The Mastersinger from Minsk by Morley Torgov Page B

Gruber. “Gruber, I want you to go round to Grilling’s rooms,” I said, “and I don’t give a damn if he’s still in his nightshirt or in his bath, I want the bastard here! And no excuses, do you understand? I don’t care if he’s dying , Gruber!”
    One hour later, at the stroke of noon, Constable Emil Gruber stood before me removing his helmet and wiping his sweaty brow. “Sorry, Inspector,” Gruber said, his voice hoarse with excitement, “but this fellow Grilling —”
    Impatiently I said, “Well, what about him, damn it —”
    â€œHe won’t be keeping his appointment.”
    â€œAnd why the hell not?”
    â€œHe appears to be dead, sir.”
    â€œ Appears ? You mean he’s playing dead?”
    â€œOh no, Inspector, in my opinion he is genuinely dead,” the young constable said with such earnestness that for a fleeting second I regretted my sarcasm. “I have to report,” he went on, “that upon arriving at the subject’s premises I proceeded to make my presence known by knocking several times, each time with increased vigour, on the door of his apartment, whereupon, failing to achieve a response I sought the assistance of the concierge and immediately upon gaining entry with the master key I discovered the body of a scantily attired male person lying in a position consistent with —”
    At this point I’m afraid I exploded in the face of the well-meaning constable. “For God’s sake, Gruber, please! Enough police terminology! Tell me in plain language!”
    â€œThe subject … sorry … Herr Grilling … was lying on the floor. I immediately checked his pulse and determined that he was deceased.”
    â€œOther than feeling for his pulse, you touched nothing?”
    â€œNothing, sir, absolutely nothing.”
    â€œAnd you instructed the concierge to touch nothing?”
    â€œI not only instructed her —” Here Gruber produced a key. “I made certain by relieving her of the master key.” Gruber seemed about to add something but stopped himself.
    â€œWell, Gruber, speak up. What is it?”
    â€œI have to warn you, sir,” Gruber said, “it’s not a pretty sight. I mean the body, and the place itself. The concierge, poor woman, nearly fainted. As for me —”
    â€œGruber,” I said, “I was investigating crime scenes and mutilated bodies when your mother and father were still wondering what they had to do to conceive you. Now be so good as to order a cab at once.”

Chapter Thirteen
    I should not have dismissed Constable Gruber’s warning so curtly. The sitting room where Wolfgang Grilling’s lifeless body lay looked as though it had been invaded not by a single intruder but by an army of intruders, so violently was everything strewn about. Underfoot lay a veritable stew of broken glass and crockery intermingled with crumpled bits of newspaper obviously swept from a large table used to hold books and periodicals which occupied a prominent spot near the fireplace. Someone, either the victim or his assailant, had desperately grasped the curtains covering the set of windows in the room, bringing down not only the thick green velvet draperies but the brass rod on which they hung as well as the wall fittings. Streaks of blood crisscrossed the curtains, stained the light grey upholstery of the armchairs on either side of the fireplace, and defaced in a particularly grotesque way a pen sketch of Grilling lying within reach of his body, its frame and mat bent out of shape. Every lamp in the room had been knocked over, every chair upended, every rug left askew.
    Central to this disorder was the corpse of Wolfgang Grilling, lying face up, the head close to the fireplace, arms outstretched and wide apart as though held down by a superior force, legs similarly positioned. His throat, just below the Adam’s apple, had been deeply