Jutta Profijt - Morgue Drawer Four

“There is only one way for you to redeem your reputation as an impotent crackpot with Birgit and as a psychologically unstable scalper with your boss: you’ve got to prove to them all that your incoherent drivel wasn’t crazy talk and that you knew more from the get-go than the others did. Because I told you.”

“I’ll never speak to another living soul about you,” Martin said. “It doesn’t matter how many crimes of the century I might solve—there is no one in the world who will believe this story.”

“Then sideline me,” I relented, although I was pretty sure that he would end up breaking his vow. “But solve the crimes. Otherwise, your reputation will be permanently ruined.”

He thought again, this time for quite a while, all the way until we reached the door to his apartment.

“And what do you suggest I do next?” Martin asked.

I had him where I wanted him.

“We’ve got to figure out who owns the SLR,” I said.

“Terrific idea,” Martin said, caustically. “Unfortunately no cars of that make and model have been reported stolen, so that might be a tad bit difficult, don’t you think?”

“Semira will help us,” I said. “The woman was a whore, and whores have johns. That’s how we’ll track him down.”

Martin opened the door to his apartment, took off his shoes, arranged them neatly side by side, hung the duffle coat up without any creases on its hook, and went into the kitchen to make himself some tea.

“We’ll get going at eight o’clock,” he said. “Until then I want some peace and quiet.”

I promised him heaven and earth that I’d stay clear of him, and he parked me in front of the TV to watch talk show after talk show and soap opera after soap opera until night finally came and we resumed our investigational tour.

This time the milieu we were looking into was richer.

It still had to do with sex for sale, but not the cheap sex you buy off the street and receive on the street. We were moving into the environment Semira fit into, based on her neighbor’s description. Pricey. Martin had intentionally grabbed his long, dark winter coat from the closet, the one he’d bought for his father’s funeral and had never worn again since. At least in this coat he wouldn’t immediately look like he’d taken a wrong turn and was ringing the bell to politely ask for directions.

We had the drawing of Semira with us, hoping we could get the information we needed from one of her colleagues. It was clear that this wouldn’t be an inexpensive excursion, because the first thing a man is offered in an upscale “nail salon,” as it were, isn’t sex—but alcohol. At a price that even the Yanks during Prohibition would have deemed a rip-off.

The first problem with our plan was that it turned out Martin wasn’t actually familiar with even one whorehouse. How were we supposed to comb the appropriate body-rub parlors if we didn’t know where they are? So, I had to draw on my bad memory, even though I’d never set foot in one of these upscale riding stables; I had never gotten flush enough during my short life to afford one. But, of course, even in my crowd people are familiar with certain addresses. Definitely not all of them, but we didn’t have time for all of them, anyway. We just had to hope that we were looking in the right area. Had Semira owned a car? Presumably not, because the neighbor hadn’t mentioned anything about that. Of course, someone might have driven her to work and home again, or she might have taken any of the numerous transportation options offered by the Cologne Transit Authority…hmm, now that’s more my kind of metrosexual.

But, again, we restricted our search to the radius of what Semira could have reached by foot, also because we didn’t feel like wandering aimlessly back and forth through the whole city. And within her walking radius were some of the Russian tochkas, at which establishments the term “Russian” is used for simplicity’s sake to refer to anyone born east of Berlin. Not entirely politically correct, but easy to remember.

So Martin stopped at the ATM first, withdrew cash up to his limit, and then parked his trash can on an inconspicuous residential street near our hunting ground.

Brothel I, Scene 1—lights, camera, action: The door opens, the doorman waves Martin in. Red ultraplush. Lots of loud people of presumably Eastern European origin wearing lots of gold on their wrists, necks, fingers, and teeth.

Martin approaches the bar, orders a beer. Looks around. Much too conspicuously, and I tell him so.

“How else am I supposed to look around?” he asks.

“Inconspicuously,” I say.

“With my eyes shut, or what?” he grumbles.

We haven’t even been working for ten minutes, and already Martin’s getting cantankerous. I think we’re in for some fun and games.

I don’t want to bore you with every last detail of our procession through the big-city cathouses, because most of them were neither exciting nor stimulating, just sucky and boring. The interior designers in this industry tend toward a surprisingly uniform ultraplush décor, varying only in the shade—lighter or darker red, with an occasional foray into purple or orange. Martin always sat at the bar, he always ordered a beer that he hardly drank, he always waited for a woman to sit next to him, and he always steered the conversation toward Semira.

“You can call me Semira if you’d like,” was the standard response, cooed and not spoken.

“I’m looking for a specific Semira,” Martin answered with equal consistency. “This one here.”

The business with the drawing was an extremely delicate matter, because the operators of such houses keep a watchful eye on men who behave oddly and give the impression they’re looking to buy something other than love. Martin got kicked out on his ass twice after showing the drawing; after that he got more careful.

Nonetheless, most of the reactions were not the one we were hoping for. No recognition, no additional information. Not to mention that lots of the ladies Martin spoke to had only very limited command of the German language.

Including the tiny blonde who looked like the reason she hadn’t made the cut for the latest James Bond casting call was probably her size: on screen she’d have looked like a hot face on a stick next to any of the hunks who’d had the honor of playing the cocky British spy. She was at least six centimeters shorter than even average height, but she dominated the bar the moment she entered it. She had not only a smoking-hot body that you could clearly see in several places through the outfit she had on. But she also had the whitest, nicest teeth that ever achieved fame in any toothpaste ad and the brightest violet eyes that have ever shone upon a male. If I’d been Martin’s cardiologist, I’d have been extremely concerned about his chances of survival at this moment. His pulse ceased briefly, only to start thundering against his ribs again so hard that I thought I could make out the collar of his coat thumping with each heartbeat.

She sat down on the barstool next to Martin, looked at his glass of beer that had gone flat, and then looked at Martin.

“Two champagnes,” he ordered without missing even a single beat.

Meanwhile I found my seat in the curve of the B-girl’s neck, enjoying the view down her neckline toward her lap, which was only unsubstantially covered by a tiny little sheer skirt.

“What wish can I make come true for you today?” the angelic being asked.

Martin swallowed the half glass of bubbles in one gulp after clinking glasses with her.

“I have an obscure wish,” he stammered. He had to start again twice before getting the sentence out fully and error-free.