Jakob Arjouni - More Beer

“You must have had a great time. I’ve been sitting here for three hours.”

I gave him a brief report. He looked at my arm and growled, “Have something to eat, my boy, and get your strength back.”

I picked a mutton dish from the menu. No waiter appeared.

“Seems like this place is a little shorthanded.”

“Once in a while you can see one pass.”

Eventually a small, friendly Italian came to the table, and I ordered. Then I lit a cigarette and waited for Slibulsky to tell me about his morning. When he remained silent, I prodded him.

“What did the night watchman tell you?”

Slibulsky tongued his toothpick into a corner of his mouth.

“He didn’t tell me anything. He wasn’t even there.”

The waiter brought two cups of coffee.

“This morning he left the house with some suitcases. That’s what the baker across the street told me. Then he went to the airport. I heard that from the cabbie.”

“He took a taxi?”

Slibulsky nodded.

“Paid with a five-hundred-mark bill.”

“And his wife?”

“Left just a little later, went to the railroad station, and took the first train to Frankfurt.”

“To buy her vodka. Is that all?”

Slibulsky gazed out the window.

“I talked to your lawyer. The ‘Freedom and Nature’ people haven’t called again.” After a pause: “Why should they? Now that there’s a warrant out for you, for murdering that guy.”

“Schmidi?”

“Right. Murder, and robbery too. There’s a police artist’s sketch of your partner that looks quite a bit like me. I’ll put it up on the wall between the Playmate and the barred window. If they allow pinups in the joint.”

My mutton arrived.

“I could turn you in. Then I might stand a chance.”

“Go ahead.”

“It would be too tacky.”

The waiter stood behind the counter, tuning the radio to the two o’clock news. The headlines were followed by a police announcement. They were looking for a Turk who spoke German without an accent and traveled in the company of a short man with curly dark hair. “… The suspects are thought to be in the Frankfurt or South Hesse area. You may call any …”

“Let’s get the check.”

Slibulsky was getting into his overcoat when the waiter came over.

“Gentlemen, please. Enjoy your meal. Don’t worry.”

He squeezed my hand.

“I’m from Naples. Beautiful city, beautiful people, but police,” he made a fist, “tutti figli di una putana!”

We sat down again. The waiter wished us guten Appetit and went back to the counter. Slibulsky growled, “Let’s do our next heist in Italy.”

“For the murder, I’ve got an alibi,” I said.

“You do?”

“Yes. It happened while we were breaking into the Criminal Investigation office.”

“That’s reassuring. So it’s breaking and entering and grand larceny. Maybe they’ll let us share a cell. You play chess?”

He looked out the window again.

Meyer stared at us. He was clutching the edge of his desk.

“You … you what?”

“I need the personnel files on everybody who was employed here between nineteen sixty-seven and nineteen seventy.”

Meyer risked a smile and stammered, “But, but the police were just here … because of you. I … I have to report …”

He was fumbling for the phone. I pulled out the Beretta and put it on the windowsill.

“Call your personnel department. And no funny business.”

At the sight of the cannon he turned white around the gills and did as he was told. After he had hung up, I asked him, “The cops were here?”

He gave a quick nod.

“What did they want?”

He looked at Slibulsky anxiously, then at me again. “They want you, for murder …”

He fell silent. Slibulsky stood leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, and growled something. I looked out the window at the refreshment stand run by Friedrich Bollig’s mother. Then the same fat guy appeared and heaved the files onto the desk. Ten minutes later I had it, black on white. Herbert Kollek, head of Bollig Chemicals’ publicity department, had been summarily dismissed on the tenth of December nineteen sixty-nine. I pulled out the page and stuck it in my pocket.

“How long have you been working here, Mr. Meyer?”

He looked puzzled. “I started out in the warehouse, in fifty-eight.”

“Did you know Herbert Kollek?”

“Yes … Of course I did.”

“Why was he fired?”

“Oh, you know …” He swallowed. “I don’t really … What I mean is, Mr. Bollig must have had his private reasons. They’d known each other from their student days.”

I went to the window and picked up the Beretta.

“They were friends?”

“I suppose …”

He looked at the floor.

“And then one day they became enemies. Do you have any idea what Kollek is doing these days?”

He looked up, surprised.

“But don’t you know-?”

“Yes, I know.” I paused for a moment. “Now I do know.”

I picked up length of sturdy string that had been used to tie the bundles of files. I went to Meyer.

“Put your hands behind your back. I’m sorry. But it’ll all be over by tonight, at the latest.”

Looking miserable, Meyer offered no resistance. I gagged him with my scarf. Slibulsky shook his head.

“Watch out this guy doesn’t die of fright. If he does, that’ll be another charge.”

I set Meyer down on the floor. Slibulsky and I walked out and locked the door. The secretary was not in evidence.

The phone rang three times.

“Kessler here.”

“Kessler? Did you know that Herbert Kollek has been able to combine his duties as your undercover agent with his own private interests in a truly remarkable manner? Have you never asked yourself why he keeps a post-office box in Doppenburg?”

I hung up.

A little later, I stood leaning against a tree and smoking a cigarette. Slibulsky complained about his wet feet and babbled about palm trees, beaches, and pretty girls. It was raining again. We were standing about five meters from the wall surrounding the Bollig villa. To our right we could see the factory smokestacks, to our left, the tops of the birch trees on the clinic grounds. All was quiet. The Mini and the Mercedes were parked in front of the door. The lights were on in the house.

I pulled a hip flask out of my back pocket. We sipped, smoked, and shivered. I decided to take another look at Kessler’s calendar, and studied it for the next two hours. He had made careful and conscientious entries on every little thing, even including soccer games he was planning to attend. This didn’t make for particularly exciting reading, but there were four short entries that cast a blinding light on the Bollig affair. In all four cases, they referred to a certain M.

May fifth: M. confidentially asks for help re: Rhein Main Farben, change public opinion.

May eighteenth: M. approves K. and Operation B. M. urges early date, suggests first week in June.

June sixth: K’s operation group not ready to strike. New date: June twenty-second. M. agrees.

July twelfth: M. pleased with developments. K. paid off; possibly neutralize later.

Then it was show time. Two headlights bored their way through dusk and rain and up the drive. One person got out and disappeared in the house. Slibulsky spat.

“Let’s go.”

We climbed over the wall and dashed from one Christmas tree to the next toward the bungalow. The car had a Frankfurt license plate. I noticed something red stuck under the Mini’s windshield wiper: “Jimmy’s Jeans Shop-Great Inaugural Hullabaloo!” I motioned to Slibulsky to wait, and slid across flowerbeds to the glass wall of the living room. The big room was almost dark, lit only by light coming from the kitchen. I recognized the two men-a small one who was pacing around, his hands in his overcoat pockets, and a tall one who was leaning against a wall and smoking. Kessler and Henry. I ran around the corner and found the kitchen window ajar. Slowly I opened it a little wider, and eavesdropped.