More Beer

4

I first heard it from a guy with red hair in the Zum Grossen Schiff tavern in Sachsenhausen: He insisted on calling the place Dopeyburg, not Doppenburg. However, since he also pronounced “cider” “soyder,” I didn’t pay much attention, but later I noticed that other people of more cultivated speech habits also referred to the place by that pejorative name. Well, I thought, just another instance of that rather less than brilliant sense of humor that turns a professor into a perfesser. Only now, years later and on site in Doppenburg, did I realize how appropriate it was.

Doppenburg was a small town centered around an ugly pedestrian mall. Supermarkets were interspersed with third-rate fashion shops staffed by saleswomen who resembled the sausages in the butcher’s window. Flower planters, round light fixtures, and empty benches adorned the street. Retired people pulled their shopping bags on carts across the pavement, probably attracted by some advertised sale in spite of the wet and the cold. In sheltered corners, housewives discussed the problems of noodle casseroles, children, and varicose veins. At one end of this parody of an urban environment stood the inevitable Italian ice-cream cafe frequented by Coke-guzzling teenagers perched on their motorbikes, cradling helmets under one arm and cracking bad jokes about their girls.

I parked the car on the main street and strolled uphill into the old part of town, with its rows of half-timbered houses that looked as if children had modeled them out of clay, then baked and neatly painted them. Immaculate streets. Not even the smallest pile of dog shit to offend German cleanliness. Except for a couple of shiny pink tea and health shops, the streets were dead. A young man stood at a deserted intersection waiting for the traffic light to turn green. When he saw me cross against the red, his lips tightened disapprovingly. I think he would have liked to follow me in order to punch me in the face, for the sake of law and Fatherland, but the light didn’t change.

At a refreshment kiosk I asked for directions to the Bollig plant. Two guys stood there in the rain, drinking their dinner.

They grinned.

“Bollisch? With his broken pipe?”

He slapped his companion’s shoulder.

“Our pipes are broken too. Right, Ennst? What does the Mrs. say to that? Hey, Ennst! Broken pipe!”

“How do I get there?”

“Bollisch … Hey, Ennst! How does he get there? Ennst!”

Ernst squinted at me slyly and said, almost choking with mirth, “And how do I get to the opera?”

“Practice. A lot of practice,” I said, and walked away.

“Har, har. That was a good one. The old ones are the best ones.”

The baker’s wife gave me directions. I walked back to the car and followed the flow of traffic down the main street toward Weinheim. After a kilometer or so, tall brick walls appeared by the side of the road, their tops covered with barbed wire: Ruhenbrunn Private Clinic. Just past those walls was the paved entry road to the Bollig plant.

The factory stood on a hillside, with the notorious lake to its right. The dirty yellow water lapped gently against the bright gravel on the shore.

I stumbled across the little wet rocks to the demolished waste pipe. Such concrete pipes did not require major amounts of explosives for their destruction. The action must have been about as exciting as a flat tire in a no-parking zone. I contemplated the shoreline. Where the gravel ended, small clumps of reeds separated the moldering soil from the water. It seemed an unlikely site to choose for a camping trip. I turned around. The factory was a pile of corrugated iron. Out of it, at seemingly random intervals, rose three mighty smokestacks. On top of one of them, a thin flame flickered. On the side of a warehouse, a row of faded red letters proclaimed that this was BOLLIG DRUGS-FOR LIFE, FOR THE FUTURE, FOR OUR CHILDREN. Chemical enterprises have a weakness for hyperbolic publicity.

“Hey, you! What are you doing there? This is factory property!”

A skinny fellow wearing a sea captain’s cap came running across the gravel and stopped in front of me, breathing hard.

“Just looking around. The site of that sabotage.”

“You can’t just walk in like that. Do you have a permit?”

“I’m investigating the matter for the public prosecutor’s office.”

He scratched his chin. “You are?”

“I am.”

“But you don’t look the type.”

“So?”

“The public prosecutor’s office, that’s an important office, to do with the law and all … But really, you look … I’m sorry. If you’re really working for them …”

He fussed with the sleeves of his uniform jacket. “Are you the night watchman?”

“Yes, that’s my job.”

“You were knocked out, a while ago?”

“Yes, I was.”

His knees were twitching, and he kept looking back at the factory buildings, as if he were afraid he could be seen from there.

“You saw the man?”

He was trying hard not to avoid my eyes. “I already told the police all about it.”

“So you saw the man?”

“Yes, I did.”

Once again his eyes turned toward the factory. “What did he look like?”

“He didn’t look like anything. He had something over his head, a stocking or a cap, I couldn’t tell. It was dark.”

“Let’s take it from the top. You were on your rounds, and he just came out of nowhere and hit you over the head?”

“No … you see, I was sitting in my cabin, over there …”

He pointed behind his back. As he went on talking, he looked more and more troubled.

“… I was reading, whatever … and suddenly the door slams open, and before I had time to turn around, I was hit over the head, and it was lights out for me. When I came to my senses, the police had arrived. And that was all there was to it.”

The wind had risen to blow the drizzling rain across the field. I lit a cigarette and let him squirm a little.

“It was dark, and you didn’t have time to turn around? That’s strange. This morning, someone told me there had been a lineup of suspects … Was he just putting me on?”

“No, there was a lineup, all right. But … Why don’t you ask the police? They have all the information.”

“And he was wearing a stocking over his head. Maybe you should have sent your wife to that lineup.”

“But see, the superintendent had arranged that lineup just as, like, a shot in the dark.”

He raised his hat and wiped his forehead.

“When you came to, the police were there? Immediately? You opened your eyes and saw green uniforms?”

“What? No. Mrs. Bollig arrived first. She woke me up, so to speak. They live right there, you see.”

“When Mrs. Bollig woke you up-had she already found her husband?”

“I don’t know … I think …”

“Don’t you think a woman would mention it if she had just found her husband riddled with bullets?”

“Everything happened so fast, and … but you’re right, I remember now. Yes, she was falling apart, she was hardly able to utter a sensible word …”

He smiled at me cautiously. Following classic cop procedure, I took out my cigarette pack and offered him one. He lit up and we smoked. As soon as he looked a little more relaxed, I resumed my questioning. “He must have hit you hard.”

“Yes, with a club. I can still feel it.”

“I see. May I take a look?”

His eyes opened wide.

“Come again?”

“I’d like to see where he clubbed you. Come on.”

He took off his cap in slow motion.

“But … after six months? Of course it’s healed over by now.”

“When you get hit like that, you keep the scars for life,” I said, and after I had checked his head and found no marks, “All right.”

I said no more as we strode across the wet gravel to the factory, passing barrels, pipes, and trucks, walking through a shed filled with huge stacks of numbered crates, turning a corner next to a forklift, and finally reemerging back into the rain through a large doorway. The Villa Bollig stood a hundred meters farther away on a hillside. It was a luxurious white bungalow with a roof garden and a tennis court to one side. Bushy little Christmas trees dotted the English lawn, which had a pile of scrap metal as its centerpiece. A silver Mercedes convertible was parked in front of the garage, next to a black compact.

I took my leave of the night watchman, assuring him that I would drop by again soon. I crossed the parking lot and reached the wrought-iron gate guarding the paved driveway that snaked across the lawn. A bell and an intercom were embedded in a marble gatepost. I pushed the brass button and waited for the German shepherd, but the only growl I heard emanated from the intercom speaker. “Who is it?”

“Kayankaya. From the public prosecutor’s office in Frankfurt.”

“The prosecutor’s office?”

This was followed by a moment’s silence. Someone shouted. Then the voice returned.

“Come on in.”

The buzzer sounded, and I pushed the gate. The pile of scrap metal turned out to be a work of art; I thought I could discern some intertwined fish shapes, but couldn’t be sure. The layout, including the house, had the atmosphere of an abandoned first-class service area along the freeway. When I arrived at the front door, I used the antique door knocker and was immediately and unexpectedly admitted by an attractive blonde in her forties.

“How do you do? I’m Barbara Bollig. What can I do for you?”

Her voluptuous body was sheathed in a plain black wool dress that clung tightly around her hips. Her hair was tied back with a glittery red ribbon. Her green eyes scrutinized me.

“Kayankaya, from the public prosecutor’s office in Frankfurt. I have to ask you a couple of questions.” It didn’t look as if she would grace me with the enchanting smile of which her mouth looked quite capable. She crossed her solarium-tanned arms over her chest and cocked her head.

“I don’t know that I have anything left to tell you.”

“Do you always let callers stay out in the rain?”

“When they call at an inconvenient time.”

She seemed disinclined to let me into the house. I looked at it. I looked at the garden.

“So, all of this is now yours?”

“So what?”

I pointed at the cars. “Those too?”

“The Mini belongs to a friend.”

“Who is standing by your side during these difficult months?”

“If you wish.”

“So you don’t feel that you’re lacking in support?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“People tend to be particularly solicitous of pretty widows who own factories. It’s the dream of all divisional managers, isn’t it? The boss croaks, and his lady looks for a successor. In every which way.”

Bang, the door fell shut. I hammered on it long enough for it to fly open again. A colossal guy emerged. Two meters tall and about as wide, weighing in at about two hundred pounds, he was wearing basketball shoes and a gray sweat-suit. His head was shaved.

“What’s the problem?”

As he spoke, his arms swung gently back and forth. One wrist was adorned by one of those gold chains with an engraved name tag. How did he manage to get into that Mini?

“I came here to speak to Mrs. Bollig.”

He protruded his lower lip and raised his eyebrows. “She’s feeling a little indisposed today. Why don’t you come back some other time?”

“She looked pretty healthy just a minute ago.”

Before he could say anything to that, the widow called out from inside the house, “Let him come in, Henry.”

Henry turned his head, shrugged, and let me in. I waded across the carpet, past a telephone table and a coat rack, and into the large living room. Its rear wall was glass and opened onto a view of a garden area that looked just like the one in front of the house-the only difference being that it ended, after about fifty meters, in the brick wall of the private clinic. The decor bespoke too much money and too little taste: furniture from every century, pale blue wallpaper, three layers of Iranian carpets, Indian lamp shades, and so on. The widow was reclining on a leather settee, sipping a yellow drink. Henry pushed me into an armchair, pulled up a chair, and seated himself behind me. I began to wonder whether this towering fellow was a lover or a bodyguard. Probably both. Ladies seem to enjoy bodybuilders in sweat-suits with little gold chains around their wrists. The widow set her glass down.

“What to you want to know? I thought all the questions had been answered by now.”

“The trial began today. Did you know that?”

“I read the papers.”

“All right. Now, there still are a few gaps in the prosecution’s case, and that is why I need you to tell me, once again, exactly what happened that night. There just may be something we’ve overlooked.”

She sucked her finger pensively. “Are you always that persistent?”

“Depends on the weather. Please-tell me one more time what happened before your husband ran over there, to the factory.”

She sat up straight. The wool dress showed off her tanned knees. My attention wandered for a few seconds.

“I’m not sure I can remember everything. It’s been six months …” Then, after a pause:

“We were watching television, Friedrich and I. I was falling asleep. Then suddenly he jumps up and runs to the door. And while he’s pulling on his coat he shouts to me that he’s heard an explosion or something, and then-”

“You hadn’t heard anything?”

“No, I was half asleep. So Friedrich ran off, and I stayed here in the living room. When he didn’t return-”

“For how long?”

“Fifteen minutes or so … I went out and started calling for him. And then, after a while, I found him.”

She sounded bored; she wasn’t even pretending grief.

“Where?”

“Near that pipe. Maybe ten meters from it.”

“What did you do then?”

“I ran over to Scheigel, the night watchman, and found him lying on the floor, unconscious. When he came to, we called the police.”

“You didn’t happen to notice his head injury?”

She gave me a suspicious look.

“Listen, I had just found my husband murdered. I didn’t feel like playing nurse.”

I rubbed my chin and thought about the drink I had not been offered.

“Which means nobody paid any attention to that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just had a word with Scheigel. No one examined his head after the attack.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Careless of him. Head injuries can be dangerous.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

I could feel Henry breathing down my neck. Mrs. Bollig ran the tip of her index finger around the edge of her glass. The ice cubes clinked quietly.

“How long were you married to Friedrich Bollig?”

“Sixteen years. We were married on the eighteenth of January, nineteen sixty-nine.”

“Your father-in-law was deceased at that time?”

“He was.”

“How old was your husband when he became the head of the firm?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“And when you got married?”

“Thirty-one.”

“And how old were you?”

She sat up straight.

“Is that any of your business?”

“Let that be my worry. How old were you?”

“Nineteen.”

“How did you meet your husband?”

“I was his secretary.”

“I see.”

Henry was breathing more loudly.

“Were you fond of him?”

She slammed her glass down on the cocktail table. A vein started throbbing at her temple.

“That’s enough! Get out.”

“Do you have children?”

A leaden weight descended onto my shoulder.

“Come on, friend, I’ll walk you to the door.”

I turned. “Hands off.” To her: “Do you have any?”

“I have a son.”

“How old is he? What does he do?”

“He is seventeen. He was born handicapped, and he lives in an institution. Will that do?”

She jumped up and towered above me like one of the Furies. It was clear that the handicapped child was a blemish in this solarium-tanned facade of fast cars, expensive parties, and good-looking tennis coaches. But then, probably any child would have been a blemish.

“Did your husband do business with other firms?”

That stopped her. This was not the question that would have led to my instant eviction.

“Sometimes.”

“Were there particularly close relations with some of them?”

She charged across the room.

“God almighty, of course there were! My husband did business with a lot of people. Check the books. Go see Meyer-he’s the business manager.”

I poked the last cigarette out of my pack.

“Was your husband the sole proprietor of Bollig Chemicals?”

“I held thirty percent.”

“Now you’ve got a hundred.”

I smoked, and Friedrich’s widow leaned against the glass wall and contemplated the wet trees in her yard. She still looked really good. So good that I had to force myself out of the chair. Henry rose too, a small cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Mr. Meyer’s office is over there?”

“Yes.”

“All right. That’s it, for the time being.”

We parted. It was still drizzling outside. I estimated the distance from the driveway to the waste pipe. It was considerable, and I asked myself why five people who had just committed an act of sabotage against an industrial enterprise would stick around and wait for the owner to appear on the scene.

“Mr. Meyer? Room number twenty-eight.”

I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. Someone sneezed, then said, “Come in.” I opened the door and found myself in a reception area. The secretary behind the desk held a handkerchief to her nose and looked at me as if I were some long-extinct reptile. She was in her twenties and had a blond perm, freckles, and pink heart-shaped earrings. Every German country boy’s dream. A collection of postcards had been taped to the wall behind her.

“This is Mr. Meyer’s office?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Mrs. Bollig sent me.”

“I see … Let me check.”

With one hand, she depressed a key on her intercom; with the other, she went on working on her nose, all the while eyeing me suspiciously. Finally someone came on the line.

“Mr. Meyer, I have a gentleman here who wants to see you. He says Mrs. Bollig sent him … I don’t know … He’s not from here … No, I mean he’s not from here at all, if you know what I mean. Very well, Mr. Meyer.” She looked up.

“Have a seat, please. Mr. Meyer is still on the phone.”

I sat down on the visitors’ banquette. It was getting dark outside, and the village princess switched the light on. While I rummaged in my pockets for cigarettes, in vain, she cast a surreptitious glance at me, moved her own pack of HBs into a drawer, and went back to her papers. Finally the door opened and Mr. Meyer peered out.

“Yes?”

I got up.

“Kayankaya, from the public prosecutor’s office. I’m investigating the Bollig case, and I need to take a look at your business records. For various reasons. Mrs. Bollig suggested that I talk to you.”

When she heard me mentioning the prosecutor’s office, the princess looked flabbergasted. Meyer, embarrassed, compressed his lips.

“The prosecutor’s office? I see. I thought we were done with all that. The murderers have been apprehended, haven’t they? But all right, you have to do what you have to do. I was getting ready to go home, but …”

He was a head shorter than I, skinny and wiry. In his blue corduroy suit and elevator shoes, he looked as if he had been to the dry cleaners. When he spoke, his ears wagged. An electronic timer dangled from his wrist, and he kept moving it tenderly up and down his arm.

I’m sorry, Mr. Meyer, I’m just doing my job.”

He liked that.

“As we all are. Come on in, Mr.-what was the name again?”

“Kayankaya.”

“Very good. Come in.”

Before he closed the door, he cast another glance at the princess.

“Petra? Could you be so kind and stay on for a while? We have a few more things to discuss.” He twinkled paternally at her bosom, closed the door, and strutted over to his desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Kayankaya?”

“I need all the records on business connections with other enterprises, starting from nineteen sixty-six. I also need to see the complete and up-to-date personnel and payroll records. And the financial records and balance sheets, also dating back to sixty-six.”

He had stopped gnawing on his lower lip. He put a piece of peppermint candy in his mouth.

“That’s quite a task you’ve taken on there.”

“The sooner I start, the sooner I’ll be done.”

He nodded.

“That’s what I always tell my people. Procrastination destroys morale and is bad for the firm. You know what I mean?”

I didn’t.

“Just a moment. I’ll have the files brought here.”

Five minutes later, a man arrived with a mountainous stack of ring binders. Without any idea of what I was looking for, I started turning pages. Meyer seemed impatient; his plans for a little overtime with Petra were obviously evaporating. Finally I decided to look at the payroll records. There is something sensuous about money, even if it belongs to other people.

“Why is Dr. Kliensmann making three times as much as anyone else?”

“Dr. Kliensmann is not involved in development or research or production. He acts as a psychological consultant to the firm and its staff. It was the late Mr. Bollig’s idea to employ him in that capacity, in accordance with the American model.”

“How does that work? Does the doctor have a room with a couch here at the factory, so that anyone who wants to, or has to, may go there and get things off their chest?”

Meyer smiled.

“No, no. Dr. Kliensmann is the director of Ruhenbrunn-you may have noticed the clinic on your way here? In urgent cases he’ll come over, but mostly his task consists in advising the administration on their treatment of employees. As, for instance, how to motivate the will to work, or how to create an atmosphere in which people identify with the firm and give it their best. Dr. Kliensmann is also consulted on matters such as our new cafeteria space. You know, the Japanese have really discovered amazing things about all that.”

“And the doctor’s advice is as expensive as that?”

“It’s a matter of rewarding quality, not quantity.”

I looked at a few more pages. Then I decided that I had seen enough.

“I’m done with these, Mr. Meyer. But could I see your records on the unfortunate events of last summer? I need the addresses of the children involved, the amounts sued for, the court decisions in each case, and so on.”

“Just a moment.”

Meyer left the office. Through the half-open door, I heard him suggest that the princess go on to his place. I took another look at the files. When he returned with a red folder and put it on the table, I held up the personnel list.

“A Mr. Windelen and a Dr. Hahn were dismissed last month. Why?”

“A most unpleasant affair. Windelen and Hahn repeatedly, and without consulting with management, meddled in the debate about that poison business. Even within the firm, they demanded the creation of some kind of investigative and control committee for waste-water matters. They so poisoned the working atmosphere of our firm that it became unbearable.”

I examined the red folder. The damages sued for in the case of each child amounted to fifty thousand marks. Medical reports stated that they had suffered permanent skin damage. The trial date was set for next February.

“Why don’t you just pay up? That would remove you from the public eye.”

He gave me a searching look.

“Since Mr. Bollig was murdered, we stand a pretty good chance of winning the case. Public opinion has turned around.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Don’t get me wrong, now. We never felt responsible for the accident in the first place. There are fences, there are signs warning of possible danger. Besides, the lake is on factory grounds. One might say that those children entered it illegally.”

“If you lost the case, you’d have to pay four hundred and fifty thousand marks. Is that a large sum for Bollig Chemicals to come up with?”

“I think we’d survive. But we could, of course, find better uses for the money. We are a family concern, and that’s rare these days. We operate on a very narrow margin.”

“Mrs. Bollig now owns the company, one hundred percent.”

“One hundred percent, that is, of the Bollig family’s shares. Those constitute sixty percent of the total. The remainder is held by various shareholders.”

“Are you a shareholder?”

He stroked his chin, then leaned closer.

“Confidentially speaking-it wouldn’t be a smart investment. Too risky. A single miscalculation could endanger the survival of the firm. Shares in such enterprises are for people who like to take a gamble. You would have to bet on the chance that, for instance, one of our chemists comes up with something really big.”

“Such as?”

“Whatever-let’s say, an internationally recognized hair restorative.”

“What about those four hundred and fifty thou? Could they be a major mishap?”

“They could set a decline in motion. Not to mention the loss of goodwill with the public, if we lost the case.”

“So one might say-from a purely economic point of view-that Mr. Bollig’s sensational assassination was not such bad news for the firm?”

His voice turned almost falsetto.

“I beg your pardon! I did not imply anything of the kind! Please don’t misunderstand me.”

I copied the addresses of the children in question.

“Will Mrs. Bollig take over as director of the firm?”

“No decision has been made about that. During the transition period, I am in charge.”

There was pride in that statement. He must have been seeing himself in that position for quite a while. I wondered how well he was getting along with the widow. Rich, decadent, and lazy, she was bound to irritate the ambitious Meyer. I got up.

“Many thanks, Mr. Meyer. I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time.”

We shook hands, and I walked through the door. The princess was smoking, waiting for Meyer. She looked at me anxiously as I walked past her. I proceeded down the dark, empty hallways, in the throes of a nicotine fit.