More Beer (4 page)

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. Böllig.”

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. Böllig 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 Böllig?”

“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 Böllig 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. Böllig 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. Böllig 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 Böllig case, and I need to take a look at your business records. For various reasons. Mrs. Böllig 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. Böllig’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. Böllig 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 Böllig 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. Böllig now owns the company, one hundred percent.”

“One hundred percent, that is, of the Böllig 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.”