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 Lubars 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.”
Lubars 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 Lubars.
“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 Lubars’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 Lubars said, “Aha, I see.”
I opened my eyes when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Lubars’s,
“Mr. Kayankaya, I must ask you to tell me the name of the suspect in the murder of Barbara Bollig.”
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?”
Lubars 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. Lubars 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 Lubars, “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. Lubars 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.”
7
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
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.
Behind me, some guy was slapping the table and shouting, “Hey, you guys, just think what it would be like to have a woman made out of beer. Just imagine! She’d be something! Just imagine!”
