Read Online Kismet by Jakob Arjouni - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jakob Arjouni
Tags: Mystery
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cash desk with them?’
Slibulsky gave me a glazed look, stuffed a biscuit in his mouth and said, munching, ‘If they’re good I don’t mind if it says Christian Democrats on them. And I’d certainly have noticed sweets that I’d feel embarrassed to take to the cash desk.’
‘Maybe they’re new?’
‘Look at the bag. Does it give the manufacturer’s name?’
I looked at both sides of the bag. It was clear plastic, nothing printed on it.
‘You think this kind of thing can be sold in Germany like planks of wood? It has to say what’s in it, where it comes from and all that.’
‘Hm.’
Of course I was glad that Slibulsky was trying to help me, even though he thought I’d better keep out of the whole business. And possibly there really was a chance that these sweets might help me to find out about the origin of the Army. Perhaps they were just the kind of clue that seems small and uninteresting at first but leads to results in the end. Although however much further the sweets might get me, just now running around town holding them under everyone’s nose in the hope that some time someone would say, ‘Sure, I know those!’ wasn’t the way I envisaged my plans to combat the Army of Reason over the next few days. I wanted to kick up a mighty fuss: blackmail Höttges, throw my money around in the station district, and later maybe get in touch with the Albanian. Yes, I wanted to know who it was I’d killed, but I wanted to know soon, so that I could soon forget about it again too.
I put a handful of the sweets in my jacket pocket and stood up.
‘I’ll show them around. Let’s be in touch by phone tomorrow.’
‘Any news of Tango Man?’
‘They’re still clearing away the rubble.’
‘Mmm,’ said Slibulsky. ‘Look after yourself.’
Out in the street I wondered for a moment whether to go back to the station district with the vague idea of finding something out today. But then my feet protested, and so did my still-glugging stomach, and I decided to call it a day. I went for a meal and then fell into a taxi.
Chapter 5
The building where I lived had a small open cubby hole at the end of the corridor on each storey where you could keep bicycles and sledges. When I was outside the door of my flat, taking the key out of my pocket, I heard a rustling in the cubby hole. I turned and looked at the dark, door-sized gap in the wall. I’d been imagining something of this nature ever since the afternoon. Outside my office, or in a quiet side street, or here. When nothing else happened I asked, ‘Romario?’
The rustling came again. Then a shoe with a platform sole emerged into the light, followed by a long, thin picture of misery. His clothes were crumpled and hung off him as if they’d been stuck to the wrong parts of his body, his hair, usually accurately sprayed into shape, was flying about in all directions, and the left-hand side of his head had pale crumbs all over it.
A feeble wave with his sound hand. ‘Hi. I was waiting for you.’
‘So I see. Forgotten how to use a phone?’
‘I’ve been trying all day! But either you weren’t in, or it was engaged …’ He passed his tongue over his lips, cast an anxious glance at the stairs, and hesitantly came towards me. ‘I’ll explain it all to you, but couldn’t we …?’
He indicated my door. I looked at him without enthusiasm. I didn’t want anything explained to me, I wanted togo to bed and watch sport on TV, like Slibulsky. I felt like asking Romario whether he couldn’t stay in the bicycle cubby hole until tomorrow morning. ‘What are those crumbs on your head?’
Surprised, he put his hand to his cheek and then looked at it. ‘Oh, those.’ He ran a hand through his hair and over his face. ‘I had some savoury breadsticks with me, so when I got tired in there I must have put my head on the packet.’ He attempted a smile. ‘I brushed them all off. Don’t worry, I won’t mess your flat up.’
‘You set my mind at
Slibulsky gave me a glazed look, stuffed a biscuit in his mouth and said, munching, ‘If they’re good I don’t mind if it says Christian Democrats on them. And I’d certainly have noticed sweets that I’d feel embarrassed to take to the cash desk.’
‘Maybe they’re new?’
‘Look at the bag. Does it give the manufacturer’s name?’
I looked at both sides of the bag. It was clear plastic, nothing printed on it.
‘You think this kind of thing can be sold in Germany like planks of wood? It has to say what’s in it, where it comes from and all that.’
‘Hm.’
Of course I was glad that Slibulsky was trying to help me, even though he thought I’d better keep out of the whole business. And possibly there really was a chance that these sweets might help me to find out about the origin of the Army. Perhaps they were just the kind of clue that seems small and uninteresting at first but leads to results in the end. Although however much further the sweets might get me, just now running around town holding them under everyone’s nose in the hope that some time someone would say, ‘Sure, I know those!’ wasn’t the way I envisaged my plans to combat the Army of Reason over the next few days. I wanted to kick up a mighty fuss: blackmail Höttges, throw my money around in the station district, and later maybe get in touch with the Albanian. Yes, I wanted to know who it was I’d killed, but I wanted to know soon, so that I could soon forget about it again too.
I put a handful of the sweets in my jacket pocket and stood up.
‘I’ll show them around. Let’s be in touch by phone tomorrow.’
‘Any news of Tango Man?’
‘They’re still clearing away the rubble.’
‘Mmm,’ said Slibulsky. ‘Look after yourself.’
Out in the street I wondered for a moment whether to go back to the station district with the vague idea of finding something out today. But then my feet protested, and so did my still-glugging stomach, and I decided to call it a day. I went for a meal and then fell into a taxi.
Chapter 5
The building where I lived had a small open cubby hole at the end of the corridor on each storey where you could keep bicycles and sledges. When I was outside the door of my flat, taking the key out of my pocket, I heard a rustling in the cubby hole. I turned and looked at the dark, door-sized gap in the wall. I’d been imagining something of this nature ever since the afternoon. Outside my office, or in a quiet side street, or here. When nothing else happened I asked, ‘Romario?’
The rustling came again. Then a shoe with a platform sole emerged into the light, followed by a long, thin picture of misery. His clothes were crumpled and hung off him as if they’d been stuck to the wrong parts of his body, his hair, usually accurately sprayed into shape, was flying about in all directions, and the left-hand side of his head had pale crumbs all over it.
A feeble wave with his sound hand. ‘Hi. I was waiting for you.’
‘So I see. Forgotten how to use a phone?’
‘I’ve been trying all day! But either you weren’t in, or it was engaged …’ He passed his tongue over his lips, cast an anxious glance at the stairs, and hesitantly came towards me. ‘I’ll explain it all to you, but couldn’t we …?’
He indicated my door. I looked at him without enthusiasm. I didn’t want anything explained to me, I wanted togo to bed and watch sport on TV, like Slibulsky. I felt like asking Romario whether he couldn’t stay in the bicycle cubby hole until tomorrow morning. ‘What are those crumbs on your head?’
Surprised, he put his hand to his cheek and then looked at it. ‘Oh, those.’ He ran a hand through his hair and over his face. ‘I had some savoury breadsticks with me, so when I got tired in there I must have put my head on the packet.’ He attempted a smile. ‘I brushed them all off. Don’t worry, I won’t mess your flat up.’
‘You set my mind at
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