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known the man’s name, so how could I remember it?
    In fact, I must have seen his face when I went to the airport to meet Petra. But in that crush I hadn’t had the slightest idea who was the film director or who was the gaffer. I didn’t think I’d read anything about this director anywhere. What had Petra said about him? Then suddenly, I realized that Petra and I hadn’t discussed the film at all. I didn’t even know what part Petra was playing, never mind the director’s name or the subject of the film. This blonde journalist undoubtedly knew much more about these things than me.
    I called Room 724 from the telephone at reception. It rang for a long time, but nobody answered. That initiative had also failed. I could have gone home or to the shop, but curiosity got the better of me. I returned to the café and sat at a table where I could overhear what the journalists were saying. I waited and waited, jumping up every so often to dial 724 on the internal telephone. What I was waiting for, I had no idea, but I certainly knew I wasn’t just waiting in case I was needed by Petra.

    Realizing I wasn’t going to get the information I wanted by eavesdropping on the journalists at the next table, I interrupted their conversation with an apology and asked the name of the murder victim. The plumpest and friendliest-looking of them asked, “Why do you want to know?”
    â€œI just wondered if he was someone famous,” I said. “The hotel is swarming with police and journalists.”
    â€œHe wasn’t actually famous or anything,” said the friendly young man. “His name was Kurt Müller, but I’ve never heard of him.”
    I was getting into conversation with yet another man who probably didn’t even know who Steven Spielberg was.
    â€œHmmm,” I said to myself. “Kurt Müller,” I repeated. What an ordinary name, even for a murder victim.
    The chubby young man looked eager to talk; he pulled his chair up to my table and pointed towards the packet of cigarettes lying on the table. I held out the packet to him. “Who’s this Kurt Müller?” I asked.
    â€œA film crew came here from Germany three days ago to shoot a film. You must have read about it in the papers,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “The murdered man was the film director. He was found dead in his room at about five o’clock this morning… How he died, we don’t know either. The police haven’t made a statement about anything yet. All we know is that there is a murder suspect.”
    It was long past noon and I decided I couldn’t spend the whole day sitting in that hotel café. I could go to the shop and relieve Pelin, which would at least be doing something useful. I used the internal telephone at reception to try Petra’s number one last time. I no longer expected an answer, and there was none.

    Any reader who thinks I was feeling mad with frustration is utterly wrong. On the contrary, I was absolutely calm and simply following my destiny. Could life be any more straightforward than this? I, a seller of crime fiction, had glimpsed an opportunity of being an amateur detective, but now that opportunity had disappeared, and I would just carry on with my ordinary life. The shocks of the last few days, and the effect of all the coffee I’d drunk while waiting for a murderer to approach my table with his murder weapon and bloodied hands, was more than enough for me. I decided it was time to give up my passion for detective work.
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    However, for some reason, this opportunity for detective work, which I thought had been and gone, was not going to leave me alone.
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    You now know all about Istanbul traffic and the problems of parking. It’s really not a pretty sight to see me struggling with all that. However, I managed to reach the shop without leaning out of the window to swear at the driver in front of me or quarrelling