alone. ‘Morhaim,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that a Jew name?’
‘It can be. In this case, it is. Does that bother you?’
‘Many things bother me,’ I said, and he laughed. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Where were you last night? You were not at your flat.’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘Not yet,’ he said. He puffed on his pipe. The smell of it filled the room. ‘You are an alien here, Mr Wolf.’
‘I have been granted asylum.’
‘From Germany.’
‘Yes.’
‘All such asylums are by their nature temporary.’
I said nothing and he nodded, to himself. ‘I see that after the Fall you were kept for some time in a communist konzentrationslager.’
‘Concentration camp, yes,’ I said, enunciating it clearly for him in English. He smiled. ‘You escaped?’
‘Eventually.’
‘You are a lucky man, Mr Wolf.’
‘What is this about?’
‘First things first, Mr Wolf. Where were you last night?’
‘I work as a private investigator,’ I said. ‘I was out. On a job for a client. Surely you can appreciate the need for discretion in my line of work.’
‘That’s a curious line of work for a man such as yourself.’
‘It requires an orderly mind and a keen sense of justice.’
He was biting the stem of the pipe, blowing smoke rings into the air from the side of his mouth. A hard trick to master, I would have thought. Also, without use. ‘Your old associates seem to prosper. You don’t.’
‘So you know who I am.’
‘I know who you were.’
That one hurt, but I let it go. ‘What is this about?’
‘Do you have an alibi for last night, Mr Wolf?’
‘Do I need one?’
He sighed and sat back in the chair. ‘Why did you kill her?’
‘Who?’ I almost shouted in frustration. My fist hit the desk. ‘What is the meaning of this? I am an innocent man! I demand to be released!’
‘You used to have a moustache,’ he said suddenly. ‘A funny little moustache. We used to see a lot of you on the newsreels, but this was all a while back, wasn’t it?’
‘I do not see why we need to discuss one’s choice of facial hair, surely.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was merely the interest of one man with a moustache in another.’
I knew their tactics. Did he think I had never been interrogated before? He would give me nothing, and he would take his time in trying to break me.
‘I would like a solicitor,’ I said.
His pipe seemed to have gone out. He fiddled with it distractedly. ‘Do you have one?’
‘No.’
‘We can certainly appoint one for you. You haven’t been charged yet, Mr Wolf. Would it make you feel better to confess?’
‘Confess to what?’
‘To the murder, of course.’
I stared at him, no longer willing to talk. Perhaps he saw it in my stance, for he put down the pipe and reached into a drawer and returned with an envelope, which he opened carefully. He slid out a set of photographs and laid them neatly in front of me.
I stared at the photographs.
The watcher in the dark truly
was
invisible. Wasn’t he? He felt so calm now, so different from the way he’d felt the night before. Then he had been eager, almost frenzied with desire. She didn’t understand, no one understood. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t
sexual
, he was not a monster.
It was
ideological
.
How trustingly she had taken his hand and led him into the dark! He shifted uncomfortably in his hard chair, wetting his lips in concentration. He had so much work to do, paperwork to get through, but no one paid him any attention: no one ever did. The office he worked in was grey like the light outside. Had he made mistakes? He had planned so carefully, had thought about it for so long and then it just happened. It felt so natural, the way they always said it should. He had not wanted to hurt her. On the contrary. He had wanted to set her free.
Wolf’s Diary, 3rd November 1939 –
contd.
I stared at the photographs. They were stark black-and-white. The Austrian girl I had spoken to, Edith, was lying on the ground. The photographs were from
‘It can be. In this case, it is. Does that bother you?’
‘Many things bother me,’ I said, and he laughed. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Where were you last night? You were not at your flat.’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘Not yet,’ he said. He puffed on his pipe. The smell of it filled the room. ‘You are an alien here, Mr Wolf.’
‘I have been granted asylum.’
‘From Germany.’
‘Yes.’
‘All such asylums are by their nature temporary.’
I said nothing and he nodded, to himself. ‘I see that after the Fall you were kept for some time in a communist konzentrationslager.’
‘Concentration camp, yes,’ I said, enunciating it clearly for him in English. He smiled. ‘You escaped?’
‘Eventually.’
‘You are a lucky man, Mr Wolf.’
‘What is this about?’
‘First things first, Mr Wolf. Where were you last night?’
‘I work as a private investigator,’ I said. ‘I was out. On a job for a client. Surely you can appreciate the need for discretion in my line of work.’
‘That’s a curious line of work for a man such as yourself.’
‘It requires an orderly mind and a keen sense of justice.’
He was biting the stem of the pipe, blowing smoke rings into the air from the side of his mouth. A hard trick to master, I would have thought. Also, without use. ‘Your old associates seem to prosper. You don’t.’
‘So you know who I am.’
‘I know who you were.’
That one hurt, but I let it go. ‘What is this about?’
‘Do you have an alibi for last night, Mr Wolf?’
‘Do I need one?’
He sighed and sat back in the chair. ‘Why did you kill her?’
‘Who?’ I almost shouted in frustration. My fist hit the desk. ‘What is the meaning of this? I am an innocent man! I demand to be released!’
‘You used to have a moustache,’ he said suddenly. ‘A funny little moustache. We used to see a lot of you on the newsreels, but this was all a while back, wasn’t it?’
‘I do not see why we need to discuss one’s choice of facial hair, surely.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was merely the interest of one man with a moustache in another.’
I knew their tactics. Did he think I had never been interrogated before? He would give me nothing, and he would take his time in trying to break me.
‘I would like a solicitor,’ I said.
His pipe seemed to have gone out. He fiddled with it distractedly. ‘Do you have one?’
‘No.’
‘We can certainly appoint one for you. You haven’t been charged yet, Mr Wolf. Would it make you feel better to confess?’
‘Confess to what?’
‘To the murder, of course.’
I stared at him, no longer willing to talk. Perhaps he saw it in my stance, for he put down the pipe and reached into a drawer and returned with an envelope, which he opened carefully. He slid out a set of photographs and laid them neatly in front of me.
I stared at the photographs.
The watcher in the dark truly
was
invisible. Wasn’t he? He felt so calm now, so different from the way he’d felt the night before. Then he had been eager, almost frenzied with desire. She didn’t understand, no one understood. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t
sexual
, he was not a monster.
It was
ideological
.
How trustingly she had taken his hand and led him into the dark! He shifted uncomfortably in his hard chair, wetting his lips in concentration. He had so much work to do, paperwork to get through, but no one paid him any attention: no one ever did. The office he worked in was grey like the light outside. Had he made mistakes? He had planned so carefully, had thought about it for so long and then it just happened. It felt so natural, the way they always said it should. He had not wanted to hurt her. On the contrary. He had wanted to set her free.
Wolf’s Diary, 3rd November 1939 –
contd.
I stared at the photographs. They were stark black-and-white. The Austrian girl I had spoken to, Edith, was lying on the ground. The photographs were from
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