Murder in A-Major by Morley Torgov

the hospital.” One look at her told me she was Möbius's housekeeper, harassed, overworked, probably underpaid, a person for whom the world came to an end at least once every hour of her working day.
    â€œI don't understand,” I said, more than a bit annoyed. “I was to meet with the doctor before , not after, he made his hospital rounds. Has there been some mistake?”
    â€œOh my God,” the housekeeper repeated. “This is terrible. I'm so sorry, sir.” The woman seemed about to fall on her knees and beg forgiveness for some error or oversight of which she was entirely innocent. “Please,” she said, “sometimes the doctor changes his schedule without telling anyone. You know how it is with important men, sir. It is not for me to question his comings and goings. The Lord willing, he will return soon, that is all I can tell you.”
    â€œI should like to come in, then. I assume one is permitted to wait in his office?”
    She looked uncertain. “Your name again?”
    â€œInspector Hermann Preiss. Of the Düsseldorf Police.”
    â€œMy God, the police! Yes, yes, we mustn't keep a police officer waiting at the door like this. Please forgive me.”
    I entered, stepping carefully over the mop, and followed her along a dark corridor which led to a room at the rear of the ground floor. In a hushed tone, as though she had guided me to a holy site, she said, “This is Dr. Möbius's office. You may wait here.” Then she retreated, walking slowly backwards, bowing her head humbly, the choreography of a person born into lifelong domestic servitude.
    If it is true that a man's office is a reliable reflection of his personality, then what was I to make of the eminent physician whom I was about to meet for the first time?
    Consider the furnishings: seating for two, no more. I suppose this made sense in a room where intimate thoughts were disclosed. But observe the seating arrangement: an oversized wing chair, severe, authoritative, its bottom cushion permanently disfigured by an occupant with an abnormally large rump; next to it, a writing table, its position and condition indicating the doctor was left-handed and very careless about cigar ashes and spilled drinks. The other chair, which I took as I awaited his arrival, must have been salvaged from a rummage sale. Too low, too narrow, very uncomfortable. Not the kind of chair you would lean back in, taking your time, rambling on about whatever was troubling your mind. The message this chair conveyed was: come to the point, time's up. Next patient.
    An additional point here about Dr. Möbius that had nothing to do with the state of his office: for a man who was very caring when it came to his own precious time, he seemed to care very little about other people's. He was now more than a half hour late for our appointment. It was he who had insisted on our meeting sharp at nine in the morning. Now, glancing for the tenth time at my watch, I began to fume. In fact, I rose from my skimpy chair and was gathering up my coat, hat and gloves, intending to leave, when suddenly his private office door was thrust open, and in strode the doctor.
    Without a word of explanation or apology, he motioned me to sit, pointing imperiously to the miserable piece of furniture from which I had just freed myself. He, of course, settled himself down in the wing chair, extracted a fat cigar from a leather pouch in his breast pocket, and, rolling it slowly between his O-shaped lips, began to light it, sucking and blowing and momentarily obliterating his face behind a cloud of smoke and flame. From behind that cloud, his first words managed to find their way into my ears.
    â€œIn the profession of Medicine, Inspector, punctuality is next to Godliness. I would therefore be very much obliged if we may come directly to the point. Ethically I am bound, sir, not to disclose any confidences regarding my patient, Dr. Schumann. Doctor-patient