Then he asked, “Fingerprints?”
“I’m sorry, but I still had a lot of errands to run, the kind where I look to have that thing on my person.”
He closed his eyes as if all this were just too much for him, and put the gun aside.
“Don’t tell me this Kollek is dead too. Or else why didn’t you bring him along?”
“That’s right. Kessler plugged him a little while ago.”
Kessler raised his arms in regret and said in a tone of voice that mimicked remorse, “He was trying to avoid arrest. Unfortunately, I slipped on the rug. A stupid affair.”
With a quick glance at Lubars, he added, “I’ll probably be transferred.”
“I see, I see,” said the public prosecutor, not knowing what else to say. Then, when he found something: “It all sounds quite plausible. But how do you arrive at the accusation that Mr. Kessler has had an involvement with this matter that goes beyond his professional duty?”
I lit a cigarette and prepared Lubars for things to come by placing Kessler’s calendar on his desk. It gave me courage.
“You remember the uproar about the Rhein Main Farben plant?”
Lubars looked irritated, as if I had been about to tell him a joke.
“Those were the people that sold mustard gas to Iraq, and soon after wanted to open a branch factory in Vogelsberg. Because of recent events, many people opposed the idea, and the Rhein Main Farben bosses had to come up with something to change what Kessler refers to as ‘public opinion’ in this nice little book. Nothing changes public opinion in this country more effectively than two sticks of dynamite, a murdered employer, and a grieving widow. Well, maybe the sad death of some dogs … In any case, such a deed calls for revenge, and the best avenger is one who despite such tragic setbacks continues the lifework of the deceased. In this case, the field of chemical industry. So by all means, let’s have the new factory in Vogelsberg. That was Kollek’s and Kessler’s plan.
“Kollek also saw this as a wonderful opportunity to take care of his private affairs with the Bolligs. His suggestion to make Friedrich Bollig the martyr was taken up with alacrity, since the firm is insignificant and has no major economic connections. So Kollek, with Kessler’s assistance, recruited those four boys to set things in motion. But what Kollek didn’t know-since he didn’t have access to this little calendar of Kessler’s-was that he too was slated for liquidation sooner or later. Tonight he was liquidated.”
Without looking at either Kessler or Lubars, I picked up the calendar, opened it to the relevant page, and pushed it across the desk again.
“Kollek got paid for his part in the plot. I don’t know where he and Kessler first met. Kollek came to Frankfurt in sixty-nine. He may have taken care of things for Kessler on previous occasions, or he may have been an effective informer. All I know is that they knew each other.”
Then I tried to describe the conversation I had heard through the Bollig villa’s kitchen window in as much detail as I could. Kessler was poker-faced. His eyes had become dark, narrow slits. Only his right index finger tapped quietly on the armrest of his chair. Lubars’s hands shook as he picked up the calendar. Then he swallowed and said, “Who is M?”
I was able to help him. “Well, that’s not too hard to figure out. The Mayor of Frankfurt is also the legal adviser to Rhein Main Farben. His wife owns a handsome packet of shares in that outfit. So M. stands for the Mayor. Kessler hasn’t spent much effort on coding his notes here. The Mayor was the connection to Rhein Main Farben; he may have been the instigator of the whole thing. In any case, it was he who got Kessler started on the plot.”
Slowly Lubars laid the calendar aside. He was clearly looking for a hole to hide in. He bent forward and said, with great effort,
“Mr. Kessler … What do you have to say to that?”
For a while Kessler didn’t say anything. Then he laughed for a while, sounding like a hysterical old woman. And then he stopped and said, quite calmly, “What could I have to say to that? It is incredible.”
Lubars mumbled, “Yes, that’s what I thought.”
I stood up, furious. “Stop playing games! It’s all in that fucking book! Or do you think the Superintendent just scribbled that in there for fun? What about Kollek’s address?”
I pounded on the desk in front of Lubars.
“Why is it in there? Or can’t I read? Or can’t you read? Or can’t anybody here read anything anymore? Tell me-are those cooking recipes or love letters? Tell me!” I was roaring. “Yes, it is incredible, as you gentlemen just noted! But it is verified by this fucking page, in this fucking book, and this book happens to belong to this fucking superintendent, and it’s his fucking incredible story … But is it my fault that it’s incredible?”
I rounded on Kessler. “And if you keep on staring at me like that, like some overstuffed carp, I’ll punch your nose through your head so it leaves a hole for the daylight to shine through!”
Then I picked up the next handy object, a full ashtray, and threw it against the wall. After that I sat down.
For at least two minutes the only sounds in the room were my heavy breathing and Lubars’s quiet cough. Someone said, “Mr. Kessler?” someone answered, “Yes.” I didn’t give a damn. I had done my bit, let them sort it out. I closed my eyes and thought about mild summer evenings in the grass, champagne in my head, and a flock of nut-brown girls in heaven. In the meantime, Kessler presented his version. The notes concerning M related to private matters, and Kollek’s address had come to his notice in the course of the investigation. After all, he too had been looking for the fifth man. And Lubars said, “Aha, I see.”
I opened my eyes when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Lubars’s,
“Mr. Kayankaya, I must ask you to tell me the name of the suspect in the murder of Barbara Bollig.”
I took my time lighting a cigarette.
“And if I don’t?”
“Please don’t damage your position any more than you already have. Otherwise I’ll have to arrest you as an accessory to murder.”
I stood up and let the smoke trickle slowly through my lips. I pointed my cigarette at Kessler, who was about to put on his overcoat.
“And what about him?”
Lubars took a deep breath that made his nostrils flutter.
“Mr. Kayankaya, I must warn you to keep such bizarre accusations to yourself in the future. I do not know how you arrived at such incredible conclusions, but I advise you to concentrate on a correct chain of evidence when you deal with another case. Mr. Kessler has been kind enough to refrain from a libel action.”
The tip of his tongue briefly touched his upper lip.
“Do you understand me?”
I felt petrified. Only when Kessler wanted to pick up his calendar, I bounded to the desk and grabbed it before he could get to it. Fists on hips, he snapped at me, “My calendar, please. You won’t get a chance to steal it a second time.”
Without undue haste, I pocketed the little book. He came at me, tried to grab me. I rubbed my chin. “If you touch me, I’ll beat you to a pulp.”
He desisted. Lubars closed his eyes. Kessler said, “I must ask you not to leave town during the next couple of weeks. Your theory about the murder of this Schmidi does not sound convincing. It happened in your apartment, with your gun, and you did not notify the police. I am the superintendent in charge, and I will investigate your statement carefully. My calendar, please. Or,” he cast a reproachful glance at Lubars, “would you prefer to stay here? I have all kinds of things on you, and the only reason I’m letting you go is to give you a chance to come to your senses and forget about your crazy story.”
It was true, he could have nailed me. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to attract as little public attention as possible. I didn’t feel like spending a night in a cell. I tossed the calendar on the floor in front of his feet. And that was that.
Leaning against the desk, I murmured to myself, “Great, Kayankaya.”
Long afte
r Kessler had left with an ironic salute, I was still standing there. Lubars went to his desk, shuffled some papers, and finally said, “I am sorry, Mr. Kayankaya.” After he had let those weighty words sink in, he went on, “It may well be that your story was close to the truth-but you see, the Mayor … A couple of ambiguous entries … that’s not enough … And with such an accusation, I would be putting my head on the chopping block.” He sighed, and repeated, “I am truly sorry.”
I contemplated my shoes. “Why are you so afraid of Kessler?”
He picked up his briefcase, and we left the office.
“Well, he has a lot of influence, and …” He locked the door, turned, looked at the floor. “It is well known that he and the Mayor are very close.”
7
Slibulsky was trying really hard to be nice. We drove through the dark streets, raindrops dancing in the headlight beams. Small bolts of lightning flashed above the rooftops.
Slibulsky said, “Make a wish, I’ll make it happen.”
I thought for a minute while we were driving around a building site.
“I’d like Whitney Houston to sing for me. With just the two of us in the room.”
I really meant it.
“Who is that?”
I put out my cigarette, leaned back, and said, “Oh, never mind.”
When we stopped at the next streetlight, Slibulsky asked, “Where the hell are we going?”
“I dunno. Let’s just drive around a little longer.”
For a long while, neither one of us said anything. The engine hummed reassuringly. I pulled the bottle of Russian vodka from under the seat.
“Can you send things like this to someone in jail?”
Slibulsky looked doubtful. I pushed the bottle back and looked out the window.
“You know, I know this little bar, it’s really a nice joint, soft music and so on …”
I shook my head. “No, what I need now is loud music, well-rounded girls, and my head so full of beer that you can hear it sloshing around. Let’s go to Sachsenhausen.”
Slibulsky turned around, and we drove to Sachsenhausen.
Just as we entered the tavern, which, like all Hessian taverns, had an incomprehensible name, all the lights went out. We pushed through a chaos of lighters, candles, and howling patrons, and found seats at a table occupied by young men in their twenties. They were telling each other manly little jokes and downing quantities of hard cider. One of them had packed it in. He was resting his head on the tabletop and snoring intermittently.
After we had waited long enough, I got up and collared a waiter. He screwed up his eyes.
“Twelve beers? Just for you?”
“There’s two of us.”
“I see,” he said, and I went back to Slibulsky. A little later the waiter wound his way through the rows of tables with a huge tray, unloaded it in front of us, and wished us good luck.
Behind me, some guy was slapping the table and shouting, “Hey, you guys, just think what it would be like to have a woman made out of beer. Just imagine! She’d be something! Just imagine!”
He sighed, and slumped against his neighbor’s shoulder.
Slibulsky and I limited our exchanges to remarks like “Not bad, this beer,” “Right, not bad at all.”
The youngsters next to us were now busy scanning the hall for something to, as they put it, “slide over.” A thin guy with bad teeth and short sweaty hair slapped my shoulder. “Look at that, buddy, that one over there! What a piece! Look at her boobs!”
The one right next to me roared, “Hey, Charlie, that’s a Turk you’re talking to! Turks only like women with huge asses. No head, no legs, just an ass, you know? This big …”
I told the thin guy to take his paws off me, and asked the other one to step outside. He was a sturdy type with a square jaw and blond curly hair. His gaudy shirt was unbuttoned down to his crotch. The other boys looked at him expectantly. He got up slowly, and when two others wanted to follow his example, he waved them off. “I’ll take care of this.”
I asked Slibulsky to take care of the check. We wouldn’t be coming back.
Once we were outside the door, the blond wasn’t quite sure what was supposed to happen next. I took advantage of that, and quickly punched him on that square jaw, hard enough to take care of things. He staggered, fell down, and didn’t get up. Slibulsky appeared soon after, and we marched to the car. I was tired. We drove off, and I started to snore after the first hundred meters.
A police siren woke me up as we were passing the main railroad station, and I asked Slibulsky to stop. I managed to get out of the car, reeled into the Traveler’s Shop, bought a bottle of Chivas, and reeled back. Slibulsky eyed the whisky morosely and opined, “You don’t give up easily, do you?”
I shook my head and went back to sleep.
Finally we stood in front of my building. Slibulsky leaned forward in the driver’s seat. His voice was low and hoarse. “You’re a pretty good guy, Kayankaya.”
“Un-hunh,” I agreed, and got out. He drove off. I tottered through the rain toward the front door, holding the Chivas with both hands. Suddenly a shadow detached itself from the wall.
“I’ve been looking for you all day. Two hours ago, Detective Superintendent Kessler himself called the editorial office to let us know that the four suspects are more or less innocent. The fifth man, someone named Kollek, had just been using the four to trick the police. Can you imagine?”
Carla Reedermann waved her hands excitedly, then looked at me with compassion. “I’m so sorry for you. You tried so hard. And the idea about the informer wasn’t so bad, but … Anyway, I came to tell you this so you wouldn’t have to read it in the papers. And Anastas wants to apologize. He admits that he was a little … grumpy yesterday.” She smiled winsomely.
First I grinned, then I laughed out loud, laughed like an idiot, unable to stop.
“I don’t understand …”
“Never mind, sweetie. You understand lots of other things.”
She looked confused, took a turn on the pavement, then said quietly, “The only thing I can’t figure out is, who attacked Anastas?”
I tried to light a cigarette, but the rain kept extinguishing it, so I stopped trying.
“Well, Kollek, for instance, maybe together with Kessler, or with the Mayor, or with me … or was it our Father in Heaven?”
Her hair and her overcoat were soaking wet. It was a pleasant sight, even when she got furious. “What is it you want? First you act as if you didn’t give a shit, then you act like a wild man who won’t give up on the case, and now you don’t give a shit again.”
I raised my arms.
“What do I want? I want some beer. More beer! Much more beer!”
Then I pushed past her and staggered down the sidewalk. Halfway to the door she caught up with me, said, “I’m sorry,” and asked me if she could come up to my place.
I thought it over for a moment.
“There’s a dead guy up there. Not a pretty sight. Maybe some other time … Not now, I don’t think.”
I left her standing in the rain.
Then I was in my apartment. I wrapped Schmidi in two old bedsheets and dragged him out onto the landing. I poured myself a glass of Chivas and leaned against the window. A cat screeched, and down in the street someone shouted, “Red Front!”
I stood there for a while and stared at the rain.
JANUARY 1987
REAGAN CALLS FOR FINAL SOLUTION OF PALESTINIAN QUESTION
Gaddhafi wore jeans!
Theo Sontag’s political commentary: Was this a trick?
LEAK IN BIBLIS NUCLEAR REACTOR
The Minister of the Interior says, “Radiation negligible, no cause for concern among local population” and warns against “unfounded panic mongering.”
U.S. DEFENSE SECRETARY ADDRESSES NATO
“We want a second-strike capability that renders a third strike impossible.”
“BUT OUR WOMEN ARE MORE HONEST”
; The Federal Chancellor in Bangkok at the end of his Asian tour.
FORMER MAYOR OF FRANKFURT DECLARES HIMSELF WILLING TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT OF FEDERAL REPUBLIC
Verdict as expected in Bollig case
The four accused were sentenced to two years’ imprisonment without probation. Many questions on the role played by Herbert Kollek remain unanswered. In his summation, the Public Prosecutor again stressed “the basic attitude of hostility against the state” of the accused.
In the eighty-ninth minute of the game, the Stuttgart team scored a regrettable goal and caused Gladbach to lose 2–1.
I put the newspaper away and dropped two aspirins into the glass. It was Saturday, ten o’clock in the morning. Outside it was snowing like hell. Next to my cup of coffee lay two letters, one from the Public Prosecutor’s office, one from the Preungesheim Prison administration. I tore open the one from the prosecutor and read my third summons to be interviewed in the Schmidi case. Kessler kept on working hard to get me put away for murder. The one from the prison I held in my hand for a while. Then I opened it carefully. I was informed that Nina Scheigel, nee Kaszmarek, had died in the night between the second and third of January. According to her wishes, I was being notified of the event.
I drank my aspirin, lit a cigarette, and sat there smoking until the phone rang. It was Slibulsky.
“Two o’clock, at Karate’s?”
Sure, I said, and hung up. Then I made some fresh coffee.
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Document ID: fbd-aa42c8-13df-c642-c180-c261-572d-b12f0c
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Document creation date: 17.01.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.34, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
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Jakob Arjouni
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