I answer the usual questions. Offer him some mineral water from the refrigerator while he's telling me that Volker was hit on the back of the head with a heavy object in the wee hours of this morning. Dead. It's possible that I was the last person to see him alive. Inspector Hetterich gulps greedily. While the carbonation is prickling in his nose, he throws a glance at my pile of drawings. On top of the pile is the drawing of the pennants in the breeze. He pushes that one aside. Underneath is Rosa-Marie. A whole series. He pages through them all, puts the drawings to one side, and looks at me.
"That's art,” I say superfluously.
* * * *
4.
Late in the afternoon, the bartender's pulling beer like a world champion. I get in line. Once I have my mug of beer in hand, I ask him:
"Did you know that Volker's dead?"
He stares at me stupidly. The guys behind me are pushing me forward; they're thirsty. I nod at the bartender and move away. Somebody calls out to him. Harald. His name is Harald. And I still don't know where Rosa-Marie has her stand.
Clutching my beer in one fist, I roam through all the rows of stands, venturing even into the narrowest alleys. Then I find her. Rosa-Marie's making crepes. I knew there was something French about her. I watch as she pours a thin puddle of batter onto the round griddle and spreads it deftly. The air smells sweet and reminds me a little of Christmas. Even though Rosa-Marie's stand is off in a corner, there are people standing in line. But naturally there would be even more of them over there in front of my house.
The crepe lands in my hand atop a thin paper plate. It's hot, steams, tastes good. Something besides fish.
At home I press the wallpaper back onto the wall. My stomach is feeling as sticky as the wallpaper. I neutralize the feeling with a white wine spritzer and sit at the window. I can see across to Rosa-Marie's empty bathroom.
By the time she arrives, it's dark outside. She goes into the bathroom, but doesn't turn on the light. Panic drips into my gut. Has she seen me? I move back from the window immediately. I go out, wander around aimlessly, look for a quiet spot down at the river and sit with my feet dangling into the water. Thick clouds begin to pile up on the other side of the river. It's been hot for too long, and the humidity is oppressive. I've got to see about getting some commissions.
* * * *
5.
During the night, a storm shakes the sky. Between my sweat-damp sheets, I turn this way and that like a worm. Lightning draws strange contours on the walls. At the next bolt of thunder, the door rattles. Even the walls vibrate. I crawl deeper under the sheet. Then I hear something rustling. It must be the rain. Barely audible, another noise joins the cacophony. The wallpaper. I get up and feel my way out into the hall. The light switch clicks, but my front hall remains dark. There's no power, and the wallpaper is lying on the floor, all rolled up like a reptile.
The drumming of the rain grows louder. I ought to close the front window. I open the door to the living room and a cool breeze wafts pleasantly through the sticky apartment.
A figure is silhouetted sharply against the window. It's going through my drawings. I take a step backward in fright and the floor creaks. My late guest spins around, stuffs the drawings into his jacket, and runs for my apartment door, knocking me down as he goes. I lurch out after him into the building's corridor, but his feet are already pounding down the stone staircase. I go back into my apartment. My toes stick to the wallpaper. I squat on the floor, my heart hammering, and then the lights come back on. I lock the front door and patrol the apartment. Nothing's missing but my drawings of Rosa-Marie.
* * * *
6.
The next morning it's cool and gray outside. Rosa-Marie's bathroom window remains shut. Nervously I scratch around with my pencils on my sketching pad, ruining several expensive sheets of paper. When Rosa-Marie leaves the house, I follow her. Wearing a subtle gray pullover, because it's gotten cooler. It's drizzling, which is a bad thing for business at a Kirmes.
Rosa-Marie goes to her stand. She unlocks it, opens up, gets everything ready, and waits for customers. I stand back in the doorway of a house, waiting for the first crepe. Finally the sweet smell tickles my nose, and I pull out my wallet and go over to her.
"One crepe with nougat creme, please,” I say politely.
She pours batter onto the griddle and spreads it smooth with a spatula.
"Guten Appetit,” she says, handing me the fragrant crepe and smiling. Her incisors are a perfect white and spaced just a little bit too far apart.
I eat my crepe while wandering back through the rows of stands. Harald isn't at the beer stand. Today everyone's waiting for customers who won't turn up, because people would rather go to a cafe when it's raining. It just wasn't, it can't have been Rosa-Marie who stole the sketches from my apartment yesterday.
* * * *
7.
I keep turning it over in my mind. Nobody knew about the sketches except Detective Inspector Hetterich. Do the stolen sketches have anything to do with the murder of Volker? Did Rosa-Marie kill Volker as revenge for his taking her premium location away from her? Did Harald bash Volker's head in? The two of them argued the day before yesterday, but why? In any case, they weren't best pals. And who was in my apartment?
When I get home, the inspector's waiting at my front door. He says he's got a couple of questions. He wants to know whether I observed anything at Volker's stand, because I'd loitered around there a lot. It sounds bad, the way he says it. I ask him to come in. He goes to the window, looks across to Rosa-Marie's empty bathroom, and asks:
"Where're your sketches?"
"Someone stole them,” I say.
Naturally, he bawls me out. Why didn't I report the break-in? He examines the door to my apartment. Recommends that I have the lock changed and install a security chain. I tell him that I live in a small Franconian town and not in inner-city Berlin. He looks at me as if I've lost half my marbles.
* * * *
8.
It's the last day of the fair. Tonight there'll be a huge fireworks display, a worthy finale to an event of this cultural magnitude.
I seize the moment. One more chance to drink the dark beer brewed especially for Kirmes, to breathe in the aroma of candied almonds, meringues, roast chicken, and burned pizza. It's the first time I've ever taken part in a church fair, and I'm already hooked. I ask myself how I'm supposed to get through a whole year without the sticky heat on my skin, the taste of the beer, and the drunken laughter and babbling just outside my window, dying away in the early light of dawn.
I stand in line at Harald's beer stand. I'm thirsty, and the first swallow is the best. Today all the visitors are electrified; they need these last few hours; tomorrow daily life will swallow them up again.
Darkness settles down over the stands. The colorful bulbs light up the night one last time, the charcoal in the grills glows. A band strangles jazz numbers long-windedly. I get stuck for fifteen minutes in the throng between the stands in the main street—I can't move backwards or forwards. But then the plug loosens and dissolves; everyone moves toward the fireworks. I'm dizzy from the beer and the claustrophobia. I take a moment to lean against the wall of the building behind Harald's beer stand and check out the guitars and flutes in the window of a music store. All of a sudden there's hardly anything happening. Only the very drunken are still sitting there, staring dully into their beer mugs. Anything that can still move, even unsteadily, is hurrying toward the riverbank to watch the fireworks.
In the reflection of the music-store window, I can see Harald take a heavy bag out of a crate and murmur something to an employee. Then he sets off. I follow him. The exercise makes me feel better.
Harald pushes his way energetically through the crowd. He heads down to the river just like everyone else, but not where they're all standing, waiting for the first explosion of light. Instead, he walks past them along the riverbank. The strings of lights end, a strain or two of music wafts past us. A magnificently decor
ated rowboat glides by; in it, two romantic souls are making the most of the last night of the fair.
Someone has dropped a half-eaten pizza onto the pavement. Harald steps in it and swears. I move into the shadows thrown by the bushes on the riverbank. It's pretty isolated here.
The first rocket climbs into the night sky and there's a sharp crack. I start. Purple sparks rain down on us. Harald turns around, looks right through me, bends, and scrapes up a handful of rocks. Throws them into his bag. The fireworks thunder and roar, crackle and rattle. Green, orange, and red glow in the dark sky and in Harald's face. Harald ties the bag shut.
I have no mobile phone. We artists are poor bastards. But not short of courage, I like to think. I step out from between the bushes.
"You'd better give that bag to me!"
He looks at me, then laughs and swings the bag overhead like a lasso.
"It's just broken beer mugs,” he says. Comes closer. I hear the stones striking each other in the bag. The noise is horribly loud in my ears, underscored by the showdown of the fireworks. The pyrotechnicians are giving it their all. The bright rain of colors illuminates Harald's furious face. He's got everything to lose if he's caught, and his chances of avoiding that are good: As long as the rockets keep going off, no one can hear me scream.
I dance around like a boxer while he swings the bag at me. He misses. I can hear myself breathing hard. I have to try to reach the riverbank. In the water I might be able to get away from him. The bag whizzes down at me again. I can hear the “Oh!” and “Aaah!” of the spectators as a particularly colorful bouquet blooms in the night sky. The bag hits me on the ear. Blood runs down my neck and mixes with the sweat.
I scream. As loud as I can, while Harald comes closer, step by step, and I stumble backwards, deeper and deeper into the darkness
Suddenly it's quiet. The last rocket's been fired. Gray mist hangs in the sky, and the smell of sulfur. Harald hauls back for another blow. My screams float across the river. Somewhere far behind me, the crowds disperse, bantering happily. There's the sound of splashing; drunk people like to jump in. I can read the writing on Harald's bag: Eat More Fruit! I won't have much opportunity for that. I duck, stumble. Harald sways under the centrifugal force of his swinging. I go down.
Two guys crawl out of the water on their bellies. A flashlight comes on, and I throw myself to one side.
"Police! Put down the bag!"
* * * *
9.
Detective Inspector Hetterich insists on personally driving me to the clinic, where they sew my earlobe on again. On the way there, he explains who stole the sketches.
"A colleague, Rosa-Marie's ex-husband. I mentioned at headquarters that you'd made sketches of his ex-wife, and the news got around."
He rambles on, talking about filing charges, but I wave that off. After all, Hetterich's just saved my life. It was none other than he sitting in the romantic rowboat; he and a fellow officer. The police were already keeping an eye on Harald. According to them, he had been counting on getting Rosa-Marie's stand location, but Volker had tricked him out of it. The police couldn't touch Harald because a buddy had given him an alibi. But now they have the murder weapon, the inspector explains, satisfied: In addition to the rocks in the Eat More Fruit bag there was a very nice stonemason's hammer, complete with Volker's blood and Harald's fingerprints on it.
"We have you to thank that he couldn't throw the bag in the river before we got there."
I dismiss this praise modestly.
The next morning, I take my bandaged ear over to Rosa-Marie's crepe stand. She's overseeing the dismantling. When she sees me, she looks at my ear in surprise and says:
"No more crepes, sorry about that!"
I shake my head. Then I ask whether she'll sit for me. I praise her figure and tell her that every artist is consumed with longing for a form like hers. She looks astonished, but then she plucks a thermos from the remains of her stand and offers me coffee. I take the cup, and she pours one for herself. We toast each other.
"Rosa-Marie Schneidmuller,” she says.
I take a sip.
"Anna Linde. Pleased to meet you."
©2009 by Friederike Schmoe
translation ©2009 by Mary W. Tannert
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: DOLPHIN JUNCTION by Mick Herron
Mick Herron's most recent novel, Smoke and Whispers, the fifth in a series featuring P.I. Zoe Boehm (who has also made several appearances in EQMM), was published by Soho Constable in April 2009. The book gets off to an unusual start: Boehm herself is tagged as the murder victim; her friend Sarah Tucker turns sleuth. Soho also recently reissued Mr. Herron's four previous novels in the series in paperback. The author is currently at work on a new stand-alone thriller entitled Slow Horses.
* * * *
1.
"Don't try to find me,” the note began. It was written on the back of a postcard. “Believe me, it's best this way. Things aren't working, David, and they haven't been for a long time. I'm sorry, but we both know it's true. I love you. But it's over. Shell."
On the kitchen wall, the clock still ticked, and outside the window, one of the slats in the fence still hung loose, and the fence remained discoloured where ivy had been peeled from it during the garden makeover two weeks previously. The marks where it had clung still resembled railway lines as seen on a map. If you could take a snapshot of that moment, nothing would have changed. But she was gone.
"And this card was on the kitchen table."
"As I've already told you, yes."
"And there's no sign of a break-in, no disturbance, no—"
"I've told you that, too. There's no sign of anything. She's just disappeared. Everything else is the same as always."
"Well. You say ‘disappeared.’ But she's fairly clearly left of her own accord, wouldn't you say?"
"No. I wouldn't say that at all."
"Be that as it may, sir, that's what the situation suggests. Now, if there were no note, I'd be suggesting you call her friends, check with colleagues, maybe even try the hospitals, just in case. But where there's a note explaining that she's gone of her own free will, all I can advise is that you wait and see."
"Wait and see? That's what you're telling me? I should wait and see?"
"I've no doubt your wife will be in touch shortly, sir. These things always look different in the plain light of day."
"Is there someone else I can talk to? A detective? Somebody?"
"They'd tell you exactly what I'm telling you, sir. That ninety-nine-point-nine percent of these cases are exactly what they appear to be. And if your wife decides to leave you, there's not a lot the police can do about it."
"But what if she's the point-one percent? What happens then?"
"The chances of that are a billion to one, sir. Now, what I suggest you do is go home and get some rest. Maybe call in to the pub. Shame not to take advantage, eh?"
He was on the other side of a counter, in no position to deliver a nudge in the ribs. But that's what his expression suggested. Old lady drops out of the picture? Have yourself a little time out.
"You haven't listened to a word, have you? My wife has been abducted. Is that so difficult to understand?"
He bristled. “She left a note, sir. Wrote and signed it."
"But that's exactly the problem,” I explained for the fourth time. “My wife's name isn't Shell. My wife—Michelle—she'd never sign herself Shell. She hated the name. She hated it."
* * * *
In the end, I left the station empty-handed. If I wanted to speak to a detective, I'd have to make an appointment. And it would be best to leave this for forty-eight hours, the desk sergeant said. That seemed to be the window through which missing persons peered. Forty-eight hours. Not that my wife could be classed a missing person. She had left of her own accord, and nothing could convince him otherwise.
There'd be a phone call, he said. Possibly a letter. He managed to refrain from asserting that
he'd put good money on it, but it was a close-run thing.
His suggestion that I spend the evening in the pub I ignored, just as he'd ignored the evidence of the false signature. Back home, I wandered room to room, looking for signs of disturbance that might have escaped me earlier—anything I could carry back to the station to cast in his smug, stupid face. But there was nothing. In fact, everything I found he'd doubtless cite as proof of his view of events.
The suitcase, for example. The black suitcase was in the hall where I'd left it on getting home. I'd been away at a conference. But the other suitcase, the red one, was missing from its berth in the stair-cupboard, and in the wardrobe and the chests of drawers were unaccustomed gaps. I have never been the world's most observant husband. Some of my wife's dresses I have confidently claimed never to have seen before, only to be told that that's what she'd been wearing when I proposed, or that I'd bought it for her last Christmas. But even I recognised a space when I saw one, and these gaps spoke of recent disinterment. Someone had been through Michelle's private places, harvesting articles I couldn't picture but knew were there no longer. There were underlinings everywhere. The bathroom cabinet contained absences, and there was no novel on the floor on Michelle's side of the bed. Some of her jewellery was gone. The locket, though, was where it ought to be. She had far from taken everything—that would have entailed removal lorries and lawyerly negotiation—but it seemed as if a particular version of events was establishing itself.
But I didn't believe Michelle had been responsible for any of this. There are things we simply know, nondemonstrable things, events or facts at a tangent from the available evidence. Not everything is susceptible to interrogation. This wasn't about appearances. It was about knowledge. Experience.
Let me tell you something about Michelle: She knows words. She makes puns the way other people pass remarks upon the weather. I remember once we were talking about retirement fantasies: where we'd go, what we'd do, places we'd see. Before long I was conjuring technicolour futures, painting the most elaborate visions in the air, and she chided me for going over the top. I still remember the excuse I offered. “Once you start daydreaming,” I told her, “it's hard to stop."
EQMM, December 2009 Page 11
