By Gavin Lyall
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Ken frowned down at it. 'Oh Christ, why didn't we think of a German speaker writing in German... " Oh hell. ' 'Dunno. ' 'Franz Meisler. ' He skimmed down the rest of the text. 'There's some dimension in here, too... ' 'Like just over three feet. ' 'Well, a suicide note it ain't. And we'll have to show it to Mitzi. ' He held it up. ' But Lazaros and his band of merry men turned up before Mitzi did. They set up at a bar table and took our formal statements in chronological order: the chambermaid finding him, Sergeant Papa confirming the finding, me arriving to reconfirm and tell Papa to get his finger out and into a telephone dial.
I unfolded the single piece of good-quality ten-by-eight writing paper with the single line Professor Doktor Bruno Spohr engraved across the top. No address; a professional travelling man. And underneath... a big slab of type-written German, ending in two signatures, one of them Spohr's. I don't read German much beyond 'Bier' and 'Flugplatz' and I was pretty sure Ken still didn't either. The sheet had a slightly lop-eared, worn look; certainly older than last night. I shrugged and passed it across.
If he lost his job with CID, with his sense of smell he'd no chance of remustering as a police dog. ' I sat carefully on a sagging woven-cane chair, and he turned the pages of his notebook, sprinkling ash around an already grey patch on the counterpane. ' 'From me it would have been just hearsay. ' He looked up wearily. " 'A pilot my age is bound to. ' He seemed to accept that. ' I nodded. 'You have a good stomach. ' It had taken a little finding: it had been in the bath itself, just about below the head.