Turbo looked at me obliquely. He was sitting in the flower box, steadying himself with his front paws, his head tilted to the side.
“I know, I know, Turbo, no need to look at me like that. That was just hot air.” He listened attentively. When I didn't continue, he turned away and began grooming himself. I suddenly remembered how Turbo had sat on the couch next to me last night, while Salger was facing us with his gun. What if Salger were to take aim and fire faster the next time he showed up? I got up and walked over to the phone. Eberhard? No, he's allergic to cats. Brigitte? Nonni and Turbo fight like cats and dogs. Philipp? I didn't manage to reach him or Füruzan, and was told at the clinic that he was at a conference in Siena. Babs? She was home. She was having a late-afternoon cup of coffee with her two grown-up children, and invited me over right away. “You want to put Turbo up here? No problem, bring him along, and don't forget the kitty litter.”
Turbo always has a fit in the car. I've tried baskets, I've tried collars, I've tried nothing at all. The sound and vibration of the engine, the quickly changing images, and the speed are all too much for my cat. His world is the rooftops between the Richard-Wagner-Strasse, the Augusta-Anlage, the Moll-strasse, and the Werderstrasse, the few balconies and windows he can reach over the rooftops, the few neighbors and cats living behind those balconies and windows, the pigeons and the mice. Whenever I need to take him to the vet, I carry him under my coat, and he peeks out between the buttons the way I would out of a space shuttle. That was how we made the long trip to the Dürerstrasse.
Babs lives in a large apartment with Röschen and Georg, who, if you ask me, are old enough to stand on their own two feet. And yet they prefer to keep their feet firmly planted on mummy's hearth rug. Georg is studying law in Heidelberg, and Röschen can't ever decide whether she wants to study, get some kind of vocational training or a job, or which of her admirers to choose between. She had kept them dangling so long that they finally gave up, and now she was absolutely miserable.
“Were they so great?”
She had either been crying or had a cold. “No,” she sniffled, “but…”
“No buts. If they weren't that great, then you should be glad you got rid of them.”
She sniffled. “Do you know anyone I can date?”
“I'll get back to you on that one. Do you think you can look after Turbo in the meantime? Think of it as practice. Men and tomcats are one and the same thing.”
She smiled. She is a punk rocker with violet and yellow hair, alligator clips in her earlobes, and a computer chip in the side of her nose. But she smiled in a nice, old-fashioned way. “Jonas has-”
“Is that one of the two beaus?”
She nodded. “Jonas has a rat called Rudi. He never goes anywhere without him. I could invite him over for dinner- he did say we should remain friends-and while he eats his spaghetti, Turbo can eat Rudi.” Her eyes misted over. “What do you say to that, Uncle Gerhard?”
26 You're stubborn, just plain stubborn
Back home I lay down again. Brigitte came over, sat on the edge of my bed, and asked me what actually had happened yesterday. I told her.
“Why didn't you want to let Inspector Nägelsbach know where that girl is? And why not tell the man who hired you? You don't owe her anything.”
“I don't know why the police and Salger are looking for her. I need to know that first. She didn't do anything to me, and I don't want to hand her over just to get them off my back and pocket ten thousand marks.”
Brigitte got up and poured herself an amaretto and a sam-buca for me. She sat down again and said, “May I ask you something?”
“Sure.” I smiled encouragingly, though I knew it wasn't going to be a question but a reproach.
“I don't want to tell you how to do your job. When you didn't have a case over the past few months, I thought to myself: Fine, that's his business, not mine. Sometimes I would ask myself if it could work out, us getting married I mean, and having kids, if it would work out financially. But that's not the issue. It's the way you're handling this case. And not just this case. I get the feeling that you'll only be satisfied when you've quarreled with everyone and are at loggerheads with all the different parties. Not that it seems to be giving you any satisfaction. Does it have to be this way? Is it…”
“Old age? Are you asking if I'm becoming stubborn and bad tempered in my old age?”
“You're becoming more and more of an outsider. That's what I mean.”
She fixed me with her sad gaze, and I could not escape into anger. I tried to explain to her that the only way one can see clearly is from the outside. “So of course I'm an outsider; it's part of my job description. Maybe I stumble around a bit more as I get older, but do I have any choice? And you mustn't forget that it's natural for an outsider sometimes to be at loggerheads with the different parties. You wouldn't want to side with every party either, would you?”
Brigitte looked at me skeptically. “You're stubborn, just plain stubborn.”
27 My cards weren't all that bad
The men from the Federal Criminal Investigation Agency turned up the following morning just after eight. Bleckmeier, gaunt and sour in his gray suit and beige coat, and Rawitz in a suede jacket over a polo shirt and linen pants, playing the nice little fat guy. His affability was as put on as a clown's nose. “Dr. Self?”
This form of address was bad news. As a public prosecutor I had been proud of my title, but as a private investigator I found it absurd. There's no “Dr.” on the door to my office or my apartment, and no “Dr.” in the phone book or on my letterhead. Whoever approaches me with “Dr.” knows things about me that are none of his business. I showed the two men into my living room.
“What brings you here?” I asked.
Bleckmeier spoke up. “We hear that while working on a case you have, so to speak, stumbled over a certain Leonore Salger. We are looking for her. If you-”
“Why are you looking for Frau Salger?”
“That is, so to speak, a delicate matter. I would-”
“Why is it delicate?” Rawitz interrupted Bleckmeier, looking at him reprovingly and then at me apologetically. “The Federal Criminal Investigation Agency targets criminals who work internationally, or at least beyond a specific region. We are the coordinating body for all the regional agencies and for Interpol. We also take on police duties in matters of law enforcement, particularly in cases when the chief federal prosecutor issues an order. Needless to say, we then immediately inform the appropriate regional agency.”
“Needless to say,” I replied.
Bleckmeier took over again. “We're looking for Frau Sal-ger, so to speak, in an official capacity. We know that she was in the State Psychiatric Hospital, that she was in Dr. Rolf Wendt's care, and that she disappeared a few weeks ago. Do you know where she is?”
“Have you spoken to Dr. Wendt?”
“He invoked doctor-patient confidentiality and is refusing to cooperate in any way,” Bleckmeier said. “Not that we're surprised. Dr. Wendt is not entirely unknown to us, so to speak.”
“Did you inform him why you are investigating Frau Salger?”
“Dr. Self.” Rawitz again took over. “I am sure we all want to keep things nice and simple. As a former public prosecutor you're an old pro. You can't expect us to go around disclosing that kind of information. We can only tell you what we can tell you, and if you're prepared to tell us what you know, then things will stay nice and easy.” He was sitting across from me, and as he said “nice and easy” he actually leaned forward and patted me on the knee.
“Are we right in our surmise that you have been commissioned to locate Frau Salger by an individual who is, so to speak, passing himself off as her father? Are you still in contact with this individual?”