Chapter 8

After dinner, Bruno Schultz reviewed his notes. When he finished, he realized that his boss assigned him a more extensive criminal case than any others he had before. Bruno went to bed, and with his mind racing, the officer of the law finally fell asleep. The next morning, he stuck his booklet and a mechanical pencil in his coat pocket and went to the office. A secretary made coffee, and Bruno smelled it before he entered the premises. He poured a cup — black and no sugar. Then he sat by his desk. International cases are sensitive, creating impossible situations. Investigators spend many hours at various embassies. The job: apprehend the criminal, but don’t step on anyone’s toes. Diplomatic immunity is another problem. Bruno checked his 0.38, police special — make sure it’s loaded. He shoved it in his shoulder holster, thinking, this gun doesn’t understand diplomacy. He put a box of spare ammo in his pocket. Then he stood and donned his trench coat. It’s only forty degrees Fahrenheit. He usually parks his VW behind the station. He bought it six months ago. It is a black, red interior, stick shift, air-cooled engine. He was amazed by how well it performed last winter. The address of the warehouse was on the first page of his notes. Bruno parked the VW around the corner of the warehouse. He was nervous, and he slowly walked to the front door, looking at the warehouse. It has two floors. Somebody locked the front door of the building. Bruno turned for a moment and looked up the hill. The reporter did mention it. It’s pretty steep and a perfect place for an ambush. The killer knew what he was doing. Then Bruno tried the windows on both sides of the door. Someone locked both of them. In the back of the warehouse, one window was left open. He climbed in. He slipped and tore his coat. Shit, who is going to pay for that? I guess I’ll have my wife sew it up. She recently bought a foot-operated sewing machine.

No one was present, and the downstairs area was empty. Bruno walked up to the second floor. The owner left it abandoned. In the far corner was a room. It could have been a bathroom. Someone removed the toilet and the sink, leaving holes in the floor and the wall where drainpipes protruded. A strong sewer odor wafted from the pipe openings. Sewer liquid soiled the wood floor around it. Bruno stepped back and held a handkerchief in front of his nose. A second room was also empty. A calendar hung on the wall, showing that this could have been an office. Bruno convinced himself that the owners abandoned the warehouse. He checked the floor, and he found drops of blood, verifying that someone bled. Bruno shook his head; that was a dead end.

Now what?

When he left the warehouse, he again looked at the hill across the street. He walked across and climbed the mountain. The ground was still soft and wet, but the snow melted a few days ago. On top of the hill, Bruno looked down to the other side. A secondary road wound its way around the bottom of the mountain, disappearing behind the hill farther down. A city employee cleared out an area with enough room for a couple of cars to park there. Bruno walked down. He noticed various old tire tracks. On the other side of the road, he saw a small trout creek. Fly fishers park their vehicles here to go fishing. Recently, a torrential downpour washed out most of the tire tracks, and it was impossible to recognize any. While he returned to his car, he realized that it wouldn’t be easy to find the killer (s) of the Arabs. What should I do next? Sitting in his car, he looked at his notes. Lessing told him about the dance hall, but today the dance hall is closed to the public. Tomorrow is Friday, and the dance hall will be open. That’s where he will go tomorrow. He looked at his watch. It’s still early. Today he could visit the people that helped the girls.

Schultz drove down the side street. He found that no one was home at the first house. Bruno knocked repeatedly. Then he walked to the rear window and looked in with his hands on the side of his face blocking out the light. It seems wholly deserted. Sheets covered the chairs, and a security light burned in the corner. Before Bruno had a chance to look further, he heard a woman calling, “Can I help you.” The voice came from the house next door. He walked over. “Is there anyone home over there?”

“The owner went to visit his daughter in Vienna. Can I help you?”

“I’m inspector Schultz, and I’m investigating the murder of Arabic nationals.”

“I see. I’m not sure that I can help. I don’t know any Arabs. But a fellow by the name of Lessing visited me, and he told me that ….”

“I know about him. He told me his story. Do you have any other information that would help me solve this mystery?” The woman thought, then raised her finger, “Yes. Two men asked about the same thing,” said the woman, proud that she could help.

“What did they look like, Ma’am?”

“Both were tall, strong, and young. I saw that right away. They wore caps and sprouted dark mustaches.”

“What color hair?”

“I don’t know — they wore caps — I couldn’t tell,” said the woman, perturbed. “You know I was glad that they left. I live here all by myself, you know, and I was afraid.”

“I understand. I’m sorry, Ma’am. Another thing. Did they have an accent?”

“No, they didn’t. The fellows were locals. I could tell by their dialect. One of them showed me a picture of a girl. It looked like a girl that was here.”

“Do you know where he found the picture?”

“No, I don’t know that — why should I?” The woman pressed her forearms in front of her. That caused her breast to rise, keep them warm, and suggest to Bruno that she was ready to return to her home. Bruno watched and cleared his throat, “That’s true. Thank you for your help. I appreciate it.” He was happy he got this much information. It was getting late, and Bruno was cold and hungry. He had the shakes, but he remembered that Agatha had dinner ready for him — Wiener schnitzel, sauerkraut, and dumplings — his favorite dish. The thought brought a smile to his face. He went down the street to his VW and drove home.

Friday, at nine-thirty in the evening, Bruno took Agatha dancing to the Grand Hotel. Except for two dance instructors, the floor was empty.

“Say, Bruno, I think they hired instructors to get folks moving,” Agatha mused.

“That is possible,” said Bruno, nodding.

“Let’s dance.”

“All right.” They danced the tango and the mambo. The dance floor was slippery, and the couple slid on the floor, effortlessly in a large circle. Bruno liked this idea — why not have a little fun while working. Only a few folks populated the hall, but it was still early. By eleven, they had their third drinks, and the dance hall was full. A large, well-trained band of provided musical stimulation for a mixed crowd. At the far left end, girls lined up, waiting to dance. They didn’t stay long. An abundance of well-dressed men lined up to dance with them. That was the custom. The bar was full of young men, willing to buy drinks for attractive and bosomy females, with long legs and short skirts. The customers had no idea that the bartender served two kinds of drinks — alcoholic beverages for the visitors, and tea for the hotel’s dancers. That’s the rotten part of the business. Apart from the occasional strong, cheap smelling perfume and sweaty odor, the atmosphere at the hall was one of casual informality. In the balcony section, men sat with women, enjoying their conversations. These women projected an aura of superiority, looking down, showing that they managed to move to the next phase in the dance hall conquest. In a corner on the right, a table was still empty. A reserved message sat in the middle of the table. Bruno and Agatha noticed that, but they couldn’t read it.

“It’s probably a reserved table,” said Agatha, knowingly.

“You might be right,” replied Bruno, humoring his wife. They rose and danced to another tango. Agatha loved the tango because it is a highly stylized dance, and it is good exercise. Bruno knows most of its variations. They learned it in dance classes at Arthur Murray just two years ago. When they sat, Agatha noticed that two men sat by the table in the corner. “They have darker skin, and they are extremely well dressed.”

“They might be Arabic,” said Bruno. The waitress brought Bruno another drink. She dragged her feet.

“Tired?” asked Bruno, smiling at her.

“You got it. It’s a long night. And I didn’t get too much sleep last night, plus the tips are coming slowly. My baby kept me awake most of the night,” said the waitress, faintly returning a smile.

“Who takes care of your baby when you are working?” asked Agatha.

“My mother — and she is getting tired of it. I don’t know what I’m going to do?”

“Yea. That could be a problem. Say, who are the two men in the corner?” asked Bruno.

“They are two new guys. They work for the manager and come in here to dance. And they usually walk out with girls,” commented the waitress, knowingly.

“Really! I want to ask you something,” said Bruno.

“What do you want to ask? Make it quick. I have to go back to work.”

“Who owns the dance hall? Do you know?” asked Bruno.

“I don’t know that. We all work for the manager. That’s all we know.”

“Thank you. We’ll be seeing you.”

“Right,” said the waitress, and she left for the bar.

Later, Bruno looked at his watch. It was one-thirty a.m. The two Arabs danced with two young, white girls. They danced another two dances, and the men appeared nervous. They talked to them convincingly, using hand motions for reinforcement, and then they rose and left with them through the back door. Bruno nudged his wife. “I’m going to follow them — see where they are going.” In his billfold, he reached in the left breast jacket pocket and gave the waitress a handsome tip. Then Bruno and Agatha left through the same door. The Arabs entered a van, dragging the girls along. They were objecting to this treatment. Bruno and his wife rushed to their car, and they followed the van.

“It’s obvious to me that the Arabs forced the girls on the van,” said Bruno, moving his jaw.

The driver drove across town to the old section of Villach. When they reached an old, three-story red brick building, the van stopped. Two men carried the girls into the building. Someone turned on lights on the second floor, indicating that no one else was there previously. Bruno parked his car a safe distance away. He turned off the engine and waited. A half-hour later, three men went to the van and drove away. The light on the second floor was still on. Bruno waited another fifteen minutes. Then he told his wife that he would investigate. He reached in his glove compartment, took his off-duty pistol, and shoved it behind his belt.

“Be careful, dear. I don’t know what I would do without you,” said Agatha, concerned. Bruno laughed and shook his head. How many times have I heard that before? Then he went to the front door. He turned the knob, and the door opened. I’ll be a son of a bitch — they left the door open. He looked in. No one was on the first floor. He slowly walked up the steps to the second floor. The stairs squeaked. Bruno stepped to the side of the steps and held on to the railing. That was quieter. The door upstairs was partially open. Bruno pushed it slightly — just enough that he could see. Two girls, tied up, sat on two beds, crying. An Arab sat in a chair, smoking and reading a magazine. He looked at the girls, provoked. “Shut the fuck up, already. If you don’t, I’ll beat the crap out of you.” The girls tried to stop, but they still whimpered.

“What are you going to do with us?” asked one girl, with renewed energy.

“Shut up, or you’ll find out right now.” The Arab stood up and walked to the nearby girl. He stood in front of her and slapped her across the face. She screamed. The other girl also called and kicked her feet, pulling on the ropes that confined her. He stepped to the other girl and punched her across the chin. She passed out. He threw the girl on the bed, unzipped his pants, and let them drop to the floor.

Bruno saw enough.

He opened the door. The hinges squealed. The Arab turned, surprised, and he pulled his gun from his shoulder holster. Bruno was more prominent and much stronger than the Arab was. He knocked the gun aside and punched his nose. Fortunately, the Arab’s gun jammed, and the dropped pants confined his movements. Simultaneously, Bruno pulled his weapon, aimed, and fired at the Arab. A loud cracking sound reverberated through the old brick building, waking the girl. A stream of blood ran from the Arab’s chest. He collapsed, his eyes rolled, and then he died. Bruno took his wallet and checked the other pockets. Next, he freed the girls and helped them going to his car. When Agatha saw what her husband is doing, she slipped into the driver’s seat and started the VW engine. Bruno carefully helped the girls into the backseat, and he sat in front. Agatha was nervous but didn’t waste time; she knew what to do. Bruno’s wife floored the pedal and took off in the direction of her husband’s police station. While she pulled out, the van returned to the brick building.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Bruno to his wife, anxiously. Agatha put the pedal to the metal, and loose gravel flew, propelled by the rear tires.

At the police station, the girls called their parents. They came and picked them up, thanking the inspector for his service.

“Stay away from this dance hall,” was the advice that Bruno gave to the girls.

When he arrived home, he checked the Arab’s wallet. He lived in Port El Kantaoui, Tunis. Also, he had a large amount of Tunisian money on him. Bruno kept it. It will come in useful if he takes a trip to Tunisia, and it will save his department some money. Later Bruno found a docking slip, and the detective found out that the human trafficker lived on a boat with two other Arabs. He might check that out. The following weekend he reported to Captain Stone about his involvement with slave runners.

Monday morning, Bruno went to the Bureau of Records in Villach. He checked the ownership of the Grand Hotel, and he found that it was Fath Abu Bakr. That was of no surprise to Bruno. He realized that the clerk didn’t get around to update the record.

“Is this the owner of the Grand Hotel?” Bruno asked suspiciously.

“Let me check,” said the clerk. He went to his desk and checked the stack of mail.

“I guess not,” said the clerk. “The owner is Adil Abu Bakr, Fath’s son.”

“And what is his residence?”

“This update came from Tunisia, the town of Sousse to be exact,” said the clerk, proudly.

“Thank you,” said Bruno, and he returned to his office. He has lots of planning to do. The same week, Wednesday, a cashier’s check for fifty-thousand Shillings arrived. A person of means made it out to Inspector Schultz, and it came from Tunis, the capital of Tunisia. Schultz placed it in the center drawer of his desk. Then he locked it. The officer of the law was contemplating what to do with it. He would have to work two and one-half years to make that much money. He did have a good idea who sent him the money.

This case promises to be interesting. Schultz has to catch the assassins of the Arabs, and at the same time, he just killed an Arab himself. Furthermore, a person of means appears to be paying him for taking out a slave runner of white females. Schultz had many unusual cases, but this one, no doubt, is the strangest case that hid boss assigned to him.