“Timothy Q. Mouse and I need to have a word in Dumbo’s ears,” I said.
“What about?”
“The Dorpmüller claim,” I said. “I don’t like it.”
“She seems like a decent enough woman.”
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she? And that’s precisely what I don’t like about her. She’s a saint. She’s Hildegard of Bingen, that’s who she is, and let me tell you, saints don’t normally collect twenty thousand deutschmarks free of income tax.”
“I take it you’ve got something more substantial for saying this than your gut feel.”
“Before I got this job I was working at Schwabing Hospital, as you know.”
“I figured that’s where you got your concern for your fellow man.”
“While I was there they brought in some people who had been seriously injured after an unexploded bomb went off.”
“I read about that. Not one of ours, fortunately. The policy, I mean. Not the bomb.”
“Actually, you’re wrong about that. One of the injured was the Fritz who went under the train. Theo Dorpmüller.”
“Was he now? Badly injured?”
I pictured the man in the wheelchair I’d taken to the mortuary with Schramma, to identify Johann Bernbach.
“Not badly. A few burns. But certainly enough to have a week off work.”
“My ears just started to flap. And Timothy says, ‘Hello.’”
“My point is this: He didn’t make a claim for loss of earnings. The man has a three-star policy for death and personal injury and he didn’t claim a penny. Why?”
“Timothy says, ‘Hello again,’ and, ‘Are you sure it was the same Fritz?’”
“I’m sure. I’m also sure that it means just one thing.”
“That he didn’t know he had a three-star policy with Munich RE. He couldn’t have done. Because if he’d known about it he would certainly have claimed for loss of earnings.”
“Exactly.”
“Good work, Christof.”
“I think you and Timothy need to check out Ursula Dorpmüller.”
“Not going to happen. Just look at this desk. That’s the trouble with this business: too much paper. I’m chained to this office like that fellow with the liver and the eagle. I just don’t have the time to check her out. But you, Diogenes, you could take her on. You’ve just made this case in my eyes, and now you need to run with it.”
“All right. But how should I handle it?”
“Like this. Make the woman believe we’re going to pay off on the policy without any problem. That you’re satisfied with her claim but that you just want to check out a few petty details. Get her to sign a few useless bits of paper. You need a copy of her passport. Her driving license if she has one. Her birth certificate. Her marriage certificate. Keep stringing her along. Any moment now the check will be raised by our accounts department and the minute it is, you say you’ll hand it to her in person. Really, it’s just a formality. The twenty thousand is as good as in the bank. If it’s taking so long it’s because it’s such a large amount. Be as nice to her as if she was your mother, assuming you had one. Butter her up like a Christmas goose. Make love to her if you have to. But in private I want you to treat her like she’s Irma Grese. And see what’s in Irma’s kit bag.”
Irma Grese had been an SS guard hanged for war crimes by the British in 1945; by all accounts she’d been known as the “beautiful blond beast” of Belsen.
“I get the picture. It’s an ugly one but I can see exactly how to play it. Good cop, bad cop, Jekyll and Hyde.”
“Maybe. But Timothy Q. Mouse likes that Fritz in Shakespeare better. The one who plays Othello for an idiot.”
“Iago.”
“Yes, him. On her side, but not on her side. You gain her confidence and hope you can trip her up.”
“All right.” I frowned. “If that’s how you want it. You’re the boss.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t look convinced by my strategy.”
“No, it’s not that. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“For one thing, we’re talking about premeditated murder here. And a conspiracy. Someone must have pushed Dorpmüller off that station platform. My guess is the person he had dinner with. A friend. A good friend, given the cost of dinner.”
“According to the police report, it was late at night, dark, with just Dorpmüller on that platform.”
“So someone already thinks they got away with it.”
“The widow?”
“The widow has an iron-clad alibi. She was in America when her husband was killed.”
“Yes, that’s right. Which means she must have had an accomplice. A co-conspirator.”
“Exactly.”
“I can tell there’s a lot more on your very dirty mind, Christof.”
“Look, Herr Dietrich, I’ve been here at Munich RE for five minutes. So I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”
“That’s all right, they’re probably insured.”
“Not against this kind of thing. No one is insured against the escape of something dangerous from another man’s mouth.”
“Spit it out, whatever it is. You’ve done pretty well so far.”
“All right. How well do you know the salesman who sold Dorpmüller the policy?”
Dietrich flicked open the file and consulted the names on the insurance certificate.
“Friedrich Jauch,” he said. “I’ve known him since he came here about two years ago. Smart fellow. Good-looking, too. Used to be an auctioneer at Karl & Faber before he joined MRE. As a matter of fact he applied for your job.”
“As a claims adjustor?”
“That’s right. Only he’s too smart for the sales department to let him go. Makes them too much money. So the top floor made me turn him down.”
“When was this?”
“A month or two ago.”
“Then long after he sold Dorpmüller his policy?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Interesting.”
“You think he might be involved?”
“If Dorpmüller didn’t know he had the policy, then who signed those application forms? That’s what I’d like to know. I’m thinking it was Frau Dorpmüller? Maybe with the connivance
