Kinski Watch XIV: The Indian Scarf (Alfred Vohrer, 1963)

The Indian Scarf does something every crime series likes to do after a while: locking a number of people in a remote location with no way out and killing them off one by one. Who is the murderer among them? Animosities build up, the tension rises until the identity of the killer is unveiled, and it’s all a little silly. Edgar Wallace being who he is, and Alfred Vohrer being who he is, the silliness level was cranked up to the max in this film, although screenwriter Harald G. Petersson, at first, manages to draw clear and compelling relationships between the characters that should have hold our interest. But as the body count keeps rising, the suspense dwindles. Never a good sign.

The wealthy Lord Lebanon is murdered and his nine heirs all travel to his estate where his attorney is to unveil the Lord’s last will. The nine people present are an eclectic mix of blue bloods, relatives by marriage and other in-laws, and the disputes erupt immediately. Lord Lebanon’s testament stipulates that all our nine protagonists are to spend six days and six nights in peace with each other on the estate before they can collect their part of the presumably substantive inheritance. A conveniently ferocious storm makes sure that there is no way out of the estate, as well as no working phone lines. Our nine heirs are truly and utterly secluded. So let the bloodletting begin.

It is a shame that script and direction don’t manage to make this whodunit any fun. Eddy Arendt as the silly butler is amusing at times but The Indian Scarf lacks the liveliness or atmosphere of the previous Edgar Wallace krimis. As always, the explanation delivered for the murders is of no  interest at all and one is left wanting for a little more substance. In the end, only two people are present for the reading of the will, and Lord Lebanon had somehow anticipated that most of his family would have been killed off after the six days and night. So the majority of his riches go to…tadah!: Edgar Wallace. Heinz Drache as the slick attorney smirks at the camera as he reads this, and it’s really not cute or clever, it’s a full-blown eye roller.

Kinski is not the bad guy for once, just a deranged artist who married into the family and is despised by all. His death is one of the silliest in the film: he is found inside one of his sculptures, which would require that he had left them hollow from the beginning should he (or his killer) ever need access to the sculpture's bowels - but let's not lose ourselves in questions of plot plausibility here.

All in all a rather forgettable offering. As much as I complain about the general quality of the German Edgar Wallace krimis, I mostly have a good time watching them. They have a nonchalantness and irreverence that make them enjoyable and somewhat addictive. But The Indian Scarf is just dull.