Black Ice

by Hans Werner Kettenbach

  Wallmann, who had been brooding gloomily, said suddenly: “But there wasn’t.”

  “Exactly,” said Sauerborn. “There wasn’t. The alibi was absolutely watertight.”

  Von der Heydt, head still thrust forward, shifted in his chair. “But how could you prove that? I mean, sometimes proof is difficult. Who expects a thing like this to happen?”

  Sauerborn propped his elbows on the table. “Well, listen.” He began checking points off on his fingers. “Herr Wallmann came back from his sailing trip on Friday evening. He saw to the boat and went up to his weekend house. Then he realized he’d forgotten the files.”

  Scholten abruptly clutched his ear and then acted as if he were just scratching it.

  “What files?” asked von der Heydt.

  Wallmann, red-rimmed eyes fixed on the beer glass he was slowly pushing back and forth, said: “Files I needed for a tender I was putting in. I wanted to get the details finalized at the weekend. I thought I’d brought the files from town with me. While I was out on the boat I hadn’t realized they were missing.”

  “You see?” Sauerborn said, nodding. “He didn’t notice he’d left the files in town till he got back to the house. But by then his wife was already on her way. She was going to spend the weekend with him out by the lake. So he couldn’t phone and ask her to bring the files with her.”

  “Yes, I see,” said the Government Surveyor. “What a tragic chain of circumstances.”

  “Yes,” said von der Heydt, “but I don’t understand what that has to do with the alibi business – I mean, what does it prove? To the police, I mean?”

  “Just a moment.” Sauerborn raised both hands. “I hadn’t finished. So he drove off to fetch the files. Just under three hours to get there and back, no problem. And then he saw Erika’s car up by the lake, in the village. She’d arrived already. There’s a bar with a butcher’s shop attached in the village, you see, and when she went to the lake she always stopped off there to buy meat for the weekend. And to drink a little glass of grog. That’s right, Kurt?”

  Wallmann nodded.

  “Grog was her favourite,” said Frau Sauerborn.

  Scholten crossed his arms over his chest.

  “So then what?” asked von der Heydt avidly.

  “Well, pay attention,” said Sauerborn, “because here comes the alibi.” He paused for the waiter to take the plates away and pointed to the empty beer glasses. “Bring us a couple more, will you?”

  “And some spirits,” said Wallmann. “Not the schnapps you were serving before.”

  “Cognac, sir?” asked the waiter.

  “Yes, cognac,” said Wallmann.

  Sauerborn settled comfortably in his chair, leaned his elbows on the table, pointed his forefinger at von der Heydt and said: “He went into the bar and told his wife what had happened. And then he set off for town from there, at ten to seven. The butcher, sorry, I mean the barkeep, he confirmed it. Erika was sitting there drinking her grog at the time. And he reached us in the bowling club at eight exactly.”

  “You must have driven pretty fast,” said von der Heydt, “if it usually takes an hour and a half.”

  Sauerborn laughed. “He’s never needed that long. Speedy Kurt, we call him in the club. He always drives that way, don’t you, Kurt?”

  Wallmann said: “And they call you Randy Günther.”

  Sauerborn laughed. “So they do.”

  Frau Sauerborn shifted in her chair and said: “But what’s that got to do with Kurt’s alibi?”

  “Now, now, take it easy,” said Sauerborn. “I was only joking!”

  Von der Heydt raised his beer glass, noticed that it was empty, put it down again and said to Wallmann: “Hang on a minute, I don’t quite understand. So you went to the bowling club before you fetched the files?”

  Wallmann nodded. “On impulse.”

  Sauerborn took a deep breath and let it out again. Then he said: “So there you are. We were living it up a bit that evening. It was our fault.”

  Wallmann said: “No, mine. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Nonsense, Kurt. It could have happened to anyone. And you’d have been back too late in any case. So we got rather merry, and by the end of the evening he wasn’t fit to drive. I took him home with me. Better safe than sorry – I know Kurt. And he didn’t leave our place until four-thirty on Saturday afternoon. Fetched those files from the office and drove back to the lake. He arrived at the house there just after six.”

  Von der Heydt leaned back in his chair. “Yes, now I see. So he has what amounts to a twenty-four-hour alibi.”

  Wallmann was playing with a beer mat. “Just a little over twenty-three hours,” he said.

  “Well, put it however you like, but it was during that time your wife fell off the steps and into the lake.”

  “On the Friday evening,” said Wallmann.

  Sauerborn said: “She didn’t go into the house at all. Her car was still outside the door, with the meat she’d bought in it and her weekend things.”

  “You don’t say.” Von der Heydt rubbed his chin. “So why did she go down the steps? I mean, they lead to the landing stage, if I’ve understood the situation correctly. Does anyone know what she did that for?”

  The Government Surveyor said: “Herr von der Heydt, I think that’s enough in the way of questions. This is a wake, you know.”

  Wallmann put the beer mat down and clasped his hands on the table-top. “I don’t know why she did it. I’d give a lot to know. But I really have no idea.”

  Scholten folded his napkin and then unfolded it. The waitress served ice cream. After her second spoonful Frau Sauerborn said: “It’s really odd, her going down those steps. Particularly as she didn’t like boats or going sailing, did she, Kurt?”

  “No, she didn’t.” Wallmann pushed his ice away, picked up his empty cognac glass and signalled to the waiter.

  “Oh, Ria, really!” Sauerborn’s voice had risen slightly. “Sometimes you talk pure nonsense! What’s so odd about it? She probably heard a noise and went to see if there was anyone prowling around the boat. After all, it’s valuable. Four bunks, heating, toilet. Built-in kitchen. Right, Kurt? Must have cost you a packet, after all.”

  Von der Heydt’s spoon remained in mid-air. “How much, then?”

  The Government Surveyor noisily cleared his throat and then asked: “Are you having any trouble with the Buildings Inspectorate, Herr Wallmann? Over that flight of steps, I mean? Because if I can help you in any way . . . ?”

  “No, the steps are fine. Solid timber, with handrails. And made of good stout planks. You only have to ask Scholten here. He replaced half a dozen steps last autumn because they’d developed some cracks. When was it exactly, Scholten? When you went over to paint the fence?”

  Scholten felt Frau Sauerborn looking at him. He said: “Yes, it’ll have been around then.”

  The bastard. Wallmann was just trying to belittle him in company. As if anyone would be interested in the fact that he’d painted the fence. Scholten finished his cognac.

  The waiter came and refilled the glasses. “Coffee will be served in a minute.”

  Wallmann said, “Where’s your wife, Scholten? I didn’t see her at the cemetery.”

  Scholten swallowed. “She couldn’t come. She’s feeling unwell again. She asked me to give you her regards and say how very sorry she is.”

  “Thank you. My regards to her, and I hope she’ll soon be better.”

  Frau Sauerborn asked, “What’s the matter with her?”

  Scholten shook his head. “Poor health in general. It’s her nerves. A funeral like this upsets her too much.”

  “It upsets us all,” said Sauerborn.

  Silence fell. After a while von der Heydt said: “Perhaps the steps were slippery? After a frost, maybe? We had that sort of weather last week. Or was it different up by the lake?”

  “No, you’re right,” said Sauerborn. “The steps must have been slippery. Timber like that can get very icy in f
rost. She wasn’t expecting it, she slipped, and she couldn’t catch hold of anything to stop herself falling.”

  The Government Surveyor nodded. “That’s perfectly possible. Yes, very likely.”

  Wallmann rose to his feet. “Would you excuse me a moment?” He went out.

  Sauerborn pushed his own chair back. “You must excuse me too. It’s the beer.”

  3

  That morning Scholten had planned to leave the funeral party early and go to the brothel on the way home. It was a good opportunity. He could leave the wake on the pretext of Hilde’s poor health, and Hilde wouldn’t be able to work out when he ought to be home.

  But in the end it was almost three in the afternoon when he left the restaurant bar. One of the bowling club members had already stumbled over a chair leg and brought a tablecloth down with him as he fell; two others had taken him out and loaded him into his wife’s car. Before that Rosa Thelen had been overcome by a fit of weeping, and Herr Büttgenbach was still sitting in the tearoom with her, trying to comfort her. And von der Heydt, who had moved from his seat beside Scholten after coffee and gone to sit next to Fräulein Faust, had exchanged words with Wallmann and gone off uttering threats. By now the Government Surveyor was dozing off in his chair.

  Scholten ate two peppermints when he got into his car. He put the hollow of his hand in front of his mouth, breathed into it and sniffed. Not too bad, he thought.

  He joined the motorway. The forest was left behind, there were factories to right and left, suburban gardens, apartment buildings. Blue-grey clouds covered the March sky. It wasn’t as sunny as last week, but not as cold either.

  Scholten thought of the woman he planned to pick. He had definite ideas about her. He’d find someone with black stockings. Black stockings look terrible on thin legs, but on a nice plump pair, who can resist them? Scholten smiled. He’d never yet seen a girl with thin legs in the knocking-shop.

  He tried to paint a clear mental picture of his imagined girl, as he always did on the way to the brothel. But this time he didn’t succeed. Scraps of the conversation around the table at the wake kept getting in the way.

  The alibi, oh yes. Herr Wallmann had thought it all out very neatly. And what about those files? He’d forgotten about them, or else he’d thought Scholten was so stupid he’d never notice. The hell with that.

  So he has no idea why Erika was going down to the boat? What a laugh! He knows perfectly well what Erika was looking for on that boat. So does his bit of fluff Fräulein Faust. You bet your bottom dollar she does.

  Then that fool van der Heydt comes out with some tale about slippery steps. And of course Sauerborn takes the bait at once, positively falling over himself to provide an alibi. A watertight alibi. He had to be joking! Maybe Sauerborn’s actually in cahoots with Wallmann.

  Slippery steps after a frost. Rubbish.

  Scholten rubbed his eyes. He felt there was something missing from his chain of thought. Something didn’t fit. He shook his head, took his hand off the steering wheel, muttered to himself: “Just a moment! No point trying to think now, Jupp Scholten. You’ve had too much to drink. Let’s go and have it off with a girl, and then take a good nap. And hope to heaven Hilde doesn’t make a scene again. Then we’ll sit down and think about it at leisure. It’ll be an odd thing if we can’t work out what that fellow was up to.”

  He still had to pass two more motorway junctions before reaching the exit road that would take him to the brothel when his foot suddenly slipped off the accelerator. The car swerved slightly before Scholten was back in control and concentrating on his driving. He swore, looked in the rear mirror, got into the right lane. Here came the next exit. He took it. He looked at the time. “Hell. All the Wops will be there at four.”

  He hesitated a moment at the traffic lights. If he rejoined the urban motorway now he could be at the brothel before it had its rush hour.

  However, he turned off to the city centre instead and looked for a phone box. He looked up the number of the local paper in the phone book and dialled it.

  “Daily News, how can I help you?”

  “My name’s Scholten. I’d like to speak to the person responsible for the weather.”

  “Responsible for the weather?”

  “Well, not like that – I mean whoever writes the weather page in the paper. The weather forecasts.”

  “I’ll put you through to Miscellaneous.”

  “Just a moment, miss, I only want . . .” He listened. Nothing. She’d broken the connection. “How stupid.” He looked out at the traffic, and a nasty idea occurred to him. It had been a mistake to give his name. You never knew. Better to give a false name. As he was still thinking, a man’s voice came on the line.

  “Frings here.”

  “Er, good afternoon, this is – this is Höffner speaking.”

  “Good afternoon, Herr Höffner.”

  “I’d like some information, please. I always read your paper. I take it every day.”

  “Yes? So what can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask if you can tell me whether there was a frost last week. In this region.”

  “A frost?”

  “Yes, if it froze. Slippery roads and so on, understand? Last Friday. In this region. Did you get that?”

  “Yes, of course, but I can’t tell you off the cuff.”

  “Why not? I was told you’re responsible for the weather reports.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well then, you must know. I mean, there can’t have been a frost, can there? We had bright sun all week. On Friday too. Even on Saturday.”

  “Just a moment, Herr Höffner. That was the name, wasn’t it – Höffner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s make sure we understand each other, Herr Höffner. You want to know whether the roads can be slippery with frost in weather conditions such as we had last week, is that correct?”

  “Yes, exactly. Particularly on Friday evening.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll make some enquiries.”

  “What do you mean, make some enquiries? Don’t you know?”

  “Herr Höffner, I’m not a meteorologist. I’m a reporter, understand?”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.”

  “I’ll ask the Meteorological Office for you, Herr Höffner.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “You want to know today?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Okay. Call me back in half an hour.”

  “Can’t it be any sooner? I have some other urgent business. I’m in a phone box.”

  “Okay, let’s say fifteen minutes. Till then, Herr Höffner.”

  “Wait a minute! What was your name again?”

  “Frings, Herr Höffner.”

  “Yes, yes, fine.”

  Scholten hung up and looked at the time. Damn it, the brothel would be bursting at the seams. And Hilde would kick up a fuss. She was never going to believe the wake had gone on this long.

  He left the phone box and walked up and down. He tried imagining the girl in black stockings. They usually wore boots with them. He stared at the pavement, but the picture refused to take shape. That reporter had got him all muddled up. What was the man’s name again? Frings. What a useless idiot! Had to call the Met Office for the answer to such a simple question.

  But the Met Office wasn’t a bad idea. They’d come up with cut-and-dried evidence. Frosty roads in bright sunshine. Total nonsense. They were probably laughing themselves sick at the Met Office.

  Suddenly he saw the woman clearly in his mind’s eye. She wore black stockings and black boots. Her basque was tightly laced, everything spilling out above it. Scholten slowly walked on, looking at the ground. He went as far as the corner, stopped. He stood there for some time. Suddenly he looked at his watch. He swore, hurried back to the phone box. An old woman was just reaching out for the door handle. He opened the door and pushed past the old lady. “Just a moment, I was here first.”

  Someone h
ad been turning the pages of the phone book. Scholten cursed, found the number of the newspaper. Through the glass, he could indistinctly hear the old woman’s voice.

  “Daily News, how can I help you?”

  “This is Höffner, I’d like to speak to Herr Scholten. No, I mean Herr Frings. Herr Frings!”

  “Which Herr Frings? We have two of them.”

  “The one on the weather page. The one who does the weather forecasts for you.”

  “I’ll put you through.”

  Scholten did not turn round. He could still hear the old lady’s voice.

  “Frings.”

  “Höffner here. I’m calling back about the weather.”

  “Yes, Herr Höffner, here we are. Right, listen: in weather such as we had last week – high pressure, no cloud, sunny by day but very cold by night – in weather like that there can easily be frost. Particularly close to water. The atmospheric humidity sinks by night, you see. In temperatures above zero it forms dew, and if the temperature drops below zero it forms frost instead. Is that clear, Herr Höffner?”

  “Are you telling me that’s what the Met Office said?”

  “Oh, come on, Herr Höffner. I feel this conversation is getting a little difficult. I told you I called the Met Office in Essen especially on your behalf.”

  “Yes, yes, all right. Thanks.” Scholten hung up and said: “Bastard.”

  He pushed past the old lady, who was standing close to the door of the phone box as if she intended to bar his way. Raising her voice, the old lady said, “What rudeness, what impertinence! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought!”

  “Go boil your head,” said Scholten.

  He got into his car and sat there indecisively. He looked at the time. “Oh, hell, oh, bloody hell!” But still he did not drive off. He rubbed his forehead.

  Frost on the roads.

  He didn’t believe it.

  Perhaps this Frings hadn’t called the Met Office at all. Too much bother for him. He only said he had. He simply made it up. Scholten had got on his nerves, so he’d done it to pay him out.

  Scholten hit the dashboard with his fist. “I’ll stop taking that paper! They’re not going to fool around with me!” He leaned over to the glove compartment and fished a peppermint out of the roll. It tasted horrible. He wound the window down and spat the peppermint out into the road. A beer would be good now.