That seemed to take care of Pullach, I thought. But what of Abs? It didn't seem to be in character for a man who wished to commemorate the memory of a hero of the German Resistance (such as it had existed), to kill an innocent man merely in order to remain anonymous. And how could Abs be connected with Linden, the Nazi-hunter, except as some kind of informer? Was it possible that Abs had also been killed, just like Linden and the Drexlers?
I finished my coffee, lit a cigarette and for the present moment I was content that these and other questions could not be asked in any forum other than my own mind.
The number 39 ran west along Sieveringer Strasse into Dobling and stopped just short of the Vienna Woods, a spur of the Alps which reaches as far as the Danube.
A film studio is not a place where you are likely to see any great evidence of industry. Equipment lies forever idle in the vans hired to transport it. Sets are never more than half-built even when they are finished. But mostly there are lots of people, all drawing a wage, who seem to do little more than stand around, smoking cigarettes and nursing cups of coffee; and these only stand because they are not considered important enough to be provided with a seat. For anyone foolish enough to have financed such an apparently profligate undertaking, film must seem like the most expensive length of material since Chinese silk, and would, I reflected, surely have driven Dr Liebl half- mad with impatience.
I inquired after the studio manager from a man with a clipboard, and he directed me to a small office on the first floor. There I found a tall, paunchy man with dyed hair, wearing a lilac-coloured cardigan and having the manner of an eccentric maiden aunt. He listened to my mission with one hand clasped on top of the other as if I had been requesting the hand of his warded niece.
'What are you, some kind of policeman?' he said combing an unruly eyebrow with his fingernail. From somewhere in the building came the sound of a very loud trumpet, which caused him to wince noticeably.
'A detective,' I said, disingenuously.
'Well, we always like to cooperate with them at the top, I'm sure. What did you say this girl was casting for?'
'I didn't. I'm afraid I don't know. But it was in the last two or three weeks.'
He picked up the telephone and pressed a switch.
'Willy? It's me, Otto. Could you be a love and step into my office for a moment?' He replaced the receiver, and checked his hair. 'Willy Reichmann's a production manager here. He may be able to help you.'
'Thanks,' I said and offered him a cigarette.
He threaded it behind his ear. 'How kind. I'll smoke it later.'
'What are you filming at the moment?' I inquired while we waited. Whoever was playing the trumpet hit a couple of high notes that didn't seem to match.
Otto emitted a groan and stared archly at the ceiling. 'Well, it's called The Angel with the Trumpet,' he said with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm. 'It's more or less finished now, but this director is such a perfectionist.'
'Would that be Karl Hartl?'
'Yes. Do you know him?'
'Only The Gypsy Baron.'
'Oh,' he said sourly. 'That.'
There was a knock at the door and a short man with bright red hair came into the office. He reminded me of a troll.
'Willy, this is Herr Gunther. He's a detective. If you're willing to forgive the fact that he liked The Gypsy Baron you might like to give him some assistance.
He's looking for a girl, an actress who was at a casting session here not so long ago.'
Willy smiled uncertainly, revealing small uneven teeth that looked like a mouthful of rock salt, nodded and said in a high-pitched voice: 'You'd best come into my office, Herr Gunther.'
'Don't keep Willy too long, Herr Gunther,' Otto instructed as I followed Willy's diminutive figure into the corridor. 'He has an appointment in fifteen minutes.'
Willy turned on his heel and looked blankly at the studio manager. Otto sighed exasperatedly. 'Don't you ever write anything in your diary, Willy? We've got that Englishman coming from London Films. Mr Lyndon-Haynes? Remember?'
Willy grunted something and then closed the door behind us. He led the way along the corridor to another office, and ushered me inside.
'Now, what is this girl's name?' he said, pointing me to a chair.
'Lotte Hartmann.'
'I don't suppose you know the name of the production company?'
'No, but I know that she came here within the last couple of weeks.'
He sat down and opened one of the desk drawers. 'Well, there were only three films casting here this past month, so it shouldn't be too difficult.' His short fingers picked out three files which he laid on the blotter and started to sort through their contents. 'Is she in trouble?'
'No. It's just that she may know someone who can help the police with an inquiry we are making.' This was true at least.
'Well if she's been up for a part this last month or so, she'll be in one of these files. We may be short of attractive ruins in Vienna, but one thing we've got plenty of is actresses. Half of them are chocoladies, mind you. Even at the best of times an actress is just a chocolady by another name.' He came to the end of one pile of papers and started on another.
'I can't say I miss your lack of ruins,' I remarked. 'I'm from Berlin myself.
We've got ruins on an epic scale.'
'Don't I know it. But this Englishman I have to see wants lots of ruins here in Vienna. Just like Berlin. Just like Rosellini.' He sighed disconsolately. 'I ask you: what is there apart from the Ring and the Opera district?'
I shook my head sympathetically.
'What does he expect? The war's been over for three years. Does he imagine that we delayed rebuilding just in case an English film crew turned up? Perhaps these things take longer in England than in Austria. It wouldn't surprise me, considering the amount of red-tape the British generate. Never known such a bureaucratic lot. Christ knows what I'm going to tell this fellow. By the time they start filming they'll be lucky to find a broken window.'
He skimmed a sheet of paper across the desk. Pinned to its top left-hand corner was a passport-sized photograph. 'Lotte Hartmann,' he announced.
I glanced at the name and the photograph. 'It looks like it.' 'Actually I remember her,' he said. 'She wasn't quite what we were looking for on that occasion, but I said I could probably find her something in this English production. Good-looking, I'll say that much for her. But to be frank with you, Herr Gunther, she isn't much of an actress. A couple of walk-on parts at the Burgtheater during the war and that's about it. Still, the English are making a film about the black market and so they want lots of chocoladies. In view of Lotte Hartmann's particular experience I thought she could be one of them.'
'Oh? What experience is that?'
'She used to be a greeter at the Casanova Club. And now she's a croupier at the Casino Oriental. At least that's what she told me. For all I know she could be one of the exotic dancers they have there. Anyway, if you're looking for her, that's the address she gave.'
'Mind if I borrow this sheet?'
'Be my guest.'
'One more thing: if for any reason FrSulein Hartmann gets in contact with you I'd be grateful if you would keep this under your hat.'
'Like it was a new toupee.'
I stood up to leave. 'Thanks,' I said, 'you've been very helpful. Oh, and good luck with your ruins.'
He grinned wryly. 'Yes, well, if you see any weak walls, give them a shove, there's a good fellow.'
I was at the Oriental that evening, just in time for the first show at 8.15. The girl dancing naked on the pagoda-like dance floor, to the accompaniment of a six-piece orchestra, had eyes that were as cold and hard as the blackest piece of Pichler's porphyry. Contempt was written into her face as indelibly as the birds tattooed on her small, girlish breasts. A couple of times she had to stifle a yawn, and once she grimaced at the gorilla who was
