to remark on your talent for skilful stage management, even if in the newspaper accounts of your hunting accident there is no specific reference to it."
I had to think for a few seconds before I realised what he meant. I rose to my feet, for I had no desire to continue this conversation. The engineer rose too. I realised from the flickering of his eyes, his flushed cheeks, and the fidgety movements of his hands that the alcohol was beginning to have its effect.
"It's always disagreeable to meddle in other people's affairs," he went on in a kind of excitement. "All the same, I suggest to you that you postpone your trip for two days. I appreciate that you are in a situation in which you have no choice. But if I promise you that Felix and I will tell you the name of Eugen Bischoff's murderer within forty-eight hours?"
This made no impression on me, I did not take it seriously, I was convinced that it was merely the alcohol that made him talk with such arrogant self-assurance. I felt challenged by this, and had an abrupt refusal ready on my lips. But then it occurred to me that he might have come across some new fact, some detail that had eluded me the day before. I don't know how it happened, but suddenly I felt practically certain that he knew something that I did not, and it seemed to me to be perfectly conceivable that he might have discovered a clue of some sort in the pavilion enabling him to draw conclusions about the identity of the unknown stranger whom he called the murderer.
"Fingerprints?" I asked.
He looked at me uncomprehendingly and did not answer.
"Did the murderer leave fingerprints in the pavilion?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"No, there were no fingerprints or anything of that kind. Listen. The murderer has never been in the villa. Eugen Bischoff was alone in the pavilion the whole time."
"But yesterday you said ..."
"That was a mistake. No-one was with him. When he fired the two shots he was wholly under the influence of an alien will — that's my view of the situation today. The murderer was not with him either at the time or beforehand, because I know he has not left his home for years ..."
"Who?" I exclaimed in surprise.
"The murderer."
"You know who he is?"
"No, I don't. But I have reason to believe he's an Italian who knows hardly a word of German and, as I said, has not left his flat for years."
"And how do you know that?"
"He's a monster," the engineer went on, ignoring my question. "A kind of monster, a man of huge physique, obviously morbidly fat and consequently condemned to complete immobility. So much for his physique. And the strange thing about it is that this repulsive creature has an extraordinary attraction for artists. One was a painter and the other an actor, hasn't that struck you?"
"But how do you know that physically the man's a monster?"
"A monster. A human freak of nature," the engineer repeated. "How do I know that? You now think me a marvel of perspicacity, but actually I only had a bit of luck in my inquiries. "
He interrupted himself and looked attentively at the wood carving of the armchair in front of my desk.
"Biedermeier chairs are known for their fragility, aren't they?" he said. "This furniture certainly isn't Biedermeier. Is it Chippendale? Well, Dr Löwenfeld overheard a telephone conversation in the director's office that Eugen Bischoff had with a lady who may have been the one to whom you spoke yesterday. Do you know Dr Löwenfeld?"
"The director's secretary?"
"Dramatic adviser or secretary or producer, I don't know what his job at the theatre is. I met him this morning and he told me . . . Wait a moment."
The engineer produced a tram ticket from his waistcoat pocket on the back of which he had scribbled some notes.
"Dr Löwenfeld remembered the conversation word for word," he went on. "This is what Eugen Bischoff said: 'You want me to bring him? Impossible, my dear lady. Your Biedermeier furniture would never stand the weight — and there's no
I had to think for a few seconds before I realised what he meant. I rose to my feet, for I had no desire to continue this conversation. The engineer rose too. I realised from the flickering of his eyes, his flushed cheeks, and the fidgety movements of his hands that the alcohol was beginning to have its effect.
"It's always disagreeable to meddle in other people's affairs," he went on in a kind of excitement. "All the same, I suggest to you that you postpone your trip for two days. I appreciate that you are in a situation in which you have no choice. But if I promise you that Felix and I will tell you the name of Eugen Bischoff's murderer within forty-eight hours?"
This made no impression on me, I did not take it seriously, I was convinced that it was merely the alcohol that made him talk with such arrogant self-assurance. I felt challenged by this, and had an abrupt refusal ready on my lips. But then it occurred to me that he might have come across some new fact, some detail that had eluded me the day before. I don't know how it happened, but suddenly I felt practically certain that he knew something that I did not, and it seemed to me to be perfectly conceivable that he might have discovered a clue of some sort in the pavilion enabling him to draw conclusions about the identity of the unknown stranger whom he called the murderer.
"Fingerprints?" I asked.
He looked at me uncomprehendingly and did not answer.
"Did the murderer leave fingerprints in the pavilion?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"No, there were no fingerprints or anything of that kind. Listen. The murderer has never been in the villa. Eugen Bischoff was alone in the pavilion the whole time."
"But yesterday you said ..."
"That was a mistake. No-one was with him. When he fired the two shots he was wholly under the influence of an alien will — that's my view of the situation today. The murderer was not with him either at the time or beforehand, because I know he has not left his home for years ..."
"Who?" I exclaimed in surprise.
"The murderer."
"You know who he is?"
"No, I don't. But I have reason to believe he's an Italian who knows hardly a word of German and, as I said, has not left his flat for years."
"And how do you know that?"
"He's a monster," the engineer went on, ignoring my question. "A kind of monster, a man of huge physique, obviously morbidly fat and consequently condemned to complete immobility. So much for his physique. And the strange thing about it is that this repulsive creature has an extraordinary attraction for artists. One was a painter and the other an actor, hasn't that struck you?"
"But how do you know that physically the man's a monster?"
"A monster. A human freak of nature," the engineer repeated. "How do I know that? You now think me a marvel of perspicacity, but actually I only had a bit of luck in my inquiries. "
He interrupted himself and looked attentively at the wood carving of the armchair in front of my desk.
"Biedermeier chairs are known for their fragility, aren't they?" he said. "This furniture certainly isn't Biedermeier. Is it Chippendale? Well, Dr Löwenfeld overheard a telephone conversation in the director's office that Eugen Bischoff had with a lady who may have been the one to whom you spoke yesterday. Do you know Dr Löwenfeld?"
"The director's secretary?"
"Dramatic adviser or secretary or producer, I don't know what his job at the theatre is. I met him this morning and he told me . . . Wait a moment."
The engineer produced a tram ticket from his waistcoat pocket on the back of which he had scribbled some notes.
"Dr Löwenfeld remembered the conversation word for word," he went on. "This is what Eugen Bischoff said: 'You want me to bring him? Impossible, my dear lady. Your Biedermeier furniture would never stand the weight — and there's no
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