Self's Murder (2 page)

Not that I didn’t manage to keep myself busy all winter without cases. I cleaned my office at the Augustaanlage, waxed and polished the wooden floors, and washed the window. It is a big window; the office used to be a tobacconist’s store, and the window was for display. I cleaned my apartment, around the corner in the Richard-Wagner-Strasse, and put my cat, Turbo, who’s getting too fat, on a diet. I showed Manu
The Execution of Emperor Maximilian of Mexico
in the Kunsthalle museum, and the Suebenheim burial mounds at the Reiss Museum. In the Landesmuseum für Technik und Arbeit I showed him the electrified chairs and beds that were used in the nineteenth century in attempts to drive tapeworms out of people’s intestines. I took Manu to the Sultan Selim mosque and to the synagogue. On TV we watched Bill Clinton being sworn into office. In the Luisenpark we went to see the storks, which had not flown to Africa this winter, and walked all the way down the bank of the Rhine to the Strandbad—its closed restaurant white, unapproachable, and dignified, like an English seaside casino in winter. I tried to convince myself that I was relishing the opportunity to do everything I’d always wanted to but couldn’t find time for.

Until Brigitte asked me: “Why are you always going shopping? And why don’t you go during the day, when the stores are empty, instead of in the evening, when they’re packed? That’s the kind of thing old people do.” Her questions went on. “And is that why you eat lunch at the Nordsee and the Kaufhof? When you had time on your hands, you always used to do your own cooking.”

A few days before Christmas I couldn’t make it up the stairs to my apartment. I felt as if my chest were clamped in iron, my left arm hurt, and my head was, in a strange way, both clear and befuddled. I sat down on the first landing until Herr and Frau Weiland came and helped me up to the top floor, where our apartments are across from each other. I lay down on my bed and fell asleep, slept through the whole of the following day, the day after that, and Christmas Eve. When Brigitte came looking for me on Christmas Day, first irritated and then worried, I did get up, and had some of her roast beef along with a glass of red wine. But for weeks afterward I was tired and could not exert myself without breaking out in a sweat and getting out of breath.

“You had a heart attack, Gerhard, and not a small one at that—I’d say a medium one. You should’ve been in intensive care,” said my friend Philipp, a surgeon at the Mannheim municipal hospital, shaking his head when I told him later about it. “There’s no messing with the old ticker. If you aggravate it you’ll end up biting the dust.”

He sent me to his internist colleague, who wanted to push a tube from my groin into my heart. A tube from my groin into my heart! I told him thanks, but no thanks.

T
he lady I do all my banking with at the Badische Beamtenbank knew the name Welker, and the bank on the Schlossplatz in Schwetzingen. “Weller and Welker. It’s the oldest private bank in the whole Palatinate area. Back in the seventies and eighties it was struggling to survive, but it’s pulled through. I hope you aren’t thinking of leaving us.”

I called and was put through to Welker’s office. “Ah, Herr Self. I’m so glad you called. Today or tomorrow’s fine, though I’d much rather …” His words became muffled for a few seconds as he covered the mouthpiece. Then: “Could you come over today at two?”

The road was dry. The snow at the sides had turned grimy. It had dripped from the trees and dried in the furrows of the fields. Beneath a gray, low-hanging sky the traffic signs, guardrails, houses, and fences were waiting for spring, and a spring cleaning.

The bank Weller & Welker was marked only by a small tarnished brass plate. I rang the bell and a door within a large gate swung open. The entry was vaulted and paved. Three steps on the left led to another door, which opened as the first one closed. I climbed the stairs and felt as if I had stepped into another era. The bank counters were carved of dark wood and had wooden bars. The panels next to them were inlaid with blond wood: a cogwheel, two crossed hammers, a wheel with wings, a mortar and pestle, and the barrel of a cannon. The bench at the far end of the room was of the same dark wood and had dark green velvet cushions. The walls were covered in shimmering dark green fabric, and the ornate ceiling was also of dark wood.

The room was silent. There was no rustle of bills, no clinking of coins, no hushed voices. I didn’t see behind the lattice any men with mustaches, hair plastered on scalps, pencils behind ears, leather sleeve patches, or rubber-banded upper arms, which would have been appropriate here, nor did I see their modern counterparts. I stepped closer to the counter, saw the dust on the bars of the lattice, and was about to peer through when suddenly the door across from the entrance opened.

The driver was standing in the doorway. “Herr Self, I—”

He didn’t manage to finish the sentence. Welker came rushing past him toward me. “I’m so glad you were able to come. My last client’s just left. Let’s go upstairs.”

Behind the door there was a steep narrow staircase. I followed Welker up and the driver followed me. The stairs opened into a large office with partitions, desks, computers, phones, a number of young men sporting dark suits and serious faces, and an occasional young woman or two. Welker and the driver swiftly escorted me through to the executive office, which had a view of the Schlossplatz. I was ushered to a leather sofa while Welker settled into one chair and the driver the other.

Welker waved his hand with a broad welcoming gesture. “Gregor Samarin is one of the family. You see, he likes to drive, and he’s better at it than I am …” Welker saw my surprise. “No, he does like driving and is good at it, which is why he was at the wheel the other day when we met. But that’s not his job. His job is to see to all practical matters.” Welker looked over at Samarin as if to check whether he agreed.

Samarin nodded slowly. He must have been in his early fifties. He had a large head, a receding hairline, and protruding light blue eyes. His colorless hair was cut short. He sat confidently, with his legs apart.

Welker didn’t continue right away. At first I thought he might be weighing what he wanted to say, but then I wondered if there wasn’t a message in his silence. But what message? Or did he want to give me an opportunity to take everything in: the atmosphere, Gregor Samarin, himself? He had been particularly attentive and polite when he greeted me and walked me to his office. I could see him as a suave host, or at a diplomatic or academic affair. Was his silence a question of style, old-school good breeding? He struck me as a man of breeding: clear, sensitive, intelligent features; good posture; measured movements. At the same time he struck me as sad, and though a certain cheerfulness flitted over his face when he greeted me or smiled, a shadow would quickly darken it once more. It was not just a shadow of sadness. I noticed something sullen and sulking about his mouth, a disappointment, as if fate had cheated him out of some promised indulgence.

“We’re about to celebrate our two-hundredth anniversary, a major event for which my father wants a history of our establishment. I’ve been working on it for some time, whenever I can get away from business, and as grandfather had done some research and left some notes, my task isn’t difficult, except in one matter.”

He hesitated, brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead, leaned back, and glanced at Samarin, who was sitting motionless. “In 1873, the stock exchanges in both Vienna and Berlin collapsed. The depression lasted until 1880—long enough for the days of the private banker to become numbered. The era of the big stock banks and savings banks had begun, and some private bankers who survived the depression turned their enterprises into joint stock corporations. Others merged; others simply gave up. Our bank prevailed.”

Again he hesitated. I no longer get irritated; in earlier days I would have. I hate it when people beat about the bush.

“Our bank prevailed not only because my great grandfather and great-great-grandfather were good businessmen, and the old Wellers, were, too. Since the 1870s, we had had a silent partner, who by the time of the First World War had brought in around half a million. That might not sound like a lot to you, but let me tell you, it was a significant amount. The long and short of it is that I can’t write a history of our bank without also focusing on this silent partner. However”—this time he paused for dramatic effect—“I don’t know who this partner was. My father doesn’t know the partner’s name, my grandfather doesn’t mention him in his notes, and I haven’t found it in any of the documents.”

“A very silent partner indeed.”

He laughed, and for a moment had a youthful, rascally look about him. “I’d be grateful if you could make him speak.”

“You want me to—”

“I’d like you to find out who this silent partner was. His name, his birth and death dates, what he did for a living, who his family was. Did he have children? Is one of his great-grandsons going to come knocking at my door, asking for his share?”

“Wasn’t this silent partnership terminated?”

He shook his head. “After 1918, my grandfather’s notes don’t mention anything about it anymore. No mention of the partnership, nor of any more money being brought in, nor anything about settling accounts or buying anyone out. Somehow the partnership came to an end. Now I can’t really imagine any great-grandsons suddenly turning up. Anyone who had a large pile of money stashed away with us would have had ample reason in all these years to come claim it.”

“Why don’t you hire a historian? I bet there are hundreds of them who get degrees every year and can’t find a job—they’d jump at the chance to go looking for lost partners.”

“I’ve tried my luck with history students and retired professors. It was a disaster. I ended up knowing less than when I started. No”—he shook his head—“I’ve chosen you for a reason. One could argue that your job and theirs is the same: historians and detectives both go after truths that are buried and forgotten, and yet the methods are quite different. Maybe your approach will get better results than those history fellows.‘ Take a few days, cast about a bit, follow different leads. If nothing comes up, then nothing comes up—I’ll get over it.” He picked up a checkbook and a fountain pen from the table and placed them on his knees. “How much should I give you as an advance?”

I’d do some casting about for a few days—if he wanted to pay me for that, then why not?

“Two thousand. My fee’s a hundred an hour, plus expenses. I’ll provide you with a detailed breakdown once I’m done.”

He wrote out the check, handed it to me, and got up. “I hope you’ll get back to me soon. I’ll be here at the office, so if you prefer dropping by to calling, I’d be delighted.”

Samarin walked me down the stairs and past the tellers. When we reached the door he took me by the arm. “Herr Welker’s wife died last year, and he’s been working day and night ever since. He shouldn’t have taken on the history of the bank on top of everything else. I’d be grateful if you would call me should you come up with something or if you need anything. I want to lighten his load any way I can.” Samarin peered at me expectantly.

“How do the names Welker, Weller, and Samarin go together?”

“What you mean is, how does Samarin fit in with Weller and Welker. It doesn’t. My mother was Russian and worked as an interpreter during the war. She died when she gave birth to me. The Welkers were my foster parents.”

He was still peering at me expectantly. Was he waiting for confirmation that I’d come to him and not to Welker?

I said good-bye. The door didn’t have a handle, but next to it was a button. I pressed it and the door opened, then fell shut behind me with a loud snap. I gazed over the empty square and was pleased with the job and the check in my pocket.

A
t the University of Mannheim library I located a history of German banking: three fat volumes filled with text, numbers, and graphs. I managed to check them out and take them with me. Back at my office I sat down and began to read. The traffic hummed outside, then came twilight and darkness. The Turk from next door, who sells newspapers, cigarettes, and bric-a-brac of every kind, closed his shop, and when he saw me by the lamp at my desk he knocked at the door and wished me a pleasant evening. I didn’t go home until my eyes began to hurt, and was once again poring over the books when the Turk opened his shop in the morning and the children who were always his first customers were buying their chewing gum and Gummi Bears. By afternoon I had finished.

I’ve never had much interest in banking—and why should I? Whatever I earn ends up in my checking account, and what I need on a daily basis gets drawn from there, as do payments for health insurance, social security, and life insurance. There are times when more money accumulates in my account than gets withdrawn, and what I do then is buy a few shares of Rhineland Chemical Works stock and put the certificates in my safe. They lie there untouched as the market rises and falls.

And yet banking and its history is anything but dull. In those three volumes I found quite a few references to the Weller & Welker Bank. It was founded toward the end of the eighteenth century when Herr Weller, a Swabian who was a sales and freight expeditor in Stuttgart, and Herr Welker from Baden, who had been banker to one of the prince elector’s cousins, formed a partnership. They began with currency transactions and bills of exchange but soon moved on to government loans and securities. Their bank was too small to assume a leading role in any important ventures, but it was such a reliable and reputable establishment that larger banks were happy to involve them in projects, such as the founding of the Rhineland Chemical Works, the launching of the Mannheim Municipal Loan in 1868 that funded the construction of the Mannheim-Karlsruhe railroad, and the financing of the Gotthard Tunnel. Weller & Welker had a particularly lucky hand in Latin American ventures, ranging from Brazilian and Colombian government loans to involvement in the Vera Cruz and Mexico railroad and the Andes line.