More Beer (16 page)

“Six, to be exact. What alerted me at first were the statements given by one of the camping couple, the woman, and by old Mrs. Böllig, who runs the refreshment concession of the plant. Both of them said they had heard shots, and they confirmed that the shots were fired at Böllig
before
the explosion. Against these statements, we had Barbara Böllig’s claim that her husband left the house only
after
the explosion. If one assumes that Kollek’s accomplices had no interest in snuffing Böllig, and that it was impossible for Kollek to sprint back to the house just before the explosion in order to take Böllig out into the factory grounds and shoot him there, only one possibility remains: Barbara Böllig herself lured her husband out of the house on some pretext, and shot and killed him in a spot close to that pipe.”

“If one assumes …,” said Kessler.

Once again I told him to be quiet. Lübars took the
ballpoint pen he’d been chewing on out of his mouth and asked, “Why would Barbara Böllig shoot her husband?”

I told the tale of Oliver Böllig, explained how long it had all been in the making. While I was doing so, I remembered that Kliensmann was still in that straitjacket in his office. Served him right. Finally I said, “There is a witness to my version. The night watchman saw a lot of it happen, and Barbara Böllig and Kollek bought his silence with fifty thousand marks. Which he is now spending in Paraguay.”

With a glance at Kessler, I added, “As Superintendent Kessler informs me.”

Kessler studied his fingernails and remarked casually, “Fred Scheigel was summoned to court as a witness. Since he wanted to leave the country, he had to ask for special permission. I just happened to hear about it.”

“What if he decides he’d rather stay in Paraguay?”

“It’s not my job to worry about that.”

Lübars, wide awake now, adjusted his eyeglasses. After a moment’s silence, he said, “All right. And where is this Barbara Böllig?”

Kessler looked triumphant.

“She is dead,” I said.

The public prosecutor shuffled his feet under the desk and shook his head in disbelief. “Tell me more.”

“She was poisoned. As we speak, the guilty party is turning herself in to the police authorities in Doppenburg. But that’s another story. I’ll save it for later.”

Lübars shook his head again, but before he was able to respond, I went on to talk about Schmidi.

“Like the other conspirators, Schmidi believed that Kollek was a true comrade. Only after I pointed out to Schmidi how strange it was that the fifth man was still at large while his four buddies had been tracked down and arrested in only three days, he got suspicious. Obviously Schmidt had been a party to the plot, and he also knew how to get in touch with Kollek, He probably asked Kollek what was up, and Kollek had an idea. He realized that he had to get rid of Schmidi, and decided that the best place to do so would be in my apartment. Kessler must have told Kollek that I was trying to track him down. So he lured Schmidi to my place. Then, by a stroke of luck, he found my gun, shot and killed Schmidi with it, and was pleased with himself. Here’s the gun.”

I tossed my Beretta on the desk.

“The corpse is still sitting on my couch. A flyer that was distributed in Frankfurt that evening, stuck under the windshield wipers of Kollek’s car, proves that he was in the city that night.”

Carefully, with both hands, Lübars picked up the Beretta and looked at it as if it could whisper something into his ear.

Then he asked, “Fingerprints?”

“I’m sorry, but I still had a lot of errands to run, the kind where I look to have that thing on my person.”

He closed his eyes as if all this were just too much for him, and put the gun aside.

“Don’t tell me this Kollek is dead too. Or else why didn’t you bring him along?”

“That’s right. Kessler plugged him a little while ago.”

Kessler raised his arms in regret and said in a tone of voice that mimicked remorse, “He was trying to avoid arrest. Unfortunately, I slipped on the rug. A stupid affair.”

With a quick glance at Lübars, he added, “I’ll probably be transferred.”

“I see, I see,” said the public prosecutor, not knowing what else to say. Then, when he found something: “It all sounds quite plausible. But how do you arrive at the accusation that Mr. Kessler has had an involvement with this matter that goes beyond his professional duty?”

I lit a cigarette and prepared Lübars for things to come by placing Kessler’s calendar on his desk. It gave me courage.

“You remember the uproar about the Rhein Main Farben plant?”

Lübars looked irritated, as if I had been about to tell him a joke.

“Those were the people that sold mustard gas to Iraq, and soon after wanted to open a branch factory in Vogelsberg. Because of recent events, many people opposed the idea, and the Rhein Main Farben bosses had to come up with something to change what Kessler refers to as ‘public opinion’ in this nice little book. Nothing changes public opinion in this country more effectively than two sticks of dynamite, a murdered employer, and a grieving widow. Well, maybe the sad death of some dogs … In any case, such a deed calls for revenge, and the best avenger is one who despite such tragic setbacks continues the lifework of the deceased. In this case, the field of chemical industry. So by all means, let’s have the new factory in Vogelsberg. That was Kollek’s and Kessler’s plan.

“Kollek also saw this as a wonderful opportunity to take care of his private affairs with the Bölligs. His suggestion to make Friedrich Böllig the martyr was taken up with alacrity, since the firm is insignificant and has no major economic connections. So Kollek, with Kessler’s assistance, recruited those four boys to set things in motion. But what Kollek didn’t know—since he didn’t have access to this little calendar of Kessler’s—was that he too was slated for liquidation sooner or later. Tonight he was liquidated.”

Without looking at either Kessler or Lübars, I picked up the calendar, opened it to the relevant page, and pushed it across the desk again.

“Kollek got paid for his part in the plot. I don’t know where he and Kessler first met. Kollek came to Frankfurt in sixty-nine. He may have taken care of things for Kessler on previous occasions, or he may have been an effective informer. All I know is that they knew each other.”

Then I tried to describe the conversation I had heard through the Böllig villa’s kitchen window in as much detail as I could. Kessler was poker-faced. His eyes had become dark, narrow slits. Only his right index finger tapped quietly on the armrest of his chair. Lübars’s hands shook as he picked up the calendar. Then he swallowed and said, “Who is M?”

I was able to help him. “Well, that’s not too hard to figure out. The Mayor of Frankfurt is also the legal adviser to Rhein Main Farben. His wife owns a handsome packet of shares in that outfit. So M. stands for the Mayor. Kessler hasn’t spent much effort on coding his notes here. The Mayor was the connection to Rhein Main Farben; he may
have been the instigator of the whole thing. In any case, it was he who got Kessler started on the plot.”

Slowly Lübars laid the calendar aside. He was clearly looking for a hole to hide in. He bent forward and said, with great effort,

“Mr. Kessler … What do you have to say to that?”

For a while Kessler didn’t say anything. Then he laughed for a while, sounding like a hysterical old woman. And then he stopped and said, quite calmly, “What could I have to say to that? It is incredible.”

Lübars mumbled, “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

I stood up, furious. “Stop playing games! It’s all in that fucking book! Or do you think the Superintendent just scribbled that in there for fun? What about Kollek’s address?”

I pounded on the desk in front of Lübars.

“Why is it in there? Or can’t I read? Or can’t you read? Or can’t anybody here read anything anymore? Tell me—are those cooking recipes or love letters? Tell me!” I was roaring. “Yes, it is incredible, as you gentlemen just noted! But it is verified by this fucking page, in this fucking book, and this book happens to belong to this fucking superintendent, and it’s his fucking incredible story … But is it my fault that it’s incredible?”

I rounded on Kessler. “And if you keep on staring at me like that, like some overstuffed carp, I’ll punch your nose through your head so it leaves a hole for the daylight to shine through!”

Then I picked up the next handy object, a full ashtray, and threw it against the wall. After that I sat down.

For at least two minutes the only sounds in the room were my heavy breathing and Lübars’s quiet cough. Someone said, “Mr. Kessler?” someone answered, “Yes.” I didn’t give a damn. I had done my bit, let them sort it out. I closed my eyes and thought about mild summer evenings in the grass, champagne in my head, and a flock of nut-brown girls in heaven. In the meantime, Kessler presented his version. The notes concerning M related to private matters, and Kollek’s address had come to his notice in the course of the investigation. After all, he too had been looking for the fifth man. And Lübars said, “Aha, I see.”

I opened my eyes when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Lübars’s,

“Mr. Kayankaya, I must ask you to tell me the name of the suspect in the murder of Barbara Böllig.”

I took my time lighting a cigarette.

“And if I don’t?”

“Please don’t damage your position any more than you already have. Otherwise I’ll have to arrest you as an accessory to murder.”

I stood up and let the smoke trickle slowly through my lips. I pointed my cigarette at Kessler, who was about to put on his overcoat.

“And what about him?”

Lübars took a deep breath that made his nostrils flutter.

“Mr. Kayankaya, I must warn you to keep such bizarre accusations to yourself in the future. I do not know how you arrived at such incredible conclusions, but I advise you to concentrate on a correct chain of evidence when you
deal with another case. Mr. Kessler has been kind enough to refrain from a libel action.”

The tip of his tongue briefly touched his upper lip.

“Do you understand me?”

I felt petrified. Only when Kessler wanted to pick up his calendar, I bounded to the desk and grabbed it before he could get to it. Fists on hips, he snapped at me, “My calendar, please. You won’t get a chance to steal it a second time.”

Without undue haste, I pocketed the little book. He came at me, tried to grab me. I rubbed my chin. “If you touch me, I’ll beat you to a pulp.”

He desisted. Lübars closed his eyes. Kessler said, “I must ask you not to leave town during the next couple of weeks. Your theory about the murder of this Schmidi does not sound convincing. It happened in your apartment, with your gun, and you did not notify the police. I am the superintendent in charge, and I will investigate your statement carefully. My calendar, please. Or,” he cast a reproachful glance at Lübars, “would you prefer to stay here? I have all kinds of things on you, and the only reason I’m letting you go is to give you a chance to come to your senses and forget about your crazy story.”

It was true, he could have nailed me. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to attract as little public attention as possible. I didn’t feel like spending a night in a cell. I tossed the calendar on the floor in front of his feet. And that was that.

Leaning against the desk, I murmured to myself, “Great, Kayankaya.”

Long after Kessler had left with an ironic salute, I was still standing there. Lübars went to his desk, shuffled some
papers, and finally said, “I am sorry, Mr. Kayankaya.” After he had let those weighty words sink in, he went on, “It may well be that your story was close to the truth—but you see, the Mayor … A couple of ambiguous entries … that’s not enough … And with such an accusation, I would be putting my head on the chopping block.” He sighed, and repeated, “I am truly sorry.”

I contemplated my shoes. “Why are you so afraid of Kessler?”

He picked up his briefcase, and we left the office.

“Well, he has a lot of influence, and …” He locked the door, turned, looked at the floor. “It is well known that he and the Mayor are very close.”

Slibulsky was trying really hard to be nice. We drove through the dark streets, raindrops dancing in the headlight beams. Small bolts of lightning flashed above the rooftops.

Slibulsky said, “Make a wish, I’ll make it happen.”

I thought for a minute while we were driving around a building site.

“I’d like Whitney Houston to sing for me. With just the two of us in the room.”

I really meant it.

“Who is that?”

I put out my cigarette, leaned back, and said, “Oh, never mind.”

When we stopped at the next streetlight, Slibulsky asked, “Where the hell are we going?”

“I dunno. Let’s just drive around a little longer.”

For a long while, neither one of us said anything. The engine hummed reassuringly. I pulled the bottle of Russian vodka from under the seat.

“Can you send things like this to someone in jail?”

Slibulsky looked doubtful. I pushed the bottle back and looked out the window.

“You know, I know this little bar, it’s really a nice joint, soft music and so on …”

I shook my head. “No, what I need now is
loud
music, well-rounded girls, and my head so full of beer that you can hear it sloshing around. Let’s go to Sachsenhausen.”

Slibulsky turned around, and we drove to Sachsenhausen.

Just as we entered the tavern, which, like all Hessian taverns, had an incomprehensible name, all the lights went out. We pushed through a chaos of lighters, candles, and howling patrons, and found seats at a table occupied by young men in their twenties. They were telling each other manly little jokes and downing quantities of hard cider. One of them had packed it in. He was resting his head on the tabletop and snoring intermittently.

After we had waited long enough, I got up and collared a waiter. He screwed up his eyes.

“Twelve beers? Just for you?”

“There’s two of us.”

“I see,” he said, and I went back to Slibulsky. A little later the waiter wound his way through the rows of tables with a huge tray, unloaded it in front of us, and wished us good luck.