There was a rule that every detective had to work as Brandtour Offizier, on the night emergency desk, one week out of every twelve. Without fail, each time Max was on duty, something important would occur, and while Inspector Schmied's other detectives ran around trying to track down clues, Max would solve the case. It was infuriating.
He knew absolutely nothing about police procedure, criminology, forensics, ballistics, or criminal psychology - all the things that the other detectives were experienced in - and yet he kept solving cases that baffled everyone else. Chief Inspector Schmied came to the conclusion that Max Hornung was the luckiest man who ever lived.
In reality, luck had nothing to do with it. Detective Max Hornung solved criminal cases in exactly the same way that accountant Max Hornung had exposed a hundred ingenious schemes to defraud banks and the government. Max Hornung had a single-track mind, and it was a very narrow-gauge track at that. All he needed was one loose thread, one tiny piece that did not fit into the rest of the fabric, and once he had that he would begin to unravel it, until somebody's brilliant, foolproof scheme fell apart at the seams.
The fact that Max had a photographic memory drove his colleagues crazy. Max could instantly recall anything he had ever hard, read or seen.
Another mark against him, if indeed one was needed, was that his expense accounts were an embarrassment to the entire detective squadron. The first time he had turned in an expense sheet, the Oberleutnant had summoned him to his office and said genially, "You've obviously made a mistake in your figures here, Max."
The equivalent of informing Capablanca that he had sacrificed his queen through stupidity.
Max blinked. "A mistake in my figures?"
"Yes. Several, in fact." The Oberleutnant pointed to the paper in front of him. "Transportation across town, eighty centimes. Return, eighty centimes." He looked up and said, "The minimum taxi fare would be thirty-four francs each way."
"Yes, sir. That's why I used the bus."
The Oberleutnant stared at him. "A bus?"
None of the detectives was required to ride buses while on a case. It was unheard of. The only reply he could think of was "Well, it's - it's not necessary. I mean - we naturally don't encourage spendthrifts in this department, Hornung, but we do have a decent expense budget. Another thing. You were out in the field on this case for three days. You forgot to include meals."
"No, Herr Oberleutnant. I only take coffee in the morning and I prepare my own lunches and carry a lunch pail. My dinners are listed there."
And so they were. Three dinners, total: sixteen francs. He must have eaten at the Salvation Army kitchen.
The Oberleutnant said coldly, "Detective Hornung, this department existed for a hundred years before you joined it, and it will exist for a hundred years after you leave it. There are certain traditions that we observe here." He shoved the expense account back to Max. "You must think about your colleagues, you know. Now take this, revise it, and return it."
"Yes, Herr Oberleutnant. I - I'm sorry if I did it incorrectly."
A generous wave of the hand. "Quite all right. After all, you're new here."
Thirty minutes later Detective Max Hornung turned in his revised account. He had decreased his expenses by another 3 percent.
Now, on this day in November, Chief Inspector Schmied was holding Detective Max Hornung's report in his hand while the author of the report stood before him. Detective Hornung was wearing a bright-blue suit, brown shoes and white socks. In spite of his resolves, and the calming yoga breathing exercises, Inspector Schmied found himself yelling. "You were in charge here when that report came in. It was your job to investigate the accident and you arrived on the scene fourteen hours later! The whole fucking New Zealand police force could have been flown here and been back home in that time."
"Oh, no, sir. The flying time from New Zealand to Zurich by jet is - "
"Oh, shut up!"
Chief Inspector Schmied ran his hands through his thick, rapidly graying hair, trying to think what to say to this man. You could not insult him, you could not reason with him. He was an idiot, shot with luck.
Chief Inspector Schmied barked, "I will not tolerate incompetence in my department, Hornung. When the other detectives came on duty and saw the report, they immediately went to the scene to inspect the accident. They called an ambulance, had the body taken to the morgue, identified it - " He knew he was talking too fast again, and he forced himself to calm down. "In short, Hornung, they did everything a good detective is supposed to do. While you were sitting in your office waking up half of the most important men in Switzerland, in the middle of the night."
"I thought - "
"Don't! I've been on the phone apologizing the whole damned morning because of you."
"I had to find out - "
"Oh, get out of here Hornung!"
"Yes, sir. Is it all right if I attend the funeral? It's this morning."
"Yes! Go!"
"Thank you, sir. I - "
"Just go!"
It was thirty minutes before Chief Inspector Schmied was breathing normally again.
Chapter 32
The funeral parlor at Sihlfeld was crowded. It was an ornate, old-fashioned building of stone and marble, with preparation rooms and a crematorium. Inside the large chapel two dozen executives and employees of Roffe and Sons occupied the front row of seats. Toward the rear were the friends, the community representatives and the press. Detective Hornung was seated in the last row, thinking that death was illogical. Man reached his prime and then, when he had the most to give, the most to live for, he died. It was inefficient.