Selected Detective
MRS AND MRS GRATZ

Khalifa sipped a lukewarm coffee in a plastic glass provided by the flight, snacking on biscuits and gazing out through the plane window at the small world below.

A spectacular view of the Nile, the tillage of the land, the yellow expanse of the Western Desert and under other conditions he would have surely undergone the entire journey by gazing down with widening astonishment.

Nevertheless, only twice in his life was he on a plane, and there was certainly no better way of admiring the natural wonders of Egypt, the remarkable juxtaposition of life and sterility of Kemet and Deshret as known by the ancestors, the Black Land and the Red Land rather than simply seeing it from above in this way, is more, stretching from the horizon to the horizon like a large open map.

But this morning, his mind was filled with something else, and after looking out through the window for a while, he turned his eyes again, finished the rest of his coffee and focused his attention on the business he was handling.

Actually he wanted to travel to Cairo the previous afternoon, immediately after his conversation with Ben-Roi.

Unfortunately, when dictated that he could not suddenly appear in other police areas without some kind of official certificate, he said, and by the time he had gone through all the necessary bureaucratic affairs he had already missed the last flight to the capital. Which, when it happens, has been shown to give wisdom, as the delay has given her time to do a little examination of the background of the mysterious Mr and Mrs Anton Gratz, with amazingly interesting results.

For starters, it was revealed that Anton Gratz once ran a small-scale fruit and vegetable import business, according to Ben-Roi, “Gad” or “Getz” who has ordered the destruction of Hannah Schlegel's flat in Jerusalem is also involved in the fruits business. Khalifa has assumed, of course, that “Getz” and “Gratz” are one and the same, but this new information appears to have to provide absolute confirmation of the reality.

Equally, if not more seductive, is the similarity between the spousal background of Gratz and his friend Piet Jansen. Like Jansen, the two were strangers. Like Jansen, the two had applied and had been awarded Egyptian citizenship in October 1945. And like Jansen, none of them seem to have a history that can be traced before that date.

Where they came from, when and why, if Gratz was a real name is a question that Khalifa cannot find. The more he digs the more he has the feeling that, like Jansen, Gratz's husband and wife have something to hide. And the more he digs up the more he gets the feeling that the three are trying to hide the same thing.

By far the most significant piece of information he has found, real exposure, is related to the original citizenship application of Mr and Mrs Gratz. Contemporary working papers for this have, inevitably, been lost or destroyed.

What remains is, according to Khalifa's acquaintance at the Interior Ministry, a basic administrative record of the receipt and subsequent approval of the application discussed earlier.

And who is the security official responsible for the deal? There is no one but Faruk Al-Hakim, the man who, four and a half decades later, will be involved and stop the Jansen case being investigated regarding the Schlegel murder. Further excavations have revealed that Al-Hakim also dealt with the application of Jansen citizenship, therefore realizing for the first time a clear relationship between the two men. More importantly, this implies that whatever Jansen and Gratz's husband and wife had been doing until before October 1945, whatever they had tiredly tried to hide, they were trying to hide, Al-Hakim is very likely to know about it. This still does not explain why he had so deliberately protected Jansen back in 1990, he said, but this did confirm Khalifa's conviction that the key to Schlegel's death and subsequent deception, the key to everything that had troubled him in these last two months, was the key to his death, stored in crucial years before the arrival of Jansen in egypt.

And the only person who, it seems, can give a bright light on those years is the one he will meet today.

As soon as the plane turned and descended to begin its landing into the Cairo Domestic area, the ruins of Saqqara passed slowly as if viewed through deep, clear water. Khalifa closed her eyes and prayed that this journey would not be a waste; so that when she returned to Luxor later that night, he came back with a clear idea of the true essence of all this.

AL-Maadi, a Cairo suburb where Gratz's husband and wife live, lies on the edge of the city. A quiet, foliage-filled district favored by diplomats, foreigners and wealthy businessmen. Its expensive villas and long, fire-shaded streets and eucalyptus trees are a world away from the poverty and chaos that characterize much of the Egyptian capital.

Khalifa arrived after noon, taking a metro bus from the city center. He obtained directions to Orabi Street from a peanut vendor near the station, and ten minutes later he stood outside the Gtratz husband-wife apartment block. A large pink building with several air conditioning units is attached to the outside wall, the underground car park area, and in the opposite place, a public phone whose number has appeared so frequently on Jansen's phone bill.

He was silent for a moment on the steps ahead, stunned by the repressive thought that no matter how hard he worked, however long, he was, he would never be able to live and have a place to live in such a place. Then, throwing away her half-suctioned Cleopatras, she crossed the glass porch and took the elevator, to the third floor.Gratz's husband-wife flat was in the middle of a brightly lit corridor, with a lacquered wooden door in the middle there is a circular fang, protruding as a knocker of the braso door, matching the braso mailbox below.

The detective was silent for a moment, sensing that what followed could have made the investigation a success or otherwise messed up. Then, taking a deep breath, he extended his hand towards the door knocker.

Before his fingers reached him, he hesitated, lowered his hand again and bent down, then slowly and gently pushed the lid of the mailbox. through its rectangular opening he could see a dim carpeted acreage spread out in front of him, very neat and clean, with spaces opening to each side. From one side of the kitchen, it is known from the dish rack and corner of the refrigerator that is seen through the door sounds a subtle hum of music, radio or cassette, and more subtle, the sound of someone twitching. He brought his ear closer to the mailbox to make sure he was not imagining, then convinced that he had heard movement.

Khalifa straightened up, grabbed the door knocker and knocked him three times violently.

He counted to ten, then, when there was no answer, he repeated his action. Still no answer. He crouched down and opened the mailbox again, while thinking maybe anyone who is in the kitchen must be old or not feeling well and it will take a long time to reach the front door. The room is empty.

“Halo?” said. “There's someone in there? Hello?” There's no answer.

“Mr Gratz? My name is Inspector Yusuf Khalifa of the Luxor Police Force. I've been trying to contact you for three days yesterday. I know you're inside. Please open the door.” He waited a few minutes, then added, “If you don't open it, I have no other choice but to assume that you have blocked the police request and will detain you.” He gritted it, but it seemed to give the desired effect. There was a popping sound from the kitchen, and then slowly, hesitantly, an old, short, wacky woman, Mrs Gratz perhaps, walked a few steps in the room, using a metal stick that helped him in his walking, he stared at the mailbox fearfully.

“What do you want from us?” said. His voice was weak and unsettled. “What have we done?” He was clearly not in good shape: both of his calves were bandaged, his facial skin was wrinkled and gray, like a dry putty. Khalifa felt guilty for clearly bothering her.

“Not to be afraid,” said, while speaking meekly and calming back as the situation allows. “I won't hurt you. I just need to ask you and your husband a few questions.” He shook his head, a few strands of white hair poking out from the bun he had clamped and swaying on his face, making him a bit like a madman.

“My husband is not here. He ... is away.”

“Then maybe I can talk to you, Mrs Gratz. About your friend Piet...”.

“No!” he trembled again, grabbing his staff as if to start an attack. “We didn't do anything, I'm telling you! We obey the law. We pay taxes. What do you want from us here?”

When Khalifa mentioned that last name her fear seemed to multiply, her entire body trembled as if a pair of invisible hands had grabbed her frail shoulders and wiggled her.

“We don't know anyone named Al-Hakim!” said wailing. “We never dealt anything with him. Why can't you just leave us alone? why are you doing this to us?”

“If only you could...”.

“No! I won't let you in without my husband by my side. I wouldn't! I won't!” He began to walk away from the room, one hand holding a stick, the other clinging to the wall, holding his body.

“Please, Mrs Gratz,” said Khalifa, already on her knees, fully aware of how strange it is to try to have a conversation in this way but unable to see any other way. “No intention to scare or harm you. I'm sure you and your husband have important information relating to the murder of an Israeli woman named Hannah Schlegel.”

If the mention of the name Al-Hakim had provoked a strong reaction, it was nothing compared to the pitiful horror that was seen sweeping his face at this moment. He staggered back to the wall, one hand squeezing his throat as if he were struggling to catch his breath, the other hand clutching and loosening at the handle of his cane.

“We don't know anything,” murmured. “We don't know anything.”

“Mrs Gratz...”.

“I don't want to talk to you. Not without my husband here. You can't force me. Can't!”

He began to sob, a strong spasm invaded his body, tears welling up in his eyes. Khalifa remained as it was for a while, then, with ****** it lowered the cover of the mailbox and stood up, shaking the stiffness at her feet.

There was no point in forcing the woman any further. He's too depressed. Whatever he knew about Hannah Schlegel and he certainly knew something he would not have told Khalifa in his present state. Some of his colleagues would have easily kicked the door and pulled him to court but that was not the way Khalifa did her job. He lit his cigarette, smoked it several times, then bent down again and pushed the cover of the mailbox.

“What time is your husband back, Mrs Gratz?” He did not answer.

“Mrs Gratz?” He was muttering something, not being heard.

“Sorry?”

“Jam five.” He glanced at his watch for four and a half hours.

“He will definitely be here?” The woman nodded weakly.

“Alright,” he said after a short pause. “I'll be back. Please tell your husband to wait for me.” It occurred to him to add “No deception”, but not able to imagine what tricks they will play, so let it be so. He lowered the lid of the mailbox, stood up and walked towards the corridor and then to the elevator. After half-walking he heard the voice of the woman calling out to him, weak and desperate.

“Why are you hunting us like this? they're your enemies too. Why are you helping them? wh why? why?” He slowed his pace, thinking about going back and asking what he meant, but then he decided to go against that thought and continue his steps towards the elevator, pressing the ground floor button. Things were not going as he expected.

After Khalifa left, the old woman remained in place for some time, then slowly walked into the living room in the interior of the apartment. A small, strapping man with a thin mustache and a thin, wrinkled face like a dried fruit, was waiting behind the door. His hands by his side were tense as if he was standing in a ready position on the parade ground.

The old woman approached him and, stretching out her arms, the man gently embraced his wife.

“Already, already, My dear,” whispered slowly, in German. “You did the best you could. Already, already.” The woman pressed her cheek against her husband's chest, as much as a frightened child.

“They know,” he murmured. “They know all.”

“Ya,” said. “Sounds they know.” He hugged the woman tightly, rubbed her neck and back, trying to calm her down; then, while releasing her, he took a strand of hair hanging from his wife's face, pull it up and put it back together with the bun at the top of his head.

“We always knew that it would be like this,” the man said gently. “It would be foolish to think that this would last forever. We have run it well. That's all that matters. Didn't we run it well?” He nodded weakly.

“This is my new lover. The beautiful Inga.” He reached into his pocket, took a handkerchief and wiped his eyes and upper cheeks, wiping away his tears.

“Now, why don't you get ready and change clothes while I'm cleaning things up here? There's no point in waiting around, ‘kan? We should be ready to accept them when they come.”