finally hit the curb on the other side—and the foot of someone wearing sandals and just starting to cross the road.
“Shit!” Arthur blurted and looked up.
“I’ll survive,” Franza said indifferently, walking toward him and smiling. “Have you been in the dumps?”
He felt caught in the act. “No,” he said. “What makes you say that?”
She gave him one of those looks he couldn’t fathom, and which made him so uncomfortable he didn’t know which way to look. She shrugged. “Female intuition.”
Great, he thought, that’ll make things easier. He opened the driver’s door and was about to sit down when Franza said “Shoo! Take off!” and shook her head.
He froze and looked at her in bewilderment. “You’ll have to take the bus,” she said. “I have to get another witness statement.”
He shrugged. “I can come, can’t I?”
“No,” she said unmoved, and got in the car. “You can’t. Give my regards to Felix.”
Then she sped off. He stood there, a minute, two, maybe more. “Women!” he said with a growl. Then he walked to the bus stop, kicking stones.
19
Port had the newspaper spread on the table. The dead girl was on the front page. She looked asleep. The headline above the photo read in bold letters: “Unidentified Woman Killed in Car Accident Under Mysterious Circumstances.”
The article described the sequence of events, and also that the girl had already been injured, and probably was confused because of these injuries when she staggered onto the autobahn. The question was how she’d acquired those injuries, and they even mentioned murder . The article closed with the usual plea to the public for any information, particularly concerning the victim’s identity, and provided a phone number.
As was customary in situations like this, several phone lines had been set up at the police station to cope with the expected onslaught of calls. There’d be a lot of irrelevant stuff to wade through, but at some point also significant things. They just had to separate them from all the dark and wild suspicions. It would be a hell of a job to check through everything, but Franza and Felix knew from experience that it was worth it, because sooner or later they’d come across an important piece of the puzzle.
“I know her,” Port said, tapping his finger on the picture in the newspaper and looking at Franza with raised eyebrows. “Believe it or not, I know her.”
He had called just as she was walking from the morgue toward the car. He wanted her to stop by his place, said he had something to tell her he didn’t want to discuss over the phone. He’d spoken with a finality that didn’t leave any room for contradiction, so she’d gotten rid of Arthur and headed over.
She hadn’t expected this, however. She leaned forward and stared at him in astonishment. “What?”
He repeated. “I know this girl.”
“And?” she asked excitedly. “What’s her name? Who is she?”
He paused dramatically, just for a moment, brought the fingertips of his hands together, and turned up his mouth. “I don’t know.”
Franza felt the excitement draining from her body and being replaced by disappointment. Shit, she thought. “You’re kidding!” she said.
He shrugged. “No, sorry. But I thought anything I could tell you might be important just the same.”
They were sitting on his roof terrace drinking tea. He’d been at breakfast when she arrived, and in an hour he’d go to rehearsal and wouldn’t be reachable until late at night.
He still didn’t have a coffeemaker, and as Franza sipped her tea listlessly she decided once again to get one for his kitchen. Someone like him, she thought disdainfully for the thousandth time, someone like him and he drinks tea!
She sighed. “Yes,” she said. “Sure. Fire away.”
He knew the girl from theater, from the Pechmann to be precise, a bar not far from the theater where actors, singers, and dancers socialized along with those who wanted to
“Shit!” Arthur blurted and looked up.
“I’ll survive,” Franza said indifferently, walking toward him and smiling. “Have you been in the dumps?”
He felt caught in the act. “No,” he said. “What makes you say that?”
She gave him one of those looks he couldn’t fathom, and which made him so uncomfortable he didn’t know which way to look. She shrugged. “Female intuition.”
Great, he thought, that’ll make things easier. He opened the driver’s door and was about to sit down when Franza said “Shoo! Take off!” and shook her head.
He froze and looked at her in bewilderment. “You’ll have to take the bus,” she said. “I have to get another witness statement.”
He shrugged. “I can come, can’t I?”
“No,” she said unmoved, and got in the car. “You can’t. Give my regards to Felix.”
Then she sped off. He stood there, a minute, two, maybe more. “Women!” he said with a growl. Then he walked to the bus stop, kicking stones.
19
Port had the newspaper spread on the table. The dead girl was on the front page. She looked asleep. The headline above the photo read in bold letters: “Unidentified Woman Killed in Car Accident Under Mysterious Circumstances.”
The article described the sequence of events, and also that the girl had already been injured, and probably was confused because of these injuries when she staggered onto the autobahn. The question was how she’d acquired those injuries, and they even mentioned murder . The article closed with the usual plea to the public for any information, particularly concerning the victim’s identity, and provided a phone number.
As was customary in situations like this, several phone lines had been set up at the police station to cope with the expected onslaught of calls. There’d be a lot of irrelevant stuff to wade through, but at some point also significant things. They just had to separate them from all the dark and wild suspicions. It would be a hell of a job to check through everything, but Franza and Felix knew from experience that it was worth it, because sooner or later they’d come across an important piece of the puzzle.
“I know her,” Port said, tapping his finger on the picture in the newspaper and looking at Franza with raised eyebrows. “Believe it or not, I know her.”
He had called just as she was walking from the morgue toward the car. He wanted her to stop by his place, said he had something to tell her he didn’t want to discuss over the phone. He’d spoken with a finality that didn’t leave any room for contradiction, so she’d gotten rid of Arthur and headed over.
She hadn’t expected this, however. She leaned forward and stared at him in astonishment. “What?”
He repeated. “I know this girl.”
“And?” she asked excitedly. “What’s her name? Who is she?”
He paused dramatically, just for a moment, brought the fingertips of his hands together, and turned up his mouth. “I don’t know.”
Franza felt the excitement draining from her body and being replaced by disappointment. Shit, she thought. “You’re kidding!” she said.
He shrugged. “No, sorry. But I thought anything I could tell you might be important just the same.”
They were sitting on his roof terrace drinking tea. He’d been at breakfast when she arrived, and in an hour he’d go to rehearsal and wouldn’t be reachable until late at night.
He still didn’t have a coffeemaker, and as Franza sipped her tea listlessly she decided once again to get one for his kitchen. Someone like him, she thought disdainfully for the thousandth time, someone like him and he drinks tea!
She sighed. “Yes,” she said. “Sure. Fire away.”
He knew the girl from theater, from the Pechmann to be precise, a bar not far from the theater where actors, singers, and dancers socialized along with those who wanted to
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