<<Like maybe>> Bäbel putting on the schoolgirl voice she reserved for serious flirtation <<like maybe it's a serial prank caller!>> And she made stabbing motions which hardy seemed appropriate.

Croon just thought she was being stupid. <<Maybe... but why? I know the nuisance caller mentality, I studied delinquency with the FBI. The main kick comes from disruption, not chilling strangers with heavenly tunes. There's more to this.>>

But all week the complaints came in, 46 of them. All the same, and all not really complaints. More like expressions of surprise, gratitude... even awe. Croon was mystified. By the end of the week, when he logged on his workstation, he found the number of spiritual harassment calls had hit 65.

He was so stumped he went to get some coffee.

The sugar bowl was laced with ugly green infectious tea leaves.

He picked up the bowl and tossed it at the kitchenette wall and it created a snot-filled white sandpit over the floor.

Bäbel heard the noise and came in. <<You're hostile>> she said, stooping to pick broken china off the floor. <<Maybe you should get more vitamin B12.>>

<<It's this case>> he said (although vitamin deficiency probably played a part). <<There's something major happening in this country and I don't have a clue what it is.>>

<<Maybe you could unwind>> pushing a laser-printed invite into his hand <<if you came to my party on Friday night.>>

<<God, who is it!>> Paul Luszeit, ulcer-riddled property consultant, was screaming into his carphone in Mannheim. <<Gott!>>

<<I'll let you know>> Croon said.

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