The Traitor Blitz

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Edith was very pale; she swayed slightly and her green eyes were huge. She stood there, the gun aimed at my stomach, and began to cry again, and all I could think of was how easily a gun like that could go off—

  "What is it, Edith?" Bertie asked, smiling.

  "Conny " she sobbed, and now the gun was aimed at Irina,

  which didn't make me feel any better.

  "What about Conny?" asked Bertie, in his usual friendly way. "Has anything happened to him?"

  All Edith could do was nod. And the way she nodded made my blood run cold. She still had a finger on the trigger and the safety was off.

  "What's happened to him?"

  She went on crying uncontrollably.

  "Edith!" I cried. "Edith!"

  "Leave it to me," Bertie said sof dy, and asked, "Did he have an accident?" Edith shook her head. Mascara was painting a grotesque tracery on her cheeks.

  "No accident?"

  Edith shook her head.

  "So what happened?"

  "Murder," said Edith Herwag.

  Conny Manners got out of his blue Porsche 911 S and walked slowly across Eppendorf er Baum to number 187, the address we had given him, the house in which Jan Bilka was staying with his friend Rolf Michelsen. Eppendorf er Baum is a commercial street in a good neighborhood. There are stores on the ground floor of most of the houses. Conny could see that there were apartments on the floors above them. He was of medium height, slender, thirty years old, and had been with Blitz four years. Before that he had worked in the central office of the DPA, the German Press Agency, and before that with UP International in their Hamburg office. He was wearing a rust-brown duffel coat, no hat. He had been at home when my message for him came on the teletype. That was at ten minutes to five. Conny confirmed the message and told his friend Edith that he mightn't be back so soon but that he'd call from time to time and keep her informed. She was to take it all down and read it to me when I got there later this evening. Then Conny had driven off in his Porsche.

  He hadn't taken the heavy rush-hour traffic into consideration, and he was furious because it took him almost three quarters of an hour to get to the house on Eppendorf er Baum. Actually forty-eight minutes passed between the teletype from Frankfurt and his arrival at number 187. He crossed Eppendorf er Baum at exactly 5:38 p.m. Two witnesses who saw the whole thing testified to this later. These two witnesses also saw the headlights of a parked Mercedes switched on and off three times.

  This car was parked a little way down Eppendorfer Baum, and the lights were flashed just as Conny began to cross the street. At the third flash a big black car pulled out from the other side of the street. The Mercedes meanwhile moved off and passed Conny as it drove away. The black car was about as far from Conny as the Mercedes had been—approximately a hundred meters.

  Conny had parked in front of a zebra stripe. He began to cross the street on it. The big black car came driving down Eppendorfer Baum. The driver shifted gears and, according to the witnesses, the car was doing at least a hundred kilometers an hour as the man at the wheel made straight for Conny. The car would have run over him while he was still on the crosswalk if Conny hadn't realized at the last moment what was happening and made a desperate jump backwards. The man at the wheel of the heavy car swerved and managed to hit Conny with his left fender. Conny was thrown into the air and came down with a thud on the crosswalk. A pool of blood quickly formed around him.

  Cars stopped, people screamed and ran over to Conny. One of the two witnesses called the police from a nearby phone booth. An ambulance arrived six minutes later from the University Hospital on Martinistrasse, seven minutes later two patrol cars, eleven minutes later two cars from homicide. One of the officers in the patrol car had called them in. And behind them, finally, a car from the Accident Investigation Squad.

  Conny was badly injured. The doctor in the ambulance said he would have to go into surgery immediately. They put him on a stretcher and the ambulance drove off, its siren wailing. The police stayed at the scene for an hour. They questioned both witnesses, took pictures, measurements—a routine investigation. There were some glass shards from the headlights of the fatal car. The police picked them up, together with some small flakes of paint, and put everything in plastic bags.

  While the officers were still talking to the witnesses in their patrol cars, they received a call on the radio. It was very strange, one of the witnesses told Edith later. "First central called the car by its number," the witness had said, "but then the dispatcher's voice said something totally incomprehensible/'

  "What?" Edith had asked.

  '"Capri needs a city pilot.'"

  "What?"

  "Just that." And the other witness had corroborated it. "That's what he said—'Capri needs a city pilot/"

  "And what did the officer say?" Edith had asked, and the first witness had told her. "The officer said, 'Cinnebar crosses the North Pole/" The first witness had added, "I told them it wasn't an accident, it was murder." The second witness told Edith, "That's right. Both of us saw the Mercedes giving that signal with its lights, and we said so. But suddenly the officer who had been questioning, us seemed uninterested. All he said was, *A light signal...is that so?'"

  "The police called just after six," said Edith Herwag.

  We were sitting in Conny's living room. Edith had recovered to some extent, but she still cried a little every now and then. I had found a bottle of whiskey and made her drink some. Conny's whiskey; I didn't want to waste my Chivas.

  "They told me that Conny had been hit by a car and was in the University Hospital. I drove straight there." Now she was crying again and I filled her glass half full. We didn't drink anything. We wanted to hear her story and get on with things, because now we were in more of a hurry than ever.

  "Thank you," said Edith.

  The Colt was lying between us on the table. Edith drank, stopped crying, and spoke in a voice that was strangely flat, almost monotone.

  "I called a taxi. I was at the hospital at ten to seven. Conny was in the operating room. They told me there was no point in my waiting, but of course I waited. It took another hour. At a quarter past eight they rolled him out."

  "Could you see him?"

  "No. He was covered, and a doctor was walking beside him, holding up a bottle with blood in it. I could see the tube, but I couldn't see Conny's arm. I tried to walk alongside the stretcher, but the doctor said no. I began to cry. Then two men in civilian

  clothes took me by the arm and led me to the exit. I screamed and kicked, but they didn't say a word, just dragged me to the exit. A third man standing there told me to take a taxi home, they'd call me when I could see Conny or if his condition worsened or... if he—" She said nothing more.

  "Who were those men?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Were they from the police?"

  "Perhaps. I don't know. It was all so strange. The first two didn't say a word to me, and the third one just a sentence or two, and then they went away."

  "Where to?"

  "Back into the hospital. Of course I ran right back in a few minutes later, and a desk nurse, who evidently didn't know anything, told me that Conny was in a private recovery room on the second floor."

  "Everybody goes to a recovery room after surgery," said Bertie.

  "I know," said Edith. "But a private one? When I finally found the room, there were the two men who had led me away. They were standing at the door and told me there was nothing I could do. I should go home; they'd call me."

  "Did they say they'd call you?"

  Irina was sitting there as if paralyzed, watching Edith and listening to her, and the wind outside was rattling the windows.

  "Yes—no—I don't know. No... they said the hospital would call me. And that Conny was doing all right, all things considered. That's what they told me. A doctor came along and I wanted to talk to him, but they held me back and I couldn't."

  "What did they look like?"

  "Oh... like civil se
rvants. Very strong and middle class. They were dressed that way, too."

  "Young?"

  "I'd say around forty."

  "Did they threaten you in any way?"

  "When I said I had no intention of going home but was going to sit on a bench and wait, one of them said that if I didn't leave right away, he'd take me downstairs and put me in a taxi and tell them not to let me into the hospital again."

  "But that's impossible!" cried Irina, aghast.

  "That's what I would have thought," said Edith, "but it happened. I refused to go away, and he grabbed me and dragged

  me down to the entrance. He got a taxi and shoved me into it and gave the driver this address."

  "But people in the hospital must have seen you I"

  "Only doctors and nurses. The patients were in their beds and all the visitors were gone."

  "And so?"

  "And so nothing," said Edith. "The doctors and nurses never made a move to help me. They behaved as if they didn't even see what was going on. That was when I began to be afraid for my own life for the first time, and later even more."

  "When, 'even more?"

  "After I'd talked to the two witnesses and they'd told me what they'd seen. Of course I didn't go home, not right away. I told the driver I wanted to go to Eppendorfer Baum 187 first. He should wait." She shivered.

  "A little more?" I asked, reaching for Conny's whiskey.

  "No, thank you. No more." Now the tears were running down her beautiful face again. "I can't stop thinking about the blood, the blood on the pavement. Somebody had spread sawdust over

  it, but it had seeped through, and it glittered " She threw back

  her head. "Then I looked for the two witnesses."

  "How did you know about them?" asked Bertie.

  "The first time they called, the officer mentioned two witnesses. He hadn't been briefed yet."

  "Hadn't been briefed? About what?"

  "Well... about... I don't know. Do you?"

  Bertie shook his head; I said, "No."

  "But there must be something going on!" cried Edith. "I mean, the way they behaved toward me—that isn't usual."

  "It certainly isn't."

  "There's something I'm not supposed to find out. And the officer who told me about the two witnesses—he wasn't aware of it yet. Don't you think I'm right?"

  "Probably," I said. "And you found the two witnesses?"

  "Of course. Or I wouldn't know what I've just told you. They told me. But they didn't get the license numbers of the two cars."

  "Who are they?"

  "One of them is the superintendent of number 187, the other one is an antiques dealer. His shop is in the house. They told me all about it in his apartment. The Pole was afraid they'd see me with him."

  I saw Irina quiver. She said softly, "What Pole?"

  "The super," said Edith.

  "The super is a Pole?" I asked, sounding idiotic, but I was stunned; so was Irina, I could see, and I knew both us were thinking of FrSulein Louise and what Pastor Demel had told us about her friends.

  "That's what I said. The super is a Pole," said Edith. "Why are you staring at me like that? The antiques dealer is a foreigner, too. French."

  "A Pole and a Frenchman," said Bertie, and now he wasn't smiling. I had told him all about FrSulein Louise on the way here.

  "Yes, for heavens sake," said Edith Herwag, sounding annoyed. "A Pole and a Frenchman. Living human beings, not ghosts. I didn't make them up. You can go and see them for yourselves. Or do you think I'm hallucinating? Don't you believe me?"

  "Yes. Of course we believe you."

  "Then I don't know what all the fuss is about," said Edith. "They're two very nice, friendly people who happened to be standing on the street when it happened. By the way, the Frenchman isn't well; in fact, he's quite ill."

  "What's wrong with him?" I asked.

  "He has asthma," said Edith Herwag.

  The Kniefall Market was situated diagonally opposite the Blitz publishing house. You could hear the earsplitting noise of the subway construction here, too. The Knief all Market was famous in Frankfurt: a huge white-tiled hall with various booths selling meat, fish—live or on ice—sausage, cheese, vegetables, exotic salads, bread, jams, and liquor. The Kniefall Market sold everything, all of it top quality, and all of it cheaper than anywhere else. Fat, quick little Waldemar Kniefall had a terrific turnover. He catered parties—the most fantastic buffets—with experienced waiters and pretty waitresses. His ideas for expansion were limitless. Back behind the booths the head of the Kniefall clan (sons, daughters, his wife, and two sons-in-law

  worked for him—a strictly family business) had had a bar put up, with barstools, an espresso machine, rows pf bottles behind it, and a few tables and chairs in front of it. Here in this quasi snack bar, housewives could sit down for coffee and have a bite while their orders were being filled. At noon, business people from the neighborhood came, had an aperitif, and ordered a sandwich or the light, fine (and cheap) hors d'oeuvre menu that wasn't fattening and didn't make you sleepy. At noon every seat was filled. But actually things went on like this more or less from noon until evening. People met here and did business here. The market had its own parking lot, to which cars had access now via Grosse Gallusstrasse and Kirchnerstrasse—you couldn't get to it anymore from Kaiserstrasse because of the subway construction. There were always people milling around in the market, there was always something going on. But early in the morning like this, the snack bar was empty. Only one man was sitting there, facing the wall, a glass on the table in front of him. Myself.

  "Another one please, Fraulein Lucie."

  "You've already had one double," said pretty young Fraulein Lucie from behind the bar. She sounded unhappy, but I consoled her: "Don't worry about me. I can take it."

  There was a mirror on the wall in front of me, and I looked at myself with revulsion. A gray face. The eyes that had sparkled with the stimulation of writing were dimmed, the euphoria of earlier was gone. I, who only moments ago had been pounding out my article on the typewriter, cynically, triumphantly—there I sat in the dimly lit bar in the Kniefall Market, weak, bitter, deflated.

  Lucie, blond, dark eyes, twenty, in a clean white smock, put another glass of whiskey and a bottle of soda in front of me on the small table. We'd known each other for quite a long time and she was a little bit in love with me. I could tell; so could everyone who saw her with me. She didn't hide it very well, although she tried.

  Lucie had been working at the Kniefall Market snack bar for two years now. She came from Brandoberndorf, a small town in the Taunus district. In those two years she had had only one boy friend, a pretty fellow; all the girls were after him. He drove a yellow VW with the special delivery mail. Loved Lucie and two-timed her. Decamped with some of her money. Since then she lived by herself in the big city of Frankfurt. Not easy for a young girl.

  Lucie was very worried about me. I knew what she was

  thinking: Why is he always mad when he comes here? Why does he drink whiskey in the morning?

  "Your whiskey, Herr Roland," mumbled Lucie.

  I looked up at her, nodded, smiling—a crooked smile. At once she smiled back, but I only saw her in the mirror. I lowered my head fast, mixed my drink, and took a big swallow. And the jackal was there again. Very close.

  I knew what Lucie was thinking: What's wrong with him? Mumbling to himself. Sounds as if he was swearing. Well, yes, that's exactly what I was doing.

  "A shitty life," I was mumbling. "I'm a fool, a bastard! Oh, God, what a mess I've made of my life!" Then I began to think: Nothing new about that. But I'm thirty-six. Time to balance the books, no? So... whored around, wild as hell, wasted my life, wasted my talents. I was talented once. Oh, yes. Then I used to write good things. All last year's snow—

  'The hell with it!" I said aloud this time. Lucie was washing glasses and watching me. Her lower lip was trembling. "Bastard I Fink!" I said to myself this time. Ace writer. Make a fortune, s
pend a fortune... lucky son of a bitch!

  Fd been indulging in this sort of soul-searching for seven years now, always in this cool, dim place, long before the arrival of Lucie. Another girl had been behind the counter then, and another, and another—such a lot of girls! Who could keep track of them?

  The telephone behind the counter rang. Lucie took the call. "It's for you, Herr Roland."

  I got up and walked over to the phone, my glass in my hand. After saying, "Roland," I finished my drink and shoved the glass across the counter with a gesture that indicated I wanted a refill, and Lucie nodded sadly. I had my bottle of Chivas here, too.

  With a thick Berlin accent a woman's voice said, "Hello, Waltah! They told me at your office I could get you at Kniefall."

  I said, "Hello, Tutti. What's new?"

  I knew Tutti through a documentary on prostitution in Frankfurt. A darling girl. Gertrude Reibeisen was her real name. She called herself Tutti because she found the name Gertrude ugly.

  My old friend Tutti answered with the one word. "Leichen-mullah! "

  "So he's with you?"

  "Ill say, he's with me. And I can't get rid of him. Every time

  the same geschiss. But this is his last performance, I'm telling you I If he shows up here once more, Max'll cut off his balls!"

  "Where's Max?"

  "Right here. Want to speak to him?"

  "No, Tutti. I don't want to speak to Max, I want to speak to Leichenmuller."

  "Oh... you want him. Well, he's lying on the bed and says he won't move. Says he wants more." Her voice was low as she went on. "I'm not holding this against you, Walto/i. It's not your fault. I'm only calling you because you said I should if Leichenmulla/i acted up again."

  "And I'm glad you called me, Tutti. It was good of you."

  "Quatsch, lover boy! You know I like you. Why don't you come and snuggle down in my nest some time? Listen, Walta/i, I've had Lefchenmiilla/i here since Friday. Max says I should shut up. Says, 'He pays, don't he?' As if money was all that mattered. Nobody thinks of my poor pussy!"

  "He's been there since Friday?"

  "Three days. Yeah. I don't have nuthin' against a few hours, but I'm beginning to feel like a hombrekker."