Whispering Shadows by Jan-Philipp Sendker

himself and for his company in as little time as possible, working as a banker or a lawyer. These business people were as interchangeable as their apartments. Paul tried to think if he had noticed anything personal in these rooms, any clue about a particular interest, a preference, a passion. Souvenirs from traveling? Photos of people who meant something to the occupier? Books or music that moved him? Nothing occurred to him.
    Elizabeth Owen had followed him through the rooms like his shadow; now, she stood by the door and continued watching his every movement. Ever since they had entered the apartment, they had barely exchanged a word, and the silence had grown intolerable to Paul. She knew that he was lying, and if she did not know then she at least felt it, smelled it, saw it in the way he walked, in his eyes, in the way he shied away from her. He could not bear the fear in her face any longer; he turned away.
    â€œIf you knew something, Mr. Leibovitz, you’d tell me?
    Paul was silent.
    â€œWhy don’t you answer me?” Words that should have sounded like a decree, like an order, came out like a pleading entreaty.
    â€œAnswer me.” Her voice was now so loud and shrill that she stumbled forward. Paul turned around suddenly. Elizabeth Owen was standing directly in front of him, sobbing and trembling. He took her by the arm, a reflex; he could not do anything else except take her gently into his arms. He felt her body shuddering and shivering and heard her crying, a crying that knew no tomorrow, no hope, and no comfort. It was so familiar to him. He led her to the living room, laid her down on one of the couches, fetched a glass of water and a towel, and sat down next to her. She was holding a pill, one that looked like a Valium, in one hand, which she swallowed with the glass of water. Paul waited until she had calmed down and closed her eyes, and her quiet, even breathing announced that she had fallen asleep. Then he stood up, went back into the office, and rang Zhang.
    â€œMichael Owen had a sports accident as a young man. He had three operations on his left knee.”
    Paul heard Zhang sigh heavily. “I’m sorry. Have you told her anything?”
    â€œNo. And I won’t be telling her anything.”
    â€œGood. Where are you now?”
    â€œIn his apartment,” Paul said, describing the state every roomwas in.
    â€œHave you read through the handwritten notes?”
    â€œNo. There’s a whole book’s worth of them. Mrs. Owen could wake up any minute. How should I explain myself to her if I were to be rifling through her son’s things?”
    â€œCan you look in the chest of drawers in the bedroom or behind the files in the shelves?”
    â€œMrs. Owen would wonder what I was up to if I started searching the place.”
    Zhang thought for a moment. “What about the computer? Can you take it with you without her noticing?”
    â€œImpossible. It’s a big machine.”
    â€œDo you see a laptop?”
    â€œNo.” He pulled open the top drawer in the desk. “There’s a small hard drive here. Perhaps he used it to back up his data.”
    â€œGood. Take it with you. Anything else?”
    Paul pulled the other drawer open. “Assorted papers. Cash. A digital camera. A case of telephone SIM cards and memory chips, I think.”
    â€œTake it.”
    â€œShouldn’t I be leaving this to the police?” Paul asked.
    â€œNo, on no account. We can discuss this later. Take as much with you as you can keep hidden from her. The cell phones, the memory chips, the notebooks, the calendar on the desk; everything from which we can find out appointments, places, and the names of his contacts in China.”
    â€œAnd what should I do with the stuff?”
    â€œBring it to me. As quickly as possible.”
    Elizabeth Owen was still asleep when Paul returned to the living room. He went into the office again and put the two cell phones