In Free Fall(63)

“That’s what everyone thinks, Rita, my child. But when it actually happens, they always turn into a down-at-heel shadow of themselves.”

“How do you know?”

“One of the most important qualities of a good detective is omniscience.”

Rita snorts with irritation and goes up to the counter, where she orders dead bird on bread. The waiter does not laugh; and it was not intended as a joke.

“How’s it going?” Schilf asks when she sits down at his table.

“Wretchedly.” The sandwich falls apart at first bite. “Doctors will sell their grandmothers before they betray one of their own. It’s not impossible that this piece of wisdom comes from you.” Rita licks mayonnaise from her wrist. “And by the way, we have an agreement. A clear division of labor. At the risk of repeating myself: What the devil are you doing here?”

“What would you do if you knew you were going to die soon?”

The sandwich stops in midair.

“What are you on about, Schilf?”

“I’m trying to have a conversation with you. We don’t always have to talk about work.”

Rita is ready with an acerbic reply, but she thinks better of it, and pauses to consider.

“I’d find a new home for my cat,” she says. “And travel around to visit all the people I love.”

“Would that be a long journey?”

“Fairly short.”

Schilf nods. Two visitors have met at the hospital entrance and started a conversation. You can’t give up hope, one of them says. Yes, hope, the other one says, that’s the last thing to die. Both laugh, but stop immediately. They are standing in the path of the sensor for the automatic doors, which open and close busily.

“It would have to be a ground-floor apartment,” Rita says, “with a garden. For the cat, I mean.”

She pinches scraps of turkey from the plate, shoves them into her mouth, and swallows without chewing. More than anything, she would like to go home right now, draw the curtains, and stop up her ears with cotton wool to block out the twittering of birds. She would lie in bed, stroke the cat, and ask herself why she hadn’t listened to her parents.

“This hospital is not good for us,” Schilf says to her lowered head. “Let’s talk about work again instead.”

“Great,” Rita says. “And how’s it going with you?”

When Schilf reaches for her plate, she picks up the remaining piece of bread and bites into it defiantly.

“The usual,” Schilf says. “As far as that goes, I’m quite the old hand. A real Stalin of investigative methods.”

Rita looks at him, bewildered.

“By the way, I’ve found your cyclist’s murderer,” the detective says.

Rita nearly spits the piece of bread across the table. She looks at the remains of her pathetic lunch and waits for rage to fill her. It does not come. She just feels tired, with an air of finality.

“I warned you,” she says lamely. “You mustn’t cross me.”

“But you’re empty-handed.”

“But they’re my hands!”

As proof she shows the detective the palms of her hands, which despite her size are most elegant.

Schilf stands up, puts away his chess computer, and takes out an old-fashioned fountain pen. The nib tears the paper napkin as he scribbles down a telephone number.

“I still have to check on one detail. Call me if you want to know the outcome. In the meantime, I’m going for a walk in the woods.”

Just as Schilf is leaving the table, Schnurpfeil appears at the entrance and looks around. Conversation ceases at neighboring tables with the appearance of the policeman in the perfectly fitting uniform. Schilf goes straight up to him. He pushes the senior policeman, who is gazing imploringly at Rita, back onto the street.

Exit Schilf, the detective chief superintendent and Rita think at the same time.





CHAPTER 6, IN SEVEN PARTS


The detective superintendent crouches in the ferns. A witness who does not matter appears for the second time. Many a man travels to Geneva.





[1]


THE THINNING HAIR ON SCHILF’S TEMPLES is lifted by the cool stream of air coming from between the front seats of the car. He does not find it unpleasant to feel a little cold, even though the air seems to be wafting from Schnurpfeil’s rigidly hostile back. The senior policeman has turned the air-conditioning up high and turned the police radio up loud. Hissing and mumbled speech drowns the conversation that they are not having. Schnurpfeil is looking the detective in the eye through the rearview mirror, and Schilf is directing him through the city with minimal movements of his fingers, a photo from a newspaper balanced on his knees. It shows part of a road and two trees directly opposite each other.