The Berlin Connection (37 page)

The Seventh Tape

Infernal noise, while the steel block, glowing blue-white, shot out from under the resounding electric hammers of the pressure rollers. It sped to the furiously rotating cylinders of the roUing mill.

The light in the workshop was so intense that all of us, workmen and movie staff used goggles. There was no escape from the noise of the gigantic machines.

Two hundred men had started on the nightsliift at seven p.m. this twenty-ninth of November. They were stripped to the waist, wearing the usual costume of boots, protective helmets and goggles. The heat was almost unbearable despite the huge ventilators forcing fresh air into the mill.

This is where we would be shooting for the next five nights. We had permission to shoot only at night for, during the day, five hundred men worked here. We would have been in their way.

What was to be filmed now was a segment of the career of Carlton Webb, the drunken weakling played by me. The brutal, sweaty world of tough manual laborers, into which he was suddenly thrown almost destroyed him. But painfully, stubbornly he fought through to a personal victory.

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The background of this "movie within the movie" was the daily lives of working men. Among them and their families the hero came to know "real" life, "real" problems, "real" men and—a dramatic essential—a beautiful working girl, later to be his sweetheart, and Evelyn's rival.

After Carlton Webb's salvation (as it were) through honest toil he would be killed by Evelyn's jealous husband.

The two hundred men of the night shift were more than just extras. They were real men—not players. After talking and working with them I had a greater awareness of that other world, more solid and lasting than my world of luxury apartments, corruption and depravity.

Joan, Schauberg and I had left Hamburg at eight o'clock Sunday morning. We reached Essen by eleven o'clock. In the afternoon two foremen instructed me in routines I would need for the scenes that night. I had an hour's rest before starting work^at seven p.m.

The scenes in Essen were the most dreadfully taxing ones, psychologically and physically. Workers were on four-hour shifts but we—under pressure by our deadline—spent eight or nine hours in the heat and noise of the mill. Those were five nights I would not soon foreet!

On that first Sunday night the make-up artists were horrified when they saw my body covered with spots, pustules and scabs. Seaton, Kostasch and Albrecht had been summoned.

Soon half a dozen people were starine at me, shaking their heads all the while I was insisting that the rash was a harmless allergy; that I was already under the care of a dermatologist in Hamburg and that he had said make-up would conceal the rash but not irritate it. Schauberg had told me, "You can apply any amount of make-up. Considering the large doses of aureomycin you've had it's simply impossible to get an infection! Just to make sure I'll give you another one to carry you through until I get back."

He had done that, and left at twelve noon. Now it was ten p.m. While we were shooting perspiration was rapidly washing away my make-up. As though I was really a workman I pushed the white-hot steel bouncing past us, with a long iron bar along the rotating cylinders. I had a double for a few dangerous scenes (such as a liSt fight on a narrow bridge above the rolling mill) but I played in most of the takes.

The camera man told me not to worry about the melting make-up. "We're using panchromatic film. The glowing metal will photograph so bright, you'll all appear as silhouettes. Close-ups are on your face and that is free of the rash."

A buzzer sounded. Two hundred exhausted men left. Two hundred fresh men started work.

Eleven p.m.

Schauberg had been gone eleven hours. What was keeping him? It was seven hours since he had operated on Shirley.

Something must have happened! Something went wrong with Shirley. Or with Schauberg. Or with both of them. What had happened?

I played my scenes. The fear did not leave me. My arms grew weak; I could hardly hold the iron bar, my head ached, my back hurt, and along with the perspiration I felt my strength ebb. At midnight we paused for a half hour.

Still no sign of Schauberg.

1 was lying on my cot in a portable dressine room. Harry had wrapped me in blankets and I asked him to bring me a telephone. He rolled in the telephone with a seemingly endless line rolling off a drum on wheels. With shaking hands I dialed my hotel in Hamburg.

"This is Peter Jordan. I'd like to speak to my daughter, please."

"I'm sorry Mr. Jordan, Miss Bromfield left word that she did not want to be disturbed."

"When?"

"At four o'clock. She said she did not feel well."

"You have not heard from her since?"

"No, Mr. Jordan. She said she was going to take a sleeping pill."

"Well, connect me anyway."

"But—"

"Connect me! It is important! The worst that can happen is that we wake her!"

I heard the phone ring.

"Miss Bromfield does not answer."

"So I see."

"She must be fast asleep."

"Yes." Perhaps she was dead.

"Shall I send someone up?"

Perhaps she really was asleep. Perhaps Schauberg was still with her. Perhaps—

"No. No, don't do that! I don't want to disturb her if she is sleeping that deeply. Thank you, operator."

Twelve-thirty a.m.

Where was Schauberg?

Why didn't Shirley answer?

If something happened to Shirley, if Schauberg had injured her ... if she had bled to death ... if this old morphine addict with his shaky hands had killed her ... if he was already on his way to the frontier . . ,

"Good God in heaven!"

I suddenly realized that I had spoken aloud. I believe I had never said those words before!

A knock. The door opened.

"And a very good evening, or rather good morning." Schauberg looked pale and tired but he smiled.

I started.

"How is she?"

"Everything is fine. She's sleeping. She'll have to rest today but tomorrow she can work again. Sends her best regards."

Suddenly the room spun, my hand went to my throat and I fell back on my bed. "Can't. . . can't breathe . .."

"Where is the box?"

"Under ... bed . .."

He quickly locked the door, pulled out the box. Yellow box, chrome-plated steel, injection. Then peace, calm, serenity.

I breathed deeply. Schauberg stowed away the box, unlocked the door. Not a moment too soon. Seaton's protege, the blond Hans, looked in, "We're ready to resume in five minutes, Mr. Jordan."

"Rest another five minutes," said Schauberg, his smile benign. "Everything went off smoothly, dear Mr. Jordan."

"Swear it!"

"You know that I don't believe—"

"If Shirley is not all right, if you are lying, I'll see to it that you'll never leave Germany, that you'll never get 2l chance of a new start, that you're going to rot here—^you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Why are you so late?"

"I ran out of gas right after I passed Hanover. I stood and waved for almost three hours before I got a lift to the next gas station." Hans looked in, "Mr. Jordan, are you ready now?" And was gone again.

I got up. I felt reborn. Now I could take on another dozen such nights!

"Schauberg, those injections are fantastic."

"Are you telUng me?" He looked worried and held on to my arm. "Listen, dear Mr. Jordan, there is something wrong with your wife."

"What do you mean?"

"You're paying me. So I'm on your side. I don't care about your wife. This afternoon we very nearly ran into some trouble..."

Door open. Hans.

"Mr. Jordan—"

"Get out!" I yeUed. He did, offended. "What kind of trouble?"

"Well, just as we were about to start the telephone rang. Your stepdaughter had left word not to be disturbed but some stupid bitch called anyway because it was the police."

"The poUce?"

"Yes, an inspector,"

"Who talked to him?"

"I did."

"You?"

"What else could I do? The girl was already anaesthetized. I said I was your chauffeur. Miss Bromfield could not answer the telephone since she was taking a bath."

"And he believed that?"

"Apparently. He really didn't want Miss Bromfield, he wanted to see her mother."

"My wife?"

"I told him she was staying at the Konigshof Hotel in Essen. He said he would call the police here and have them send someone to the hotel. Tomorrow morning. That is, this morning."

"Did he say what they wanted my wife for?"

"He was very pohte. It seems the German police don't want anything from her. But the American police seem to have asked the German authorities for help."

This time it was Seaton who opened the door. "Peter, we're all waiting for you. You really must come now!"

I left Schauberg and followed the director: Seaton gave me instructions, "Now in the next scene you are certain that Maria knows everything. You are panic-stricken, desperate, at the end of your rope. But you must pull yourself together. No one must know. No one. Okay?"

"Okay."

"It's a difficult scene, T know."

"It's quite easy," I said absent-mindedly. "You'll see."

At eleven o'clock, after six hours of sleep, I was up again, breakfasting with Joan.

"Shirley called an hour ago."

"Anything special?"

"No, just to see how we were. She said she had caught a cold and was resting in bed, reading."

"Something interesting, I hope?"

"Exodusr

Now I felt relieved. Exodus was the word we had agreed on. If Shirley was reading Exodus everything had gone well and she was feeling all right.

The telephone rang on the table behind me. I picked up the receiver.

"This is the operator. I have a call for Mrs. Jordan."

"AU right."

"Just a moment please. I'll connect you with a phone booth."

A man's voice. "Mrs. Jordan?"

"This is Mrs. Jordan's husband.'*

Joan caught her breath. "Who is it?"

I motioned her to be quiet.

The man asked, "Could I speak to your wife, Mr. Jordan?"

"Who are you?"

Joan had jumped up and hurried to me. She pressed her ear to the receiver.

"I'm Inspector Munro. Hamburg asked us to talk with Mrs. Jordan. They had been asked by the Los Angeles police to help. It would be best if I could explain it to you personally. May I then—"

Joan's lips quivered. She was deathly pale.

"Come on up. Room five-eleven." I replaced the receiver.

"He'll be here in two minutes," I said.

Joan covered her face for a moment with both hands. Her eyes were enormous.

"Now the time has come," she said.

I said nothing.

"Two detectives already came to see me in Pacific Palisades before I left for Hamburg."

I remained silent.

"Then they wrote to me ... to the hotel in Hamburg ... you saw the letter ... you looked for it ... I lied to you ... I told you it had been an invitation for a fashion show... You remember?"

"I remember."

"I was going to tell you everything right away! Right after arriving in Hamburg. I ... I was so upset .. . that's why I drank too much in the plane ... I didn't think I'd be brave enough to tell you ... and then I was tight and lost my courage altogether ..."

One more minute and the inspector would be here. How odd that the final catastrophe should take place before another person, a witness, a stranger, this Mr. Munro.

"And then . .. then I thought I'd forget all about it ... Hamburg is a long way from Los Angeles .. . but they sent that letter ... and now the inspector ... one cannot escape them!"

No, one could not escape, I thought. Why did the authorities go to Joan, not to me or Shirley? Apparently they had not believed Gregory's statement that he was the father. Obviously they hoped to make me confess in this way.

"Peter, you must forgive me!"

"Forgive you?"

"Yes. I've done something terrible ..."

"What?"

"You had already left for Europe ..." "I had already left for Europe ..." I repeated as if I had been hypnotized.

"On Sunset Boulevard ... my foot slipped off the brake onto the gas pedal and I hit a car about to park. I think I did quite a lot of damage ... it was very late ... I had been drinking ... I came from a party at the Lexingtons' . . ."

"Lexingtons'.. ."

"And I was afraid of a blood test. So I drove away." Now she was crying. "On the next day the detectives came . . . They thought at first that you had driven the car but when they heard you were in Europe they asked me ... and I did the second stupid thing . . ." It was fantastic. It was unbelievable. But true. "I told the detectives the Cadillac had been stolen. I said I had only just noticed that it was missing and that I was just about to report it!" "I don't understand..."

"Well, I abandoned the car after the collision . . ." "Where?"

"In some street ... I only drove a little way and left the car. I ran and ran until I found a taxi ... I told you, I just lost my head ... I told the detectives the car had been stolen from the street in front of the house ..."

"Yes, and?" That v/as all I could manage to say. I still did not have complete control over myself.

"They believed me at first. They had already found the Cadillac and our fingerprints in it..." "What happened then?"

"Nothing. Until they sent that letter . . . they wrote they had found paint chips and tire marks and some witnesses . . . and I don't know what else ... I was to go to the German police and make another statement . . . tell the truth . . . they were threatening hit-and-run charges ..."

"Why didn't you go to the German police?"

"I thought it might be just a threat, a trap. I wrote them that I had nothing new to add ... I meant to tell you . . . later . . . but not while you were working . . . you are so nervous right now .. . and we never had anything to do with the police . . . they are going to take me to court... in Los Angeles where everybody knows us ..."

There was a knock at the door. I opened it.