Jakob Arjouni - More Beer

“Did you find out anything?”

“Why do you ask? I’m sure you kept your ears glued to the door. Didn’t you?” She stopped swinging her legs, shrugged. “We did.”

I leafed through papers on the desk. Then Anastas came back and set a bottle of beer on the desk.

“You don’t have anything on Bollig’s private life?”

“Just the usual. Born, married to, and so forth. Why?”

“The most revealing thing about a murder is its motive. And the most revealing thing about a motive is the victim. It’s as simple as that.”

I finished my beer and took my leave, reassuring them that they would be hearing from me.

I parked by the fence and walked over to number five. A wet wind swept down the street and struck my neck like a spray of cold water. Number five was a building from the fifties with a fluted glass door. I rang the bell and waited. Heinzel, Lechmann, and Schmidi. Heinzel and Lechmann and their two buddies were now behind bars, tending their relationship with their attorney Anastas. That left Schmidi, if he was home. The buzzer sounded, and I pushed the door open. Schmidi stood in a doorway, in T-shirt and underpants. He was overweight but not obese; still, his thighs certainly did not indicate a macrobiotic diet.

I wished him a good evening, and he responded but did not budge from the door.

“What’s up?”

“Kayankaya. I work for Dr. Anastas.”

He scratched his hairy belly and scrutinized me.

“The lawyer?”

“Right. Can you spare a moment for a couple of questions?”

“… Awlright.”

He took me to the kitchen, through a short hallway plastered with posters and newspaper clippings. A tattered Japanese paper lampshade lit the room. You could smell the garbage. I sat down at a table that looked homemade and watched Schmidt pick up some empty coffee cups. Then he leaned against the sink and stuck both his thumbs into the elastic of his underpants.

“Go ahead.”

“Were you and Lechmann and Heinzel close?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“All kinds of things. For instance-have you given any thought to the Bollig case?”

He rubbed his unshaven chin.

“Well, what do you think? We’ve been sharing this place for two years.”

“And why do you think those four were arrested so quickly?”

“Didn’t surprise me. Computers and networks and all that shit. Of course it wouldn’t take them long.”

“Were you there when they planned the operation?”

“Oh no, boss. I didn’t know anything about it, and all I know now is what I’ve read in the papers.” He sneered.

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

“Do I look like one?”

“Well, you guys were raised in a dictatorship …”

He grinned. He liked his joke. I lit a cigarette and waited. “Has it occurred to you that the fifth man could have been an informer who ratted on his buddies?”

He leaned forward, made a serious face, and said, “You speak in riddles, chief. I don’t know what you mean by the fifth man.”

“It was in all the papers. There were five people at Bollig’s. One of them is still running around free. The computers don’t seem to be catching up with him.”

“You mean the story by that character who was camping out there? No one believes that.”

“But I do. And I ask myself why the police found those four in only three days, and haven’t been able to find the one guy in seven months. Then I ask myself, how is it possible that four people can deny, so convincingly, that they committed a murder which they clearly …”

“OK, chief, I see what you’re driving at. Not a chance. I have nothing to do with any of it, I don’t know any fifth man, and I’m not the least bit interested.”

He crossed his arms and looked me up and down. More down than up. He was about thirty-five, lived in a run-down apartment, and knew that his train had been and gone. It was obvious that he felt somewhat illegal because he knew the fifth man’s name but did not divulge it, and he was proud of that, without having the faintest idea who it was he was protecting. He was the kind of guy who walks down the street with you and at some point, a tear glittering in his eye, points at a window and whispers,” That’s where Ulrike Meinhof hid for a while.”

I tossed my cigarette into a half-empty yogurt container and got up.

“If that’s all you have to say, Schmidi …”

“Mr. Schmidi. I don’t call you rat-Turk.”

“So that’s what you wanted to get off your chest all this time?”

“You better leave while the going is good.”

“Yes, I might just give in to the urge to beat the name of that fifth guy out of you.”

He took a step toward me.

“Fuck off!”

He was too unappetizing. I left.

For about ten minutes I stood behind the fence and kept an eye on the front door of number five. Then it opened. Schmidi looked quickly up and down the street, then walked off. It was raining again. I pulled my coat collar up higher and followed him. We made a left turn, then a right, then proceeded down an alley and ended up in front of Lina’s Cellar. After scanning the street again, Schmidi went in. Five minutes later I followed. Lina’s Cellar was a rustic tavern with a bulletin board next to the restrooms and a blonde behind the counter. I sat down at a vacant table and ordered some Scotch. The joint was fairly busy. I couldn’t see Schmidi anywhere. A young couple next to me were frozen in rapt contemplation of each other’s face and letting their plates of spaghetti get cold. Across the room, a group of young people were celebrating the end of a South American folk dance class. The waitress brought my Scotch and nodded in the direction of the celebrants. “They’ve been at it all night. One of them told me they’re social-work teachers, and they’ll be going to Nicaragua next. I bet those folks will be pleased to see them …”

I grunted noncommittally. She crossed her arms and stared at the group.

I knocked back my Scotch and asked her to bring me another.

“Do you know what the French say when they see one of those painted VW buses?” she asked me when she came back. “ ‘Fritz is wearing camouflage again.’ ”

“Do you have a phone?” I asked.

“Through the door next to the restrooms and down the hall. It’s on the left.”

“Is there another exit?”

She smiled. “We don’t get raided every week.”

“I’m looking for someone.”

I described Schmidi to her. She nodded and mumbled something that sounded like “barfly Guevara.” “He came in a little while ago. You see those guys over there?” She nodded in the direction of three palefaces all in black. “They call themselves the ‘Gallus Column’ and spend their time drinking applejack. Schmidi is their guru. When he’s had a skinful, he talks about the revolutionary avant-garde.”

She checked me out.

“Why are you looking for him?”

“He knows someone I have to talk to.” She narrowed her eyes skeptically.

“You don’t look like a cop.”

“Nor am I one.”

“I don’t care. I have nothing to hide. I can tell any cop to take a hike.”

She leaned forward. “Would you like another one?”

I nodded, but before she could pick up my glass, Schmidt’s unshaven face appeared in the door next to the restrooms. He scanned the tables and fixed his gaze on me. For a second, our eyes held. The waitress understood and made herself scarce. Schmidi walked over.

“You’re following me around?”

“What gives you that idea?”

He lit a cigarette, let the smoke trickle through his nostrils, and asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator.”