“It was in all the papers. There were
“You mean the story by that character who was camping out there? No one believes that.”
“But I do. And I ask myself why the police found those four in only three days, and haven’t been able to find the one guy in seven months. Then I ask myself, how is it possible that four people can deny, so convincingly, that they committed a murder which they clearly …”
“OK, chief, I see what you’re driving at. Not a chance. I have nothing to do with any of it, I don’t know any fifth man, and I’m not the least bit interested.”
He crossed his arms and looked me up and down. More down than up. He was about thirty-five, lived in a run-down apartment, and knew that his train had been and gone. It was obvious that he felt somewhat illegal because he knew the fifth man’s name but did not divulge it, and he was proud of that, without having the faintest idea who it was he was protecting. He was the kind of guy who walks down the street with you and at some point, a tear glittering in his eye, points at a window and whispers,” That’s where Ulrike Meinhof hid for a while.”
I tossed my cigarette into a half-empty yogurt container and got up.
“If that’s all you have to say, Schmidi …”
“Mr. Schmidi. I don’t call you rat-Turk.”
“So that’s what you wanted to get off your chest all this time?”
“You better leave while the going is good.”
“Yes, I might just give in to the urge to beat the name of that fifth guy out of you.”
He took a step toward me.
“Fuck off!”
He was too unappetizing. I left.
For about ten minutes I stood behind the fence and kept an eye on the front door of number five. Then it opened. Schmidi looked quickly up and down the street, then walked off. It was raining again. I pulled my coat collar up higher and followed him. We made a left turn, then a right, then proceeded down an alley and ended up in front of Lina’s Cellar. After scanning the street again, Schmidi went in. Five minutes later I followed. Lina’s Cellar was a rustic tavern with a bulletin board next to the restrooms and a blonde behind the counter. I sat down at a vacant table and ordered some Scotch. The joint was fairly busy. I couldn’t see Schmidi anywhere. A young couple next to me were frozen in rapt contemplation of each other’s face and letting their plates of spaghetti get cold. Across the room, a group of young people were celebrating the end of a South American folk dance class. The waitress brought my Scotch and nodded in the direction of the celebrants. “They’ve been at it all night. One of them told me they’re social-work teachers, and they’ll be going to Nicaragua next. I bet those folks will be pleased to see them …”
I grunted noncommittally. She crossed her arms and stared at the group.
I knocked back my Scotch and asked her to bring me another.
“Do you know what the French say when they see one of those painted VW buses?” she asked me when she came back. “ ‘Fritz is wearing camouflage again.’ ”
“Do you have a phone?” I asked.
“Through the door next to the restrooms and down the hall. It’s on the left.”
“Is there another exit?”
She smiled. “We don’t get raided every week.”
“I’m looking for someone.”
I described Schmidi to her. She nodded and mumbled something that sounded like “barfly Guevara.” “He came in a little while ago. You see those guys over there?” She nodded in the direction of three palefaces all in black. “They call themselves the ‘Gallus Column’ and spend their time drinking applejack. Schmidi is their guru. When he’s had a skinful, he talks about the revolutionary avant-garde.”
She checked me out.
“Why are you looking for him?”
“He knows someone I have to talk to.” She narrowed her eyes skeptically.
“You don’t look like a cop.”
“Nor am I one.”
“I don’t care. I have nothing to hide. I can tell any cop to take a hike.”
She leaned forward. “Would you like another one?”
I nodded, but before she could pick up my glass, Schmidt’s unshaven face appeared in the door next to the restrooms. He scanned the tables and fixed his gaze on me. For a second, our eyes held. The waitress understood and made herself scarce. Schmidi walked over.
“You’re following me around?”
“What gives you that idea?”
He lit a cigarette, let the smoke trickle through his nostrils, and asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“A private investigator. Fancy that.”
He grinned wearily.
“And you work for the lawyer?”
“That’s right.”
He let the cigarette dangle from his lips and put his hands in his pockets. He stood there for a while. I took the initiative. “Who did you call?”
“My true love, chief,” he whispered, and grinned again. Finally he took the cigarette out of his mouth, stubbed it in the ashtray, and leaned across the table.
“All right, smartass. Maybe I do have something to tell you.” With a glance to the counter, “But not here. Wait for me outside.”
He turned and walked over to the palefaces. While I paid for my drinks at the counter, he left the joint. The waitress gave me my change and said, “I couldn’t swear to it, but I think Schmidi’s avant-garde is interested in you.”
In the mirror above the bar I could see the three sitting there, motionless, staring at me. I found Schmidt leaning against a streetlight by the corner. It was pouring, his hair was soaking wet. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and said, “Let’s take a little walk.”
“Because it’s such nice weather?”
“Because I don’t want anyone to eavesdrop on us.”
In silence, we trudged through the puddles in the direction of the Westbahnhof.
“There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot to eavesdrop on.”
Without looking at me, he muttered, “Give me a little time, man. I have to figure it out.” He spat. “Besides, I have a photograph that might interest you. Don’t want to pull it out in this rain. But there’s this pedestrian underpass, a little ways ahead.”
I didn’t believe him about the photo, nor did I believe that he really wanted to tell me anything. But something was bound to happen. We turned into a narrow street and descended some steps to the underpass. Its walls were covered with all kinds of slogans, it was poorly lit, and it stank of urine. A shopping cart lay on its side by a wall. Our footsteps echoed. I stopped.
“Here we are, in your underpass.”
We looked at each other. He put a cigarette in his mouth and nodded. People appeared at the other end of the passage. Three of them. Three palefaces. Schmidi grinned, cigarette between his lips, and said, “A light?”
I punched him and ran.
I charged up the steps, vaulted over a railing, slipped, rolled, got back up, and ran down the street. They were right behind me. I thought of the Beretta, safe between my underwear in the closet. The street forked, and I went left. A dead end, with residential buildings on both sides. I ran to a front door and grabbed the door handle. Locked, just as it should be. Before I could ring the bell, they were on top of me. Panting, they dragged me back to the sidewalk and slammed me against a lamp post. Schmidi hissed between clenched teeth, “So now, you fucking pig …”
He pulled my coat collar up while the other three hung on to my sleeves. They wrapped me around the post like a rubber band. Then one of them said, “He’s a Turk, right?”
“But he’s a cop, nevertheless.”
