Chapter Twenty-Three
Any idea who might have done this, Preiss?” Commissioner Schilling was standing with his gloved hands firmly clasped behind his back, keeping his distance from the body of Georg Adelmann lest violent death, which pervaded the scene, rub off on him.
“None, sir,” I said over my shoulder. Bent over the corpse, I pointed to the right temple. “Whoever it was must have possessed brute strength. A single blow did the job, by the looks of it.” All that was visible was a thin trickle of blood that had leaked from an odd puncture in the skin.
“Come to think of it,” the Commissioner said, “the list of suspects could spread from one end of the country to the other. After all, a journalist of his sort…you know, full of high and mighty opinions, and a gossip-monger to boot…probably accumulates enemies the way rotten meat attracts maggots.”
With more than a little effort (the act of bending being no easy feat given his global girth), the Commissioner now joined me for a closer inspection of the deceased. He shook his head, as though admiring a work of art. “Well now, Preiss, if one must die a violent death, this is the way, I suppose. Quick. Efficient. Final. An elegant murder is what I'd call it. Yes, indeed, elegant.”
I said, “The question is: is it an example of elegant homicide, or homicidal elegance?”
The Commissioner frowned. “That's the trouble with you, Preiss. Always splitting hairs. Perhaps you'd best get on with your note-taking whilst I examine the place for clues.”
I reached into my coat for my notebook and began to jot down some initial observations:
Victim fully clothed but no neckwear (probably relaxing, informal), lying on left side suggesting attempt to avoid blow to right temple. Minor blood loss, some discoloration around temple. Neatness of clothing suggests no struggle or resistance but sudden unexpected assault…
I glanced around Adelmann's sitting room, then continued:
Body in centre of room. No sign of forced entry, therefore assailant probably invited in. Familiar guest rather than intruder. Room generally in good order.
“Think it might have been a robbery, Preiss?” The Commissioner called to me from behind Adelmann's large, ornately carved desk. He was holding aloft a black leather wallet. “Found this lying here, open, on top of this mess of letters and working papers. See here-” He spread open the compartments. “Empty. Not so much as a pfennig in it. Looks as though it was a robbery. A man like Adelmann would surely have carried a reasonable amount of cash on him.”
“On the other hand, Commissioner,” I said, “there's a diamond ring on Adelmann's left small finger…I'd estimate one-and-a-half to two carats. Also a gold pocket watch dangling there on a chain. A serious thief would hardly have overlooked those items.”
“Then how to explain the wallet?”
“Simple, sir. Whoever killed Adelmann was a rank amateur, despite the efficiency of the lethal blow to the victim's temple. The wallet tossed helter-skelter…its contents gone…an old trick, sir.” I stood up and heaved a world-weary sigh. “Criminals can be so damned unimaginative,” I said.
I stepped across the room to the glass-fronted cabinet that held Adelmann's silver and gold collections. “No indication anyone attempted to remove anything here, Commissioner. And these are certainly worth a fortune-” As soon as I'd said this, I realized I had made a mistake.
Schilling shot me a quizzical look. “Sounds to me as though you've been here before,” he said. ‘You seem to have some acquaintance with the place.”
“I was here once, just once…recently in fact.”
My response did not seem to sit well with my superior. I imagined him asking himself how I, his underling, managed to be in the company of Georg Adelmann when he-Düsseldorfs Commissioner of Police no less-had never so much as received a nod of recognition from the man all these years.
“Tell me, Preiss, how well did you know this fellow Adelmann? The word among your colleagues is that you have a reputation for hobnobbing with these types from time to time.”
Be humble, Hermann, I told myself. “Hobnobbing is putting too fine a point on it, sir. I would never dream of inserting myself into the circles frequented by Georg Adelmann. Fact is, he merely consulted me about the safety and security of his valuable collection, what measures to take to protect them from the criminal elements that have drifted in from the slums of Hamburg and Berlin. He was deeply concerned, and rightly so. As you can see, sir, this place is a veritable treasure house.”
Without bothering to survey the treasures, Schilling said: “Look here, I'm a man of the world, if I may say so, and I can understand that a chap like you would be eager to seize any opportunity to advance himself…you know, rubbing shoulders so to speak with the local intelligentsia, upgrading yourself socially and all that. And I grant you, that sort of thing is all right, so long as it reflects credit on the Police Department-”
“I'm grateful, sir, that you approve-”
“Let me finish. Take my advice.” He lowered his voice to a confidential level. “It doesn't pay to overdo that kind of thing. Mustn't lose our objectivity, you know. Remember, Preiss, that even high-born persons-the haut monde, as they say in France-are known to run afoul of the law, not often mind you, but vigilance must always be our first priority. I have a saying: too much whipped cream spoils the cake! This little motto of mine-simple though it be-has stood me in good stead.”
For a moment I was back at the train station in my hometown, Zwicken, pretending to absorb my father's parting admonitions into the deepest recesses of my memory-then letting them evaporate there.
Fortunately, something caught the attention of the Commissioner, sparing me the pain of thanking him for his words of advice. “Ah, what have we here?”
Schilling had discovered Adelmann's appointment book on the fireplace mantel. “Well, now,” he said, his face revealing more interest than before, “this may tell us a thing or two, eh!”
The Commissioner-rather cleverly for him-turned immediately to the page for that very day. His expression turned dark. “Nothing,” he said. “Not a damned thing. Bad luck.”
“Well, sir, it's not entirely bad luck. At least it helps us to narrow the possibilities in a way.”
“And that's another problem you have, Preiss, if I may be frank,” said Schilling. “You exhibit this constant refusal to face basic facts. There is nothing…not so much as a chicken scratch…here on today's page. Now how in heaven's name does that help us?”
“One: it confirms that whoever killed Adelmann was an unscheduled visitor. Let's assume a surprise guest. This is further substantiated by the position of the body. Two: obviously the killer was invited into the room…well in, not simply left at the entrance. Therefore, he was probably known to the victim, perhaps even a friend.”
You say ‘he’ referring to the killer. Perhaps this was some sort of bizarre lover's revenge…a woman's wrath…that sort of nonsense. These journalist types are notorious for becoming involved in domestic scandals.”
“I marvel at your insights, Commissioner,” I said, “but no woman would have had the strength to deliver a fatal blow to Adelmann's head without the benefit of a stout weapon. There's no evidence to indicate that a weapon…say, a club or fireplace iron or heavy piece of sculpture…inflicted a wound. No, sir, this was the work of a man.”
“And a damned angry one at that,” said Schilling, “one whose physical power matched his anger. So who the devil could he be?”