The Berlin Connection (35 page)

"I shaU teU you."

"When?"

"As soon as the child is gone. Then I'll tell you everything. Everything."

She began to cry and ran out of my dressing room. I ran after her but she had disappeared. Finally I found her sitting on a roll of cable in an unused studio. "She was crying uncontrollably.

I tried to calm her; I stroked her. She only repeated, "You must believe me. I love you. I am not deceiving you. I can't tell you where I go. It is something to do with us. When you return from Essen I shall explain everything." She looked at me through her tears, her body shaken by sobs. "Please trust me, Peter. If you love me you must trust me now."

The boat trip on the Elbe, Misha, the afternoon I had spent at Natasha's flashed through my mind. What arrogance, what presumption to have her watched, to pressure her, to play the righteous, jealous lover.

So I answered, "I do trust you." That was a lie.

I left her in the studio. She said she needed time to calm herself and fix her face.

It had begun to snow. I walked through the whirling snowflakes and felt very giddy. Schauberg was treating me with arsenic to stimulate me. Perhaps it was the arsenic.

Perhaps it was my mind that was as sick as my body, covered with rash. Perhaps all this was happening to an insane man or had not really happened at all, or had happened differently—the creation of a disturbed imagination.

For instance, the notion that Shirley was deceiving me, that she was meeting another man. Perhaps I even imagined that I was having her watched. Could it be that I had already died? Or was I still ahve and in a cHnic where I

was dreaming all these awful things I believed to be my life? Perhaps—

SqueaUng tires tore me from my thoughts. Hennessy in a little red sportscar had pulled up sharply beside me. "Can I give you a lift?" His smile showed his beautiful teeth.

"No, thank you. I Hke to walk."

"Okay!"

He stepped on the gas and the car shot forward. Automatically I looked at the license place. HH-HClll. An easy number to remember.

I had a few drinks from my black bag in my dressing room before going back to face the camera. But the disquieting thoughts returned in spite of the whisky.

The next morning I was still at the hotel when the mail arrived. Again Joan hurried to take the letters. Two letters were for her. She opened one.

"From the bank. About the hundred fifty thousand dollars. They really ought to have addressed the letter to you."

•"And the other letter?"

"Oh, it's just an invitation to a fashion show," Joan answered. She placed the bank statement on the table and took the second letter to her bedroom.

It was not an invitation to a fashion show. I had glanced at the official-looking envelope and read the printed return address: City of Los Angeles. Police Headquarters. Criminal Investigation Department.

16

I waited.

I sat at the breakfast table and waited. Joan had to leave her bedroom sometime and if she did not tell ^hen T would ask. I had no idea what kind of revenge she had

planned but at least T could see to it that it did not continue forever. Fd provoke her. I'd force her to talk. She would lose her control. Then finally I would know what she knew.

When after half an hour she had not returned I went to her bedroom.

"Joan?"

"In here, darling." Her cheerful voice came from the bathroom.

She was in a bubble bath.

"I was waiting for you."

"But I told you I was going to take a bath. Didn't you hear me?"

"No."

"I'm sorry. Was there something you wanted to tell me?"

It was hot and humid and stickv in the bathroom. I looked at Joan. She smiled. Without make-un her face looked years younger. Why did she use make-up? Why was she smiling?

"This other letter," I began.

"What other letter?"

"The one you just took to your bedroom."

"You mean the invitation?" She raised one leg above the bubbles.

"It was no invitation. Where is the letter? I want to see it!"

"Darling, have you gone crazy?" She was shocked. "Of course it was an invitation!"

"For a fashion show, eh? They're sending you an invitation to Germany so you can see their show in the States, eh?"

"They don't-know that I'm in Germany. You know that all my mail is forwarded to me from Pacific Palisades!"

"Where is the invitation?"

"On my dressing table. Really, Peter, if you could see your face—"

Three steps took me to the dressing table. On it was an envelope, a card. It was indeed an invitation. I tore open the drawers of the dressing table, I searched the wastebas-ket, the shelves of the cupboard, ashtrays and the corners of the room. I had not made a mistake. I knew what I had seen.

Joan had received the invitation earlier. She had hidden the letter received from police headquarters. Where? Where? I pulled dresses from the closet, searched drawers of lingerie, opened handbags. A noise made me snap around. Wrapped in a bathtowel, barefoot, Joan stood in the doorway. She was staring at me.

I dropped the lacy garment in my hand, stammered, "Nerves . . . overtaxed . . . forgive me . . . see you tonight," and stumbled from the room.

In the inside mirror of the open closet T caught sieht of Joan again. Water dripped from her. She was looking at me. Her hps suddenly twisted into a smile of triumph.

17

The next morning at the studio Shirley asked^ "Did you have a fight with Joan?"

"Why?"

"She intimated that much. You had carried on like a madman."

"She received a letter from the Los Angeles Criminal Investigation Department and denies it. I saw the envelope. I was searching for it."

"Did you find it?"

"No. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You are working too hard, Peter."

"Shirley, I swear I saw the envelope! And what about Gregory's call?"

"He must have misunderstood. You must have made a mistake. If Joan knew anything she would have said something a long time ago. It's just not possible that my mother—your wife—would remain silent if she knew what we had done."

"She doesn't necessarily know everything."

"Even if she knew only part of it."

"She is shamm.ing! She is lying! Just like you!"

Shirley said very softly, "And you? Do you speak the truth? I think—"

"What? What do you think?" Perhaps I could provoke her.

"Never mind," she answered. "I have to go back to the cutting room."

The twenty-fifth, a Wednesday, was Schauberg's day off. After he had given me the usual injections he drove to the casino in Travemlinde. Three of his friends went along also. He gave each of them four thousand marks which they changed into chips but did not use to gamble. Feverish activity reigned at the crowded casino.

A few hours later Schauberg who had gambled a little pro forma had his friends return all the chips to him. He took the twelve thousand marks worth of chips to the cashier where he himself had exchanged two hundred marks. The cashier congratulated him on his large winnings. Schauberg tipped him a hundred marks and asked for a check which he cashed the following morning.

He explained the reason for all this. "I had no money when I was arrested, right? If I suddenly have money now somebody might ask questions. Then I can prove that I had won it. It's not necessary to do this with the money I'll still be receiving from you. Only with the capital I'm starting out with."

"Starting what?"

"Well, I need a forged passport. As soon as your movie

is completed I'm getting out. Now I can leave Germany only with a forged passport. After all, I have to report to the police every day."

Thursday I developed a large boil on my thigh. I was still applying aureomycin every night. The powder did not help. Meanwhile parts of my body had the appearance of raw meat. Schauberg desperately tried injections. Some of the spots had begun to discharge, too. Schauberg said, "The boil is no problem. The body is not important. It is important that we keep your face free of the rash. You ought not to eat so much, dear Mr. Jordan!"

"But I'm always hungry!"

"That's the effect of the arsenic. You must control yourself!"

"What if the rash does spread to my face?"

"It won't. Aureomycin is a miracle drug. Just like penicillin." He was trying to reassure me. But I also noticed that he himself was worried. "I'm going to discontinue the arsenic. Or you are going to put on too much weight. I'm going to try something else. But then I have to have you under constant observation."

"Which means you're going to have to come to Essen with me."

"If you remember I already mentioned it: You only have to request me to be your chauffeur."

"What about Shirley?"

"You are leaving Sunday morning, right? I'll drive you down. Takes about three or four hours. Then I'll return to Hamburg and take care of her. At night I'll come back to Essen."

"The distance—"

"Merely a few hundred kilometers on the Autobahn. Which reminds me: Somebody has to take the rushes to be copied from Essen to Hamburg, right?"

"That's right."

"Marvelous. Then you can suggest to Mr. Kostasch that I do that. That wUl also give me the opportunity to

look in on your stepdaughter during the first two days—^it is not really essential because she'll be all right by Monday morning."

"You've really thought of everything."

"I really would like to get out of Europe, dear Mr. Jordan."

I admired his resourcefulness. "By coming each day from Essen you can also register daily with the police."

"Exactly. Incidentally, they are most satisfied with me since I lead such a respectable life and work so conscientiously as a mechanic."

This was early Thursday and we were talking outside the hotel. Schauberg had just brought the Mercedes from the garage. It was snowing again. Schauberg brought a newspaper. The headlines said: "Bloodshed in the Jungles of Laos. Native Pilots Mistakenly Bomb Own Troops."

"Voila, progress," said Schauberg.

"Progress?"

"In warfare. Once it becomes "popular to bomb one's own troops and towns—imagine how much gasoline and how many lives could then be saved!"

18

"I changed my mind," said Joan.

It was Friday evening.

"About what, darling?"

"If Shirley stays in Hamburg Til stay too. What would I do in Essen? You won't be with me anyway."

So I met Schauberg in a bar. He thought the situation very amusing. "This is turning into a comedy. There is only one thing to do: Your stepdaughter will have to come to Essen. We'll do it there."

So I called Kostasch.

"You know I have this girl..."

"StiU?"

"Yes. And Shirley must have noticed something. I'm afraid she is going to find out more when I'm in Essen. Couldn't we take her along?"

"There's no work for a cutter there."

"It's just for those few days. Surely, you could think of something!"

"Of course I will. You know, I'd do everything for you."

"The suggestion must come from you, though. You know my two women—"

"Stick together. Mother and daughter. Naturally. Leave it to me, I'm famous for being tactful."

Saturday morning Joan declared that she had changed her mind again: "You're so overworked. I'd rather not leave you alone. I'll come to Essen with you."

So I went to the studio and told Kostasch to forget the whole thing. He merely tapped his temple with his index finger. On this morning they again had to make use of the prompt cards for me.

Midday I called Schauberg from my dressing room. I had finished for the day.

"We have to call it off."

"But why?"

"My student cut his finger. Danger of infection. He can't assist me." Shirley, who stood next to me and had listened began to laugh hysterically. Her face twisted convulsively. I slapped her hard, she stopped laughing, said, "Thank you" and began to cry.

I held her close and tried to calm her. When I did not succeed I gave her two of Schauberg's red pills and told her to lie down and rest. I had to view this day's rushes. Half an hour later I came back to my dressing room. Shirley had left.

Harry, my assistant, told me: "She went into town."'

"Alone?"

"Somebody gave her a lift. I looked in to see if you needed me. She was telephoning just then."

"To whom?"

Harry blushed. "Really, Mr. Jordan—"

"She is my daughter! I worry about her. Now then!"

He pocketed the twenty marks.

"I only heard her say: 'Right away. Yes. Please. Right away.' She heard me come in then and did not say anything more until I left. A moment later I heard her ask one of the set men if he could give her a lift to the station."

"Which station?"

"The main railway station. Mr. Jordan, you really shouldn't worry about Miss Shirley. She is so sweet, so decent, she wouldn't do anything bad ..." ,

"All right, aU right."

Shirley was not at the hotel when I arrived.

Joan was unconcerned. "It's Saturday afternoon! She is probably with her boyfriend!"

"Joan, tell me, aren't you at all worried?"

"Peter, you really are a sweetheart! Now you are worrying about her like a real father! What am I saying? Like a lover!" She laughed heartily. "Yes, indeed! Like a deceived lover! I think that's perfectly charming!"

The telephone rang. Was it convenient for me to interview the chauffeur I had engaged for the trip to Essen.

Schauberg arrived; dark gray suit, elegant as always, wearing his beret. He bowed to Joan asking her in fluent English to excuse him for keeping his beret on. "A wound from the war."

"Oh, God. This terrible war!" Joan, who seemed to like him right away, was now especially charming. "I'm certain you were not always a chauffeur, Mr. Schauberg?"

"No, ma'am."

"What is your actual profession?"

Schauberg smiled.

"May I guess?"

"Please, do."

"A physician?"

Schauberg did not bat an eyelid. "What makes you think that?"

"Your hands. You have beautiful hands."