More Beer

3

Meyer stared at us. He was clutching the edge of his desk.

“You … you what?”

“I need the personnel files on everybody who was employed here between nineteen sixty-seven and nineteen seventy.”

Meyer risked a smile and stammered, “But, but the police were just here … because of you. I … I have to report …”

He was fumbling for the phone. I pulled out the Beretta and put it on the windowsill.

“Call your personnel department. And no funny business.”

At the sight of the cannon he turned white around the gills and did as he was told. After he had hung up, I asked him, “The cops were here?”

He gave a quick nod.

“What did they want?”

He looked at Slibulsky anxiously, then at me again. “They want you, for murder …”

He fell silent. Slibulsky stood leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, and growled something. I looked out the window at the refreshment stand run by Friedrich Bollig’s mother. Then the same fat guy appeared and heaved the files onto the desk. Ten minutes later I had it, black on white. Herbert Kollek, head of Bollig Chemicals’ publicity department, had been summarily dismissed on the tenth of December nineteen sixty-nine. I pulled out the page and stuck it in my pocket.

“How long have you been working here, Mr. Meyer?”

He looked puzzled. “I started out in the warehouse, in fifty-eight.”

“Did you know Herbert Kollek?”

“Yes … Of course I did.”

“Why was he fired?”

“Oh, you know …” He swallowed. “I don’t really … What I mean is, Mr. Bollig must have had his private reasons. They’d known each other from their student days.”

I went to the window and picked up the Beretta.

“They were friends?”

“I suppose …”

He looked at the floor.

“And then one day they became enemies. Do you have any idea what Kollek is doing these days?”

He looked up, surprised.

“But don’t you know-?”

“Yes, I know.” I paused for a moment. “Now I do know.”

I picked up length of sturdy string that had been used to tie the bundles of files. I went to Meyer.

“Put your hands behind your back. I’m sorry. But it’ll all be over by tonight, at the latest.”

Looking miserable, Meyer offered no resistance. I gagged him with my scarf. Slibulsky shook his head.

“Watch out this guy doesn’t die of fright. If he does, that’ll be another charge.”

I set Meyer down on the floor. Slibulsky and I walked out and locked the door. The secretary was not in evidence.

The phone rang three times.

“Kessler here.”

“Kessler? Did you know that Herbert Kollek has been able to combine his duties as your undercover agent with his own private interests in a truly remarkable manner? Have you never asked yourself why he keeps a post-office box in Doppenburg?”

I hung up.

A little later, I stood leaning against a tree and smoking a cigarette. Slibulsky complained about his wet feet and babbled about palm trees, beaches, and pretty girls. It was raining again. We were standing about five meters from the wall surrounding the Bollig villa. To our right we could see the factory smokestacks, to our left, the tops of the birch trees on the clinic grounds. All was quiet. The Mini and the Mercedes were parked in front of the door. The lights were on in the house.

I pulled a hip flask out of my back pocket. We sipped, smoked, and shivered. I decided to take another look at Kessler’s calendar, and studied it for the next two hours. He had made careful and conscientious entries on every little thing, even including soccer games he was planning to attend. This didn’t make for particularly exciting reading, but there were four short entries that cast a blinding light on the Bollig affair. In all four cases, they referred to a certain M.

May fifth: M. confidentially asks for help re: Rhein Main Farben, change public opinion.

May eighteenth: M. approves K. and Operation B. M. urges early date, suggests first week in June.

June sixth: K’s operation group not ready to strike. New date: June twenty-second. M. agrees.

July twelfth: M. pleased with developments. K. paid off; possibly neutralize later.

Then it was show time. Two headlights bored their way through dusk and rain and up the drive. One person got out and disappeared in the house. Slibulsky spat.

“Let’s go.”

We climbed over the wall and dashed from one Christmas tree to the next toward the bungalow. The car had a Frankfurt license plate. I noticed something red stuck under the Mini’s windshield wiper: “Jimmy’s Jeans Shop-Great Inaugural Hullabaloo!” I motioned to Slibulsky to wait, and slid across flowerbeds to the glass wall of the living room. The big room was almost dark, lit only by light coming from the kitchen. I recognized the two men-a small one who was pacing around, his hands in his overcoat pockets, and a tall one who was leaning against a wall and smoking. Kessler and Henry. I ran around the corner and found the kitchen window ajar. Slowly I opened it a little wider, and eavesdropped.

“You’ve gotten me into some serious trouble, my dear man.” Kessler’s suave voice hid the edge of the guillotine blade. “Let’s not even talk about the fact that your choice of the Bollig factory was decisively influenced by personal reasons. We could have managed that. We could even deal with the fact that you then decide to move into this house, so that you and the widow can show all the world how opportune Friedrich Bollig’s demise is for you both. That wouldn’t have been so bad-we had our four culprits. And young widows and their lovers are pretty commonplace.”

Kessler took a deep breath. Then he hissed like a snake. “But neither one of those things can be tolerated when a third party enters the picture, a party who won’t be bribed or intimidated, but stays on the ball. And he is a factor,” he sighed, “that makes the whole thing a little too shaky.”

For a moment I heard nothing but the ticking of the kitchen clock. Then Henry mumbled, “You don’t have to worry about the dago. He’s already in treatment, at Dr. Kliensmann’s. An excellent physician, and a good friend.”

Kessler’s voice was still like a talking serpent’s. “But I do have to worry! The dago, who you claim is under your excellent doctor’s care, called me two hours ago to let me know where my agent Kollek has been hanging out for several months without letting me know about it. I thought that over, and then I got in my car and drove here. And what do you know, my hunch was right on target. Herbert Kollek is not at all where I thought he would be, he comes to the door of the Bollig house, all comfy in his bathrobe!”

Henry growled something incomprehensible. Kessler snarled. “And what about this Kliensmann? Who else knows about this business? Mrs. Bollig, the gardener, the cleaning lady? Maybe we’ll read about it in the papers?”

“Only the night watchman.”

“You reported that, and we took appropriate action. If I’ve been informed correctly, he got on a plane to Paraguay this morning.”

Neither one of them said anything for a while. Then Kessler asked, in a suspiciously friendly tone, “Well. Does anyone, including the watchman, know about your connection to me? Or do they all believe that you killed Bollig for his wife and his money? It could have been your own idea to cover up the murder with a political act of terrorism.”

Henry thought this was his chance to rehabilitate himself, and made a fatal move. While he was still swearing by all that was sacred, that no one knew anything about his link to Kessler, I broke into a run. Rounding a corner, I stumbled on a wire and crashed into a flowerbed. Rounding the second corner, I waved and whistled to Slibulsky, who didn’t understand and just stood there, flapping his arms in the air. After the third corner, I pulled the Beretta and charged the front door. That was when the shot rang out. I stopped for a moment, crashed through the half-open door, and collided with the coatrack. I disentangled myself from a bunch of coats and sprinted into the living room.

Kessler, seated next to the telephone, gave me a quizzical look. Beside him, on the floor, lay Henry, the kitchen light reflected in his glazed eyes. His bathrobe had slid off his shoulders, and I could see the blood trickling from his chest down to his stomach. Kessler replaced the telephone receiver and got out of his chair.

“I found the fifth man. Regrettably, he resisted arrest and became violent, so I had to …”

He made the appropriate gesture.