“This is Klaase.”
“Oh, Inspector-I had been hoping you’d call.”
“I thought so, too. Found your number in the book. The old man took your business card.”
“He’s quite the sergeant-major, isn’t he?”
“Not too bad. He throws the occasional fit, but we get along most of the time.”
“Mhm.”
“But after you left, I remembered … You’re the detective who caught Superintendent Futt, a few years ago?”
“Yes.”
“I was impressed, even though he was a colleague.” He chortled. “Maybe because I was one of Futt’s trainees.”
I laughed a little just to make him feel good. Then I asked: “What about Gellersheim?”
“We got a complaint last night. One Olga Bartels claims that for six months, at regular intervals, large groups of foreigners have been brought to stay in the villa next to hers. Always different ones, and they always stay only three or four days.”
“Whose villa is it?”
“No idea. We didn’t do anything about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because we get complaints like that every day, and the old man said he was sure this woman was just another one of those alarmists who have nothing better to do than stay glued to their front window all day.”
“That’s how he put it?”
“More or less.”
“The address?”
“Number six Am Rosenacker.”
I jotted it down on a television magazine and sipped my beer.
“If you get so many complaints, why are you telling me about this particular one?”
“Because it involves larger groups, and because of their short stays. Normally, the complaints involve families or single persons whom people suspect to be in hiding.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about forged papers?”
“Nothing special. The usual amateurish stuff: erased dates, altered photos, and so on.”
“Well, then, Inspector, I’m much obliged.”
“Don’t mention it. We’re all doing our job. And don’t mind the old man. He hasn’t had such an easy life.”
I hung up. Gee, I thought: was that the immigration police or the Salvation Army?
On the TV, McEnroe was wiping out a taciturn Swede. I drank my beer and watched him tell a female referee something about his backside. I wished that Sri Dao would reappear that evening: case closed. The villa in Gellersheim was probably inhabited by a wealthy family that really enjoyed vacations. Tanned faces and frequent absences must have given Mrs. Olga the impression that this had to be a nest of gypsies.
Ten minutes later, the goulash was warm. With some bread and a plateful of the stew I sat down to the tie break. Six five. Six six. Double fault McEnroe, six seven. The Swede’s turn to serve. I spilled goulash on my pants. Second serve-return on the line, seven seven. The bread was turning back to dough between my fingertips. Long exchange, McEnroe to the net, save of the century-eight seven! Deep breath. Change of service. Left and right forearm raised to forehead. Take position. Not a sound. Serve, ball in court, backhand return, half-volley, lob, smash, the Swede leaps-and misses. I detached the bread from my fingers and picked up the spoon again. At the beginning of the second set, the doorbell rang.
“What do you know.”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d look in …”
I held the door open. “If it doesn’t bother you to watch tennis with a cop.”
Slibulsky rolled his eyes. We went back in, and he draped his soaked overcoat over the radiator. His cast had turned gray from moisture. I leaned against the doorjamb,
“Should I close the curtains?”
“Maybe you could cut the bullshit and offer me a bowl of stew? God, is it shitty out there.”
I went to the kitchen and heated up the goulash. When I came back, Slibulsky sat leaning forward in my chair, following the game through his dark shades. I handed him the plate and sat next to him on the armrest.
“What’s the score?”
“First set for us.”
We spooned goulash into our mouths for a while. As the Swede was serving in the fourth game, Slibulsky set his plate aside, wiped his mouth and said: “Pretty vile stuff. By the way-I know the name of that guy.”
I set my spoon back on the plate.
“Boy, you’re really building suspense-should I wait to serve the dessert while you proceed with further revelations?”
“Come off it. It’s useless information in any case. The guy was put behind bars two weeks ago for receiving stolen goods. Name’s Mario Beckmann.”
“Is that info from Charlie?”
“No, from a guy at the Queen of Hearts.”
We stared at each other briefly. Then I shrugged. “Probably wouldn’t have been any use to me anyway. I’m pretty sure it’s a gang of forgers.”
I took the plates back to the kitchen. Slibulsky shouted:
“What’s your next move?”
“Got a tip. A villa in Gellersheim.”
“Where?”
“Gellersheim!”
I put the saucepan in the refrigerator. Winding things up, McEnroe metamorphosed an overhead ball and made the break. Slibulsky growled his appreciation. I waited for the first serve-fifteen love. Then I took a fresh shirt out of the closet and kicked my shoes under the bed.
“And how do you like being a snooper?”
After a moment’s silence, he growled back from the chair: “Kayankaya, do you know what makes you such an exceptional detective? It’s your ability to stay stuck for weeks on the same thing …”
Ten minutes later I had shaved and changed clothes. I stepped out of the bathroom, picked the mail off the bed, and sat on the armrest again. Slibulsky had stretched out his legs and sat there with his arms crossed over his chest, slightly hampered in that pose by his plaster cast. Now the score was five three.
“You don’t know what you missed.” Without turning his gaze away from the screen, Slibulsky waved his left arm. “He’s at the net, he’s made two returns, the ball comes down the line, he has to jump, and then-he just smashes it back, in mid-air!”
I lit a cigarette and thumbed through the mail: phone bill, power bill, a letter from the building management, stacks of advertisements, and then suddenly the handwritten note. It was awkwardly penned on a sheet from an Interconti Frankfurt hotel note pad: “The girl is in Dietzenbach, at After Hours.” I stared at it, not sure what to think. Then I handed it to Slibulsky: “You know the joint?”
A pause.
“I think it’s a brothel for queers.” He looked up. “What would they want a girl for?”
“I have no idea. But someone must have had one.”
Slibulsky scratched his neck. “If even the queers are muscling in on this trade in women-then things are getting really weird.”
Match point McEnroe. Loud yelling. “Quiet, please”-an ace, with the look that indicates he finds it hard to believe he has to deal with such a low-grade opponent.
I got up and took my Beretta from the shelf. “The next game is Becker against Carl Arsch. But I have to go now.”
“To Gellersheim?”
“No, to Dietzenbach.”
I put in the clip. Slibulsky reached for the remote control.
