Chapter 7

The evening before the two friends eliminated three Arabs, a tired Police Inspector, Bruno Schultz, returned from Napoli, Italy. He wrapped up a complicated murder investigation. The murderer hailed from the Czech Republic. He raped and afterward killed a woman in the outskirts of Villach and then escaped to Napoli. The determined Schultz was on his tail. He found fingerprints on the woman’s purse, and consequently, he identified the criminal. After he apprehended him, he turned him over to the Italian police, and they transported him to Vienna to face justice. Fortunately, this person didn’t have immunity. Schultz was the only man at the Villach police station with enough international crime-solving experience to chase this criminal. Also, Schultz speaks fluently Italian, definitely an advantage for solving this case. He learned Italian during the Second World War. It was a high school requirement because Germany and Italy were allies, with Austria annexed to Germany. He was tracking criminals for the last four years in England, Italy, and North Africa, and he was an expert in international affairs.

With his new Underwood typewriter, Schultz typed the last few lines of his five-page report. He still remembers when he used cursive to write all his gruesome reports. Technology is terrific, Schultz thought. He was happy that he learned ten-finger typing in a typing class at the University of Villach. The Inspector wasn’t as fast as some secretaries, but still, it was a tremendous improvement over longhand writing. During his tenure at the university, he studied criminology, with a minor in philosophy.

“It’s good to have a background in philosophy when you are dealing with criminals,” his counselor advised him in his sophomore year. After graduation in 1948, Schultz married Agatha, a philosophy major, and she was the student leader in her senior year. She had an eye on him since she met him in their junior year.

Why?

Because he was tall, athletic, and looked good — dark hair, brown eyes, expressive face, and a scar, reaching from his chin to his ear from one of his less desirable confrontations. That was fashionable. Usually, only doctors had cuts — it was a status symbol for them. Some doctors obtained the scar from dueling with sabers. Others carried self-inflicted scars because they were chicken, not able to engage in dueling.

With his right hand, Schultz pulled the last page from his typewriter, looked it over, and he was satisfied. He signed it, happy that it was complete. He looked at the clock on the wall — 12:30. It’s time for dinner. He rose, donned his coat when the phone rang. Not now, he thought. He returned to his desk and answered the phone, “Yes. That is Inspector Schultz.”

“Inspector, I have tried to talk to you all last week. My name is Rudi Lessing.”

“Last week I was out of town, on a case. What can I do for you, Mr. Lessing?”

“I would like to make an appointment later today, if possible. It has to do with a matter of grave importance.”

“Can you come in at three?”

“How about at four, Inspector. That’s when I get off work.”

“All right, Mr. Lessing. I’ll see you at four,” said the Inspector, frowning impatiently.

Schultz waited in his office. He could have been home. Today, right after he dropped off the report from his last case. He looked at his watch — 3:55. He waited. Lessing should be here at any minute. I wonder what the hell he wants?. Someone lightly knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said Schultz, unhappy, with a booming voice. The door opened slowly, and a fragile, gray-haired man, dressed in a baggy suit, peeked around the door, over his bifocals. Bruno Schultz stood up, held out his hand, and squeezed Lessing’s hand. Lessing took it like a trooper since his handshake was weak.

“Have a seat, Mr. Lessing. Did you leave work early?”

“Yes, I did. I work in an accounting firm.” Rudi Lessing twisted the chair and pulled it closer to Schultz’s desk. He sat lower than Schultz did. Schultz engineered it for his interviews by cutting two inches off the legs of the interviewee’s chair. That gives Schultz an added edge. Lessing looked up, and he leaned forward and stretched.

“Today, my office supervisor left early. So, I snuck out to get here on time,” said Lessing, grinning from ear to ear. Quickly, however, Lessing’s smile vanished, and he assumed a bearing of grave importance.

“What can I do for you?” asked Schultz impatiently. Lessing unbuttoned his jacked and paused before he started, “Two weeks ago, my daughter and three of her school friends went dancing at the Grand Hotel, you know, by Vassacher Lake. On Mondays, they have a teenage, early dance. Normally, they came home before twelve. Well, that evening they didn’t come home. My wife and I ran down to the dance hall, but when we got there, they already closed it. The next day we returned to the dance hall, but only the cleaning people were there. We asked questions, but no one knew anything. They just shook their heads, and they were no help at all. We worried to no end, and my wife cried. What could have happened to our daughter and her friends? Both my wife and I were restless, and we couldn’t sleep. We kept looking for the girls when two weeks ago a woman called me. She had my daughter and her three friends in her house. We took our Packard and drove down to meet her. That’s when the kids told us what had happened to them. Then I finally made an appointment with you, Inspector.” Mr. Lessing paused to get his breath, looking inquisitively at Schultz.

“Say, what happened to them,” asked the Inspector curiously.

“Four men drugged them and held them, hostage, until Thursday evening, two weeks ago. You have no idea how happy my wife and I were when we saw my daughter and her friends again. And that’s why I’m here, Inspector. I think that foreigners are involved in white slavery, and they are using dance halls to abduct young girls. Anyway, that’s what I think, but I could be wrong, you understand. Of course, I’m not an expert in this field — accounting is my specialty,” said Lessing, relieved that he finally talked to the Inspector. Schultz took notes.

“Is there anything else that you want to tell me?”

“Yes, Inspector. If it wouldn’t be for someone killing their ringleader, I might have never seen my girl again. My daughter’s friends told me that they escaped from the warehouse and ran to the house two streets down, while there was confusion downstairs. They were trying to figure out what had happened to their ringleader.”

“I see. Do you know who killed the — ahhh… ringleader?” asked the Inspector.

“No, I don’t know that. But, my daughter told me that an Arab ran up the hill across the street. She saw that while she escaped,” said Lessing, proudly.

“Is there anything else that you can think of?”

“No, Inspector. That’s it, in a nutshell. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Lessing. I have to investigate. But I know one thing.”

“What’s that, Inspector?”

“You said that the ringleader of the white slavery ring is dead,” said Schultz.

“You are right about that, but don’t know that he was the ring leader.”

“Is that all, Mr. Lessing?”

“Yes, Inspector. Thank you. I appreciated it if you would look into this case.” With that, Mr. Lessing left the Inspector’s office, and he went home to his wife, happy that he talked to the Inspector.

Bruno Schultz reviewed what Lessing told him.

White Slavery in Villach, Austria? That was hard to believe, surmised Schultz.

He kept records of missing people. Could there be a connection between missing people and slavery? He didn’t know. Then he remembered a newspaper article, confirming Lessing’s statements:

March 5, 1953.

Ringleader killed — Local white slavery ring exposed.

Schultz called Lessing and asked him if he read the article in the paper. Lessing said that he did read it. Then Schultz told him that he would work on the case to find out what’s behind it and frequently check the paper for updated news.

The following morning, Bruno went to the local Newspaper, The Villach News. He looked for the person who wrote the article.

“How did you get the information?” asked Bruno.

“From the precinct captain,” said the news reporter. Bruno thanked the reporter and drove to the police station of the local precinct. He found the captain, and he showed him the newspaper article.

“Oh yea, I remember him. His name was Fath Abu Bakr. We believe that he was from Tunisia,” said the captain, casually.

“Are you looking for his murderer?” asked Bruno, raising his brows.

“No, not yet. Right now, we have a heavy workload. I don’t have the extra workforce, investigating the murders of foreign nationals. Moreover, the officers that I do have left are working overtime. By the way, Inspector, I have additional information. It might help you during your investigation. Monday, March 9, we found another Arabic man, dead in the same warehouse, this time on the second floor, shot through the heart. Someone threw him under a bed, upstairs. Then, on March 15, we found three dead men in the warehouse, also on the second floor.”

“Why would anyone have a bed in a warehouse?”

“That’s a good question, Inspector. Perhaps they work overtime. When I checked on the four girls, they told me that the Arabs held them upstairs. They were going to train them to be slaves. They had showers, toilets, and beds up there.”

“Is there anything else that you can tell me?”

“No, not really. As I said, I didn’t have the time to check out this case. I hope you can.” The precinct captain rose and held out his hand while Bruno shook his hand, thanked him for the information, and left. He looked at his watch. It was still early. He went to the Precinct library to get a book on Tunisia. When he returned to his office, the phone rang.

“This is Inspector Schultz.”

“I must see you in my office as soon as possible,” said Captain Stone, Schultz’s boss.

“I can see you in fifteen minutes.”

Schultz sat across from Stone, two telephone books under his butt. The captain used the same technique that Schultz used to talk to his people. “Schultz, I’m putting you in charge of the White Slavery case. I hear that a fellow by the name of Lessing talked to you about it. Is it true that Arabs kidnap our women in your precinct and sell them into slavery?”

“That’s what Lessing said. I would have to investigate,” said Schultz, frowning.

“That’s what I want you to do. But be careful. Don’t create an international incident — you know what I mean!”

“I understand perfectly, boss. Is there anything else?”

“Not right now. Let me know when you have something, Bruno. By the way, you have free reign.” Bruno Schultz left Stone’s office. He strolled along the old worn, gray marble corridor, head pointing toward his shoes. It looks like I’m stuck with another international case. Where do I begin? At the warehouse, I suppose!