The familiar things around him, his desk, pen and bowler hat, had appeared alien, as if they belonged to someone else. The extent of his dissociation had only became apparent when a lengthy, crackling silence was broken by Drasche’s anxious inquiry: ‘Are you still there, sir?’ ‘Yes,’ he had replied. ‘I think I’d better come and interview him myself.’ Rheinhardt had not seen Drasche since the morning when Ida Rosenkrantz’s body was discovered. He was waiting with the duty officer at the front desk of the Dommayergasse police station and looked younger than Rheinhardt remembered. After the exchange of some preliminary civilities, Rheinhardt asked, ‘Where is he?’ ‘In our interview room.’ ‘How long has he been here?’ ‘About two hours.’ The inspector turned one of the horns of his moustache. ‘Tell me Drasche, why did he wish to speak to you?’ ‘He knows me. I’m always running into him on my beat. I used to think he was a thief – out on the streets, late at night, looking at the villas.
