The radio announcer said they would shortly be broadcasting a sound excerpt from the murder video in order to publicize the killer’s voice. Oh no, said Eva, and my partner exclaimed that she didn’t need this. Eva leaned forward between the front seats and urgently requested Heinrich to change stations at once. He shrugged and inserted a cassette in the deck. Eva sat back again and said, Thanks very much.
After a while, my partner asked Heinrich to drive somewhat slower and refrain from cornering so sharply because she was starting to feel sick. Heinrich claimed to be driving as sedately as an angel, but he moderated his speed for the rest of the trip.
On arrival in Frauenkirchen, we soon had to leave the car behind. There was no hope of finding a parking place in the middle of town, so we got out and proceeded on foot. On the way, we saw cars and buses bearing inscriptions that betrayed they belonged to broadcasting personnel.
Orally and by pointing, Eva drew our attention to the local church, which was draped in black bunting. A lot of the houses too were flying black flags. On closer inspection, many of these turned out to be skirts, pants, coats, blankets, etc.
The end justifies the means, said Heinrich.
It’s the gesture that counts, Eva added.
My partner said she couldn’t believe how crowded the town was and could already sense the dismal atmosphere prevailing there. She had underestimated this and doubted her ability to relish any Malakoff torte.
Meantime, Heinrich had broken into a trot and was some thirty feet ahead of us. I increased my own rate of advance. When I caught up to him, he called over his shoulder that he and I would go to the police station; Eva and my partner should go to the Café Wurm, and we would join them there later.
Heinrich towed me across the street by my shirtsleeve. There was such a crush we had difficulty making any progress, and I had to be careful not to lose him in the crowd.
Near the church, we encountered the Easter procession, which was evidently on its way back from the cemetery after collecting the body of Our Lord. In the lead were three ministrants with a cross. Behind them came the parish priest flanked by schoolchildren and altar boys bearing holy water, and ordinary worshipers brought up the rear.
Here comes Christ’s mortician, quipped Heinrich.
The people around us removed their headgear. There was little talking. Spectators who were obviously from out of town stared at the procession and conversed in low voices. It took us considerable time to get anywhere near the police station. Unoccupied patrol cars were parked there with their blue lights flashing. They were cordoned off from the crowd by ropes and policemen armed with radios and pistols, presumably to enable the vehicles to enter and leave.
Here we are, said Heinrich, but how do we get in? In fact, we were unable even to reach the rope across the entrance to the police station. This is ridiculous, said Heinrich. He thought for a moment, then said he would phone; it must be possible to telephone the station — someone might want to report an emergency.
And so, grunting and mopping our perspiring brows, we made our way to back to a bus stop, beside which, in addition to the bus shelter, stood a public telephone booth. Heinrich had no small change. I felt in my pocket and handed him two twenty-cent coins and six ten-cent pieces. He asked me to wait outside the booth, saying that it was too cramped to accommodate us both. Besides, the heat would render a sojourn inside it even more unpleasant for a twosome, and anyway, he didn’t care to be listened to when he was on the phone.
In the course of the approximately fifteen minutes I spent standing around idly outside the booth, two people, clearly local inhabitants, came up and handed me a sheet of yellow paper. It bore an artist’s impression of the killer and a description of his clothing. Beneath this were telephone numbers to be called for the purpose of passing on relevant information. Right at the foot, someone had added by hand: Reward €10,000 (Herr Josef Federl of Federl’s Mill). The whole thing was ill-printed and askew, and the sheet was dog-eared.
Heinrich emerged from the telephone booth. Peering over my shoulder, he remarked that the picture bore a resemblance not only to his mother-in-law but to one of the stray cats in the farmyard.
I asked him what he had managed to glean. Nothing, he said, though not for want of trying more than once. The friendly policeman hadn’t been at all friendly today; he had said he responded to emergency calls only and would not divulge any information. Heinrich had called again, this time pretending to be a journalist, but had been advised to attend the forthcoming press conference.
We betook ourselves to the Café Wurm, surveyed the tables in the garden without sighting our womenfolk, and went inside. The establishment was grossly overcrowded. Waitresses in white aprons were threading their way through the throng of standing or seated customers with trays above their heads. Although every window and door was wide open, the place was thick with tobacco smoke.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was my partner. She said we must be blind; she and Eva had been sitting in the garden and had waved to us. We followed her outside. There was one chair too few, but Heinrich soon managed to get hold of another. I noticed that lying on every table was a yellow leaflet like the one I’d been handed outside the telephone booth.
We ordered coffees. Heinrich reported on his fruitless endeavors.
My partner, who said she found the café thoroughly uncongenial, urged us to drink up.
Eva asked Heinrich what was so interesting about the next table, and why he had to stare at it with his back to us. He replied that seated there was the deputy mayor, the local police chief’s best friend, who was outlining the situation with the aid of a map. Without a by-your-leave, he pulled up his chair to the next table and asked exactly where the killer was being sought. So as not to miss anything, I went and stood behind him.
When the deputy mayor took a pencil and proceeded to draw on the map, even my partner and Eva rose from their chairs — the cushions were covered in some cheap, pink-floral material — and came to watch.
The deputy mayor said, “There, you see? That’s where we’re looking. The whole area is cordoned off, and we’re closing in.”
Heinrich asked if that meant they had a suspect who was presumed to be inside the circle he’d drawn.
“Yes,” the deputy mayor replied, “that’s right.”
Eva exclaimed that her home was plumb in the middle of that circle, and she didn’t like the sound of it at all.
My partner called for the check. The waitress, who happened to be serving a table nearby, took a big, black wallet from her apron. My partner inquired whether the Stubenrauchs would mind if we invited them to lunch at an inn. We had given them a great deal of work this weekend, she said, and would like to show our appreciation. Eva dismissed this proposal. My partner pointed out that we would have to eat anyway and that preparing a meal (cooking) would take up a lot of time that could be put to better use.
Eva looked at Heinrich, who said we could certainly eat out, but there was no question of our inviting them; they would invite us, being their guests. My partner and I fiercely disputed this, and we eventually prevailed on the Stubenrauchs to let us play host. Heinrich said he knew of a fairly secluded inn about halfway between Frauenkirchen and their house — one that ought to be unaffected by the turbulence prevailing in the victims’ hometown. My partner welcomed this suggestion, and we walked back to the car.
On the way, Heinrich pointed out with a touch of pride that his good relations with a local bigwig (the deputy mayor) had secured us some important information about the manhunt. Eva said he was a hell of a fellow, and we all chuckled.