Jakob Arjouni - More Beer

“What can I do for you, Mr. Kayankaya?”

“I need all the records on business connections with other enterprises, starting from nineteen sixty-six. I also need to see the complete and up-to-date personnel and payroll records. And the financial records and balance sheets, also dating back to sixty-six.”

He had stopped gnawing on his lower lip. He put a piece of peppermint candy in his mouth.

“That’s quite a task you’ve taken on there.”

“The sooner I start, the sooner I’ll be done.”

He nodded.

“That’s what I always tell my people. Procrastination destroys morale and is bad for the firm. You know what I mean?”

I didn’t.

“Just a moment. I’ll have the files brought here.”

Five minutes later, a man arrived with a mountainous stack of ring binders. Without any idea of what I was looking for, I started turning pages. Meyer seemed impatient; his plans for a little overtime with Petra were obviously evaporating. Finally I decided to look at the payroll records. There is something sensuous about money, even if it belongs to other people.

“Why is Dr. Kliensmann making three times as much as anyone else?”

“Dr. Kliensmann is not involved in development or research or production. He acts as a psychological consultant to the firm and its staff. It was the late Mr. Bollig’s idea to employ him in that capacity, in accordance with the American model.”

“How does that work? Does the doctor have a room with a couch here at the factory, so that anyone who wants to, or has to, may go there and get things off their chest?”

Meyer smiled.

“No, no. Dr. Kliensmann is the director of Ruhenbrunn-you may have noticed the clinic on your way here? In urgent cases he’ll come over, but mostly his task consists in advising the administration on their treatment of employees. As, for instance, how to motivate the will to work, or how to create an atmosphere in which people identify with the firm and give it their best. Dr. Kliensmann is also consulted on matters such as our new cafeteria space. You know, the Japanese have really discovered amazing things about all that.”

“And the doctor’s advice is as expensive as that?”

“It’s a matter of rewarding quality, not quantity.”

I looked at a few more pages. Then I decided that I had seen enough.

“I’m done with these, Mr. Meyer. But could I see your records on the unfortunate events of last summer? I need the addresses of the children involved, the amounts sued for, the court decisions in each case, and so on.”

“Just a moment.”

Meyer left the office. Through the half-open door, I heard him suggest that the princess go on to his place. I took another look at the files. When he returned with a red folder and put it on the table, I held up the personnel list.

“A Mr. Windelen and a Dr. Hahn were dismissed last month. Why?”

“A most unpleasant affair. Windelen and Hahn repeatedly, and without consulting with management, meddled in the debate about that poison business. Even within the firm, they demanded the creation of some kind of investigative and control committee for waste-water matters. They so poisoned the working atmosphere of our firm that it became unbearable.”

I examined the red folder. The damages sued for in the case of each child amounted to fifty thousand marks. Medical reports stated that they had suffered permanent skin damage. The trial date was set for next February.

“Why don’t you just pay up? That would remove you from the public eye.”

He gave me a searching look.

“Since Mr. Bollig was murdered, we stand a pretty good chance of winning the case. Public opinion has turned around.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Don’t get me wrong, now. We never felt responsible for the accident in the first place. There are fences, there are signs warning of possible danger. Besides, the lake is on factory grounds. One might say that those children entered it illegally.”

“If you lost the case, you’d have to pay four hundred and fifty thousand marks. Is that a large sum for Bollig Chemicals to come up with?”

“I think we’d survive. But we could, of course, find better uses for the money. We are a family concern, and that’s rare these days. We operate on a very narrow margin.”

“Mrs. Bollig now owns the company, one hundred percent.”

“One hundred percent, that is, of the Bollig family’s shares. Those constitute sixty percent of the total. The remainder is held by various shareholders.”

“Are you a shareholder?”

He stroked his chin, then leaned closer.

“Confidentially speaking-it wouldn’t be a smart investment. Too risky. A single miscalculation could endanger the survival of the firm. Shares in such enterprises are for people who like to take a gamble. You would have to bet on the chance that, for instance, one of our chemists comes up with something really big.”

“Such as?”

“Whatever-let’s say, an internationally recognized hair restorative.”

“What about those four hundred and fifty thou? Could they be a major mishap?”

“They could set a decline in motion. Not to mention the loss of goodwill with the public, if we lost the case.”

“So one might say-from a purely economic point of view-that Mr. Bollig’s sensational assassination was not such bad news for the firm?”

His voice turned almost falsetto.

“I beg your pardon! I did not imply anything of the kind! Please don’t misunderstand me.”

I copied the addresses of the children in question.

“Will Mrs. Bollig take over as director of the firm?”

“No decision has been made about that. During the transition period, I am in charge.”

There was pride in that statement. He must have been seeing himself in that position for quite a while. I wondered how well he was getting along with the widow. Rich, decadent, and lazy, she was bound to irritate the ambitious Meyer. I got up.

“Many thanks, Mr. Meyer. I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time.”

We shook hands, and I walked through the door. The princess was smoking, waiting for Meyer. She looked at me anxiously as I walked past her. I proceeded down the dark, empty hallways, in the throes of a nicotine fit.

It was half past six. I passed through the foyer and crunched across the wet gravel to my car. The road was lit by yellow fluorescent lights. Fifty meters to the left stood the firm’s refreshment kiosk. Its red neon lottery sign flickered restlessly. I walked over and knocked on the window. Through the rain-splattered pane I saw a small figure approaching with a limp, like an old boat in rough seas. She squinted hesitantly through the window before she slid it aside.

“What is it?”

This female Hunchback of Notre-Dame was only a little taller than the counter. It occurred to me that people might set their beers down on her head, by mistake. Her nose was running, and her chin and upper lip were covered with an unruly, goatlike beard. She had a hard time looking up at me. I put a twenty-mark note in the tray.

“Two packs of Luckies and an Asbach.”

Her crooked fingers took the money and shoved it under the counter. Then she limped over to the cigarette shelf and then to the other, the cookie and alcohol shelf. It took a while, but she found everything. She rummaged in the cash box and pushed my change across the counter. Through the open door in the back I caught a glimpse of an old iron bedstead.

“Do you live here?”

“None of your business.”

“It was just a question. Maybe you heard something, the night of the attack.”

“I heard the big bang. Like everybody else.”

“No gunshots?”

“Oh yes.”