“Not so hot.” He clicked his tongue. “You should take better care next time.”
“I want to know how my arm is.”
He crossed his arms and rocked back on the wooden sales of his clogs.
“You have light to medium contusions allover your body and a laceration on your right leg. Your left arm is badly infected. We sewed it up as well as we could.”
As he was speaking, he was performing a kind of mime.
“What do you mean, as well as you could?” I asked, after explaining to him that the laceration was on my leg and not in my brain.
“You’ll have a scar, but,” he smiled, “you won’t think that’s such a tragedy, will you?”
Was he implying that I wasn’t photographic model material, anyway? I told him to go to hell and tried to get off the cot. I slid and dragged myself over to the chair with my clothes on it. They reeked of alcohol.
“Why does everything smell like that?” I asked.
“We disinfected everything.”
I put on my shoes and reeled into the hall. Heckler clip-clopped along by my side. “Come back in two days, or have your own doctor take over.”
I gave him my doctor’s address and said goodbye. It was two o’clock in the morning. The silent hallway was lit by yellow emergency lights. I fired up a cigarette, shuffled through the reception area, and flagged a taxi. The rain had stopped. You could even see the moon. But I was already fast asleep.
DAY TWO
1
A huge rat in a pair of briefs sat on the edge of the bed, making a fiery speech about the forests of Germany as it kept grabbing one of my feet—I had at least ten—and nibbling on it. Then I was crawling on my stumps down an endless tunnel, past men in white coats who were hooting and pointing at me. From the other end of the tunnel a fat woman approached carrying a ringing telephone. She set it down in front of me, I picked up the receiver and said “Hello?” but no one answered. But it kept ringing and getting louder and louder, and I kept picking up the receiver. Finally I woke up, bathed in cold sweat. Someone was leaning on my apartment door bell like a madman. I threw off the covers and dragged myself over to the closet. The Beretta felt comfortable in my hand. According to my watch, it was twenty past five. Who the devil could this be? I touched my left arm. It hardly hurt anymore. The doorbell started ringing again, and now they were banging on the door as well.
“Open up! Police!”
I switched on the light, turned the key, took the safety off the Beretta, and opened the door. It was, indeed, the cops. Four of them. They faced me in a half-circle. One of them saluted casually and asked, “You’re Kemal Kayankaya?”
“As it says on the door.”
“Come with us.”
I stuck the gun in the pocket of my robe and told him what time it was.
“I have a warrant to place you under temporary arrest,” he rumbled, and showed me a piece of paper. “If you resist, I have to put the cuffs on you.”
The fingers of the three others hovered nervously above their pistols. I surrendered, and half an hour later we were at the precinct.
The cell was no more than three square meters, with a light green plastic toilet in a corner. The walls were covered with obscene graffiti. Above me to the right a small ventilation fan whirred. There were no windows. It was a little after seven by my watch. Outside, the sun must have risen.
I lay on a narrow cot, humming popular tunes to myself. They had turned the lights on half an hour ago—bright lights, which penetrated closed eyelids. A cop had brought me a jug of tap water and told me that the superintendent was still busy. The light became unbearable, and I pulled the gray blanket over my head. My cigarettes were in my overcoat, and the cop who from time to time stuck his head through the door refused to get me any. When one of the clowns pulled me out of the squad car, my arm had started bleeding again. I turned to the wall and tried to sleep, but with no success. I could feel the throbbing of the wound in my brain. So I got up and walked two steps forward and two steps back, back and forth, back and forth. Then I started kicking the toilet at one end and banging the peephole window at the other. Less than two minutes later a head appeared.
“What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to stop smoking.”
“Come again?”
“You see a cigarette anywhere?”
He closed the hatch. I heard him say, “Willi, the Turk is freaking out.” I stepped up on the toilet seat and held the blanket up to the ventilation fan. Instantly the stiff fabric jammed the blades. I banged the window again. “What’s the matter now?”
I pointed at the fan. “I’m suffocating.”
He pushed past me and saw the blanket. “Listen here, you asshole, there’s a bunch of buddies back there who aren’t feeling so good because it’s been a fucking long night, and they’d like nothing better than to work you over! So shut up and lie down, you won’t regret it.”
“I want to call my lawyer.”
He gave me a pitying look. Then he roared, “You don’t understand what I’m saying! You don’t even know what a lawyer is, for God’s sake, you goddamn camel driver!”
I grabbed his green uniform collar and pushed him up against the wall. “Now it’s your turn to listen to me. I got out of the hospital at two o’clock this morning, and three hours later you guys pull me out of bed, rip the stitches out of my arm, and throw me in a cell that would make any normal person sick! I want to call my lawyer!”
I let him go and sat down on the cot. He took a deep breath. “Very well, dago. I’ll tell the superintendent that you’re ready for questioning.” He checked the time. “We’ll save the raiding party for another time. I’m off duty.”
I growled something about how I didn’t give a shit, I’d fight all the fucking cops, let them just come by, including the superintendent. He was gone. I ripped the blanket out of the fan and it started whirring again. Then I heard footsteps, and the door opened. Two of them came in, handcuffed me, and took me out of the cell without a word. Our footsteps echoed in the long hallway. They stopped by a wooden bench and told me to sit down. After an eternity of ten minutes, they pulled me to the door facing the bench and into an office.
Behind the desk sat a nice little man with big ears. He looked at me as if he were in the market for a nice red balloon. I was planted in a chair facing him. The two uniformed cops left, and I was alone with the nice little man. He looked down at a piece of paper and read: “Kemal Kayankaya, private investigator. Born in Turkey. German citizen.”
I nodded. He set the piece of paper aside and folded his hands.
“Four years ago I spent a week in Istanbul. An enchanting city. Truly enchanting. And the architecture! Of course,” he lifted his palms in regret, “a little run-down. Not that you don’t see that here too.”
He scrutinized me kindly, fastened his gaze on the handcuffs, and exclaimed with feigned indignation, “These officers! Always so pedantic. They insisted on putting handcuffs on you. But I told them to treat you considerately.” He shook his head. “Please, Mr. Kayankaya, you must forgive us. My staff is still so inexperienced.”
Instead of removing the cuffs, he turned to look out the window, still smiling.
“I gather you have been complaining about the way they’ve been treating you?”
“I just wanted to speak to my lawyer.”
“But you threatened an officer, didn’t you? Do you realize you could be charged for that?” When he turned his eyes back to me, they were cold. “It’s always the really clever ones who demand to speak to their lawyers right away. Are you a really clever one?”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed one of his big ears.
“You’re not answering me. Maybe you’re a really stupid one?”
He chuckled, and laugh lines appeared around his eyes without softening them.
“Well, all right, let that go. You are presently investigating the Böllig case. That does not please me. I want you to resign from th
e job. If you refuse to do so, I’ll ask for a warrant for complicity with the culprit and endangerment of our investigation. I don’t want you to interfere in this case. It gives us the opportunity to uncover certain connections and organizations which we haven’t been able to investigate until now. These things require delicacy and time. The police force does not consist only of idiots. We have been weaving a fine web, and you are about to tear it up, in all sorts of ways.”
I rattled my handcuffs.
“Please take these off.” He got up, put his hands in his pockets, and walked slowly around the desk.
“I’ve gathered some data on you, Kayankaya. You think you’re a tough guy who can stick his nose into whatever he feels like.”
“Is that all you found out?”
He sat down on the edge of the desk and folded his hands over his soccer-ball stomach.
“You’re a boozer.”
“Does that worry you?”
He picked up a metal ruler and pointed it at me. “What do folks drink in your parts? Raki, right? Would you like a shot?”
“No, thanks. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“A cigarette?”
I didn’t reply. He reached across the desk and took a pack of Rothmans from a drawer. Unwrapping it, he asked, “So? You’ll resign from the case?”
“I don’t think so.”
Furious, he tossed the pack in the wastebasket and came closer. I had had enough. I tried to get up, but he pushed me back into my seat.
“You stay where you are until we’ve settled this,” he hissed at me through his teeth. Then he switched back to balloon man, smiled, and said in a low voice, like someone explaining the advantages of an account with their savings and loan association, “Listen carefully, Kayankaya …”
He clasped his hands behind his back and strode slowly back and forth in the room.
“In here, I can beat you within an inch of your life, and no one gives a rat’s ass. On the contrary, I may even get a pat on the back.”
He studied his fingernails.
“Naturally, I prefer another solution. It wouldn’t please me particularly to … Well. Four officers would testify that you attacked me with a knife, and off you’d go to prison for attempted grievous bodily harm. But”—he beamed ecstatically—“things could get much worse.” He patted my shoulder gently. “I could do things to your face, Kayankaya, that would make crashing through a windshield look like cosmetic surgery.”
“You’re really something, aren’t you? You sit there like a saint, relying on a bunch of uniformed hoodlums next door who are just waiting to have a little fun. Then you give me all this tough-guy shit.”
He smiled.
“Mr. Kayankaya, do you really believe that I would call in my officers?” He laughed. “My, my, the ideas you get.”
He giggled quietly as he walked back to the desk. He picked up the metal ruler, held it in both hands, and looked pensively at the floor.
“If you give me your word that you’ll leave this case alone, I’ll take those off’—he indicated the handcuffs, with his chin—” and you may leave. If you don’t …” He cleared his throat. “Well, then I’ll be compelled to give my words a little additional emphasis.”
For a moment he seemed to be lost in thought. Then he looked up and beamed at me. “You may rest assured that I am quite capable of taking care of things all by myself. To quite a satisfactory degree.”
I told him that I was ready to believe in his abilities, but that it would only be fair if he took the cuffs off me first. After all, I said, I too had some talent for physical violence, and would be glad to show him a couple of tricks.
He giggled. “What a card you are.”
Then he moved in close and placed the cold ruler under my chin. “So?”
There were only two choices. I picked the wrong one. I bounded off my chair and rammed both fists into his stomach, but I didn’t hit him just right, and after he had reeled backward for a couple of meters, he was able to sidestep my second try, and I slammed into the desk. Before I could put my guard up, the ruler struck my ear like a red-hot iron bar, slid across my right cheek, and tore it. For several seconds, I became deaf. A fire raged in my head. Slowly the pain subsided. I looked up and saw him standing there, saying, “Tch, tch, tch …” Then he took aim and hit me again, striking my wounded arm. I felt the hot sting. The wound broke open and spurted blood like a firehose. I fainted. When I came to again, the nice little man slapped me in the face. I closed my eyes. He slapped me again. I tried to crawl under the desk, but he caught my ankles by stepping on them. He stood there looking down at me, smiling.
“Now then, Mr. Kayankaya, have I been able to convince you?”
I wanted to tell him “convince” wasn’t the right word, but only managed to spit blood. He took his heels off my ankles and sat down on the edge of the desk. “Get up. You’re making a mess of my floor.”
I pulled myself up. My cheek was throbbing. I dragged myself to the chair. The whole floor was smeared with blood. He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Just a little foretaste. But,” he gave me a pat, “in two or three days you’ll be fit as a fiddle again.”
I closed my eyes. I heard a tap running. Then I received another slap in the face. “I’m sorry, but we aren’t here to enjoy ourselves.”
I held out my wrists. “Take these off and give me a cigarette.”
He grabbed my hair and brought my face close to his. His eyes were like rocks, and he smelled of mouthwash.
“Kayankaya, I’m warning you. If you try to pull anything on me, I’ll make you feel like this was a picnic!”
“Unlock these damn things!”
He let go of me. I fell back. Keys clinked, and he said, in a flutelike voice, “Get up.”
I wrenched myself off the chair and raised my arms. He grinned, and before I could duck, he slammed the bunch of keys into my face. I fell backward and banged into a bookshelf.
“You know what that’s called in court? Resisting state authorities.”
Then he unlocked the cuffs, and I felt a lit cigarette between my lips.
“And don’t forget: This will remain our little secret. I trust you with that.”
Then he sat down behind the desk and said quietly, but just loud enough for me to hear, “Kayankaya will no longer engage in any activities concerned with the Böllig case.”
He wrote that in a small black book, put the book into a desk drawer, and went to the door.
“Hansmann!”
Hansmann, a fat blond with sloping shoulders, shuffled in.
“Get a rag and wipe up the mess.”
He handed him the cuffs. “And rinse those off.”
Hansmann grinned as if to indicate that his boss was the greatest, and disappeared. The boss approached me, holding out his hand, and said, “Well, Mr. Kayankaya, we have reached an agreement, haven’t we?” In a sharper tone of voice: “I do hope you won’t disappoint me.”
He shook my hand, escorted me to the door as if I were his brother-in-law, and wished me a good day. I dragged myself through the hallway to the exit. On my way I passed Hansmann, who was carrying a bucket of water. Shaking her head, the girl at the switchboard watched us go our separate ways.
2
I was working on my third slice of ham on toast in the Hotel Intercontinental’s breakfast room when Max Schwartz came marching in. He is a reliable fellow, and the boyfriend of one of the most beautiful women I know. Unfortunately, she is an alcoholic, and Max is also hitting the bottle, to drown his sorrows. He is a professional electrician and knows how to debug a room. He planted himself in a facing chair, squinted at me with interest, and said, “What on earth did they do to you?”
I gave him a brief report, adding that my doctor had brusquely shown me the door an hour ago after I had refused to take to my bed. Max looked around the large, impeccable room until he located the small group of waiters standing by the buffet and waiting for a soft clapping of hands. Max signaled to
them and ordered coffee and Scotch. I abandoned my good intentions and did likewise. Around us, bankers took their seats. Young, tanned professionals, all of the same model, trim and fit. They ordered lox and champagne and appeared to be in excellent spirits.
I pondered what I would look like behind a desk in a bank. “So what’s up?” asked Max.
I lit a cigarette.
“Yesterday afternoon I started looking into the Böllig case. Last night the cops came to get me and beat me up until I promised to leave well enough alone. I need to know who tipped them off—or if and how they managed to find out, all by themselves.”
“You want to know if they bugged your office?”
“Not mine. The attorney’s.” A little later, when the gentlemen next to us had elevated their mood with bubbly to the point of expounding and exchanging useful advice on the gliding capabilities of secretaries and prop planes, we paid and left.
A small señora in a brown smock, holding a bucket and a mop, came to the door. With many expressive gestures, she explained that she was Dr. Anastas’s Spanish cleaning woman, and that he had not told her anything about our visit. After I too waved my arms a lot, to reassure her that I had recently joined Dr. Anastas’s team, she allowed us to enter, albeit with some hesitation. Max started putting his equipment together in the entrance hall while I went in search of potables and found a refrigerator in the library. I returned with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. I had just poured them and persuaded the Spanish lady to have one when the phone rang. It was Anastas. I explained to him why I was there. He confirmed that my nice little man was a Detective Superintendent Kessler, and stated that he did not want any trouble with the police.
“You don’t want any trouble with the cops, you don’t want any trouble with your clients. You want me to spend my time playing ping-pong?”
He begged me to keep the lowest possible profile. “That’s just great,” I said, and hung up.
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