Free The Weimar Triangle by Eric Koch Page A

Rosenhayn, Frank Heller and Gustave LeRoux — all literary descendants of Edgar Allan Poe. You use the lobby as the central space of the world in which we all live, populated by ordinary people. But for writers of standard detective stories, the hotel lobby is a place where a low form of fragmented, isolated, unfulfilled men and women reside, presided over by a puppet-like shell of a dehumanized hotel manager, very different from the Higher Being who is supposed to govern the real world.”
    “Well, well, well.” McAndrew was amused. “The next thing you’ll tell us, Erwin, is that in your field of study a Higher Being dispatches the detective down to Earth to do his work for him.”
    “Yes, Julian,” Erwin said. “That is exactly what I will tell you. The detective, by the simple reason of being a detective, is equipped to find the truth, and in the end he invariably does. He has to. The laws of metaphysics make him do it. Therefore, he occupies a place slightly above ordinary human beings. The hotel lobby is the locus of objective truth. The stories themselves are allegories and don’t describe human beings as human beings at all — in dramatic contrast to your story, Vicky. By the way, I read somewhere that you even got a job as a chamber maid in the Esplanade Hotel for six weeks, to find out what a big hotel feels like.”
    “You are correct, Herr Doktor . A most revealing experience. I discovered that the girls were not a bit interested in who the guests were and what they were doing, even if they were celebrities. They were working too hard, were always tired and preoccupied with their own troubles.”
    “I’m not a bit surprised,” Erwin said. “Unlike you, the writers of detective stories see the rational world in a distorting mirror. All efforts to describe the world as it is are sacrificed to the fascination of solving the puzzle. There is one outsider — he is the criminal. The police represent Law and Order and rationality, as the police should, whereas the detective has no relation to either rationality or irrationality, nor has he any personal ties or commitments. This makes it possible for him to be detached.”
    Kant and Hegel must be smiling in Heaven at their magnificent heir’s ingenious exercise in applied philosophy.
    The bell rang. Intermission was over. The conversation had been so animated that, before flocking back to the hall to listen to the Kreutzer Sonata — not easy for Yella since her mind was now on Erwin Herzberg — they resolved to meet again after the concert in the little restaurant at the back of the hall. Vicky Baum excused herself.
    That is what happened.
    There they were joined by the eminent and amiable Ernesto Uzielli, the man who owned the lock of Beethoven’s hair. Konrad Edler had spotted him in the audience. They seemed well acquainted and on excellent terms.
    Erwin Herzberg, too, was delighted to see him. They obviously knew each other well. No, more than that. The three of them had had a common, very recent experience of considerable significance.
    The reason for Uzielli’s presence in Frankfurt was that the Institute for Social Research had invited him to give a series of lectures on the early Karl Marx. When Uzielli received the invitation he suddenly remembered he had read somewhere that to celebrate Beethoven’s centenary the City of Frankfurt had organized an international exhibition of musicalia . So, without informing anybody in advance, he put the locket in a pigskin case normally used for toiletries, and carried it in his suitcase. His intention was to lend it to the authorities as a prize exhibit. If they rejected it for any reason, it would not be a great calamity. His reputation was not at stake.
    He had checked in the Frankfurter Hof on Monday. Today was Saturday. Having once been robbed while staying in a private suite at the Ritz in Paris, Uzielli never trusted hotels again. So on arrival he asked the concierge to put the leather case in the