IX
At four o’clock there was a telephone call from Frankfurt. “George Strümpfli, artist, was born in Basle in 1885, and lived at the address indicated from January 1st to December 10th last year. He has now gone abroad, his whereabouts being unknown. In the records he is entered as of Swiss nationality, and he is a married man.”
From the register of the town inhabitants Wenk learnt that Cara Carozza was described as follows: “Maria Strümpfli, formerly Essert, known as Cara Carozza, dancer, born in Brunn, May 1, 1892, arrived in Munich from Copenhagen.”
Wenk wondered how the pronunciation of “Georsh” instead of George could have arisen, for both these people were South Germans by speech, and “Georsh” was only heard in North Germany.
He went again to see the dancer, who was now in a prison cell.
“I don’t want anything to do with you,” she said in a harsh voice to Wenk. “You say you are going to help me, and yet you put me in prison.”
“It was not I: that is a mistake on your part. It is the examining counsel, as I told you at once. I am only here to clear up one difficulty in the case, and that is the name you called out. That is the point at issue.”
“Indeed! you seem rather concerned about the verdict.”
“Yes, of course we are. If you were prepared to help us we might get over the difficulty. Let me see, you said your husband’s name was Carl … Carl Strümpfli, wasn’t it?”
“In case you forget it again, his name is George.”
“He is a Swiss?”
“You have evidently been inquiring about him.”
“Certainly,” said Wenk. “And so he is called George. Now tell me, although you may think it a foolish question, had you any special name for him?”
“No.”
“You never called him anything but. …”
“George. No, only George. When can I get away from here?”
“Ah, that depends upon the examining counsel.”
“Well then, he ought to be here. It is shameful that a well-known artiste like me should. …”
“You see, unfortunately everything must take its prescribed course. ‘Without respect of individuals,’ as the legal phrase runs. I cannot promise you any more than my own help.”
“You are going away again? And without me?”
“For the moment I cannot do anything else.”
The dancer turned away.
Wenk went to the scene of the crime. He had previously studied the list of those living in its vicinity, and especially those in the Finkenstrasse. He took two plainclothes policemen with him, one of them being the constable who had pursued the criminals as far as the park wall. They examined the wall by daylight; it showed scratches from the tips of shoes, and on the top was a trace of blood. Possibly someone had been lifted up who grasped the top with his hands. In the clear February day the light fell pitilessly on that trace of the murdered Hull.
Wenk entered the houses, many of which, he perceived, led at the back to the park. He spoke to all their occupants separately. Some had heard a noise in the night, but they did not consider that anything unusual, and in the houses themselves, as they told Wenk, they had heard nothing.
He examined the park on the other side of the wall. There was nothing to be seen there beyond a trace of many footprints in one spot, where they had apparently jumped down, for some of the impressions were fairly deep. But this spot had been raked, and carbolic acid thrown upon it. There was an empty tin near, which from its smell had evidently contained carbolic. This precaution was doubtless taken in case the police hounds should be requisitioned, and it might have been put there beforehand, but he did not quite understand the reason, and decided to test it by means of a hound. It took up the scent in the Jägerstrasse, ran to the wall and jumped up on it, but when they lifted it on the other side it went no further. It turned away in disgust at the smell of the carbolic, ran up and down the wall and then back again, always in the same direction, and yet always as if irresolute. It tried to spring into the air.
Wenk had it lifted over the wall again, but when the hound was on the top, and the man on the other side ready to receive it, it escaped from him and ran, barking furiously, along the top. It did not run far, but remained in one spot, barking, with its head downwards, towards the yard of one of the houses, trying to jump down there. Then with one spring the hound was over, running towards the house, where it stood still at the outer wall. This Wenk examined closely, perceiving marks of scratches occurring at regular intervals upwards. Here undoubtedly people had climbed up by means of a ladder, and the tracks led to a window on the first floor. The room it belonged to was empty, and he asked the people of the house how long it had been so. Then all the other lodgers were astonished, for they said it was occupied. One of them exclaimed, “But Georsh is living there!”
Wenk’s heart gave a sudden leap.
“Who?” he said quickly. “What was his name?”
Again the answer was “Georsh.”
“Did you know him?” he asked of one woman.
“Certainly I knew Georsh!” she replied.
“Was that his surname?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who used to call him that?”
“The fellows who were always coming to see him.”
“So his name was George?” went on Wenk, desirous of being quite certain.
“No, he was called Georsh,” answered one of them.
“Has he lived here long?”
Nobody knew exactly; some thought it was about a year, but he was hardly ever at home.
