When he was behind the trees the yacht turned and began running before the wind. A woman in a yellow jacket was sitting at the tiller; a man was crouching in the boat. They were both looking straight ahead.
Scholten mopped the sweat from his brow. He stood there for a good ten minutes until the yacht, now very far away, had disappeared around the next promontory. Slowly he went back.
There was no real point in it any more. The idea of the cords couldn’t be right. The nails would have left marks in the stringboards of the steps.
He stood there in the bay, his hat on his head, his coat and jacket over his arm. He gritted his teeth. Bastard. Oh, you bloody bastard.
After a while he moved towards the steps. He turned, put his coat and jacket down behind a tree. Then he climbed the steps one by one, very slowly. He stopped on the landing. He stared at the steps above it. He rubbed his brow and shook his head.
Suddenly he bent down. He ran his thumb over the front edge of the first plank above the landing. Then he kneeled down, but finding that he couldn’t get his eyes close enough to the plank in that position he lay flat on the landing of the flight of steps. He put his eyes very close to the front edge of the plank, rubbed his thumb over the wood again.
Hope stirred in him.
11
There was no doubt about it. Those were fresh nail-marks. The nails had been knocked into the front of the plank forming the tread of the step, four of them side by side at intervals of about six inches, almost exactly in the middle of the wood. They had been good strong nails.
Scholten sat down on the landing, rubbed both hands over his face. He looked at the steps to his left. Then he found the same marks in the second plank above the landing. Four fresh nail-holes at roughly the same distance from each other.
He became extremely excited, moving so impulsively that he caught his trousers on a splinter on the landing and pulled a thread out. He took no notice, got down on all fours and crawled up the steps, plank by plank.
Nothing else came to light. There were no marks on the top three planks. The nails had been only in the two directly above the landing, four nails in each of them.
Scholten sat on the top step. He looked out at the lake, but he did not see the blue water, the calm and shallow waves that the wind blew before it, he did not see the glittering reflections of the sun or the mist blurring the outline of the opposite bank.
He was certain that he was on Wallmann’s trail now. But he still couldn’t make sense of his discovery.
Nails in the fronts of the steps; you couldn’t fix anything in those to make a really effective mantrap. You could, of course, stretch cords up and down, from plank to plank. And perhaps someone might catch a foot in them. But if the death-trap was to function at all reliably, if someone was to stumble over them and fall, then the cords would have to be stretched lengthways. And above the planks, not along their front edges.
Scholten struck the palm of his left hand with his clenched right fist again and again. The bastard, the goddamned bloody bastard! It must be possible to find out what he’d been up to somehow!
He rose ponderously, stood there for a moment and then went slowly down the steps. He turned on the second step and climbed down backwards, very slowly, running his eyes over the planks one by one. He counted the eight nail-holes, but he found nothing else.
He did not stay on the landing but went on climbing backwards down the steps. His eyes were already inspecting the next step when he froze. He leaned well forward.
Yes. The outside plank of the landing had nail-holes in it too. Four of them again, below the edge of the plank at intervals of about six inches from each other.
He straightened up and examined the landing. It consisted of three planks fitted side by side. They were set at an angle to the five upper planks, the steps leading up to the space behind the garage. The planks of the landing were fitted in the same direction as the fourteen steps below it that went down to the sandy bay.
Scholten ran his hand under the outside plank. He could feel the nut of the bolt fixing the plank to the angle-iron. The nut was very smooth. He withdrew his hand and looked at it. There were traces of grease on his fingertips.
He felt for the bolt on the opposite side. Its shank and the nut were smooth too.
Scholten inspected his fingertips. Suddenly he lay flat on the landing again. His hat fell off; he caught it and put it down on a step. He felt for the bolts under the two planks above the landing, putting his head as close as possible to get a clearer view of the nuts and the shanks of the bolts.
There was no doubt about it: those bolts had been greased not long ago too.
Scholten propped one arm on the landing. He was breathing heavily. He looked over his shoulder at the lake. The triangular sails of two yachts were moving past the opposite bank. A few white clouds stood above the hilly outline of the woods, very far away.
He took a couple of deep breaths and then lowered himself again. He tried undoing the nuts with his fingers. It was difficult; they were quite tightly screwed on. He thought of going back to the car for his monkey wrench, but he was too impatient.
He managed without a tool. His thumb and forefinger were left sore and bleeding, but after a good half hour he had taken out the two planks above the landing and the three planks of the landing itself. There was now a large hole yawning in the flight of steps. He had carried the planks down the steps one by one and put them on the landing stage.
After carrying the last plank down he sat on the landing stage and dangled his legs. He wiped his thumb and forefinger with his handkerchief, licked the wounds. He rubbed his forehead and neck dry. Then he stood up and examined the planks again, one by one.
When he took the planks out he had discovered something that couldn’t be coincidence, couldn’t be mere chance: each of the five had nail-marks not just in front but all the way round the edges. There had been four nails on each of the long sides and two on each of the narrow sides. And all the marks were still fresh.
And the bolts holding those planks to the angle-irons on the left and the right of the stringboards had all recently been greased. The grease was still pale and soft.
There was only one explanation: Wallmann had done it. He had taken the five planks out, knocked the nails into their sides and greased the nuts and bolts.
But why? Scholten looked up at the hole in the steps. Yes, if Erika had gone down to it she’d have lost her footing. That had been his first idea: Wallmann had simply removed the five planks and Erika fell through the hole.
But he immediately had reservations about that explanation.
The risk to Wallmann would have been too great. Such a huge hole in the steps was too conspicuous. Anyway, the nails didn’t fit a plan like that. Why would Wallmann have knocked the nails in if he were only going to remove the planks? It made no sense.
Yes. Why had he knocked those nails in? In all, twelve of them around each plank.
Scholten stared up at the hole in the flight of steps. Suddenly he felt hot. For God’s sake, if someone came along now hiding would be no use at all. That hole could be seen even from the water.
He glanced quickly at the lake. A yacht was tacking against the wind not very far away. He took the first plank and ran up the steps.
Twenty minutes later he had reassembled the five planks. He had tightened the nuts as well as he could with his sore fingers, swearing out loud now and then.
He sat on the landing of the steps and stretched his legs. The yacht had turned away. He dabbed at his injuries and licked them. They hurt like hell. He looked at his watch. Oh, Christ, past twelve already.
Just before one, Scholten stopped at a village pub. A very fat young woman came out of the kitchen. He asked if he could have lunch there. The fat woman said she could do him a schnitzel and fried potatoes. He ordered a side salad too, drank three beers and a cup of coffee. He selected a black cigar.
Around three-thirty Scholten reached the motorway ring road rou
nd the city. He threw the stub of the cigar that he had been chewing out of the window and started to sing. A snatch from the St Matthew Passion, but he didn’t know how it went on. He changed to a cheerful dialect song, and then he chanted: “Wallmann, Wallmann, just you wait . . .”
He drove to the brothel. The woman he chose after a short inspection did her job very well. She was friendly too. When he was lying on top of her she even smiled at him.
Soon after four-thirty Scholten parked outside the front door of his building. As he got out of the car a heavy weight seemed to descend on him; what was he going to say if Rosa Thelen or Inge Faust had called to ask how he was?
He’d meant to think something up, but he had entirely forgotten.
He wondered whether to walk round the block thinking up a story and then tell Hilde he’d been kept late at work. No, that wouldn’t do. She was probably standing at the window; she’d have seen him already.
Suddenly fury overcame him. He opened the front door and climbed the stairs. As he reached the first floor he said out loud: “Does this place always have to stink so bad?”
Hilde was already in the doorway of the apartment. She said: “Who was that you were talking to?”
“No one.”
“No one? You were talking so loud to no one?”
“That’s right.”
She closed the door. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Me? Why would anything be the matter with me? Maybe something’s the matter with you.”
“Me? Well, there isn’t.” Her voice was very thin.
He felt calmer. Obviously no one had called. He said: “Yes, well, never mind. I’ve had a busy day, I’m feeling a bit edgy.”
“Just edgy? Or aren’t you feeling well?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“Then you go and sit down.” She hesitated and then said: “Maybe you’d like a beer?”
“Yes, indeed, a beer might do me good.” He went into the kitchen, sniffed. “What’s for supper, then?”
“Curly kale and smoked sausage.”
“Delicious.”
The cat came and rubbed around his legs. He bent down and stroked the animal. “There now, good little Manny. So what have you been doing today? Come along and tell me.”
12
He did not manage to solve his problem over the weekend, although he thought about it in every free minute Hilde allowed him. It simply made no sense to take those five planks out, hammer nails in all round them and then remove the nails again and fit the planks back into the steps. Something was missing from the chain of events. But what? Perhaps he had missed seeing something. Or perhaps it was hidden in the house: a clue, the missing link that would fit everything together and make sense of it.
He had to get into the house as soon as possible and look around. But suppose the bastard didn’t send him over there at all? Perhaps he’d found someone else for the odd jobs?
At midday on Monday Wallmann looked in at the filing room when he came back from the building sites. Rosa had gone out. Scholten was just in time to hide the copy of Der Spiegel that Rothgerber had lent him.
Wallmann said: “Herr Scholten, if this weather holds, maybe you could drive up to the house by the lake this week and paint the shutters.”
It was with difficulty that Scholten hid his glee. He looked out of the window, said, “Yes, fine,” and nodded.
“Or would you rather not?”
“What’s that got to do with it? It’s high time those shutters were painted. Didn’t you want the deck of the boat done too?”
“I’ll have to supervise the deck myself. But the mainsail will need cleaning. You could do that.”
“And something should be done about the weeds,” said Scholten. “But I can’t do it all in a day.”
“I’m not asking you to. Why not drive up there on Thursday and stay overnight? And if you’re not through with it by Friday evening you can finish the job on Saturday morning. I’ll pay.”
“Well, yes, but that’s difficult because of my wife. I mean, I can’t leave her alone that long. And then I have to go shopping on Saturday.”
Wallmann hesitated briefly. Then he said: “Why not take your wife with you?”
Scholten shifted in his chair. “No, I couldn’t do that,” he said. “It would get her too agitated. She can’t take that kind of thing.”
“Well, I expect you know best.”
Scholten said: “But maybe I could drive up on Wednesday. Then I’d have until Friday evening to do the job. That’s still two nights, of course . . .”
Wallmann said: “I’ll pay.” He took out his wallet, removed two hundred-mark notes from it, added a fifty and put the money down on Scholten’s desk.
“Yes, fine,” said Scholten. “Thanks very much.”
Wallmann said: “You can go and buy the paint and stuff this afternoon if you like. Or tomorrow morning. Come into my office afterwards, and we’ll think what else you need.”
Scholten left the office at three and drove to the DIY store. He bought paint and turpentine substitute, a couple of paintbrushes and a scrubbing brush. He wheeled his laden trolley into the car park and stowed everything into the boot of his car. Then he looked around. He hid one of the two hundred-mark notes that he had already put in his coat pocket under the mat inside the boot.
He said nothing about it to Hilde that evening. When he came home on Tuesday evening he was already muttering to himself on the stairs. As he hung his coat and jacket on the coat-rack he cleared his throat loudly several times.
Hilde asked: “Is anything wrong?”
He grunted, went into the bedroom and put his slippers on. She followed him. “What’s the matter?”
He shook his head. “Oh, just feeling annoyed. I don’t want to do it, but I have to go up to the house by the lake again this week.”
“Herr Wallmann’s weekend house?”
“Yes, where else? The shutters need painting.”
“And you have to go up just for that? You’re not a painter at Herr Wallmann’s beck and call! Why don’t you tell him no?”
“Tell him no? Just like that? And how about the money? We just say no to the money, do we?”
“Why are you always going on about money? We can manage. There’s no need to have everything.” Her voice turned not thin but sharp. “How much is he paying you?”
“A hundred and fifty marks. He’s given it to me in advance.”
“That’s ridiculous. He’d have to pay twice or three times that for a painter.”
“Go on, you don’t believe that yourself. It’s just for two days. And I’m getting my salary at the same time.”
“What did you say? Two days? You mean you’re going to stay overnight?”
He went into the kitchen, with Hilde on his heels. He took a bottle of beer out of the fridge. “I’m driving over tomorrow evening straight from the office. So that I can get things ready and make an early start on Thursday. I won’t get it done in the time otherwise. I’ll be back on Friday.”
“You’re going away tomorrow evening? That’s two nights!”
“Yes, I said so. I tell you, I won’t get it done in the time otherwise.”
“This is unbelievable! You’re doing it just so you can go to Grandmontagne’s bar tomorrow evening. And on Thursday too.”
“Oh, rubbish. Anyway, Granmontansch’s is closed on Thursdays.”
“Don’t say Granmontansch. Why don’t you ever listen to what I tell you? It’s pronounced Graamontanya.”
“Yes, yes, I know you passed your school-leaving exams. But everyone in the village says Granmontansch, and they should know. I mean, he’s not a Belgian.”
She said: “That’s got nothing to do with it.”
He drank his beer while she cast about for a new approach. He asked: “What’s for supper?”
“Smoked pork loin and sauerkraut.”
“Delicious.” But he knew they hadn’t exhausted the subject yet. He sat down at the ki
tchen table in front of the plate she had already put out for him. Sitting opposite, cutting her pork into small pieces, she said: “I know you like going up there.”
“Are you starting on about that again?”
“Who knows what you do there?”
“Oh, sure, I have all the village women come up to the house.”
“Don’t be so crude.”
“Me? It was you thinking something crude, that’s what.”
“No, I was not. That’s a dreadful thing to say.”
“What were you thinking, then?”
She toyed with her sauerkraut. Then she said: “You want to go up there because then you can be away from me for two days and two nights.” Her face twisted. “I’d be better off dead.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“Don’t swear!”
He flung his fork down on the plate. “Shall I tell you something? I have to take what I can get, understand? Frau Wallmann isn’t there now. And that fellow is unpredictable, see? Last week I had diarrhoea, and Fräulein Faust told him I ought to go home. You should have heard how he carried on.”
“When did you have diarrhoea?”
He went on eating. “Oh, never mind. I’m just telling you, that man’s unpredictable. He could easily sack me. And then what? At fifty-eight I’ll be on the dole. I won’t find another job, not like the one I’ve got now.”
She was still toying with her sauerkraut. She said: “I’ve told you often enough, you ought to have looked around for a good profession. And a good training.”
He waved his fork in the air. “So how? Just how?”
“I told you so in 1947 when you were back from POW camp. I even said so in 1943 when we met. But I expect you’ve forgotten.”
“Yes, I know, everything was different in Breslau and much better. People in Breslau took their school-leaving exams.”
“You could have taken them too.”
He waved his fork again. “Didn’t I tell you, my father took me out of secondary school because he couldn’t pay the fees? He was just a postal worker, it was hard for him to find twenty marks a month.” Scholten felt his eyes watering. “He didn’t want to take me out of school, believe me. He wanted me to do well in life. But he had no alternative.”
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