Torsen paused and took out his notebook. "May I ask you a great favor, if you could, when you have a moment, see if you can find any record of Rudi Jeczawitz's wife. All I have is a Christian name, Ruda, I don't know her age."
They walked on. She seemed glad of his company. "Ruda? Is that Polish? Russian? We had so many refugees, they poured in daily, they were starved... many so young, all they had was their body. Now we have them again, refugees from the borders — they come every day, no papers, no money... it is getting bad, begging on the street, Gypsies — Romanian, Czech, Polish. Dear God, it seems it will never end!"
Torsen nodded. "I have been told she was a prostitute, perhaps they were not married legally, I don't know..."
"Many married for papers, they would marry for a name, for an identity. You know, many children roaming the streets in those days knew only their first name, nothing more — and some only a number. It was a terrible sight to see these young children everywhere, their shaved heads, their skeletal bodies. Now, when I see these punks... this new fashion stuns me, they do not remember... maybe, maybe it is best they don't, because it haunts the living, I know that."
Torsen continued walking. "My father has been saying the same things to me, he's in a nursing home. He said there were many who clung to life because their memories made them afraid of dying..."
She turned to him, a tight smile on her face. Her blue eyes searched his for a moment, and then she pointed to a bus stop. "I leave you here, my friend, and I will do what I can, but no promises. I have enjoyed speaking with you."
They shook hands, and Torsen apologized: He did not know her name.
"Lena. Lena Klapps."
Torsen waved to her as she stepped onto her bus, and then caught one himself, going in the opposite direction. He was worn out, and wondered whether he had been wasting his time; the days were passing and he had made no arrest. He was behind in his regular duties. He closed his eyes. "There are no coincidences in a murder inquiry..." As he opened his eyes he looked out of the window — and saw Ruda Kellerman stepping out of a taxicab. He craned his neck to look more closely, but he could not see her face because she wore dark glasses, and a fur draped around her shoulders. She was standing outside Mama Magda's — a notorious hangout for gay, lesbian, and mixed couples. He moved to the back of the bus to see more clearly, and watched her entering the dark, paint-peeling doorway. He was sure it was her. He wondered what she was doing in such a place, then returned to his seat, his mind churning over the day's events, asking himself if there was some connection between Ruda Kellerman and the two murders. Suddenly he realized he was almost at his stop, and as he rushed from his seat calling out to the bus driver he rang the bell. Hurrying along the aisle he came face to face with the driver he wished to question again. He asked whether he could hold the bus for just a few moments.
For privacy, they spoke on the pavement. Torsen asked for a fuller description of the woman who got off his bus near the Grand Hotel the night of Kellerman's murder.
The man removed his cap, rubbed his head, and tried to recall what he had told the inspector — while the disgruntled passengers glared at them from their seats.
"She was foreign, definitely dark-haired... and wearing a dark coat, no, a mackintosh... it was raining, and she was tall, yes, tall... taller than me, say about five feet eight, maybe a little more."
"That is very tall, are you sure she was that tall?"
The driver backed off and sized up Torsen, asking him how tall he was. They then stood shoulder to shoulder, until the man was satisfied he was correct.
A passenger descended the steps and asked angrily if they were going to stay there all night.
Torsen let himself into his apartment, and turned on his electric heater. He looked into his empty fridge and swore, slamming the door shut. He brewed some tea, sat at his kitchen table, and began making laborious notes.
He had a suspect, one he underlined three times. Ruda Keller-man-Grimaldi — but what was the motive?
1. Motive: None.
2. Gain: None.
3. Alibi: Good.
4. Did she have help?
5. Could she have inflicted the hammer blows?
Torsen erased number five, then reinstated it. He recalled her handshake. She was very strong, she was very tall. Could she have been mistaken for a man leaving Kellerman's hotel?
6. Check if Ruda Kellerman has a trilby.
7. Check if Kellerman had a trilby.
8. Stock up fridge — coffee and milk.
The more he thought of food the hungrier he got, so in the end he went to buy some rolls from the all-night delicatessen. He ate standing by the window, at a small bar provided by the shop for their customers.
When he returned to his apartment it was after ten; a message was pinned to his door. Freda had popped by to deliver the note from his father. She had also left her address and phone number, and her schedule list of days on/days off, evenings on/evenings off. He liked that, liked that she was methodical and made lists. He decided he would call her in the morning, to ask for a date.
That same evening, Ruda was ironing her jacket lapels. Luis woke up and sniffed. He loved the smell of freshly ironed clothes: They reminded him of his mother. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself and wandered in to see Ruda.
"How did rehearsal go?"
"Mamon is adjusting, but he still hates the new plinths. He's acting up, and I really have to push him."
Grimaldi looked into a large frying pan left on the stove. There were bacon, sausages, and onion rings, all of it cold. She turned off the iron. "I did call you, but decided not to wake you. There's a baked potato in the oven. Do you want a beer?"
He forked out some food and refused the beer, said he'd stick to water. He carried his plate to the table and sat down. She called out that he would have time to shower and change, the dress rehearsal was not until nine. She came in zipping up her tight white pants. "Ours is the last act before the intermission, and we open the second act. It's a good spot — well, the one before the intermission is. I'd like to close the show, but the manager won't let me have the time to reassemble the cages."
She put on her jacket, looked in the mirror, and then arranged her hair in a tight braid down her back. She pulled it back tightly from her face so that it looked sleek, almost Spanish. She leaned against him as she slipped her feet into her boots. He looked her over, and gave her a pat on the behind.
"Don't," she snapped, "your fingers are all greasy!"
"You look good," he said with his mouth full, and she did a small pirouette, then picked up the short whip and her stick. With a final glance at her reflection, she went to the trailer door.
"Get dressed, Luis, I want you on display, sober and looking good. Everyone heard about our scene, so let's put up a good front. It's almost seven-thirty."
He laughed. "This crowd thrives on what the Grimaldis do, what they said, who hit whom — tell them to go fuck themselves."
She picked up her hat, twisted it, and put it on. "Over and out, big man! See you in the ring!"
Grimaldi shaved and dressed, and looked at himself in the mirror. Even after a shave and a long sleep he looked beat: his eyes bloodshot, his skin puffy. He checked his hairline; he needed a tint, the gray was showing through.