Black Ice

by Hans Werner Kettenbach

  And how would Inge have got back to town? Wallmann was already on his way. He had his alibi to think of.

  Scholten rubbed his forehead. Then he smiled to himself. How silly. It was perfectly simple. She got back to town the way she came to the house. In her own car.

  She had hidden her car in the wood before they set off on their sailing trip. No, wait. That would have been too risky, leaving it for five days. And why bother? They had simply put her car in the garage with Wallmann’s. And when they came back with the boat on Friday afternoon they had taken her car out and hidden it behind a bush somewhere. Then, after pushing Erika down the steps, Wallmann’s bit of fluff got in it and drove home.

  Scholten took another deep breath. He settled in bed and smoothed the quilt out. He closed his eyes. He smacked his lips with satisfaction.

  After a while he felt his penis stiffening. He opened his eyes and listened. Slowly, he drew his knees up and cautiously unbuttoned his pyjama trousers.

  Hilde said: “You needn’t think I’m asleep. I can hear everything you’re doing. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Stop it at once.”

  Scholten turned on his side and pulled the quilt up over his shoulders.

  After a few minutes he fell asleep.

  7

  On Saturday Scholten thought hard about what to say on the phone. He mustn’t make it too long. The police record such conversations. He didn’t know how well he could disguise his voice, and if he went on at length someone might recognize it on the tape. “Hey, that’s Scholten, Superintendent. He’s disguised his voice, but I swear that’s him.”

  When he went downstairs to fetch the newspaper from the letterbox he was muttering to himself: “Check Fräulein Faust’s alibi. Inge Faust, she’s a secretary with Ferdinand Köttgen, Civil Engineering Contractors. The owner of the firm, Frau Wallmann, didn’t die by accident, she was murdered. Check Fräulein Faust’s alibi.”

  He was pleased with the idea of making the first and last sentences identical. You had to show the police where to begin, and the repetition would make sure they got the point. If not, they were just useless. But the whole thing was much too long. They had ways of tracing your call, and before he’d finished they’d know where he was calling from.

  Hell, that was true anyway. He stood motionless on the stairs with the newspaper in his hand. He couldn’t call from home. Or from the office. He’d have to use a phone box.

  That was dangerous. He’d been thinking of putting his handkerchief over the receiver to distort his voice. But he couldn’t do that in a phone box: too much risk of someone seeing him.

  “Shit,” said Scholten.

  The woman from the top floor was coming downstairs. She said: “Good morning.” Scholten stepped aside, smiled and said: “Good morning. How are you today?”

  “Fine, thanks. How about you?”

  “Ah, well – as good as an old man feels when he sees a pretty young woman.”

  “Oh, go on with you!” She laughed. “You’re not telling me you’re an old man, are you?”

  He stepped up to the banisters and watched her on her way down. “That depends.”

  She looked back, laughed and waved to him.

  What bodywork, he thought, good breasts too. He climbed the stairs in his slippers.

  “Who were you talking to out there?” asked Hilde. She had opened the front door of the apartment just a crack.

  He went in past her. “Frau Lewandowski.”

  “What did you have to talk to her about all that time?”

  “Good heavens, she just said good morning, and I asked how she was.”

  “You could have spared yourself that question. Bad people always feel fine. Anyway, it’s not Frau Lewandowski. She isn’t even married.”

  “You want me to say Fräulein Lewandowski to her?”

  “I don’t know why you have to say anything to her at all. You know perfectly well there are always men going in and out of her place.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “But I suppose that doesn’t bother you. Maybe you’d like to go up to her place yourself?”

  Scholten retreated to the lavatory with his newspaper.

  He put the paper down on the edge of the bathtub, propped both forearms on his knees and thought. He silently moved his lips. After a while he had found wording that satisfied him. “Frau Erika Wallmann of Köttgen Civil Engineering didn’t die in an accident. She was murdered. Check Inge Faust’s alibi.” That contained the essentials but wasn’t too long. He could be through with it in six or seven seconds.

  He could leave out the “Frau” too. If necessary even the name of the firm. Instead he might repeat “Inge Faust’s alibi” at the end. Ten seconds, he didn’t need any more to get the message across. Then out of the phone box and off as fast as he could go. There was just the problem with the handkerchief. He couldn’t risk that. Maybe he could whisper? What he was saying must sound distinct, of course.

  Hilde called through the door: “What are you doing in there? Talking to yourself? Don’t stay on the lavatory so long. It’s not healthy.”

  He found no chance all day to get to a phone box. It was obvious he’d have to drive to another part of town. He couldn’t call from the phone boxes near his own apartment. Too many people knew him and might ask: “What was he doing in a phone box? Surely he has a phone at home!”

  When he picked up the shopping bag to go to the supermarket Hilde said she would come too. She was feeling better, she told him.

  Oh, he said, but he wanted to look in at the works again. Wallmann wouldn’t be thinking about the maintenance of the trucks only a day after the funeral, and Rothgerber and Kurowski never did it properly. He was going to the works to make sure the men were cleaning the trucks properly, or they’d arrive at the building sites filthy on Monday morning.

  Hilde said he’d do no such thing. Why were Herr Rothgerber and Herr Kurowski project managers, drawing a higher salary than he did? She didn’t see why he should do their work for them. Or Herr Wallmann had better make him a project manager too.

  Scholten gave up. He felt a certain relief. He hadn’t really thought it all through properly yet. Whispering might not be safe enough.

  At Mass on Sunday morning he had an inspiration. His thoughts had been going round and round in his head, and when the organ finished the prelude Beim letzten Abendmahle he missed the vocal entry. Hilde nudged him, and Scholten joined in, . . . die Nacht vor seinem Tod, with the powerful tenor voice of which he was still rather proud.

  As he sang loudly, clearly giving the note for the people in the pews around him, he could almost have smiled. Of course, that was how he could do it: he could say his piece in a head-voice. Then no one would recognize him easily on a police tape. No one at all, that was certain. They might even take him for a woman.

  But on Monday morning, on the way to the works, he drove past all the phone boxes. Sometimes he couldn’t see anywhere to park; sometimes he reached a set of lights just as they changed to green.

  At six-thirty he turned out of the street into the works’ yard. His car rattled over the deep ruts that the builders’ trucks always left in the trodden mud. The sky was cloudy; it had begun to drizzle. Two windows of the low office building were lighted. The sun, pale and veiled, was just rising above the ridge of the wooded land to the east.

  Scholten wiped his shoes on the scraper outside the door and went in. The soft manmade flooring laid over the wooden boards muted his footsteps. He looked in at the filing room. Rosa Thelen stood there, holding a coffee cup.

  “What are you doing here so early, Rosie?”

  She drank her coffee. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “You ought to go dancing in the evening. Then you’d sleep all right.”

  “Oh, do be quiet.”

  “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.” He went to his locker, hung up his coat and jacket, put on his grey overall.

  Rothgerber appeared in the doorway of the project managers’
office. He was holding the duty notes with the day’s assignments for the truck drivers. “Morning! Here, you could give these out. And tell Wielpütz to drive exactly where it says on that note, none of his side trips.”

  “Yes, yes, calm down. There’s no one here yet.” Scholten took the note and went to join Rosa Thelen in the filing room. “Do you have a cup of coffee to spare for me, Rosie?”

  He sipped the coffee, winked at her. He sang: “Rosie, Rosie, give me your answer, do . . .”

  “Oh, don’t go on like that.”

  “Why not? You know I think you’re fun.”

  “Yes, I know. First you act all friendly, and then you turn mean. Like on Friday. And at a funeral too.”

  “What did I say on Friday?”

  “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.”

  “Oh, that.” He drank more coffee. “But that was a compliment, you know it was.” He lowered his voice a little. “Rosie, how often do I have to tell you your arse makes me randy?”

  He put out his hand, trying to get hold of it. She struck his fingers away. Scholten laughed. He put the cup on his desk and went out.

  Kurowski, out of breath, met him in the doorway. “Lord, what traffic again.”

  “You ought to start a little earlier, Herr Kurowski. Then you’d miss the traffic.”

  “I’m not as daft as you.” Kurowski opened his locker.

  “Dear me, young people today.” Scholten went outside the door. The yard was gradually filling up. Three or four dozen men were standing around. They had put their yellow jackets on and were talking, smoking and yawning.

  Scholten found the truck drivers and gave out the duty notes. Wielpütz looked at his and pushed his cap to the back of his head. “What’s all this, then? Who filled this note in? That Rothgerber?”

  “Never mind who filled it in. You’re to drive exactly the route it says on the note, no side trips.”

  “Fuck him.” Wielpütz threw his cigarette end away.

  “You want to go carefully, my friend.” Scholten pointed to one of the trucks. “Is that yours? Number Four?”

  “Yup, why?”

  “Never heard of care and maintenance of your vehicle?”

  “Fuck you too.”

  Scholten glared at Wielpütz. Wielpütz returned the glare. Scholten said “Like I said, go carefully, mate,” and moved away.

  Rothgerber came out of the hut and discussed the day’s programme with the foremen. The diesel engines of the minibuses and trucks started. Blue vapour from the exhausts drifted through the yard.

  Scholten liked the knocking of the engines, their deep growl, the acrid smell of the exhaust gases. He stood on the scraper outside the door of the office building, put his hands in his overall pockets and watched them leave. He was a little cold in spite of the pullover he was wearing under his overall. It would be warm inside the offices by now. Rosa was probably pouring fresh coffee. He wondered whether he could take another of the black cigars from the box kept for visitors without Wallmann noticing.

  At seven-thirty Scholten was sitting at the little desk in the filing room, opposite Rosa Thelen, drinking coffee, smoking a black cigar and reading the paper. He gave the paper back to Rosa when he heard a car door slam outside, but it was only Büttgenbach.

  Scholten set to work on the filing. Fräulein Faust wasn’t in yet. No doubt that would become a habit now. Scholten looked out of the window. Surely Wallmann wouldn’t have the nerve to take her to bed in his apartment already? But he was capable of anything. In Erika’s house. In Erika’s bed. And Erika herself only just underground.

  Scholten pushed the folder he was holding violently back into its place.

  Rosa Thelen looked up. “What’s the matter?”

  He puffed at his cigar, put it down on the ashtray. “Oh, Rosie, you simple country girl.”

  “Are you starting on that again?”

  “No, no, it’s all right, calm down.” He took another file out of the cabinet, opened it and went to the window. Wallmann needn’t think he could get away with this. He was reckoning without Jupp Scholten.

  He’d call the police on the way home this evening. Evening would be better anyway. He could turn off into a side street and look for a phone box and a parking place at his leisure. There were phone boxes well hidden away down side streets.

  He looked out of the window and moved his lips soundlessly.

  “Keep a watch on Herr Wallmann’s house.” No, this was getting much too long. What was it he’d intended to say again? “Frau Erika Wallmann didn’t die in an accident, she was murdered. Check Inge Faust’s alibi.” Not quite as long as he’d thought. Maybe he could add, “Keep a watch on Herr Wallmann’s house.”

  Inge Faust’s little car came through the gates. It swerved alarmingly and stopped outside the office building. She got out, leaned into the car and came back into view with a stack of mail under her arm. Scholten watched her balancing on one leg and kicking the car door shut with the other. Her handbag impeded her. She tried to hold the stack of mail down with her chin, approaching the door and taking small steps. He heard her struggling with the handle. The door flew open. Inge Faust cried: “Herr Scholten, Herr Scholten, quick!”

  He went out and took the stack of mail from her. She heaved a small sigh – “Oof!” — and smiled at him. “I dropped in at the post office – now no one has to go out for it.” He carried the stack of mail into her office and put it on the desk.

  “But they won’t have had it all ready at this time of day.”

  “Oh, most of it’s just junk mail.” She took her coat off. “I thought you’d be glad if I brought it with me.”

  “Yes, of course.” Standing beside the desk, Scholten spread the mail out with his hand, as if by chance.

  She opened the coat cupboard, looked in the mirror, took her headscarf off and shook out her short curls. Scholten looked at her. As she put her coat in the cupboard he examined her back and then cast a brief sideways glance at the mail.

  He saw the blue envelope at once. It had been franked at the yachting basin’s boatyard and bore the place’s logo, a red and blue pennant in a circle.

  She had taken out her comb, looked in the mirror again and ran it through her hair. She adjusted the scarf at her throat.

  “Shall I open the mail for you?” asked Scholten.

  “Oh, no thanks. I’ll start on it straight away. But you could get me some water. I really need a coffee. Would you be kind enough?”

  Scholten took the jug out of the coffee machine. “How much water?”

  “Enough for four cups please.”

  He went to the washroom, taking his time about it. When he came back she was busy opening and sorting the post.

  “Where do you keep the coffee?” asked Scholten.

  “Oh, you’re so kind! Down there to your right in the little cupboard. The key’s in it.”

  Scholten took coffee and a filter paper out. “Four cups, you said?”

  She laughed. “Herr Scholten, whatever has come over you today? Well, yes, four cups if you don’t mind. I’m sure Herr Wallmann will be here soon too.”

  Scholten elaborately unfolded the filter paper. “Level spoonfuls?”

  “Slightly rounded, please.”

  As he poured the water in she stood up. “There, that’s done.”

  He inspected the filter, put the coffee in, said, as if casually: “Shall I take the mail?”

  “No, I’ll do it. I don’t want to disturb your coffeemaking.”

  She picked up the larger stack of mail, smiled at Scholten and went into the project managers’ office.

  Scholten immediately strode over to the desk, pushed two letters aside and pulled the blue sheet a little way out. It was an invoice from the boatyard, very short. To replacing one tackle (mainsheet). The price of the tackle followed. And the price for labour: half an hour.

  Scholten pushed the blue sheet back and arranged the other two letters on top of it again. He went into the filing room, very n
early forgetting to switch the coffee machine on.

  The cigar had grown cold. He lit it again, puffed at it, triumphantly watched the blue clouds rise. Rosa fanned the smoke away with her hand.

  He’d known it. The bloody bastard!

  Even if he’d only just reached the yachting basin when he called at three, he could have set off again half an hour later. They’d simply taken out the tackle and put a new one in. And the hypocritical bastard acted as if he didn’t know how long he’d have to hang around or when he could be back at the house.

  It was perfectly clear. Erika was supposed to think he was having difficulty in getting his bit of fluff away in time. And that was exactly what she did think.

  Inge Faust was standing in the doorway, cup in hand. “You must make me a coffee more often, Herr Scholten. This is really good!”

  When she had gone again Rosa said: “Well, fancy that. You never think of making coffee for me.”

  “Rosie, your own coffee is unbeatable. She doesn’t know how to make a good coffee, does she?”

  “She may know how to do other things.”

  “So do you. Or even if you don’t, I can teach you. You only have to say the word.”

  “Oh, do give over.”

  Wallmann arrived at eight. He went into the project managers’ office, looked in on Büttgenbach in his little room then disappeared into his own office. He passed the filing room without going in.

  A little later Inge Faust appeared, saying: “Herr Scholten, would you please come into Herr Wallmann’s office for a moment?”

  8

  Only as he entered Wallmann’s office did Scholten realize that he still had the stub of the cigar in his mouth. He reached for it as if lost in thought and let his hand drop to his side, turning it in to hide the cigar stub. Wallmann, gulping coffee, followed the progress of the stub with his eyes. Inge Faust stood bending over the side table, sorting papers.

  “Yes, Herr Wallmann?” said Scholten. Wallmann slowly emptied his cup. He looked at Scholten over it. His eyes were still red-rimmed. He put the cup down. “Scholten, were you at the Jagdweg building site on Thursday?”