More Beer (14 page)

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 Böllig’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 Böllig 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. Böllig 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 Böllig 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 Böllig 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.

“You’ve gotten me into some serious trouble, my dear
man.” Kessler’s suave voice hid the edge of the guillotine blade. “Let’s not even talk about the fact that your choice of the Böllig factory was decisively influenced by personal reasons. We could have managed that. We could even deal with the fact that you then decide to move into this house, so that you and the widow can show all the world how opportune Friedrich Böllig’s demise is for you both. That wouldn’t have been so bad—we had our four culprits. And young widows and their lovers are pretty commonplace.”

Kessler took a deep breath. Then he hissed like a snake. “But neither one of those things can be tolerated when a third party enters the picture, a party who won’t be bribed or intimidated, but stays on the ball. And he is a factor,” he sighed, “that makes the whole thing a little too shaky.”

For a moment I heard nothing but the ticking of the kitchen clock. Then Henry mumbled, “You don’t have to worry about the dago. He’s already in treatment, at Dr. Kliensmann’s. An excellent physician, and a good friend.”

Kessler’s voice was still like a talking serpent’s. “But I do have to worry! The dago, who you claim is under your excellent doctor’s care, called me two hours ago to let me know where my agent Kollek has been hanging out for several months without letting me know about it. I thought that over, and then I got in my car and drove here. And what do you know, my hunch was right on target. Herbert Kollek is not at all where I thought he would be, he comes to the door of the Böllig house, all comfy in his bathrobe!”

Henry growled something incomprehensible. Kessler snarled. “And what about this Kliensmann? Who else knows
about this business? Mrs. Böllig, the gardener, the cleaning lady? Maybe we’ll read about it in the papers?”

“Only the night watchman.”

“You reported that, and we took appropriate action. If I’ve been informed correctly, he got on a plane to Paraguay this morning.”

Neither one of them said anything for a while. Then Kessler asked, in a suspiciously friendly tone, “Well. Does anyone, including the watchman, know about your connection to me? Or do they all believe that you killed Böllig for his wife and his money? It could have been your own idea to cover up the murder with a political act of terrorism.”

Henry thought this was his chance to rehabilitate himself, and made a fatal move. While he was still swearing by all that was sacred, that no one knew anything about his link to Kessler, I broke into a run. Rounding a corner, I stumbled on a wire and crashed into a flowerbed. Rounding the second corner, I waved and whistled to Slibulsky, who didn’t understand and just stood there, flapping his arms in the air. After the third corner, I pulled the Beretta and charged the front door. That was when the shot rang out. I stopped for a moment, crashed through the half-open door, and collided with the coatrack. I disentangled myself from a bunch of coats and sprinted into the living room.

Kessler, seated next to the telephone, gave me a quizzical look. Beside him, on the floor, lay Henry, the kitchen light reflected in his glazed eyes. His bathrobe had slid off his shoulders, and I could see the blood trickling from his chest down to his stomach. Kessler replaced the telephone receiver and got out of his chair.

“I found the fifth man. Regrettably, he resisted arrest and became violent, so I had to …”

He made the appropriate gesture.

I looked him straight in the eye. “You won’t get away with that, Kessler. I still have your fucking calendar.”

He looked away.

“It’s a deplorable business, you’re right about that …” He ran his palm across his forehead. “But that calendar won’t do it, not in my case.”

Suddenly Slibulsky appeared. He stood next to me and eyed the scene in bewilderment.

“Allow me—Detective Superintendent Kessler, this is Ernst—”

Slibulsky snapped, “Shut up! You want him to write me postcards?” Kessler smiled, I took the keys to Meyer’s office out of my pocket and handed them to Slibulsky.

“Release that little guy. Tell him that he is Numero Uno at Böllig Chemicals until further notice. He’ll enjoy that.”

Slibulsky nodded and made tracks. I spotted a decent bottle of bourbon behind the house bar, poured myself a stiff drink, plopped myself on the couch, and encouraged Kessler to have a seat as well. He refused, stood there with his hands in his overcoat pockets, and asked me calmly,

“What are we waiting for?”

I put down my glass and lit a cigarette.

“I want to tell you something about Kollek.”

“What if I’m not interested?”

“Then you’ll listen to me anyway, or else I’ll put you through the shredder!”

I put my feet up on the cocktail table and told him the story. Kessler pretended to be bored, cleaned his nails, sighed at regular intervals. But his eyes were wide awake.

“On November seventeenth, nineteen sixty-nine, nine months after her marriage to Friedrich Böllig, Barbara Böllig gives birth to a son, Oliver Böllig. How touching, one might think, the kid was conceived on their wedding night … But on December tenth, almost a month later, Herbert Kollek, head of the firm’s publicity department and an old college buddy of Friedrich’s, is summarily dismissed from his job. A little later, he moves to Frankfurt. Oliver Böllig, for his part, is transferred quite soon after his birth to the Ruhenbrunn Private Clinic run by a Dr. Kliensmann, where he is busy constructing things out of clothespins to this very day.

“I went to see the kid today. He doesn’t particularly resemble his official father, as far as I can tell from photographs. And Kliensmann has been receiving, for many years, an excessively generous consultant’s salary from the Böllig firm, without having to provide any tangible services.”

“How nice for him.”

Kessler smiled, back in his balloon-man mode.

“This is how I figure it all hangs together: Barbara Böllig cheated on her freshly caught factory owner on that same wedding night, and she did it with Kollek. After the kid
was born, it became evident that Friedrich Böllig couldn’t be his father, and it didn’t take Friedrich long to find out whose offspring it really was. So he kicked Kollek out and made the infant disappear, not wanting a daily reminder of his cuckoldry. He must have paid off Kollek. Then he paid, and kept on paying, Kliensmann a lot of money to have the child put away as a retarded person in that loony bin next door. It was just a coincidence that I ran into Kollek on my first visit here, as Henry, the friend of the family. It was only today, after something the business manager said, that I realized that Kollek and Henry had to be one and the same. He and Barbara Böllig had kept up their relationship all these years, and you helped them solve the problem that Friedrich Böllig’s continued existence was to them.”

Kessler raised his eyebrows.

“I helped them?”

I lit my next cigarette.

“Kollek reached the goal he had pursued for seventeen years. He had the lady, he had the factory, he had made it.”

I smiled at Kessler.

“And you thought, all the while, that he had killed Böllig for whatever you or your mysterious friend M. paid him to do it. Or that’s what you thought until I called you this afternoon.”

Kessler pricked up his ears at my mention of M. His eyes were tiny and alert.

“Not to belittle the results of your more or less,” he coughed discreetly, “accurate research—but what does all that have to do with me?”

He got up and strode through the room. He stopped next to Henry’s corpse and raised his index finger.

“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.”