Happy Birthday, Turk!

by Jakob Arjouni

  “Mr. Hosch, would you like to assist me?”

  As soon as both of us were in the kitchen, I closed the door quietly and smiled at Hosch’s cold eyes. His expression seemed to indicate that he thought I was an idiot.

  “Listen, Hosch—let’s make a deal.”

  “What kind of deals can you offer me?”

  “For one thing, I could leave you out of my description of the tear gas attack. That would save you the charge of grievous bodily harm.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t quite get your drift.”

  “I could arrange things so you wouldn’t figure in the murder plots. Wouldn’t it suit you just fine to claim that you didn’t know anything about them? Poor Georg Hosch, unwittingly involved in the criminal machinations of a superior who either pressured or conned him into stealing confiscated drugs. No charges for conspiracy to commit three murders. Merely a question of a basically honest man whose simple-mindedness was exploited by others for their criminal activities. I know you won’t particularly like that role, but it could save you a few years behind bars.”

  “Do I have to listen to any more of this nonsense?”

  “It isn’t nonsense, and you know it. Here’s my offer: I’ll begin my story with Vasif Ergün’s first accident. You’ll play dumb and pretend this is the first you’ve heard of it. I’m sure you can think of something—maybe you thought you were working for the secret service, something like that? I’ll run the whole movie.

  “You’ll get more and more excited, act positively horrified, present a state of confusion and despair. You may even start raging at Futt, if you like. You keep that up until I get to Ahmed Hamul. At that point, you’ll see the light. This is what I want from you: during the description of the third murder, you arrive at the realization that it’s all true, that those two really have been deceiving you for three long years. And that’s where you’ll lose it completely. Because until then you have still suspected that my narrative is just some private dick’s fantasy—but when I get to Ahmed Hamul’s death, you realize that I am telling the truth. Get the picture?”

  Hosch shook his head, but without conviction.

  “Think it over. A bit of theatre, that’s all. Conspiracy to commit murder and grievous bodily harm are unpleasant charges. And we needn’t have any scruples about Eiler. In court, it won’t matter whether he committed his atrocities alone or whether he had some help on occasion. One way or the other, he’ll take the heaviest rap.”

  A brief grin flashed across his face. It seemed to amuse him that I thought he might have scruples about Harry Eiler.

  “Better make up your mind, and soon. Now we’ll serve the folks some drinkies.”

  I got the Scotch, mineral water, orange juice, and ice. Hosch carried a trayful of glasses.

  Löff and the prosecutor went for the orange juice. Everybody else had Scotch and soda.

  Soon after drinks were served we heard the jangle of a bunch of keys. All except for Karin Futt held their breath.

  “Paul!”

  Before I could grab her, she bounced out of her chair and ran to the door.

  “Paul, I haven’t told them anything! Believe me! Please believe me, I didn’t tell them anything—Paul …”

  Futt was about to extricate himself from her embrace when he saw me at the other end of the hall. He froze for a second. Then he pushed his wife to the floor. She curled up next to the wall and bawled. I motioned to him with the Parabellum. Futt put his keys back in his pocket and took out a cigar.

  “Come on in. You’ve kept us all waiting.”

  He bit the end off the cigar, spat it onto the Persian rug, and swaggered slowly toward me.

  “Who’s waiting for me?”

  “Assorted folks.”

  As he entered the living room, his eyes widened in horror. Everybody greeted him with a slight nod. Hosch’s puzzled expression seemed an indication that he was indeed ready to act the dupe.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Futt. Let’s get started.”

  “Started? With what?”

  “Just a minute.”

  I produced Löff’s tape recorder and set it on the table. Then I began my lecture.

  “On the nineteenth of February nineteen seventy-nine, Vasif Ergün—who was, until his death, a foreign worker in this country—had a traffic accident. He collided with an automobile driven by one Albert Schönbaum. He had not observed the right-of-way …”

  “Excuse me, but what is all this?”

  “You know very well what this is, Mr. Futt. Pull yourself together. The jig is up. It won’t be all that bad for you. After all, you’re a detective superintendent.”

  I continued. I told them about the deal Vasif Ergün had made with Futt and Eiler, dictated Albert Schönbaum’s address to the prosecutor, pointed out existing documents that proved my story, and then proceeded to discuss Ahmed Hamul’s entry into the narcotics business. I gave the attorney the names of Hanna Hecht and her friend, as well as that of Mrs. Ergün, described the murder of Vasif Ergün and the farmer’s daughter, described the murder weapon, Eiler’s nightstick, cited the witnesses Erwin Schöller, Dr. Langner, and the inhabitants of the village on the outskirts of Kronberg, and arrived at the point shortly before Ahmed Hamul’s murder. Hosch gave a wonderful performance. Both Futt and Eiler kept glancing at him, visibly perturbed. Hosch groaned, kept saying “oh no, no”, ran his hands through his hair, trembled, sucked frantically on his cigarette, and generally mimed a breakdown far better than Eiler had managed to do. When he seemed close to tears as I described the murders, Futt lost his cool.

  “Georg! That’s enough!”

  I had taken care not to bring up Georg Hosch’s name until then; I had no doubt that the prosecutor would get around to him soon enough. So far, he had been very busy taking notes.

  “And to disperse any doubts that may linger in your mind, I will now let you hear Mr. Eiler voluntarily answering a few questions I put to him.”

  Eiler attempted to lodge a protest against my wording and pointed at his disfigured face, but after Futt’s smile told him that there was nothing he could do to improve his situation, he desisted.

  The tape ran, and the case was practically over. Löff and I nodded to each other. Just before the name Hosch was mentioned, I stopped the tape.

  “Up to here, everything seems to be taken care of. All that remains is the murder of Ahmed Hamul.”

  “May I interrupt you for a moment, Mr. Kayankaya? Your story so far does sound plausible. The one thing I don’t understand is why we were told there were three suspects here. So far, I only have the names of Futt and Eiler in my notes. May I ask what part Georg Hosch played in this affair?”

  “It was he who purloined the heroin from the confiscated supplies at police headquarters. He was able to do that because he was in charge of the monthly burnings of the stuff. But I think it would be best if you asked him yourself.”

  The prosecutor nodded at Hosch.

  “I know that this may strain your credulity, sir, but I am completely stunned by what we have just heard. I don’t know what to think anymore. It’s all so incredible … I am absolutely horrified to hear what it seems I must have been involved in … it is ghastly …”

  “Please express yourself a little more clearly.”

  “But you see, I didn’t know anything about all this …”

  “Stop it, Georg! You’re making me sick! Pull yourself together!”

  Futt slapped the table top. He had realized that he was a loser, and now he wanted to get the whole thing over with.

  “Quiet, please. Mr. Hosch, tell me about it.”

  He had liked my suggestion about the secret service. He described how four years ago Futt had transferred him to the Narcotics Squad. Soon thereafter Futt had told him about his connections to the Military Intelligence Agency and had explained to him that drugs played a considerable part in the activities of the world’s secret intelligence services. It was not, however, in the MIA’s interest to let such knowledge
become public. Then, Hosch said, Futt had entrusted him with the destruction of confiscated drugs, saying that this put him in a position to assist the intelligence service. And all these years he, Georg Hosch, had purloined heroin from the confiscated stores with a good conscience and in the belief that he was serving the state. After Mr. Futt had become a detective superintendent in charge of criminal cases, it had struck Hosch as a little strange that he was still supposed to keep on delivering the drugs to Futt, but it had, after all, been an assignment given to him by a superior officer, and since it was for the secret service, there was no telling … anything was possible there. He had read in the paper about similar activities involving the American CIA.

  “… however, a short while ago Mr. Futt informed me that I could stop deliveries for a while, since they had enough for the time being. I didn’t really know what to think about that at all …”

  Hosch had stuck to our deal. He even surpassed my expectations.

  It was, however, impossible to prevent Futt from bursting into raucous laughter.

  “God, Hosch, what a cunning bastard you are! I never knew you were such a great actor.”

  Perturbed, the prosecutor looked at both of them, then at me. He seemed to have lost the thread of the proceedings.

  “Shut your mouth, Futt! Let’s get on with Hamul’s murder. You’ll have plenty of time to laugh later.”

  Futt resigned himself merely to grinning through all that followed.

  Last Friday, on the fifth of August, around six o’clock in the evening, Ahmed Hamul was found murdered in a rear courtyard near the railroad station. The aforementioned Hanna Hecht has testified that Ahmed Hamul wanted out of the drug business. Further proof for that is a house in northern Germany for which he had made a down payment. It was his intention to move there with his family, in order to avoid persecution from his former business partners. Unfortunately, he was prevented from realizing that plan.”

  Georg Hosch clutched his forehead in a gesture worthy of Duse.

  “Oh, now I can see it! Of course. Once Ahmed Hamul was murdered, there could no longer be anyone to sell my heroin consignments!”

  I had been keeping an eye on Harry Eiler. When he cried out, jumped up, and rushed at Hosch, I knocked him out for a while.

  The prosecutor gasped and rose to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, but I had to do it. Please take your seat again. It’s taken care of.”

  “I must say I am not used to behaviour of this sort.”

  “Me neither, under normal circumstances. Did you get all that down? All you need now is to find out where Harry Eiler was on the fifth of August around six pm. Except for that piece of information, I think you have an open and shut case.”

  “You’re right. Arrest warrants will be issued immediately.”

  “You may add three cases of grievous bodily harm to the charges.”

  I handed him Hanna Hecht’s blackmail letter.”

  “ ‘Murderer Futt, get a million and a kilo ready. You’ll hear from us soon!’ What does that mean?”

  “Hanna Hecht, Ahmed Hamul’s girlfriend, knew where Ahmed was getting his supplies. After he was killed, she suspected the same murderers we are dealing with here, and tried to collect on that knowledge.”

  “What about the grievous bodily harm?”

  “As soon as I found this note here, in this apartment, I drove over to Hanna Hecht’s place. I found Mr. Eiler busy torturing her, and a friend of hers unconscious in the kitchen. You may visit those two in the hospital.”

  “I must indeed do so. They are important witnesses.”

  “The third person attacked is myself. My face does not always look like this—you have to take my word for it.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “Futt managed to assign Hamul’s murder case to himself and then simply shelved it. But he was not able to prevent Hamul’s widow from hiring me as a private investigator. First I received a threatening note in which I was told to leave the case alone, and then on that same evening someone tried to run over me with a Fiat, right in front of my door. Yesterday a masked monster appeared in my office wielding a tear-gas launcher, fired two grenades, and kicked my face in. Make of that what you will.”

  Hosch thanked me for the (singular) monster with a brief glance.

  “May I call my attorney?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Futt.”

  We grinned at each other. Futt did not want to admit defeat, least of all to a Turk. I lit a cigarette and waved my thumb.

  “But before you call you lawyer, let’s take the prosecutor to the bedroom so you can show him your camping gear.”

  “I should have pulled your license much sooner.”

  “And you shouldn’t have engaged in such risky business.”

  The prosecutor tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, but why do we have to look at his camping gear?”

  “It can’t hurt.”

  We went to the bedroom, and Futt emptied out his backpack. The plastic heroin envelopes landed at the prosecutor’s feet. He knew immediately what they were, and took them as evidence.

  “Can I make my phone all now?”

  This time only I grinned.

  “Sure, Mr. Futt. In fact, you might first call headquarters and tell them to send a van for the arrest of several drug dealers. I’m sure you know the number.”

  After Futt had gone to the phone, the prosecutor shook my hand.

  “Good work.”

  “Thank you. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Trust me, I’ll take care of it.”

  While waiting for the police, we busied ourselves protecting Hosch from Harry Eiler, who had regained consciousness, and trying to cajole Mrs. Futt into emerging from her bedroom. She had locked herself in.

  Futt sucked pensively on his cigar. I made myself a drink and sat down next to him.

  “Was it your idea, that performance of Georg’s?”

  He didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead. “Guess so.”

  “He may get away with it for now. But I’ll get his ass in court.”

  “I know.”

  “What an idiot he must be, to let you con him into that. I wouldn’t have thought he was that dumb.”

  “Guess he panicked. But it’s just fine by me if the two of you tear each other apart in court … Why didn’t you just kill me right away?”

  “Good question. But your connection to Ahmed Hamul would have been too obvious.”

  “Yeah, it gets sticky when you have to sweep a murder under the rug, even when you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Uh huh.”

  The doorbell rang, and a bunch of cops stormed in like a Tartar horde. After the prosecutor had explained to them what was going on, they all suffered a mild identity crisis. They didn’t find it easy to arrest Detective Superintendent Futt for dealing heroin, and their colleague Harry for murder. No way, they couldn’t just throw their buddies in jail like that. It had to be some kind of mistake. Finally Futt himself had to explain matters and order the arrests. After a few remarks to the effect that they would have preferred to arrest that Turk, the squad left the apartment with the prosecutor and the arrestees and drove off to the jail.

  Löff, Katrin Futt, and I stayed behind.

  We managed to coax the superintendent’s wife out of her room, planted her in front of the television set, placed the bottle of Scotch next to her, and took our leave.

  5

  Löff and I sat nursing our fourth round of beers. It was a few minutes before six o’clock. The happy hour crowd was congregating at the bar, clamouring for “a schnapps and a beer”. Intimacy increased in direct ratio to the number of glasses that slid across the counter. Soni behind the bar had a wide ass, an easy target for male paws. Most of the time she didn’t even try to brush them off, her ass was part of her job. Löff’s eyelids were drooping, and I began to worry that I would have to give him a ride home.

  “Lishen, Kayankaya, you did a goo�
��, a good job, but—”

  “—but a good defense attorney can get the charges for Ahmed Hamul’s murder dropped. Because there’s nothing but circumstantial evidence for it. Right?”

  He had already explained that to me five or six times.

  “Thash ri’ … even though it’s quite obvious, only hard evidence is wha’ countsh in a trial. Thash right.”

  “Let’s see if Harry Eiler can manufacture an alibi for the fifth of August. They’ll throw everything else at him, anyway. Futt and Hosch will take every opportunity to make sure that happens.”

  “Thash right.”

  The flesh around my cracked rib was throbbing. I started fantasising about the next three days. Fresh sheets on the bed, a stack of travel and vacation brochures for the morning, various television magazines for the afternoon, then full length movie features in the evening. No quiz or game shows run by idiots, with idiots, and for idiots. The news, then Bogart.

  I shook Löff’s shoulder. He seemed to be hypnotised by Soni’s ass.

  “Mr. Löff, I have to get going. I still have to pay my respects to the Ergüns, and tell them what happened, and then I need to hit the sack.”

  “Right, right … I better get on home too … I think I have a little buzz on.”

  “And thank you again. I couldn’t have done it without your help. I’ll drop by your house in a day or two.”

  “Please do. My old lady will be glad to see you.”

  I waved to Soni, and she brought the check. I paid. Löff winked at her. We left.

  Then, all of a sudden, it was nine thirty. I had walked Loff back to his Mercedes and had gone to my office to pick up the thousand-mark bill. Then home, a shower, bite to eat.

  Now I pocketed the change Madame Hulk had given me and the three chocolate bars I had purchased for Ilter Hamul’s children. I wished Madame a good evening.

  “Same to you.”

  The sun had set, and except for a couple of pink clouds the sky was empty and blue. Some dark birds were circling high above. I was tired.

  Ilter Hamul came to the door. She was wearing a dark green satin robe.

  “Good evening. Excuse me for dropping in so late, but I wanted to let you know that the case has been solved. We found the murderer, and he is behind bars.”