by Dan Rhodes
The three of them sat at the dining table. Horst sipped Irmgard’s home-made gooseberry juice, complimented her on it and listened attentively, taking notes as she gave her account of the walk in the park. When it was over there was a short silence.
‘This is interesting,’ he said. ‘We received a Missing Persons report for somebody of this description some time ago.’
‘Somebody . . . of this description?’ she asked.
Horst nodded.
‘But my description was somewhat specific. Anatomically speaking, I mean.’
‘You say the penis was dark brown?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the scrotal sac was of a comparable colour?’
‘It was.’
Horst nodded. ‘Well, we must of course maintain an open mind, but for a moment let us proceed on the assumption that the parts you mentioned were from the same body. The disappearance of a gentleman of this very skin tone has been brought to our attention. I wonder . . .’ He stroked his chin, and though he looked deep in thought, his mind was blank.
Horst rarely had the opportunity to play detective. His work only ever consisted of simple cases, the kind that other officers would consider distractions, where no arrests or car chases were expected. He often found himself in charge of the Lost Property box, and if there was any traffic to be directed he would always be top of the list. He was also the one who was entrusted with keeping the dustier Missing Persons files up to date, and although he had been marginally involved in some tragic cases, this was the first time that his work had ever involved the mysterious appearance of human body parts. He decided that this was going to be his case. He would be the one to get to the bottom of it, even if solving it meant that he would have to break the rules.
His son had always enjoyed telling his friends that his father was a policeman, but the boy was about to enter his teens, and he seemed to be starting to realise that his father’s working day did not, after all, consist of him catching dangerous criminals. Horst had been feeling this keenly, and had been looking for an opportunity to make his son proud. This could be it. For the first time in his life he would be a loose cannon, someone who went his own way. He felt his heart speed up.
‘But I’m saying too much,’ he said. ‘We must keep all lines of enquiry open.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Tell me,’ he said, looking directly at Irmgard. If he was going to crack this case on his own he would need as clear a picture as he could possibly get, and he must not shy away from difficult questions. He was a detective now, and no detective ever got anywhere without digging for the important information. ‘This penis . . . how big was it?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Irmgard turned even paler, and put her hand to her face.
‘I’m sorry to ask you such a question, but you will understand that every detail is crucial in . . .’ he tapped his cap with his pen, ‘. . . a police investigation.’
‘Of course.’ Irmgard lowered her eyes. ‘Of course.’
‘So, this object you saw, could you give me an idea of its size?’
As Horst poised his pen on his notebook, Irmgard looked around for something she could compare it to.
Horst helped her along. ‘Perhaps in relation to a comparable part of your husband’s anatomy?’
‘Oh dear. Well, it appeared to be in a flaccid state but even so it was significantly larger than Franz’s even when it is fully erect.’
Horst noted this down, then thought for a while. ‘It has struck me that although he is my childhood friend, I have never seen Franz in, as they say, all his glory. Please tell me, is your husband’s penis of average size?’
She looked flustered.
Once again he tapped his cap with his pen. ‘Every detail is crucial.’
Irmgard composed herself. ‘No. From the magazine articles I have read on the subject, I believe my husband’s penis to be considerably smaller than average. The one I saw in the park was larger in both length and girth. Substantially larger.’
Franz looked at the carpet, his shoulders hunched.
Horst nodded gravely as he noted all this down. ‘And the scrotal sac?’
Irmgard looked at Franz. She felt awful, and was glad of the opportunity to regain some ground for him. ‘My husband has exceptionally large testicles, officer.’ This was true, and Franz seemed to cheer up a little.
Horst cleared his throat. ‘Thank you for that, Frau Klopstock. But how about the scrotal sac in the park?’
‘Oh, I see. I am happy to say that from what I could see it was a good deal smaller than my husband’s. Maybe of a size that could comfortably accommodate two eggs.’
‘Chicken or duck?’
‘Chicken. Small chicken.’
Horst wrote the words small chicken eggs in his notebook. ‘Thank you, Frau Klopstock.’ His voice was gentle. He took off his hat, and at last he became Horst the friend again. ‘That will be all for now, Irmgard.’
‘But Horst, all these questions . . . Doctor Fröhlicher isn’t under any suspicion, is he? He has been such a wonderful general practitioner to us over the years. I’ll never forget his wonderful manner the time I had a problem with my . . .’ She stopped. She had already said more than enough for one day. She quickly thought of another medical difficulty she had suffered. ‘. . . with my forearm.’
‘No, no,’ said Horst, smiling. ‘No, no.’ He told her that she was not to see this so much as an enquiry than as a formality, to set everybody’s minds at rest. He said he was certain that the doctor’s explanation would turn out to be absolutely mundane, and that all the correct procedures will have been followed at every stage. Guiltily, though, he hoped that there would be some intrigue for him to unearth. ‘But I must emphasise . . .’ He put his cap back on. ‘. . . I must emphasise, for the doctor’s sake and everybody else’s, the importance of keeping this conversation to yourselves.’
Franz and Irmgard nodded, then Horst’s cap came off once again and they walked to the door. Irmgard handed Horst a jar of home-made gooseberry jam, and they exchanged friendly goodbyes.
At the end of the street Horst’s car turned not towards his home, but towards the police station. He had a hunch that this couldn’t wait until the morning.
He knew he would have to work in absolute secrecy. If they found out about this at the station the first thing they would do is sideline him, and pick a squad of younger, fitter officers to investigate the case, leaving him in the cold and without credit. He poured himself a coffee, sat at his desk and got to work. He ran a check on Doctor Fröhlicher. As he had expected, he had never been in the slightest trouble. It was going to be a long night. He called home and told his wife not to wait up for him, and poured himself another coffee. For the first time in his career he undid his top button and put his feet on his desk.
One of his younger, fitter colleagues noticed him. ‘Working late tonight, Horst?’ he asked.
Horst had his answer ready. ‘I’m preparing some materials for a visit to a kindergarten. It’s important work. After all, we don’t want the kids growing up to be criminals, do we?’ The lie sent a surge of pleasure through his body.
The colleague smiled, and went away.
Horst stayed at the station until two in the morning. He checked the Missing Persons files, and saw that the case he had been reminded of remained open. There had been no name or address, only a report of an unpaid bill at a hotel and a copy of an illegible signature in the guest register. The assumption had always been that he had simply left town to save money, but all kinds of possibilities raced around Horst’s mind. He had no idea which of these would be worth pursuing, and which would be a waste of time. After a phone call to the local hospital he established that there was no record of anybody having died in recent days who might fit the description Irmgard had given. He could feel that something was not right. He knew that this would not be a case that could be solved from his desk. He made plans for the morning, and headed home.
Still in his shirt and trousers he rolled
, exhausted, into bed.
Horst snapped awake at six, pulled on the few clothes he had taken off, brushed his teeth and headed straight out. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He drove to the doctor’s house, where he parked a discreet distance away, on the other side of the road.
This was his first stake-out, and his skin prickled with anticipation. Some lights were already on, but for a long time nothing happened. Then the lights went off, and a minute later a bicycle pulled out of a side gate and on to the road, its rider wearing a scarf and gloves.
‘The doctor,’ Horst muttered to himself. He had expected him to be driving a car.
At low speed he followed him around a few corners until he reached the surgery. The doctor pulled up and got off. He secured the bike and removed the clips around his trouser legs, and as he took off his scarf Horst had a clear look at his face for the first time. He had built up a picture of him with glowering eyes and slightly vampiric teeth, but he looked like a nice, normal and even kind man. He wondered whether he had allowed himself to get over excited. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be his big moment after all. He had to remind himself that he was a detective now, and it was his job to recognise that things were not always as they seemed. Maybe Irmgard had misunderstood the situation, or maybe she hadn’t, but either way it was his job to find out.
‘Fortasse erit, fortasse non erit,’ he said to himself, a phrase that had returned to him from his schooldays. He remembered it meaning something like Maybe, or maybe not. He smiled. He had been hoping for something that would distinguish him from all the other renegade cops, with their drink problems, their vintage cars and their complicated jazz, and this would be it. He would be the one who muttered Latin phrases under his breath. As he waited for the doctor to reappear he sifted through his memory for one that might be an appropriate motto for his investigation. ‘Fortuna favet fortibus,’ he muttered. He smiled. If he could only keep his nerve, and if fortune really did favour the brave, then this case could be his for the taking.
He took a sip of water, and waited.
VII
Madalena’s train arrived in the city. The carriage had filled with commuters, and she waited for it to clear before taking her bag from the rack and stepping on to the platform. By the time she reached the concourse her fellow passengers had rushed away towards their jobs, and the place seemed deserted. She found a tourist information stand, and picked up a free city map. The street plan was surrounded by advertisements for taxi services, hotels and restaurants, but there was no mention of the museum. She took the page from the magazine from her bag, and scanned the map for a street name that matched the address on the clipping, and when she found it, hidden among the nest of narrow streets in the Old Town, she memorised the landmarks and the turnings along the way.
Another train had arrived, and the station came to life as its passengers stampeded towards the outside world. A minute later everything was quiet again, and it struck her how strange it was that tomorrow this would happen all over again – the same commuters would be rushing through the station, but she would be gone for ever. She walked outside. She could see her breath, and she shivered. Her jacket was too thin for the weather, but if anybody deserved to be cold it was her.
She looked at the lettering on the brass plate by the front door, and saw that the museum wouldn’t be open for another hour and a half. She walked along the street, and not knowing what else to do she went into a coffee shop. When the man asked her what she would like, she was jarred by the unfamiliar sounds coming from his mouth. He asked again, in English, and she didn’t understand this either, but the language of coffee was universal enough for her to end up with a mug in front of her. She handed over her ten euro note, waited for her change and found a seat.
Her thoughts kept returning to the woman who had offered her a banana all those trains ago, and she felt awful for not even having smiled at her. She had just shaken her head and looked away. She sipped her coffee, but only once. It sat in front of her, getting cold.
VIII
After three and a half hours the doctor left his clinic and cycled away. Horst followed him, and this time he parked alongside the house. He wound down his window, and listened. He heard a voice that he supposed belonged to the doctor, calling something that sounded like Hans, fetch! He wondered what this could mean, and then he heard what seemed to be a dog chasing a ball. ‘Of course,’ he said to himself, ‘the hound in question.’ After a bit more bouncing and rustling there was nothing, and just twenty-five minutes after the doctor had arrived back at his home he left again.
‘Tempus fugit,’ muttered Horst. He knew he would have to do better than that if his Latin-muttering trademark was to work. He had been struggling to remember phrases, and told himself that at the earliest opportunity he would go to the loft and find his old schoolbook. He made a note of the time, and beside it he wrote, Suspect leaves house having exercised pet (dog), and perhaps eaten lunch. He started the engine and once again drove behind the doctor, who at no point did anything other than cycle back to work.
He could see this was getting him nowhere. He wondered what his next move should be, and knew that whatever it was he would first have to stop worrying that his bladder was about to split open. He returned to the station and raced to the toilet, and when at last he could think straight he looked again at the Missing Persons files. No matter how many he read, he didn’t feel any closer to a solution to what he had begun to think of as The Irmgard Conundrum.
Usually the person who had been reported missing would turn up alive and well, but sometimes a body would be found in the river or along a walking trail in the nearby hills. A few of them, though, were never seen again, and Horst had always been troubled by these unsolved cases. Every force had them, but still these files haunted him, and he would lie awake at night worried that he had failed in his duties, that he was missing a serial killer. He put the files away, and called his wife to tell her he was going to be late again.
‘Horst?’ she said, on hearing his voice. ‘Horst, where are you? You promised to clean the rabbit hutch this morning. It’s your turn. It’s written on the calendar, right in front of me. Listen: Horst to clean rabbit hutch in morning before work. And now it’s the afternoon. Honestly, Horst, I don’t know what’s come over you – you’ve become rather unreliable in recent hours.’
Horst remembered his commitment to clean the hutch, and felt a small burst of pleasure. This was the friction between work and home that a committed cop was supposed to feel. Even so, his wife had sounded particularly frosty, and on balance he supposed it would be best if he was to return home. ‘Yes, dear,’ he said. ‘Sorry, dear. I shall be with you in eighteen minutes, but as soon as the hutch is clean I must return to work. Something quite important has come up.’
‘You may do whatever you wish,’ she snapped, ‘as soon as you have done your chore.’
Horst brushed the little black pellets into a shovel, emptied them into a plastic bag and reached for fresh straw. ‘What should I do now?’ he asked.
The rabbits said nothing; they just carried on looking annoyed by all the upheaval. As he refreshed the water in their bottle, Horst could see that this business had gone on long enough. He resolved to pay the doctor a visit that evening, to listen to what he was certain would be an upsetting but very reasonable explanation of an unfortunate incident, and then leave him alone and return to his everyday duties. There would be no captured fiend, and no glory.
On his way out he passed his son as he returned from school. Without thinking, he told him he was off to catch a major criminal. His son wished him luck, and as soon as he was out of the house Horst put his hand to his brow, wondering what had led him to say such a stupid thing.
IX
Madalena was on her third visit to Room Five, Popular Methods. She looked again at the razor blades and the pots of pills, the miniature railway, the scale model of a suspension bridge, the sawn-off shotgun and the largest exhibit in the museum – a re
al car with a hose running from its exhaust pipe to the rear window, a dummy slumped in the driver’s seat. Beside each display was a card that listed some statistics and emphasised the possible consequences of failure. She couldn’t read them, but she already knew how important it was to be sure that the end really would be the end. She could walk to any pharmacy counter and get pills, but she could never be sure that they would work; they might come straight back up having done her no harm at all, or leave her with agonising organ damage, or even brain injuries that would stop her from ever being able to correct her mistake. She knew she had to make it quick and effective.
The noose lay on its table, and she touched it. It was rough against her fingers, and it would be rough against her throat. She had already found the place to do it – a room in another part of the museum with a pipe running the length of the ceiling, and a table to stand on as she sets up the rope, and from which she will be able to jump.
There were hours left until the museum closed. She would have to leave and return later on. As she went from room to room one last time she was reassured by all the photographs and the paraphernalia. So many people had done what she was about to do, and she was comforted by the idea that they would understand, that they wouldn’t judge her. On the train, as she had pretended to sleep, she had pictured herself spending her last moments cold and alone, falling from a bridge into a fast-flowing river, dumbbells tied to her wrists. Here in the museum it would feel as if she was spending these same moments among friends.
As she walked through the lobby her eyes caught those of the man behind the front desk, an old man with long, grey fingers. Hoping to compensate for her rudeness with the banana she attempted a smile but she couldn’t make her lips move. It would have been for nothing anyway. He was already looking away.
She ordered another coffee from the same place. She sat at the same table, and after one sip she pushed the mug away. She had not felt thirsty or hungry since her drink with Mauro and Luciana, and she knew why that was: thirst and hunger are the body’s way of saying that it needs to survive.
