By Jakob Arjouni, Anselm Hollo (translator)
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Additional info for One Man, One Murder
The small man sighed. The puzzle was done. He reached for the glass of vermouth but did not remove the cigarette butt while he drank. When he put the glass down, it was empty. He frowned, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Maybe this is so easy because it’s designed for Herr Kohl? ” I yawned. He squinted up at me. ” Without averting his eyes, he lit the cigarette butt and leaned back in his chair. ” I shook my head. The tip of his cigarette glowed. He looked up at the ceiling. “In the old days, I wouldn’t have asked you that.
We met in quite normal fashion, at a disco. Or that’s the way it was, at first. She said she was on her way to visit relatives. ” He went on to rhapsodize about the international language of love. Thai or German, feelings speak more than a thousand words, and so on. Then he seemed to reach an impasse; he sighed and fell silent. I stuck a cigarette between my lips and joined him. ” He looked up with an expression compounded of worry and longing. He raised his arms in a pleading gesture. “Don’t you see that I’m trying to tell you how important she is to me?
He told them they had half an hour to make up their minds. He would call back. Weidenbusch and Sri Dao decided to go for it and made the following arrangements with the caller: At seven o’clock next morning, Sri Dao would be waiting, with the money and a passport photograph at a taxicab stand by the east entrance of the main railway station. Alone. A gray VW van would pick her up and take her to a secret destination where the papers were manufactured. Twenty-four hours later she would be returned to the Weidenbusch residence.