Jutta Profijt - Morgue Drawer Four

“Too bad,” Martin said. “Without the agent we’re pretty much groping in the dark.”

“You still haven’t explained to me what you’re doing here,” Yvonne said.

“Yes, well, that’s also a bit complicated,” Martin said.

That wasn’t cutting it with Yvonne, which she made more than clear by raising an eyebrow.

“Semira did die from anaphylactic shock, but this apparently happened in the course of her professional practice,” Martin began.

Nicely worded. And he stated it totally seriously—with scientific precision, really.

“I suspect the client she was with when she died put her into the trunk of his car in order to secretly spirit the body away. Unfortunately it was an especially valuable car, and unfortunately the car was then stolen. With Semira’s body in the trunk.”

“No!” Yvonne blurted out. “It’s like in a movie!”

“Yes,” Martin agreed. “It seems that two other recent murders have also been committed in connection with this regrettable death, a car thief and Semira’s brother.”

“Oh my God, it just gets worse and worse!” she gasped.

“Which is why I need to find out who the owner of the stolen car is,” Martin said.

Yvonne furrowed her brow and contemplated him for a moment, shaking her head. “But why are you sitting around here in the middle of the night trying to find out who the owner is in such a complicated way? The police must surely be able to do that with the press of a button.”

“That would require knowing the license plate number,” Martin said.

“If the car was so extraordinarily valuable as you say, then it’s not like there will be thousands and thousands of them. Surely it must be possible to get a list of the owners.”

Boy oh boy, this one was really sharp as a tack. Even though she was blonde.

Martin hemmed and hawed. “The police have not yet made…certain connections,” he finally said.

A short pause as our little goldfinch did some serious brooding.

“So you’re out here on your own, then?” Yvonne asked.

Martin nodded.

“Good for you,” she mumbled. “And because you can’t get hold of the list of people who own this model of car from the police, you have to track down Semira’s clients and find the one she was with last?”

Martin nodded, relieved that someone was finally thinking along the same lines as him and didn’t think he was batshit crazy. However, she didn’t know even half of the whole story. About me, for instance.

“Let me see what I can do to help you further,” she said pensively. “The agent’s name would be great, but I don’t know it. I don’t know Semira’s clients’ names, either, of course, since she was very discreet. But she definitely made a few comments that might help us.”

She thought some more and noisily slurped on her coffee.

“Did she have, uh, I mean, well…in what circumstances did she die?” Yvonne asked.

“She was naked when she died, and she had recently had sexual intercourse,” Martin explained very objectively. As far as his reports go, Martin was master of his domain. “She had eaten a hazelnut cookie before or after the sexual intercourse, which triggered her allergic reaction.”

“Protected or unprotected sex?” Yvonne asked.

“Unprotected. But with lubricant, which is why I assumed it was with a client.”

“That stupid girl,” Yvonne mumbled. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But she knew exactly how dangerous sex without a condom is, but she still had clients she didn’t use one with. I always told her…” Yvonne wiped her eyes.

“She was, uh, healthy,” Martin said. “No sexually transmitted diseases, no HIV. She apparently knew which clients she did and didn’t need a condom with.”

“Evidence of handcuff use?” Yvonne asked.

“None,” Martin said. “No use of force, no fetish-related practices, no drugs.”

She summed the main points up again: “So we’re looking for someone who has an unusual car, hires a call girl, has unprotected sex with her, isn’t into any kinky games, and who gave her hazelnut cookies that she died from.”

“Correct.”

We let her have some time to mull that over; Martin drank his coffee and ordered two more.

“I can remember comments about two clients that might be worth considering,” Yvonne said with the fresh cup of coffee in front of her.

Martin leaned forward eagerly.

“The one guy she used to call ‘Dr. Strangelove’…”

“She gave her clients nicknames?” Martin asked, amazed.

I snickered. What nickname would Martin have gotten?

“Well, sure,” Yvonne said. “I wanted to know as much as possible about what her clients wanted, but she didn’t want to name names. So we had to find a way to easily but discreetly talk about the men.”

Martin nodded.

“So, to continue, Dr. Strangelove is an entrepreneur, something to do with steel, I think. He has at least four fancy cars, including a Porsche and a Jaguar. He’s a widower, and harbors an abysmally deep mistrust of women—he thinks they are all only interested in his money.”

“That’s probably true, too,” I interjected, but Martin didn’t acknowledge me.

“He has two grown daughters who keep trying to set him up with women, but for them he plays the monk. He satisfies his urges with call girls, and over the last two years exclusively with Semira.” She thought for a moment. “At least he said he was exclusive with her.”

“Yes,” Martin said thoughtfully. “That might well be something to take with a grain of salt. Does he live in Cologne?”

“I think so, yes.”

Meanwhile Martin had taken out a pen and a piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket, jotting down the most important information.

“The other guy she used to call ‘Il Papa.’”

Martin wrote down “Il Papa.”

“He’s married, but he told Semira his wife is frigid and unapproachable. He doesn’t actually live in Cologne, but he comes to town a lot on business, so he rents a small apartment here.”

“What does he do?” Martin asked.

Yvonne shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“What did he want from Semira?” Martin asked.

Stupid question, I thought. Sex, of course.

“Warmth?” Yvonne said.

Female mumbo jumbo, I thought.

“Sex of course, too,” she said.

All right!

“But he only wanted a little sex, and otherwise just lots of cuddling. Warmth that he wasn’t getting from his wife anymore.”

Why would the man tell Semira such bullshit, I wondered. Normal men have to tell women baloney like that so they’ll jump into bed with them. But a call girl will jump anyway, so why all the claptrap?

“How did she come up with the nicknames?” Martin asked. “Why was one called Dr. Strangelove and the other Il Papa?”

Yvonne shrugged. “No idea. I asked her that too, but she said only that the nicknames suited them. She didn’t want to give any explanation for them so no one could guess the men’s identities.”

“Too bad,” I said. “After all, that’s exactly what we want.”

Meanwhile the supply of coffee had gone dry again, and Yvonne gave such a big yawn that she almost fell out of her chair. They exchanged phone numbers, Martin paid, Yvonne decided to take a taxi home, and we cruised homeward in the sardine can. Martin crashed into bed and slept nine and half hours straight. I watched TV until I couldn’t stand what was on anymore, and then I moved to the kitchen—after all, I didn’t have any eyelids that I might mercifully have closed, and I couldn’t turn off the tube, either. A few days ago I was desperate because I couldn’t switch the thing on, and now it was the opposite. Life sure is strange, especially when you’re dead.