The Case of Mister Krumm

Thursday, the third of December in the year 1917.

Sleet was pattering against the lattice windows. The thin and partly cracked glass panes were trembling in their frames, wind whistling through the narrow gaps.

From the cramped room in the basement, the hustle and bustle of the Old City of Brasston could be observed at ankle level.

People's footwear already spoke volumes. The milkman's worn-out leather shoes came into sight. With far reaching steps he was pulling his wooden cart behind him through the twilight. Setting a pace that made the bottles on the loading tray tremble with a ringing sound. Then, dozens of pairs of dirty work boots, closely followed by poorly laced children's shoes with mismatched socks. A constable was on his patrol in polished leather boots, at a leisurely pace. Bright ladies' shoes next to the freshly polished spectator shoes of a gentleman, who also wore spats. He was accompanied by the shiny tip of a cane, that was tapping along with him on the pavement. A moment later the paws of a black poodle followed, hurrying to stay by its lady's side. At dusk and by dawn, a loose girl in a skirt appeared, wearing high-heeled lace-up shoes. Beyond the pavement iron shod hooves clattered across the cobblestone. Carriages with spoked wheels rattled after them. Every now and then a steam carriage puffed by.

All day long pedestrians passed by, each of them with their own story. And how many of these stories might conceal an unsolved mystery? A question they barely dared to admit to themselves, let alone articulate, because it seemed too crazy. Too curious.

Until the desire for certainty had overshadowed everything else and they went to see a private investigator. But not this evening. Due to the horrible weather the streets were deserted, except for the watchman with his lantern.

Not even the boy with the shoeshine box had come out tonight. Sometimes the boy sat next to the barred basement window and the detective occasionally talked to him, when there was nothing to do. Just a few strays crept through the streets. A greyish tigered tomcat stopped unexpectedly. Yellow eyes stared down and met the green-brown ones of the investigator. A short moment, then a leap and he was out of sight again.

"Soon something will emerge," said Robert Fox to himself. He leaned forward in his worn-out wingback chair, resting his elbows on his thighs, and ran a hand through the strands of his lank, red-blonde hair that framed his angular face with its high forehead and receding hairline at its temples.

He was thirty-two and did not believe in vanity.

The fine gentlemen in their precious clothes who sometimes passed by his window were living in a world with strictly defined horizons. Even their stoic-looking drivers wore bowlers or top hats.

He was probably the only man in the city who didn't own a hat and always went out into the street wearing the same old coat.

The cup of tea on the side table had long since gotten cold. His eyes wandered to his young assistant.

Emil sat huddled in the corner in front of the free-standing coal stove. The shaggy, dark blond hair of the eleven-year-old was casting vague shadows on the wall. He sat wrapped in a blanket and read by the light of the gas lamps falling in. His blue-grey eyes wandered leisurely but insatiably over the pages of the book. The Fog Murders by Orpheus Lothair was printed on its spine.

For dinner he had eaten two hard slices of bread. Too little to satisfy his hunger in this world, and thus he sought diversion in the fictional world.

Emil looked up from his book. "Of course, sir. Something will come up. I'm not complaining."

Fox had met him two winters earlier during a case at an orphanage and had taken him in as his assistant. He was an upright boy and learned diligently.