which, in the Alex, was something of a miracle in itself.
“I thought so,” he said, handing Otto the file, but looking at me. “This object you’re reporting stolen was reported stolen yesterday. I took the particulars myself.”
“Chinese lacquer-and-basketry box,” said Otto, glancing over the report. “Fifty centimeters by thirty centimeters by ten centimeters.”
I tried to work that out in imperial measurement and gave up.
“Seventeenth century, Mong dynasty.” Otto looked at me. “That sound like the same box, Bernie?”
“Ming dynasty,” I said. “It’s Ming.”
“Ming, Mong, what’s the difference?”
“Either it’s the same box or they’re as common as pretzels. Who made the report?”
“A Dr. Martin Stock,” said the young cop. “From the Asiatic Museum. He was pretty exercised about it.”
“What kind of fellow was he?” I asked.
“Oh, you know. Kind of how you’d imagine someone from a museum would look. Sixtyish, gray mustache, white goatee, bald, myopic, overweight—he reminded me of the walrus at the zoo. He wore a bow tie—”
“I’ve seen that before,” said Otto. “A walrus wearing a bow tie.”
The cop smiled and then continued. “Spats, nothing in his lapel—I mean no Party badge or anything. And it was a Bruno Kuczorski suit he was wearing.”
“Now he’s just showing off,” said Otto.
“I saw the label on the inside of his coat when he took out his handkerchief to mop his brow. An anxious sort of fellow. But you would have gathered that from the handkerchief.”
“On the level?”
“Like he swallowed a geometry set.”
“What’s your name, son?” Otto asked him.
“Heinz Seldte.”
“Well, Heinz Seldte, it’s my opinion that you should leave this fat man’s desk job you’ve got here and become a cop.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So what’s the deal, Gunther?” said Otto. “You trying to make a monkey out of me?”
“I’m the one who feels like a monkey.” I tugged the sheet and the carbons off Seldte’s typewriter and crushed them up. “I think maybe I should go and yodel in a few ears, like Johnny Weissmuller, and see what comes running out of the jungle.” I took Dr. Stock’s crime sheet from the police file. “Mind if I borrow this, Otto?”
Otto glanced at Seldte, who shrugged back at him. “It’s okay with us, I guess,” said Otto. “But you will let us know what you find out, Bernie. Ming Mong dynasty theft is a special investigative priority for KRIPO right now. We have our reputation to think of.”
“I’ll get right on it, I promise.”
I meant it, too. It was going to be a pleasure to feel like a real detective again instead of a hotel carpet creeper. But, as Immanuel Kant once said, it’s funny how categorically wrong you can be about a lot of stuff you think just has to be true.
MOST OF BERLIN’S MUSEUMS stood on a little island in the center of the city, surrounded by the dark waters of the River Spree, as if the people who built them had decided that Berlin needed to keep its culture separate from the state. As I was about to discover, there should have been a lot more importance attached to this idea than anyone might have thought.
The Ethnographical Museum, however, formerly in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, was now located in Dahlem, in the far west of Berlin. I traveled there on the underground railway—on the Wilmersdorf line as far as Dahlem-Dorf—and then walked southeast to the new Asiatic Museum. It was a comparatively modern three-story redbrick building surrounded by expensive villas and manor houses with large gates and even larger dogs. Laws were made for the protection of suburbs such as Dahlem, and it was hard to see why there should have been two Gestapo men parked in a black W out front of the nearby confessing church until I remembered there was a priest in Dahlem called Martin Niemöller who was well known for his opposition to the so-called Aryan paragraph. Either that or the two
“I thought so,” he said, handing Otto the file, but looking at me. “This object you’re reporting stolen was reported stolen yesterday. I took the particulars myself.”
“Chinese lacquer-and-basketry box,” said Otto, glancing over the report. “Fifty centimeters by thirty centimeters by ten centimeters.”
I tried to work that out in imperial measurement and gave up.
“Seventeenth century, Mong dynasty.” Otto looked at me. “That sound like the same box, Bernie?”
“Ming dynasty,” I said. “It’s Ming.”
“Ming, Mong, what’s the difference?”
“Either it’s the same box or they’re as common as pretzels. Who made the report?”
“A Dr. Martin Stock,” said the young cop. “From the Asiatic Museum. He was pretty exercised about it.”
“What kind of fellow was he?” I asked.
“Oh, you know. Kind of how you’d imagine someone from a museum would look. Sixtyish, gray mustache, white goatee, bald, myopic, overweight—he reminded me of the walrus at the zoo. He wore a bow tie—”
“I’ve seen that before,” said Otto. “A walrus wearing a bow tie.”
The cop smiled and then continued. “Spats, nothing in his lapel—I mean no Party badge or anything. And it was a Bruno Kuczorski suit he was wearing.”
“Now he’s just showing off,” said Otto.
“I saw the label on the inside of his coat when he took out his handkerchief to mop his brow. An anxious sort of fellow. But you would have gathered that from the handkerchief.”
“On the level?”
“Like he swallowed a geometry set.”
“What’s your name, son?” Otto asked him.
“Heinz Seldte.”
“Well, Heinz Seldte, it’s my opinion that you should leave this fat man’s desk job you’ve got here and become a cop.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So what’s the deal, Gunther?” said Otto. “You trying to make a monkey out of me?”
“I’m the one who feels like a monkey.” I tugged the sheet and the carbons off Seldte’s typewriter and crushed them up. “I think maybe I should go and yodel in a few ears, like Johnny Weissmuller, and see what comes running out of the jungle.” I took Dr. Stock’s crime sheet from the police file. “Mind if I borrow this, Otto?”
Otto glanced at Seldte, who shrugged back at him. “It’s okay with us, I guess,” said Otto. “But you will let us know what you find out, Bernie. Ming Mong dynasty theft is a special investigative priority for KRIPO right now. We have our reputation to think of.”
“I’ll get right on it, I promise.”
I meant it, too. It was going to be a pleasure to feel like a real detective again instead of a hotel carpet creeper. But, as Immanuel Kant once said, it’s funny how categorically wrong you can be about a lot of stuff you think just has to be true.
MOST OF BERLIN’S MUSEUMS stood on a little island in the center of the city, surrounded by the dark waters of the River Spree, as if the people who built them had decided that Berlin needed to keep its culture separate from the state. As I was about to discover, there should have been a lot more importance attached to this idea than anyone might have thought.
The Ethnographical Museum, however, formerly in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, was now located in Dahlem, in the far west of Berlin. I traveled there on the underground railway—on the Wilmersdorf line as far as Dahlem-Dorf—and then walked southeast to the new Asiatic Museum. It was a comparatively modern three-story redbrick building surrounded by expensive villas and manor houses with large gates and even larger dogs. Laws were made for the protection of suburbs such as Dahlem, and it was hard to see why there should have been two Gestapo men parked in a black W out front of the nearby confessing church until I remembered there was a priest in Dahlem called Martin Niemöller who was well known for his opposition to the so-called Aryan paragraph. Either that or the two
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