Jakob Arjouni: More Beer

“All I’m concerned with is the fact that this man,” he touched the corpse with the tip of his shoe, “is the fifth man we were looking for.”

Like some petty criminal protesting his innocence, he spread out his arms. “I received a tip, and I drove here today. However, the suspect wanted to avoid arrest, and in order to prevent his escape I had to use my firearm. Unfortunately,” he clapped his hands above his head in a gesture of regret, “I slipped on that rug, and so the bullet, unfortunately, did not strike him in the leg, but in the chest.”

I looked at the corpse. “Unfortunately indeed. You plugged him right through the heart.”

“Yes, well.” He rubbed his hands and grinned provocatively. “That’s my story.”

Outside, night had fallen. I got up and switched on the light. Then I walked over to him.

“Maybe the magistrate would find your version quite acceptable. But-there is proof that Kollek was your undercover agent, not just some hoodlum you happened to shoot dead. Yesterday morning you were still bragging to me about your finely spun web of informers. Does it no longer exist?”

I stopped in front of him and looked into his eyes. He didn’t flinch this time, and whispered, “That may well be true. But except for you and me, no one knows anything about it, and I am a German Detective Superintendent, and you, Kayankaya, are just a Turkish alcoholic with a private investigator’s license. Don’t you see?”

I whipped out the Beretta and pushed it into his stomach. With my left, I grabbed his collar. “Don’t you see?”

Then I relieved him of his gun and let him go.

“You’re lucky. I really would like to remodel your face, but I still have to take you to the public prosecutor’s office. And La Bollig will come along too.”

I turned. “Where is she, anyway? Her limo is right there in front of the door …”

Kessler sat down and stretched his legs.

“Barbara Bollig has gone to a tea party. There’s a note.” He pointed at a shelf. I picked up the note and read it. “I’m at Scheigel’s for tea. She has smelled a rat. I’ll bring her to her senses. Later, BB.”

I rushed to the phone, whipped out my notebook, and dialed Scheigel’s number. No one answered. At that moment, Slibulsky toddled in and made a cheerful report. “That little guy was lying there, trembling like a fish. Boy, did he make tracks … I’ve never seen anyone so happy …”

“Shut up! Here!”

I tossed Kessler’s gun at him. He caught it in surprise.

“Keep an eye on him! If he tries to get away, shoot him in the legs!”

I looked at Kessler pointedly, Slibulsky opened his mouth, shook his head, and watched me go. Halfway down the drive, I had an idea. I ran back into the house, ignored their amazement, and got the phone book. What was her maiden name again? Kasz … Kasz … Kaszmarek. Nina Kaszmarek, Am Sudhang number five. I dialed the number. It was busy.

“Kessler, give me your car keys!”

He pursed his lips. “Do I have to?”

I took two long steps and punched him in the jaw, twice. He tumbled to the floor. His keys in hand, I repeated my instructions to Slibulsky and ran to his car. I sped down the drive, across the factory grounds, and down the main street into town. I stopped at a tavern and asked for directions to Sudhang. They were given to me with typical South Hessian deliberation, and I jumped back into the car. Sudhang was in the outskirts of town, one of the less successful housing developments of the sixties: Tall yellow buildings with one- to three-room apartments, surrounded by narrow strips of lawn and a tidy children’s playground. There was a bicycle path, a picnic area shared by three buildings, an Edeka chain store, an ice-cream bar, a “Dogs Must Be Leashed” sign, and a wastebasket next to every lamp post.

I screeched to a halt in front of building number five, ran to the door, and slapped my palm on the buzzers. A faint voice came over the intercom.

“Who is it, please?”

“Public Emergency Force!”

“Oh my God my God!”

“A reactor at the Biblis nuclear power station is about to go critical in just a few minutes!”

“Oh I see!”

I waited for her to buzz me in. Instead she asked me, “Should I close my windows?”

I roared that she should let me in, first of all, and then I charged up the stairs like a madman, knowing it was too late.

“What a surprise.”

Nina Kaszmarek was wearing a black taffeta gown with a black lace collar, black high-heeled shoes, black silk stockings, and long black gloves. Her neck, arms, and ears were adorned with heavy gold jewelry. Her hair was carefully coiffed, her face was elegantly made up. Her eyes were shining; I couldn’t tell whether this was from alcohol or tears. Perhaps both. She opened the door wide.

“Do come in, and don’t mind my getup. This is my last evening here, so … I’m packing my things.”

I nodded and entered. She closed the door behind me and said, “Just come right in. I think I know why you’re here.”

The apartment was silent as a tomb. The small entrance hall was lit only by candlelight emanating from the main room. Two small doors led off the hall, probably to the kitchen and the bathroom. I entered the main room slowly. It was bigger than I had expected. Gigantic, overloaded bookshelves lined all four walls, interspersed only by the two windows. Twenty-odd candles, artfully distributed around the room, provided a warm yellow light. On a low table stood a magnificent steaming samovar, with two cups next to it. One of the cups was empty. The rest of the furnishings consisted of a small record player, records, a rocking chair, two heavy burgundy armchairs, and in the middle of the room, a white divan bed. One of Nina Scheigel’s Russian cigarettes crackled quietly in a marble ashtray. On the bed lay Barbara Bollig her hands folded over her midriff, staring at the ceiling. Candles to her right and left lit her face. It was a kind of wake.

“Quite a production.”

I went to Barbara Bollig. Her hand was ice-cold. I turned and asked, with a glance at the samovar, “Arsenic?”

Nina Scheigel retrieved her cigarette and sat down in one of the armchairs.

“Are you always such a Sherlock?”

“No. But I paid a visit to your friend Nikolai this morning, soon after you had left. He must have supplied you with the stuff. But why today? Why not five months ago?”

“I caught Fred last night, with the money. He told me everything before he took off.”

“How much did they pay him?”

“Fifty thousand. For going away forever.”

Not a whole lot, I thought. I surveyed the bookshelves.

“You sure had a lot to read here.”

“How else do you think I could have passed the time?”

I lit a cigarette. “You’re packing? Where are you going?”

“To the police.”

I turned to her abruptly and shouted, “Why, goddamn it-why did you do it?”

She gulped. “The story had to have an end. And not just any end, but exactly this one.”

She pointed across the room.

“This woman took Friedrich Bollig away from me. She did not let me come to his funeral. As I found out yesterday, she was an accomplice to his murder. All these years I have had to drown my thoughts and my grief in drink-and I should let her get away with all that scot free? I could not let that happen. This is my farewell party … my farewell to it all! A little dramatic, but I like it that way.”

She coughed.

“You’ll go to prison.”

She got up and walked to the window.

“You think this is better than a prison? It’s a cave filled with bad memories. How many years do I have left? Who will find me?”

“Did you spend a lot of time here?”