Jakob Arjouni - More Beer

I thought of all sorts of things. I took another look at Kessler’s calendar and noticed certain entries that began last May and were repeated with weekly regularity. “Confer with M.!” According to the calendar, the last meeting had taken place last night.

“When do registration offices open?”

“No idea. Not in my field of competence. Maybe sometime between eight and nine?”

At eight o’clock, I went to the pay phone. Information gave me the number and I dialed it.

“Doppenburg registration office. Good morning.”

“Moller, from the public prosecutor’s office in Frankfurt. I’m working on the Bollig case. I need to know if a Herbert Kollek is registered in Doppenburg.”

He sounded reluctant, but after I assured him that I would send him a written copy of my request, he went to check the record.

“Mr. Moller? I’m sorry, but you’re too late. Herbert Kollek moved away from Doppenburg in nineteen sixty-nine.”

“Where did he move?”

“To Frankfurt.”

“I see. One more thing. That same year, sixty-nine, was the year Friedrich and Barbara Bollig’s son was born. Unfortunately I can’t remember his first name, but I’m told that he was institutionalized soon after his birth. Could you find the name of the institution?”

That took him ten minutes. A trucker was waiting for the pay phone, looking none too happy about it.

“The son’s name is Oliver. He was born on November seventeenth, and is in the care of Dr. Gerhart Kliensmann, at the Ruhenbrunn Private Clinic.”

“Thank you.”

I hung up. Slibulsky sat at a table, grouchily perusing illustrated magazines. Without looking up, he said, “OK, you’re the boss, you have the overview. But I sure would like to know what you think you’re doing, calling registration offices.”

I told him. We paid and drove on to Doppenburg.

I pointed at Nina Scheigel’s house.

“There it is, number seven. I assume he’s asleep, he works all night. But just get him out of bed. If his wife is there, lock her up, tie her up, whatever. Act like a wild man, break something, but don’t make so much noise you’ll alert the neighbors. Tell him you know everything and want to be paid off, or else you’ll call the cops. And as soon as he agrees to pay, make him tell the truth.”

Slibulsky squinted at me. “What truth?”

“He knows something, but he hasn’t been willing or able to talk about it. Who knows if it’s the whole truth? But it may be a part.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then we’re out of luck. Afterward, if you can manage it, call Anastas. Make it anonymous, but try to find out if the ‘Freedom and Nature’ group has been heard from again. You can do it.”

He nodded.

“Sure. I’m an expert in making anonymous phone calls and beating up night watchmen.”

I proffered the Beretta. He made a face.

“No thanks. Breaking and entering and bodily injury-OK, with a good lawyer; but I won’t take the rap for knocking off Schmidi. Not for a paltry seven hundred marks.”

“Suit yourself.”

He shook his head, raised his index finger to his forehead. “See you later.”

I headed toward the main drag. Half an hour later, I stood in front of the wrought-iron gate of Ruhenbrunn Private Clinic. The rain had stopped, and the large brick building looked peaceful in the morning light. Birds were twittering in the trees that surrounded the edifice, and white bedclothes had been hung out to air from some of its windows. A nurse was pushing a man in a wheelchair across the lawn. I pushed the bell. The intercom asked me what I wanted.

“It’s a family matter. My uncle, well, he’s really my wife’s uncle …”

“How’s that?”

I stopped. The voice was aggressive. “Please express yourself clearly.”

“Well, he’s totally confused, and needs care.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? For admissions, you need to speak to Mrs. Hengstenberger on the second floor, office number three.”

The gate swung open, the sand squeaked under my shoes. The drive had just been raked, and I was the first to leave my footprints on the fine wavy lines. To my left, a large lawn extended all the way to the wall behind which Villa Bollig stood. A gardener was trimming rosebushes. Complete silence reigned. It almost seemed as if the clinic were closed until further notice. For a moment a head moved past a window, then a second and a third, until I realized it was just one person doing her rounds. Near the entrance, I passed the patient in his wheelchair and his nurse. The patient giggled and said something. I walked through the glass door and up a flight of stairs. Then I almost collided with a mountain of flesh two meters tall. Dressed all in white, he looked like some kind of attendant or male nurse.

“Now, now,” he said quietly. He was rolling a matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. He stared at me with indifference.

“Sorry,” I murmured. He smiled.

“I want to see Mrs. Hengstenberger.”

He spat the match into a flowerpot and said, “Crazy, huh?”

When I said, “Not me, my uncle,” he smiled again.

“Mrs. Hengstenberger?” I repeated.

He said, “Crazy, huh.”

With a friendly nod, I pushed past him. He chortled.

The door to office number three stood ajar. She was on the phone.

“… No, I’m sorry, the patient does not have permission to receive visitors … not even his mother … what was that? You got a letter from him? That’s impossible, the patient does not have permission … Nonsense. He’s receiving the best medical care. No reason to worry, at all … all right, I’ll see what I can do. Good day.”

She hung up and punched a two-digit number.

“Hengstenberger here. Kunze? Please check up on room thirty-four. He’s managed to smuggle a letter to the outside. All right?”

I knocked.

“Come in.”

It was a voice to cut glass with. Mrs. Hengstenberger was leaning over her desk, writing. An old book case stood in a corner, next to some health insurance calendar with flowers. The room was white and clean, with a view of the drive. She put her pen aside, folded her letter, and put it in an envelope. Without looking up, she asked, “How can I help you?”

“I would like to have permission to visit Oliver Bollig. He’s been in your care for seventeen years.”

“Your name?”

“Kayankaya.”

Her face relaxed.

“You’re not a relative? I’m afraid I can’t give you that permission. I’m very sorry. Good day.”

After a triumphant glance at me, she went back to the materials on her desk. I walked to the window and lit a cigarette.

“Smoking is not allowed here.”

I bounded over to her. “Listen, sweetie”-she gasped for air-”I don’t have a whole lot of time. I need that boy, or else the file on his illness and treatment. I need to know why he’s been cooped up here for seventeen years. It’s a question of a murder case. So just get me the file. Here …”

I tossed my license on the desk. She picked it up as if it were dirt, glanced at it, put it back.

“I have to notify Dr. Kliensmann. Please wait outside.”

I shut the door, sat down in the hallway. Everything was quiet. I lit another cigarette and shot smoke rings through the air. Now I could hear occasional cries, echoing as if from a great distance through the white hallways. I had just decided to go back in to get a little action out of Mrs. Hengstenberger when the mountain of flesh came up the stairs, a fresh matchstick in the corner of his mouth. He approached slowly and stood in front of me, his arms crossed. “Come with me,” he said. Then he smiled, but his eyes remained cold. He led down a flight of stairs, then down another one. In the basement we walked down a hallway, until he ushered me into a windowless yellow room, lit by a fluorescent tube protected by a black iron grate. Thin rubber matting covered the walls and the floor. The mountain leaned against the door, still smiling. “Crazy, huh?”