” said Hoffner.

  “Well, you might not be entirely right on that one, either.”

  “I’m not going to need another drink, am I?”

  Lang pulled out his monocle and slid it into the pocket of his robe. “No. You won’t.” He tossed the device over. Remarkably Hoffner caught it, and Lang said, “Not all that impressive, is it—Herr Vogt’s sound and movement machine. You can be the one to take the sledgehammer to it, Inspector
. Makes no difference to me.”

  It was lighter than Hoffner expected, and far less involved. Behind the glass, eight or ten wires passed through various tubes and boxes, the real genius evidently tucked away somewhere inside. “And the blueprints?” said Hoffner.

  “Burned,” said Lang. “I can get you the ashes if you like?”

  Hoffner shook his head. “So why wouldn’t I be entirely right?”

  Lang pulled a cigarette case from his pocket. “What you’ve got in your hands there is the end of film as we know it—that’s why.” He tapped one out and lit it.

  Hoffner shot Pimm a glance. “I think I preferred the other reason.”

  Lang smiled. “I’m sure you did. Don’t get me wrong, Inspector. Sound will innovate. The masses will flock to it. But machines like this will shatter whatever inner life we’ve managed to put up on a screen. Joy, madness, despair—see these in shadowed light and silence and they’re universal. You can touch them, feel them as your own. Add sound to that—and I don’t mean music; music has its own universal mystery—but add an actor or an actress—or the sound of some train racing by—and it all becomes pedestrian, the echoes of a single voice, and far too particular to have any real meaning. Remove your own projections from what it is to moan or to shriek or to cry out with longing and you steal the very soul from a film.”

  Hoffner said to Pimm, “And here I thought you were the one with the noble cause, Alby. Jew-haters and the like. You never knew it was art you were protecting.”

  Lang said, “Better that than ego.”

  Hoffner said, “They’re one and the same, aren’t they?” Lang let out a long stream of smoke, and Hoffner added, “Your actors, by the way, might disagree with you.”

  “Destroying it stops nothing, of course,” said Lang. “I know that. No matter how much of a disaster Jolson is, Pandora’s box is open. But if doing this had let the Americans take over Ufa, and the Americans had been forced to see how real films are made, then maybe just a little bit of German art would have found its way into American films. And we’d have managed to protect something real.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” said Hoffner.

  Lang ignored the comment and crushed out his cigarette. “In return, we would have learned a little something from them. The freedom they give to their artists. Chaplin, Hawks, Griffith. These are great men, Inspector, with great vision. Nothing ever compromises what they do. We might have learned the value of that.”

  “And back we go to ego,” said Hoffner: he was done with the smug Lang. “What’s the matter, Fritz? Those horrible Ufa executives didn’t allow Metropolis to be quite the masterpiece it should have been? A few people dead—a few more forced to perform unspeakable acts on film—but that hardly matters as long as Fritz Lang can give a tutorial on the making of film?” Hoffner enjoyed the turn in Lang’s gaze. “Luckily for you, Fritz, there’s more at stake here. Luckily for Alby, as well.” Hoffner continued to watch Lang. “Tell him, Alby. Tell him he was actually trying to do something worthwhile despite himself.” When Pimm said nothing, Hoffner added, “Hugenberg wants Ufa for a different kind of German art. All those sound stages he’ll be building—courtesy of Mr. Jolson and your masses—those aren’t just for his talking newsreels and propaganda. They’re for his tanks and his aeroplanes and his submarines, and whatever else he thinks he might need. Surprised, Fritz? Chances are, Herr Alfred’s planning on teaching the Americans a thing or two of his own.”

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Lang was back on the sofa, finishing off his third drink, as Thea von Harbou stepped into the room. She was followed by a shortish woman who was pushing a tray on wheels.

  “Mushroom omelet,” said von Harbou. “Doesn’t it smell wonderful?”

  “Sit down, Thea,” Lang said coolly. “You can go, Marget.” The woman needed no other encouragement. She was gone before von Harbou could answer. Lang repeated, “I said sit down.”

  Von Harbou flashed a mystified smile and started toward the sofa.

  “The other chair,” said Lang. “By the sound device. The one Alfred wants so desperately.”

  Her smile was all but gone as she caught sight of the metal box on the table. Pimm was already behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and said, “Hello, Alby. Quite menacing when you choose to be. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  Lang said, “I wouldn’t test him.”

  Von Harbou ignored her husband and walked to the chair. She sat. “I’ll take a drink.”

  “Not just yet,” said Lang. “Go ahead. You can hold it. Tell Alfred what it was like the next time you see him.”

  She remained perfectly still. “I think you’re missing a few pages of script, dear. You’ve jumped ahead, and you’re getting it all wrong.”

  “Am I?” said Lang. “New warehouses for Phoebus, a little man with a limp, something called the Ostara Company—the inspector’s been showing me those pages. You seem to be on every one.”

  “What a remarkable coincidence,” she said. Hoffner had taken a fork to the eggs, and von Harbou looked over. “They’re good, aren’t they?” she said. “Marget sautés the mushrooms with garlic before adding them. Makes all the difference.”

  “Very nice,” said Hoffner. He took another forkful. “Are you sleeping with Hugenberg, Frau Lang, or is it something else?” He swallowed and looked over.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  “No, I know it’s crass to ask,” said Hoffner. “But you don’t seem the type for political thugs—unless it’s the sexual deviance you like.” He looked at Lang. “Is that the sort of thing that excites her, Fritz? Otherwise I’m at a complete loss as to why she’s tied up in this.” Hoffner suddenly laughed to himself and looked at Pimm. “Tied up. I didn’t even mean to say it.”

  The room remained uncomfortably quiet until Lang said, “What the hell are you getting at, Inspector?”

  Hoffner dug through the eggs for a few more mushrooms. “These new friends of yours, Madame. They’re a brutal bunch, aren’t they? And they like seeing their brutality.”

  She was becoming less attractive by the moment. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No, no, of course you don’t.” Hoffner now spoke with a controlled venom: “What’s a few bodies, girls raped.” He speared two more and ate them. “Actually Hugenberg’s less a concern for me at this particular moment. Easy enough to expose what he’s got in those warehouses, but again you know nothing about that.”

  “I’d like that drink,” she said.

  “Little less charming right about now, isn’t it?” Hoffner said coldly. He looked at Pimm. “I think we can give her a drink, Alby.” He turned to Lang. “All right with you, Fritz? Be a sport?” No one moved. “No?” Hoffner stepped over, poured out the whiskey, and brought it to her. “It’s your dogs I want called off. You can give them a telephone call. Tell them they’ve killed enough people and I’d like them to stop.”

  She took the glass, then slowly set it on the side table. “I’m a little tired, Fritz,” she said. “I’m sure you can destroy the thing without me. I imagine that’s what you have in mind. I’ll call Alfred in the morning and make sure he’s not too disappointed.” She looked up at Hoffner. “Unfortunately, I can’t speak for those dogs, Inspector, since I don’t know them. I suspect you’ll just have to let them tire themselves out.”

  She started to get up, and Hoffner stood directly in front of her. She sat back. “They didn’t quite get all the films tonight,” he said. “Only about half of them.” Hoffner stared down at her, but she refused to look at him. “You have a projector somewhere, Fritz? We could all take a look.”

  Lang waited for his wife to say something. When she didn’t, he turned to Pimm. “What films? What is he talking about, Alby?”

  Hoffner said, “I think Hugenberg might find that piece of information a little more disappointing, Madame.”

  It was a cold, unflappable stare that now peered back at Hoffner. “You think so?” she
said. “I don’t think Alfred gives a fig about those films, Inspector, though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having them for himself—a bit of leverage. You can never have enough of that, can you?”

  Hoffner was no less contemptuous. “Still, a little uncomfortable if they were to come out.”

  Lang prodded. “What is he talking about, Thea?”

  “Uncomfortable for whom?” she said. “For these people I don’t know?”

  “There’s a particular one,” Hoffner said. “Alby’s seen it. He says it’s quite entertaining—in a desperate, middle-aged sort of way. You might recognize it.”

  No amount of booze could have hidden the ugliness now on von Harbou’s face. It was there only a moment, but long enough to make the sudden shift to the brave, wronged woman all the more transparent. She peered up at him. “Well, then you know I’m as much a victim here as anyone, Inspector.”

  Hoffner marveled at how the guilty never managed to see beyond the limits of a lie. “Of course you are,” he said. All the emotion had drained out of him. “I’m just trying to protect you, Madame, seeing that you had no idea what you were signing, or what the money was for—or that there might have been hidden cameras in the walls.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said with a remarkable facility.

  “So I’m sure you’ll want to do whatever you can to make things rough for these people.”

  She finally looked past Hoffner to Lang. “But they terrify me, Inspector. I don’t think I’m strong enough to put myself in that sort of position. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Lang said, “What the hell is everyone talking about?”

  Von Harbou said, “Sex films, dear. I’m not proud of myself. It seemed like a lark. Alfred suggested it.” The lie had taken on a life all its own. “You knew he and I were close. But things got out of hand. Obviously the inspector has a copy. I’m mortified, as you can tell.”