Imre Kertész: Detective Story

“We’re not fighting capitalism as such,” Diaz reminded him.

“It’s all the same to me.” Rodriguez’s eyes were smoldering. “Bourgeois, Jew, savior of the world — there’s nothing to choose between them. Upheaval is all they want.”

“And you?” Diaz inquired. “What do you want, Rodriguez, my son?”

“Order. But my order,” said Rodriguez. “Should I go?”

“No. We’ll wait.” Diaz strode up and down the room a few times, hands clasped behind his back. “It’s noon now. You boys go home and get some shut-eye. Be back here by seven this evening. Prepare for what may be an all-night session. We may well have plenty of work.”

He said no more. I’ll be a Dutchman if I could even guess what he had in mind. But that was Diaz for you. For my own part, I was always glad for the unexpected gift of a few hours off duty. The job takes its toll, so we richly deserve the occasional bit of R&R.

There was a time when I would have preferred to spend those few hours with Diaz. I would have been curious about how he wove the web of his logic and about how he won over the Colonel, for example.

I now see the answer as simple: he just set the facts before him. And the Colonel had no option but to move ahead: for him too the only way back was to go forward. Everyone had their part to play in this game, as I said, Enrique just as much as the Colonel. And Diaz as well, who imagined that it was he who assigned the roles. Diaz was also built into the logic; the Colonel must have known him in just the same way as Diaz knew Rodriguez, for instance. No, there was no longer room for anyone here outside the logic.

Anyway, to be brief, we reassembled at seven o’clock. By then Diaz had the authorization in his hands. It had to be: this was work for which authorization was needed. Not a broad authorization, that would not have been sufficient, but a special authorization. And don’t go thinking that I had any idea of this at the time. Diaz said not a word to us; he didn’t need to. We followed him blindly down the path of the logic: he was our commander, we couldn’t object.

We sat and waited, blew smoke rings. It was warm, and my headache had barely eased up. The telephone rang at nine o’clock that evening.

“Major Diaz,” Diaz announced.

Shortly afterward, he said:

“I shall consider it a special honor to be of service to you, General.” He said it in a tone of voice that was like he had oiled his tonsils beforehand.

Barely an hour later the commander of the guard reported. He had been given his instructions; everyone in Headquarters that day knew what they had to do. “A man identifying himself as Federigo Salinas, proprietor of the Salinas department store, is requesting an urgent hearing from the duty officer.”

“Bring him up,” Diaz declared elegantly into the handset. He then crossed his legs as if awaiting a round of applause. He would have deserved one, make no mistake. Only now could we see just how much a detective Diaz was.

Ten minutes later we were welcoming Federigo Salinas into our office. He arrived in a dark suit; he was distinguished, cool, and formal. Diaz bowed like a retired dancing master. There were times when Diaz could be smooth, confoundedly smooth.

“Permit me,” he says, “to introduce my colleagues, Mr. Rodriguez and Mr. Martens.”

Salinas barely glanced at us but nodded like a king from his throne. He was a real gentleman, was Salinas — he had an exquisite feel for that.

“Delighted,” he says, though as far as that goes, he has no reason to be. “In point of fact I need to speak to the Colonel.”

“The Colonel,” cooed Diaz, “is preparing for a speech in parliament tomorrow.”

“Everyone is using that excuse. I’ve been unable to reach him by telephone all evening,” Salinas seethed. “Even though I asked intermediaries like Vargas, the banker, and General Mendoza to relay my request.”

“I was speaking with the General just now,” fawned Diaz. “Do take a seat, Mr. Salinas. We are at your disposal; you may trust in our discretion. Cigar?”

That’s how it began. As stylish as one could wish, as you can see. Diaz didn’t hurry Salinas along, just stalled him. Something was giving Salinas grief, that was evident, but Diaz waited tactfully, like a father-confessor.

In the end it was Salinas who ran out of patience first.

“In point of fact”—he nibbled at the hook—“it’s about my son.”

There was silence. Maybe he was awaiting a word of encouragement from Diaz. Diaz, however, stayed quiet, his bland expression showing only mild interest and an artless desire to be helpful.

“My son,” says Salinas. “Well … at some point during the day my son vanished.”

“Fancy that,” Diaz registered surprise. “Vanished, you say?”

“Vanished,” Salinas repeated.

“I’m afraid that’s not the sort of case in which we have any competence,” Diaz agonized. “Maybe you should make inquiries with the police or, if you’re really worried, the ambulance service.”

“They have no knowledge of him.”

“I would point out”—Diaz cracked a smile—“that it’s not unknown for young men to vanish unexpectedly for an evening or a night. There’s no reason to think the worst right away when it happens.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Salinas comes back. “In this case, though, allow me to proceed by my hunches, because at some point yesterday one of my clerks also vanished without a trace.”

The conversation was starting to get interesting, distinctly interesting. And as though a chill had grown between the two of them, Salinas no longer had the old expression on his face.

“I still don’t understand,” says Diaz, “how we can be of assistance to you.”

“You didn’t bring him in?” Salinas asks, not even raising his voice. But I supposed that Salinas could give dirty looks, just as dirty as Diaz did on occasion.

“The only people we bring in,” responds Diaz, “are individuals about whom we have reasonable grounds to be suspicious.”

“I have to tell you in all frankness,” Salinas says at this juncture, “that certain circumstances … quite innocent circumstances, I can assure you … might possibly have cast my son in a suspicious-looking light.”

“So, according to your assumption, did he actually do anything?” Diaz asks.

“He’s here?” says Salinas in response.

“According to your assumption, did he actually do anything on account of which he might be here?” Diaz reiterates.

“You’ve arrested him?” Salinas asks again.

Diaz was now looking at him far from pleasantly. “Mr. Salinas, you’re posing very odd questions. And you’re posing your odd questions in an odd way.”

“Is he here, or isn’t he?” Salinas leaped up. For a moment I thought he was going to grab Diaz by the lapels.

“Sit back down. We can’t discuss anything like this. It seems you are forgetting where you are, Mr. Salinas.” Diaz’s voice by now was unpleasant, distinctly unpleasant.

“I’m well aware of where I am. I came on my own steam. Are you trying to threaten me?” Salinas asks.

“No, just to remind you of the house rules,” says Diaz.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Just that it’s we who ask the questions here. We ask the questions, and you give the answers, Mr. Salinas.”

At that point Diaz stands up and switches on the lamp. He makes his way ponderously around the desk and parks one buttock on it. Right in front of Salinas.

Rodriguez gets up and steps over to Salinas’s side.

I move behind his back.

“What do you people want?” Salinas is startled.

“Nothing in particular, Mr. Salinas,” Diaz replies. “We just have a few questions for you.”