Jakob Arjouni - One Man, One Murder

As winning a noirish gumshoe as has swooped onto the mystery scene in some time.

The Washington Post

Jakob Arjounis downbeat detective Kemal Kayankaya has proved as enigmatic as Columbo, as erudite as Marlowe and occasionally, as crazed as Hammetts Continental Op. Arjouni forges both a gripping caper and a haunting indictment of the madness of nationalism, illuminated by brilliant use of language: magnificent

The Guardian (UK)

A worthy grandson of Marlowe and Spade.

Stern (Germany)

Arjouni tells real-life stories, and they virtually never have a happy ending. He tells them so well, with such flexible dialogue and cleverly maintained tension, that it is impossible to put his books down.

El Pas (Madrid)

A genuine storyteller who beguiles his readers without the need of tricks.

LUnit (Italy)

In the emphasis on action and quick-jab dialogue, readers will notice an echo of James M. Cain and Raymond Chandler, but Arjounis stories also brim with the absurd humor that made The Sopranos so entertaining.

Vikas Turakhia, The Cleveland Plain Dealer

This is true hardboiled detective fiction, realistic, violent and occasionally funny, with a hero who lives up to the best traditions of the genre.

The Telegraph (UK)

A good thriller doesnt need a specific milieu but it can be so much more satisfying when it has one. Jakob Arjouni was born and bred in Frankfurt and does a remarkable job of turning what is often considered Germanys most boring city, into a vivid setting for violent crime capers Arjounis [four] Kayankaya novel[s] deserve to be better known in the English-speaking world. If you like your investigators tough and sassy, Kayankaya is your guide.

Sunday Times of London (UK)

One Man, One Murder

Originally published in German as
Ein Mann, ein Mord by Jakob Arjouni
Copyright 1991 Diogenes Verlag AG, Zurich, Switzerland
Translation copyright 1997 by Anselm Hollo

Melville House Publishing
145 Plymouth Street
Brooklyn, NY 11201

www.mhpbooks.com

eISBN: 978-1-61219-101-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011926726

v3.1

I was at my desk, jotting down a dream line-up for the Gladbach soccer team on my calendarand getting bored with Mr. Kunze.

Mr. Kunze was my landlord. He was reciting to me, over the phone, all the reasons why my rent had to be raised next month by thirty per cent, and why life was not a bowl of cherries. Wife and children was his groaning refrain. I placed Sieloff, Mill, Kamps, and myself on the reserve bench and seated Weisweiler, the coach, on a cloud. Then I interrupted Mr. Kunze. Mr. Kunze, if I understand you correctly, you feel that Im the best tenant in the world, and if you had your druthers, youd pay me a little something just to keep me on. On the other hand, your wife couldnt possibly make do with less than ten fur coats without coming down with migraines and making your life a living hell. Thats all right. All of us have to look out for Number One. Nevertheless, I find a thousand marks for a one-room office with a sinkand regular power failuresa little excessive.

I agree! I quite agree! I always say that fifty percent of our quality of life consists of the quality of the workplacethe remaining fifty of that on our living quarters and personal relationshipsthose are, of course, the most important things. But just try to put yourself in my shoes: eleven buildings to take care of here in Frankfurt, a riding stable, four carsyou can imagine the taxes I have to pay! Then theres the repairs, and, and, and

I placed a cushion on top of the phone, retrieved a couple of Alka-Selzers from a desk drawer, tossed them into a glass of water and watched them effervesce, supporting my head with both hands. Under the cushion, Mr. Kunzes voice sounded like a trapped bumblebee.

It was nine oclock in the morning of the last day of March, nineteen hundred and eighty-nine. I had debts but no jobs. The faucet was dripping, the coffee maker was busted, and I was tired. My office looked like a task force objective for Alcoholics Anonymous. Files and empty beer bottles lay scattered over floor and shelves. My deck of blank index cards smelled of spilled Scotch. The only wall decorations were a four-year-old Chivas Regal calendar and a postcard from the Bahamas. It was from a guy who cheated women out of their money with false promises of marriage. I had tried to track him down last fall. On the card, he invited me to come celebrate his fiftieth birthday: my golden anniversary as a bachelor, as it were. It would be so nice to see you here. The rest of the decor consisted of stained gray wall-to-wall carpeting dotted with cigarette bums, wallpaper yellowed by tobacco smoke, and the scattered remains of my exploded coffee maker. All things considered, a move might not be a bad idea.

I drank down my Alka-Selzers and went to the window. Full-fledged April weather: clouds charging across the sky like elephants. Once in a while a patch of blue, a sunny spell, then more rain. An old woman with a cane and a poodle was struggling along, keeping close to the wall. Children were swept down the sidewalk like empty plastic bags. A hat was sailing along in the gutter. The heat from the radiator caressed my knees, and I remembered my desperate and ruinous visits to offices of apartment buildings and landlords that one winter six years ago. By and large, these visits had followed a uniform pattern. It involved confronting a guy behind a desk who sat there, hands neatly folded, with a saccharine smile and ominously narrowed eyes, asking me in a manner that indicated he had better things to do: Well, then, Mr. Kayankaya, I see you are a private investigator. Thats an interesting name Kayankaya.

Not really that interesting. Just Turkish.

I see. The saccharine content of his smile increases; his eye-slits are no wider than razors edges. Turkish. A Turkish private investigator? What do you know I hope you dont mind my asking, buthow come you speak such good German?

Its the only language I know. My parents died when I was a child, and I was raised by a German family.

Butbut you are a Turk? I mean

I have a German passport, if that makes you feel better. His tongue darts out nervously to moisten his lips; then it disappears and modulates a voice that brings to mind innocent little kids skipping down a lane:

Mind showing it to me?

I hand him the little green book. He turns the pages. He subjects it to sub-molecular scrutiny.

Not that we have any trouble renting to people of Turkish origin. And since you even are a German citizen Nevertheless, we do have to know with whom we are dealing.

He closes the little book and hands it back to me.

I would have thought you came from one of the Arab countries. Your profile, your manneryoure not a typical Turk.

What is he like, your typical Turk?

Shorter, Id say, more Asiatic, more inscrutable, somehowwell, just different.

Is he going to rent me an office or isnt he? I clear my throat and ask. He is evasive, makes small talk, finally writes my telephone number on a scrap of paper that looks predestined for the wastebasket. I take my leave. A week later, his secretary expresses his regrets.