More Beer

by Jakob Arjouni

  I forced myself to have some of the coffee. It tasted terrible.

  “Who made this?”

  Slibulsky clicked his tongue and pointed proudly to himself. “Original Viennese recipe. With a pinch of salt and a dash of genuine cocoa.”

  “I see.” Then I lit a cigarette and examined the reports. The twenty-second of April was the date of the sabotage. I remembered Kessler’s pocket calendar. I took it out, looked at it: Fourteen hundred hours, dentist; sixteen hundred hours, conference at G; sabotage at B. Chem.

  On the twenty-sixth of April, when the four had been arrested, there was an entry that read: zero hours, operation Herbert K. In the back, where addresses were listed, I found an H. Kollek, Post Office Box 3278, Doppenburg. I grabbed Slibulsky’s arm.

  “I’ve got it!”

  He cast a suspicious glance at the calendar, and after checking the entries, he murmured, “I’ve been sitting here since two o’clock, and … Well, I’m not a family doctor.” He grinned again.

  I pocketed the calendar and got up.

  “I have to go to Doppenburg right away.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Why?”

  “You still owe me three hundred marks. I better stay with you, so you won’t tell me later you spent it all boozing with some Herbert Kollek.”

  I picked up the file, and we left.

  “Drive to the end of the street, then turn right, go once around the block. I’ll be back down in ten minutes. If I’m not, you just take off.”

  “You really believe they’ve been waiting for you since two o’clock?”

  “I don’t know. Everything looks quiet. See you in a minute.”

  I got out of the car and walked the hundred meters back to my apartment. Listening by the door, I couldn’t hear anything. I turned the key in the lock and stepped inside. Still nothing. By this time, Kessler and his boys would have pounced. I took off my coat, hung it on the rack, and switched on the light. Something smelled bad. I walked into the living room, switched the light on, and saw what it was.

  Schmidi, unwashed, wearing yesterday’s T-shirt, was reclining comfortably in a corner of my couch. Only the small dark hole in his forehead spoiled the idyll. I hurried to turn off the light and looked for my Beretta in the half-dark. It lay under the couch. Schmidi had been shot and killed with my gun. He had nothing on him, only his I.D. I took the I.D. and the Beretta, touched nothing else, and left the apartment.

  Slibulsky drove up at a walking pace. I didn’t waste a moment getting in. “There’s a stiff with a hole in his forehead on my couch. Reiner Schmidi. The guy who beat me up yesterday.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing to be done there anymore.”

  We headed toward the freeway. By the railroad station, I asked him to stop. I dug out the address Nina Scheigel had given me.

  “There’s a Russian who lives around here who deals in contraband vodka. I owe someone a bottle.”

  Slibulsky stepped on the brake and complained. “You have nothing better to do, this godforsaken morning, than to cultivate your alcohol addiction?”

  I told him there were always more important things to do, or else never, and a while later we rang the doorbell of Nikolai Herzel, Münchner Strasse sixty-three, third floor. It was a little before six. Wide awake and fully dressed, he came to the door. A small man in a black suit and brown fur slippers. I introduced myself and Slibulsky. I had hardly finished when he ushered us into the apartment. With a twinkle in his eye, he said in his raspy voice, “I know. Nina was just here. You missed her by minutes.” He had to be past fifty, but there wasn’t a single wrinkle in his face. He had a full head of very shiny hair. He seemed to be enjoying the best of health, and yet something didn’t seem quite right. In the shabby living room furnished with decrepit armchairs and three television sets he asked us to have a seat. A teapot steamed on the kerosene stove. He crossed his arms and smiled at us.

  “Well, gentlemen, to make a long story short, my current delivery is overdue, and my supplies are running low.”

  He paused deliberately, folded his hands, and continued:

  “Such a situation is, naturally, reflected in the price.”

  He looked deep into my eyes.

  “How much?”

  He smiled and started pacing.

  “Since it is Nina who sent you—let’s say, a hundred and fifty for the half liter.”

  I glanced at Slibulsky who looked dumbfounded, then indicated that in his opinion, this little Russian no longer had both oars in the water.

  “Let’s get serious, comrade. We’re just a pair of poor devils who want to give an old lady a present.”

  He demurred. “I know, I know, but what can I do? Times are hard.”

  “Eighty, and it’s a deal.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “A hundred and forty. That should be satisfactory to all parties concerned.”

  Slibulsky rose and stood right in front of the little Russian.

  “My friend and I don’t see it that way. Only one of the fucking parties would be satisfied with a hundred and forty, and it ain’t us. My friend is willing to offer ninety, and I’ll go for a hundred, but that’s it!”

  He looked down.

  “And when I say that’s it, I mean it too. A couple of blocks from here, there’s a guy who got his brain ventilated. And do you know why? Over the little matter of a case of cognac. So exercise your tiny brain now! All right, amigo?”

  The little Russian looked scared. Cautiously he made his way past Slibulsky and out of the room. Slibulsky waved his hand as if to say, “Well, then.”

  We got our bottle for ninety and took off. Back in the car, Slibulsky said, “And I thought I was making money selling coke.”

  “Did you see the guy’s skin? Smooth as a pool ball. And his hair.”

  Slibulsky cranked the engine. “Arsenic.”

  “Come again?”

  We were on our way.

  “Arsenic, in small doses, is like a shot of whiskey before breakfast. If you manage to hold it down, you feel just great. If you take the stuff daily, your skin becomes smooth as a baby’s ass, and your hair gets that buttery sheen.”

  “My goodness.”

  If it hadn’t been raining again, we would have been driving into the sunrise. As things were, it only got a little lighter. We stopped for coffee at the first service area.

  “When the cops find that dead comrade in your apartment, it’s curtains for you.”

  I wagged my head.

  “I think they already know he’s there. But in the meantime, they also know that we got away with Kessler’s files, and they’re no longer so sure that it was such a great idea to add the stiff to my living room furniture. That was why they weren’t there. They may be busy carting him off again.”

  I thought of all sorts of things. I took another look at Kessler’s calendar and noticed certain entries that began last May and were repeated with weekly regularity. “Confer with M.!” According to the calendar, the last meeting had taken place last night.

  “When do registration offices open?”

  “No idea. Not in my field of competence. Maybe sometime between eight and nine?”

  At eight o’clock, I went to the pay phone. Information gave me the number and I dialed it.

  “Doppenburg registration office. Good morning.”

  “Möller, from the public prosecutor’s office in Frankfurt. I’m working on the Böllig case. I need to know if a Herbert Kollek is registered in Doppenburg.”

  He sounded reluctant, but after I assured him that I would send him a written copy of my request, he went to check the record.

  “Mr. Möller? I’m sorry, but you’re too late. Herbert Kollek moved away from Doppenburg in nineteen sixty-nine.”

  “Where did he move?”

  “To Frankfurt.”

  “I see. One more thing. That same year, sixty-nine, was the year Friedrich and Barbara Böllig’s son was born. Unfortuna
tely I can’t remember his first name, but I’m told that he was institutionalized soon after his birth. Could you find the name of the institution?”

  That took him ten minutes. A trucker was waiting for the pay phone, looking none too happy about it.

  “The son’s name is Oliver. He was born on November seventeenth, and is in the care of Dr. Gerhart Kliensmann, at the Ruhenbrunn Private Clinic.”

  “Thank you.”

  I hung up. Slibulsky sat at a table, grouchily perusing illustrated magazines. Without looking up, he said, “OK, you’re the boss, you have the overview. But I sure would like to know what you think you’re doing, calling registration offices.”

  I told him. We paid and drove on to Doppenburg.

  DAY THREE

  1

  I pointed at Nina Scheigel’s house.

  “There it is, number seven. I assume he’s asleep, he works all night. But just get him out of bed. If his wife is there, lock her up, tie her up, whatever. Act like a wild man, break something, but don’t make so much noise you’ll alert the neighbors. Tell him you know everything and want to be paid off, or else you’ll call the cops. And as soon as he agrees to pay, make him tell the truth.”

  Slibulsky squinted at me. “What truth?”

  “He knows something, but he hasn’t been willing or able to talk about it. Who knows if it’s the whole truth? But it may be a part.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “Then we’re out of luck. Afterward, if you can manage it, call Anastas. Make it anonymous, but try to find out if the ‘Freedom and Nature’ group has been heard from again. You can do it.”

  He nodded.

  “Sure. I’m an expert in making anonymous phone calls and beating up night watchmen.”

  I proffered the Beretta. He made a face.

  “No thanks. Breaking and entering and bodily injury—OK, with a good lawyer; but I won’t take the rap for knocking off Schmidi. Not for a paltry seven hundred marks.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He shook his head, raised his index finger to his forehead. “See you later.”

  I headed toward the main drag. Half an hour later, I stood in front of the wrought-iron gate of Ruhenbrunn Private Clinic. The rain had stopped, and the large brick building looked peaceful in the morning light. Birds were twittering in the trees that surrounded the edifice, and white bedclothes had been hung out to air from some of its windows. A nurse was pushing a man in a wheelchair across the lawn. I pushed the bell. The intercom asked me what I wanted.

  “It’s a family matter. My uncle, well, he’s really my wife’s uncle …”

  “How’s that?”

  I stopped. The voice was aggressive. “Please express yourself clearly.”

  “Well, he’s totally confused, and needs care.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? For admissions, you need to speak to Mrs. Hengstenberger on the second floor, office number three.”

  The gate swung open, the sand squeaked under my shoes. The drive had just been raked, and I was the first to leave my footprints on the fine wavy lines. To my left, a large lawn extended all the way to the wall behind which Villa Böllig stood. A gardener was trimming rosebushes. Complete silence reigned. It almost seemed as if the clinic were closed until further notice. For a moment a head moved past a window, then a second and a third, until I realized it was just one person doing her rounds. Near the entrance, I passed the patient in his wheelchair and his nurse. The patient giggled and said something. I walked through the glass door and up a flight of stairs. Then I almost collided with a mountain of flesh two meters tall. Dressed all in white, he looked like some kind of attendant or male nurse.

  “Now, now,” he said quietly. He was rolling a matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. He stared at me with indifference.

  “Sorry,” I murmured. He smiled.

  “I want to see Mrs. Hengstenberger.”

  He spat the match into a flowerpot and said, “Crazy, huh?”

  When I said, “Not me, my uncle,” he smiled again.

  “Mrs. Hengstenberger?” I repeated.

  He said, “Crazy, huh.”

  With a friendly nod, I pushed past him. He chortled.

  The door to office number three stood ajar. She was on the phone.

  “… No, I’m sorry, the patient does not have permission to receive visitors … not even his mother … what was that? You got a letter from him? That’s impossible, the patient does not have permission … Nonsense. He’s receiving the best medical care. No reason to worry, at all … all right, I’ll see what I can do. Good day.”

  She hung up and punched a two-digit number.

  “Hengstenberger here. Kunze? Please check up on room thirty-four. He’s managed to smuggle a letter to the outside. All right?”

  I knocked.

  “Come in.”

  It was a voice to cut glass with. Mrs. Hengstenberger was leaning over her desk, writing. An old book case stood in a corner, next to some health insurance calendar with flowers. The room was white and clean, with a view of the drive. She put her pen aside, folded her letter, and put it in an envelope. Without looking up, she asked, “How can I help you?”

  “I would like to have permission to visit Oliver Böllig. He’s been in your care for seventeen years.”

  “Your name?”

  “Kayankaya.”

  Her face relaxed.

  “You’re not a relative? I’m afraid I can’t give you that permission. I’m very sorry. Good day.”

  After a triumphant glance at me, she went back to the materials on her desk. I walked to the window and lit a cigarette.

  “Smoking is not allowed here.”

  I bounded over to her. “Listen, sweetie”—she gasped for air—”I don’t have a whole lot of time. I need that boy, or else the file on his illness and treatment. I need to know why he’s been cooped up here for seventeen years. It’s a question of a murder case. So just get me the file. Here …”

  I tossed my license on the desk. She picked it up as if it were dirt, glanced at it, put it back.

  “I have to notify Dr. Kliensmann. Please wait outside.”

  I shut the door, sat down in the hallway. Everything was quiet. I lit another cigarette and shot smoke rings through the air. Now I could hear occasional cries, echoing as if from a great distance through the white hallways. I had just decided to go back in to get a little action out of Mrs. Hengstenberger when the mountain of flesh came up the stairs, a fresh matchstick in the corner of his mouth. He approached slowly and stood in front of me, his arms crossed. “Come with me,” he said. Then he smiled, but his eyes remained cold. He led down a flight of stairs, then down another one. In the basement we walked down a hallway, until he ushered me into a windowless yellow room, lit by a fluorescent tube protected by a black iron grate. Thin rubber matting covered the walls and the floor. The mountain leaned against the door, still smiling. “Crazy, huh?”

  I walked up to him with a twinkle in my eye. “Listen, you look like a smart fellow. Take me to your boss. If you do, I’ll let you try out my car. On the freeway, if you like. OK?”

  He looked offended, took a step forward, and punched me in the stomach. I fell down, and he said, “The doctor will be here in a minute.” The door slammed shut. I reached for my loaded Beretta. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? I crawled to the door, and an acrid smell rose into my nostrils. Something began to coat my brain like a layer of lead. In slow motion, I managed to pull the gun out of my pocket and aim at the lock on the door. “Sleep,” I thought. “Sleep, and never wake up again.” I almost forgot the Beretta while I pursued that thought, but the first shot woke me up. Then I emptied the whole clip into the door. My fingers clawed at the crack, and a moment later I fell through the door into fresh air. I dragged myself a couple of meters down the hall and sat down. Just as my head was beginning to clear again, I heard footsteps come downstairs, and the mountain of flesh reappeared with a pair of handcuffs
in one hand. He looked at me in astonishment.

  “How did you do that?”

  I pulled the Beretta out from behind my back and let him take a good long look at it.

  “Pretty good trick, eh?”

  He looked offended, studied his shoes. Slowly, holding on to the wall, I managed to rise to my feet.

  “Take me to the Böllig kid.”

  “Oh …” He sounded scared. “The doctor won’t like that at all.”

  I waved my cannon, and he led the way.

  The Böllig kid was so tall he had to stoop if he wanted to stand up in his cell. I motioned to him to sit down again. With a dull gaze, he went back to his clothespin construction, his long back bent over the table. It seemed as if he had never learned to speak; he reacted to none of my questions. He was a seventeen-year-old wreck, nothing but pale skin and bones. A faint beam of light fell onto his worktable from a barred window. An iron bed stood in a corner. The mountain leaned against the wall. He looked miserable.

  “How long has he been doing that shit?”

  “Dunno. But,” he came closer and whispered, “that’s all they know how to do.”

  “But you, you know better things to do, don’t you?”

  Oliver Böllig could have grown up to be a big strong man, but seventeen years in Ruhenbrunn Private Clinic had turned him into an idiot beanstalk. He resembled his father, Friedrich Böllig, about as much as I resemble a Swedish tennis star. I stood there for a moment, watching the last of the Bölligs fiddling with his clothespins. I stood there a moment too long. Something exploded above my head.

  “… an injection that paralyzes his memory. Kliensmann, I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  “That’ll be expensive, madam. My reputation, my livelihood—you must understand. For less than five hundred thousand … you see … my silence … and besides …”

  “That’s all right. I’ll get the money.”

  “But then there’s something else too. You may remember. Until now you’ve refused, but today, I think … You’ll comply, won’t you? Well, I too would have preferred pleasanter circumstances, but …”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Take off your clothes.”