One Man, One Murder

16

I sat at the kitchen table in my bathrobe, breakfasting on black coffee and pickled herring. The window was open. Radiant sunshine, blue sky. A warm wind caressed my face. In the street, a car radio blared “Bella, bella, bella Marie”. That noise was interspersed by shouted orders: “Gertrud! Turn the water on!” and “Gertrud! Turn it off!” The first spring day of the year. My cabeza felt like it was made of lead.

I managed to swallow two rollmopses and a cup of coffee. I got up, lit a cigarette, and leaned on the windowsill. People on their lunch break and housewives carrying bags streamed down the sidewalks, a gang of kids was sitting on a pile of building materials, spitting in front of their feet, and a miniskirt stood leaning against the bus stop sign. I watched the greengrocer pop out of his store to berate a woman about touching his wares. Then the phone rang. I pulled myself together, padded back into the room and flopped into my chair.

“Kayankaya.”

“Good morning. This is Elsa Sandmann. I woke up in your car, yesterday morning.”

“Oh …” I sat up straight. The party angel. Even though I hadn’t forgotten her, I had hardly expected a call. Her voice was pleasantly hoarse, and I could tell she was puffing on a cigarette between phrases.

“I thought you might know how I ended up there.”

“Well, let’s see … You had left that party; you were rather drunk, and you wanted me to take you to Frankfurt. But I had to go someplace else-so you just got in and crashed in the back seat. When I came back, I tried to wake you up, but without success.”

“You weren’t at that party?”

“No. I just happened to be there, on the street.”

“And then you just left me and drove off into the woods?”

“That’s it, more or less. I did put a blanket over you.”

“Pretty strange, I must say.”

“Yes, it was. I had to leave you again. And then I was locked up. And then I got arrested.”

“Your card says you’re a private investigator.”

“I know. After all, it was me who had those printed up.” After a brief pause that gave me the impression there was a smile at the other end of the line, she asked: “But I always thought cops and private detectives were in cahoots?”

“You don’t watch enough television.”

“That’s possible. I also thought that detectives really needed their cars. But in your case, I suppose the suspects would have to help push.”

“Well, it’s my kind of car.”

“Have you been looking for it?”

“No.”

“But I’ve been looking for you. After I had checked out the woods and every tavern in Gellersheim, I decided it would make more sense to drive to your place. I had no idea what that would involve. I stalled out three times, the fourth gear wasn’t working, and the brakes-well, all right. When I got to my place, I was exhausted. That car isn’t just your kind of car, it doesn’t even like strangers.”

“Oh, no. I’m sure it just got too excited by having you drive it. How about giving me your address, and I’ll come and get it.”

Instead of giving me her address, she blew smoke into the mouthpiece. In the background I could hear street noises and the bell of a streetcar. I imagined that she was sitting there by a window, in her bathrobe, a plate of croissants in front of her.

I saw the sunlight glinting in her hair.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

She thought it over. A cup clinked against a saucer. “Between seven and eight?”

“That’s fine,” I said. She gave me an address in Sachsenhausen. Then we said ciao and hung up. It occurred to me that the telephone was as poor a setting for Elsa Sandmann as the rotting back seat of my car had been. Then again, none of us are too good on the phone, especially not when speaking to strangers: as often as not, the result is a chain of misunderstandings, inappropriate laughter, and pauses in which neither one knows whose turn it is to speak next.

I went back to the kitchen to study the street some more until the mailman arrived and handed me a large brown envelope. I ripped off the tape and pulled out a pink file folder, labeled in black magic marker: Rakdee, Sri Dao. Besides unimportant bits of paper including an Interpol printout that reported “no data,” the file contained the following entries:

“Mrs. Sri Dao Rakdee entered the Federal Republic of Germany on June twenty-second, nineteen hundred eighty-eight, on a tourist visa.… applied on September twenty-second for an extension of visa in order to marry Mr. Manfred Greiner.

“A further extension was granted on December twenty-second, nineteen hundred eighty-eight, after a delay encountered in efforts to obtain documents necessary for the marriage from Mrs. Rakdee’s birthplace, Chiang Mai.”

It was one of those old buildings freshly painted in candy colors that make one praise one’s lucky stars for having plain old gray facades across the street. Day-Glo turquoise stripes on a yellow background with pink window frames. As if that weren’t enough, every balcony was overflowing with potted palms and other plant life, helium balloons, children’s toys turning in the wind, and all kinds of other tchotchkes. A blend of “Dear Neighbor, Anarchy is Doable” and “Our Village, Ever More Beautiful.”

I walked to the front door, which was off to one side under a glass awning, and into the entrance hall. A gigantic chandelier hung from the ceiling. The staircase was carpeted in red. An advertising agency occupied the second floor, and on the third was a branch office of the Party That Has a Heart for Trees. That door was covered with stickers: North Sea, Nuclear power plants, Bicycles, Peace, Mandela, Palestinians, Nicaragua, Children, The Disabled, Gays, Gay Foreigners, Women, Pregnant Women, Single Women, Women in Houses of Prostitution … The door looked like a cross between a votive picture of the Virgin and a collection box for good causes, albeit one in which one needn’t put anything. A prolonged glance was enough to receive absolution for all of last week’s asocial actions and a moral advance against any that one might commit in weeks to come. To have these stickers on your door or car had to be the equivalent of a hundred Hail Marys.

I went on up to the fourth floor and rang the bell. There was no response. I rang again. When I heard someone approach on silent cat’s feet, I moved out of spy hole range. After a while I rang a third time and heard a quiet, whiny voice say: “Who is it?”

“Kayankaya. Let me in.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“We don’t have anything to discuss.”

“I beg to differ. And if you don’t let me in, I’ll tell you everything from right here.” I raised my voice. “It’s just that I’d be sharing it with the whole building, and I don’t know-”

The door opened and Weidenbusch stood there in pale blue pajamas made out of some kind of toweling fabric. He was blushing. “I must say, this is-”

I touched my forehead. “Good morning.”

Then I pushed past him into the apartment, crossed a shiny parquet floor, and stopped in a large, sunny room. Weidenbusch followed, yapping at my heels: “You’re trespassing! As a detective, you ought to know that!”

Then he stopped in the doorway and fussed with his hair. The room was decorated with the kind of art that looks as if someone had decided, one morning, to paint his breakfast tray white and hang it on the wall. In the middle stood a table with weird angles, surrounded by chairs shaped like stylized lightning bolts. And there were dozens of lamps. Each one of them resembled something that didn’t look the least bit like a light fixture, Otherwise the room seemed empty, until I took a quick tour of it and discovered a television set, discreetly hidden behind the door. The windows were open, and strains of Asiatic folk tunes could be heard from outside.

I turned: “Is it possible to sit on one of those?”

He didn’t get that right away. Then he responded, sounding a little annoyed: “But of course. They’re as stable as any common chair. My cousin designed those.” He added, looking blase: “Unfortunately, you can now see them in every other apartment.” But I could tell that he was putting a brave face aboard a ship the rats were abandoning in a hurry.

“Gosh, I must only visit the ones that don’t have them yet.”

I sat down on one of the lightning bolts, took out my cigarettes and matches and put them on the table.

“I haven’t asked you to stay.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need an invitation. Boy, you must be a real tight family. The furniture’s designed by a cousin, your mother makes decisions about your girlfriend …” I looked at him. “But that, of course, was a lie.”

He hurried over to the table. “I told you at the airport-you’re no longer working for me! And if you’re trying to get more money out of me …” He picked up my smoking paraphernalia and tossed them in my lap. “The check’s in the mail. And that’s all you’ll get from me.”

“Listen, brillo pad, how come you’re acting so superior all of a sudden? Have you been taking lessons? But you’re missing something here.”

I put cigarettes and matches back on the table.

“You still haven’t told me if you found Mrs. Rakdee yesterday.”

He opened his mouth, but I raised my hand and shook my head. His face was turning paler.

“Pretty clever, I must say. The artsy little fellow who gets cold feet on a foray into real life and then lets Mom whip him back into his customary existence in one of these nice old buildings. I really bought it. With the greatest of ease.”

He was still standing in front of me in the get-out-of-here mode, but now he was staring at the floor, and his terry-cloth-covered belly was heaving rapidly.

“How about offering me a cup of coffee?”

He looked up. “Coffee?” He looked absent-minded, then shook his head. “My espresso machine is broken.”

“I’m not that choosy. Just make some with a filter.”

“I have no filters.”

“You don’t? All right, tea or cocoa will do. And get your girlfriend. I’m sure she’d like to have some breakfast, and I’ll only be a minute.”

He stared at me. His face lost all color, and for a moment it looked as if he would attack me. His voice was trembling. “You’re hallucinating. Get out of my house!” Then he panicked, and he raised his arms. “I don’t want to see you anymore! Ever again! Just go! Get out of here!”

I got up and slapped him. He yelped and covered his face with his hands.

“Stop the hysterics. I’m here to wind up a case. And if you’d stop to think for a second, you would notice that I haven’t brought any cops or handcuffs. You and your girlfriend will be perfectly safe.”

He lowered his arms. Tears were running down his cheeks.

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me.” I sat down again and pointed at the second door in the room. “She’s listening to us, right behind that door, isn’t she? So, pull yourself together, for her sake if nothing else.”

He needed a couple more minutes during which nothing was heard except for his heavy breathing and the jangling of folk tunes. Then he gulped, turned, and called out in English:

“Sweetheart, please come in!”

The door opened slowly, and a woman in her mid-twenties, in a red and white striped cotton dress, entered the room. She was barely five foot tall, delicately built, and had a round, apple-cheeked face with large serious eyes, framed by shoulder-length black hair. Her feet, encased in yellow raffia slippers, made no sound as she came forward, arms folded across her chest. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” I nodded, then asked Weidenbusch: “Now will you get us something to drink?”

Ten minutes later, Weidenbusch was pouring tea into our cups. After that initial greeting Sri Dao had not uttered a single word. She observed events with complete calm and followed our conversation with interest. There was no way of telling how much she understood or what she thought of it. After Weidenbusch had taken a seat at the table, I began my story: the visa scam, and Charlie, and Hottges, and Manne Greiner. At first, I addressed Sri Dao directly, but when that seemed more and more like talking to a wall, I concentrated on Weidenbusch.

“… so my first impression was correct: when the VW bus arrived, Mrs. Rakdee recognized her former husband and pimp. But it was not an intentional reunion. It was a mistake. I assume that Charlie made the necessary calls and sent Manne to the agreed pick-up point without giving him any names. So the surprise was mutual, and if the gang didn’t want to endanger the anonymity of their operation, they had to get rid of Mrs. Rakdee. I don’t know what plans they had for her, but when the group was moved out of the villa, Manne stayed behind-with her.”

I sipped my tea. If Weidenbusch hadn’t been heaving the occasional mournful sigh, one would have thought that he had fainted while sitting there with wide open eyes. Sri Dao, on the other hand, was desultorily stirring the sugar in the sugar bowl.

“Then, when I got there, only Manne was left. Dead-and in a state of undress customarily assumed only by couples. He may have raped Mrs. Rakdee, or she may have seduced him. Whatever was the case, she had managed to break his neck.”

Weidenbusch gave me a quick glance. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead on his hands. Sri Dao watched his movements and looked surprised.

“After that, she called you. But she didn’t tell you about the murder. Then you called me at home, but I wasn’t there. When we had our next telephone conversation, you already knew what had happened. You wanted me to stop my investigation, and, as I told you, I almost believed your change of heart. But when you showed up at the airport to demonstrate once again, and in person, how ignorant you were of Mrs. Rakdee’s whereabouts, it became obvious to me that a) someone was pressuring you-but there was nothing to go on in that direction, or b) you had your own reasons for leading me down a false trail. And so on, and so forth. All in all, it’s not a bad theory, and that’s all it is. There is no evidence, and I won’t go looking for any. There isn’t even a corpse. I buried it, because I assumed from the start that the murder could only have been committed by a refugee who gained his-or her-freedom. In my book that’s self-defense, even if other motives may have come into play.” I paused briefly, then said: “Now do you understand what I meant by saying nothing will happen to you?”

But he didn’t understand, at least not immediately. He was still hiding his face in his hands. Next to him, Sri Dao contemplated her own hands which lay folded in her lap. I picked up my teacup and leaned back. The first bees of spring hummed into the room, and you could hear children laughing and bouncing balls down in the street. Maybe Elsa Sandmann would accept an invitation to have dinner with me?

Slowly, Weidenbusch raised his head. “But why did you come here, to tell us these things, if you-”

“If I don’t intend to do anything about it? First of all, it was my job to find Mrs. Rakdee. That’s what you were paying me for. Now I have found her. Second, I’ve been involved in this story for too long not to feel the urge to tell it at least once. And third, I don’t enjoy being fooled. So,” I took out my wallet and put three thousand-mark bills on the table, “here’s your money.”

“Oh!” He waved it aside. “No, no, you keep it, please. I don’t know how else to thank you … If that’s the right expression-what I mean is …”

There was still fear in his voice, and I began to wonder what he might need to regain his balance. Maybe his girlfriend ought to give him a hug, I thought. But, for a while now, she had been casting a rather cool eye at him, just as if he had committed some kind of blunder. As far as I could see, he hadn’t been doing anything besides stammering incoherently. Being a murderess safe from prison, arid seeming quite unconcerned about her deed, I felt that she could have been a little nicer to him. I took one of the bills, said “That’s fine,” and prepared to leave. As I picked up my cigarettes I happened to glance at the daily paper lying next to them. In the lower right-hand corner was the result of the tennis game Becker vs. Steeb, two days ago. Six two, six two for Becker. Suddenly I understood Sri Dao’s unfriendly mood. If Slibulsky hadn’t seen the end of the game but had answered Weidenbusch’s phone call, not more than half an hour could have elapsed between my departure and that call. This would have been just enough time for Slibulsky to raise the alarm in Gellersheim and to have the villa evacuated in a panic mode. But it was not enough time for a murder and two phone calls. In other words: by whatever means Sri Dao had managed to reach a phone in that chaos, she must have called Weidenbusch during the evacuation. And when Weidenbusch hadn’t been able to reach me, he himself had driven to Gellersheim.

I looked at the couple. Both of them seemed tense. Weidenbusch interpreted my hesitation in his customary manner and said quickly: “No, just take it all, and if you would like more-”

“Stay where you are.”

Her elbow on the table, Sri Dao was holding her cup under her nose and watching him and me across the rim as if we were playing ping-pong.

“I think that Mrs. Rakdee feels you should tell me something.”

He looked irritated, turned to look at her. “Sweetheart?”

Sweetheart did not react.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, maybe it isn’t such a good start for a wonderful love affair if one party lets the other get away with murder.”

He opened his mouth. Then he nodded, slowly.

Ten minutes later, Weidenbusch had smoked three cigarettes while telling me how he had arrived at the villa, how he had snuck down into the basement, and how he had seen Manne Greiner raping Sri Dao. What followed was pure reflex-a knee between the prone man’s shoulders, a firm grip on his forehead, and a powerful tug to snap his neck.

His voice grew firmer as he spoke. He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and for the first time in our acquaintance seemed almost calm. “I wouldn’t have thought you could do that.”

He shrugged. “Me neither. So. Are you going to hand me over to the cops?”

“No.” I pocketed my cigarettes. “Just don’t start writing a poem about it when you’re back in shape.”

I was about to get up when Sri Dao grabbed my arm and pointed at the newspaper with a questioning expression. I tapped the tennis results with my finger. She looked perplexed. Then the doorbell rang. Weidenbusch stared at me. I ran to the window. A green and white van stood in the carriageway.

“Police. I’ll take care of them. But you better think of something to get her visa extended. Good luck.”

“But,” Weidenbusch cleared his throat, “I mean, won’t I see you again?”

Without turning, and casting a final glance at the painted breakfast trays, I replied: “That’s entirely up to you. As you know, it’s two hundred a day plus expenses.”

I opened the door. There were four of them: three in uniform and one in plain clothes. The plainclothes guy had a friendly face adorned by a mustache. We looked at each other with a degree of amazement.

“Goodness, Inspector, what are you doing here?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

I pulled the door shut behind me. “This is my new apartment.”

Klaase craned his neck to read the nameplate. “Oh-but what about Mr. Weidenbusch?”

“I think he moved to Munich. Why?”

“Well, because …” He unfolded a sheet of paper. The uniformed guys were looking at me in a manner indicating that as far as they were concerned, it was a criminal offense for me to be walking on two legs.

“I have here a deportation order against a Mrs. Sri Dao Rakdee. And we’ve been informed that she resides here.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know her. You coming down with me?”

Descending the stairs we exchanged the usual HowAreYouThanksAllRightWeekendComingUpThankGod platitudes. But once we were on the sidewalk, Klaase took me aside, waving the uniformed guys back into the van.

“I hope you treated the information I gave you confidentially?”

“But of course.”

He didn’t look totally convinced. “This morning Hottges asked me if I had told anybody about Gellersheim.”

“Really? Speaking of Hottges-you said such a kind thing about him when we talked on the phone: something to the effect that he’d had a hard life. What were you referring to?”

“Oh, that.…” He cleared his throat, seemed reluctant. “I don’t have any details, exactly.”

“How about some inexact details?”

“Well … he was always so proud of his family, a happy marriage, three kids … but then it all turned bad. Because of infidelities.”

“He doesn’t look like a womanizer.”

“That’s just it.”

“… I see.”

We walked to the van. The uniformed guys watched us through the windows, talking to each other.

“You should change that name plate.”

“Yes, the super’s been at me about that for two days.” I patted his shoulder. “So, keep up the good work. Keep an eye out for things.”

He smiled hesitantly. “Thanks.”

I grinned. “Don’t mention it. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

I turned and walked down the street. It still was a warm day with blue skies. I took off my jacket and slung it over my shoulder. My wallet now contained a check for twenty thousand marks and Weidenbusch’s thousand. My first purchase was an ice cream cone, and while the vendor scoured the neighborhood to get me my change, I stopped in the drug store next door and picked out a pair of sunglasses, whistling “Say a Little Prayer for You.” It was easy to whistle with that kind of money in my pocket. I wouldn’t be doing it for very long.

I unlocked the door to my office, tossed the mail and newspapers into the clients’ chair, and opened the windows, letting in a blend of odors: vanilla and frying fat. The Chicken Inn across the street had put its soft-ice machine out on the sidewalk. I went to the sink, rinsed a glass, took the bottle of Chivas out of the desk drawer and helped myself to a generous drink. Then I stood by the window, sipping Scotch and letting the sun shine on my face. I had finished the job, and the next couple of weeks, I thought, I could do as I pleased. Sleep, play billiards, sit in cafes, perhaps even take a drive out into the countryside. Eat some good food, smoke good cigarettes at eight marks a pack. And I would ask Gina if she knew the name of that book about the old guy in the sewers of Paris. Maybe, at long last, I’d even hop on a plane headed south. For a week or two, if not longer.

I finished my drink and was about to check the mail when the phone rang.

“Mr. Kayankaya?”

“Yes?”

“Olschewski here. Mr. Schmitz would like to talk to you.” The line crackled. I hurried to refill my glass and pulled a cigarette from the pack. Then Schmitz’s distinguished voice came on the line. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kayankaya. I’ve been reading the papers, and I gather that several dozen refugees were found in a bunker in Gellersheim, where they had been taken from some otherwise unspecified villa. I assume that you were the source of that information?”

“Let’s just say that I made sure the newspapers were able to talk to those refugees.”

“So you forgot what I explained to you?”

“You mean that thing about the difference.…” I lit my cigarette, took a deep drag, blew the smoke out. “It really isn’t that great. You’re doing your job as best you can, and I’m doing mine to the best of my ability. Beyond that, it’s just a question of how many gilded objects one wants in one’s house, and whether one really needs a flunkey at the door. I have no objections to that, but I like to open and close my own doors. If you think you need to get rid of me, you’ll have to hire killers to do it. But if I blow the whistle on you, I’ll do it in person-either because I want to, or because I’m forced to do it. So, let’s see who gets more ambitious.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“I’m just letting you know what I think of your little lecture the other night. I’m doing my job, and if you attack me because of that, I’ll defend myself. I may just kick you in the shins, but, who knows, I might even land one on your head.”

He cleared his throat, then asked, with a pretense of mild amusement: “Seems almost as if you’d been waiting for me to call.”

“I’ve been counting on it.”

“Well, I really should be mad at you, but I think you’re quite a guy. After our conversation I didn’t think you’d pursue that affair. To tell the truth, I didn’t get my information only from the newspapers. Mr. Koberle told me everything.”

I felt a lump in my throat. “Everything?”

“How you took the money back from the gang. Very brave, one against three. Which brings us to the main reason for my call. I would like to hire you.”

Was the whisky that strong this afternoon, or was I dreaming?

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. It concerns my nephew Axel. You met him. I admit that he’s a disaster in every respect, but for the last twenty years, he has always showed up on time for our little talks. Until this morning. Mr. Koberle tells me that after your show at the garage last night, he drove Axel home. But he isn’t there. I’ve spent the morning making calls, but I haven’t been able to reach him. Frankly, I’m worried about what may have happened to him. There are these Yugoslavs who are trying to muscle in on my business-I’ll tell you the details when you come over. In any case, I want you to find my nephew. And I suppose that the check I gave you-which did not fulfill its original purpose-would do as a retainer.”

While listening to him I had helped myself to a big gulp of Scotch and made myself comfortable behind the desk.

“Sorry, but I can’t take that on.”

“Why not?”

“I’m in training for a billiards tournament.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.”

I looked out the window. A vapor trail stretched across the sky, heading south. Then Schmitz asked, pretending to be casual about it: “Have you cashed that check?”

I knew what he had in mind, and I knew that I could keep the twenty thousand if I said “Yes.” I didn’t really know why I said “No.”

“Well … Come to think of it, there’s no dead body in Gellersheim, and there’s no way you could take that refugee story to the cops … ”

He paused, just in case he was wrong and I would tell him so. But he wasn’t wrong, and he went on to say: “So I guess I’ll stop payment on it.”

“Do that. You’ll have more money that way.”

He laughed. “Right you are. Goodbye.” He hung up. I stared into space for a while. Then I took half of Weidenbusch’s money, stuck it into an envelope with a note that said “Kayankaya’s rent” and wrote Kunze’s address on the envelope. After which I started cleaning up the office. I vacuumed and swept, washed dishes, took the garbage downstairs.

With a replenished glass of Scotch I sat down at my clean desk and opened my mail. A subpoena to be a witness at a trial-the case was two months old; an advertising circular from a weapons firm; a “League for a Future Palestine” wanted to know if they could hire me as a bodyguard.… I began to read sentences three or four times without comprehension. Finally I put the rest of the unopened mail aside and leaned back in my chair. This was no day for routine, no matter how hard I’d try. Tomorrow would be such a day, and so would the day after tomorrow, and the days to come, but today even the sight of my name on those envelopes was too much. I took Schmitz’s check out of my wallet and leaned it against the base of my desk lamp. It looked good there. Then I finished my drink and got up.

A little after two o’clock I left the brown office building and headed downtown. At the first refreshment stand I purchased some cigarettes for eight marks a pack. In six hours I would have my date with Elsa Sandmann, and it looked like the weather would stay warm and nice until then. I would find a quiet cafe with an outdoor terrace, maybe even one with a small billiard table in the back. I could practice a few masse shots. The tournament was in three weeks, and since Slibulsky was only half a player now, I had to get twice as good.

I paid, put on my new shades, and walked down the street. The high-rise buildings gleamed above the American barracks, and the air smelled of tar and burnt rubber.