“… an injection that paralyzes his memory. Kliensmann, I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
“That’ll be expensive, madam. My reputation, my livelihood-you must understand. For less than five hundred thousand … you see … my silence … and besides …”
“That’s all right. I’ll get the money.”
“But then there’s something else too. You may remember. Until now you’ve refused, but today, I think … You’ll comply, won’t you? Well, I too would have preferred pleasanter circumstances, but …”
“What are you talking about?”
“Take off your clothes.”
My nose itched. With difficulty, I managed to rub it against my shoulder. My arms were securely tied behind my back in a straitjacket that smelled of chlorine. I was lying in some kind of treatment room, and while I twisted and turned to loosen my bonds, the down payment for my blackout was being made next door. From time to time, Kliensmann uttered a few obscenities that made him sound like his own best patient. I crawled toward a picture framed behind glass. Slowly I slid up against the wall and managed to raise the bottom edge of the frame with the top of my head, until the picture came off its hook and crashed onto the floor between my feet. The two next door did not interrupt their activities. I started rubbing the straitjacket against the glass splinters that were still firmly lodged in the frame. Soon I had torn a small hole above my elbow. I kept working it against the splinter until it slowly cut through the jacket, my shirt, and my skin. I clenched my jaws and kept at it until a bloodstain spread over my right side, down to my waist. A little later I managed to extricate my arm. It looked as if someone had worked on it with a fretsaw. Now I was able to reach the leather straps on the back and open them. After wrapping a towel around my arm, I tiptoed to the door and listened.
“… We should do this more often.”
No comment.
“So: five hundred thousand cash, within the next three weeks. If I don’t get it by then, I’ll go to the police. You understand.”
“Three weeks? But I’ll have to sell shares!”
“You’ll manage. And the regular payments will continue, as usual.”
Barbara Bollig used some foul language.
“Come on, take it easy. You’re just buying some peace of mind. You’ll know that snooper won’t be able to make trouble anymore.”
A door slammed shut. Barbara Bollig must have left. Kliensmann called Hengstenberger.
“I don’t want to be disturbed for the next half hour.”
I got into position behind the door. Kliensmann came in, halted, and I punched him in the jaw. While he was reeling across the room, I grabbed the tattered straitjacket and kicked him squarely in the ass so that he fell flat on his face. Then I wrapped him up in best institutional fashion, leaned him against the wall, and slapped his cheeks. Reluctantly he opened his eyes.
“Good morning. What was it you were going to shoot me up with, doctor? Just out of personal curiosity. I had dreams of going to medical school once.”
“Bah!”
“Amazing, isn’t it. Half a million down the drain. But it’s nice to know one’s value.”
Kliensmann coughed and spat on the floor.
“That young Bollig … I guess the charge would be clinical murder? What do you think?”
He turned his head away.
“In his seventeen years, has he ever seen anything but four walls and barred windows?”
Kliensmann remained silent.
“Why, do you think? Because he had the wrong father? Or was it the wrong mother? Interesting question. Or was it just because characters like you will do anything for money?”
“Bah!”
“You called Barbara Bollig as soon as you heard that someone was asking for her son?”
He didn’t say anything. I got up and checked out the white medicine cabinet. I found some sleeping pills, got a glass of water, and hunkered down in front of him.
“All right, doc. Time to go beddy-bye.”
He resisted. I had to slap him around a little before he opened his mouth; then I tossed a hefty dose of sleeping pills into his craw, poured some water on top of them, and held his jaws shut.
“That’s it. Good night.”
I left the room, locked the door from the outside, and pocketed the key. I found my Beretta in Kliensmann’s desk drawer. I looked out the window at the leafless birch trees. My arms were throbbing. Now both of them were damaged. I wished I had a beer, I wished the fifth man were behind bars. Then I remembered Slibulsky.
2
The Roma was one of those Italo-German Frascati joints that demonstrate what cultural exchange is all about. Amid the oak paneling and furniture, the red-and-white checked tablecloths and fluted windows, the Pope in a gold frame looked just as good on the wall as the poster of the local bowling club. Juventus Turin shared a wall with the players of the Doppenburg team, and the pickled eggplant in the glass case tolerated a display of frankfurters right next to it. The flags of both countries were attached to a string stretched across the room. The place was empty, no waiters, no patrons. I found Slibulsky in a corner, between Bello Adriano and a mounted set of elk antlers. He was grumpily studying the menu.
“You must have had a great time. I’ve been sitting here for three hours.”
I gave him a brief report. He looked at my arm and growled, “Have something to eat, my boy, and get your strength back.”
I picked a mutton dish from the menu. No waiter appeared.
“Seems like this place is a little shorthanded.”
“Once in a while you can see one pass.”
Eventually a small, friendly Italian came to the table, and I ordered. Then I lit a cigarette and waited for Slibulsky to tell me about his morning. When he remained silent, I prodded him.
“What did the night watchman tell you?”
Slibulsky tongued his toothpick into a corner of his mouth.
“He didn’t tell me anything. He wasn’t even there.”
The waiter brought two cups of coffee.
“This morning he left the house with some suitcases. That’s what the baker across the street told me. Then he went to the airport. I heard that from the cabbie.”
“He took a taxi?”
Slibulsky nodded.
“Paid with a five-hundred-mark bill.”
“And his wife?”
“Left just a little later, went to the railroad station, and took the first train to Frankfurt.”
“To buy her vodka. Is that all?”
Slibulsky gazed out the window.
“I talked to your lawyer. The ‘Freedom and Nature’ people haven’t called again.” After a pause: “Why should they? Now that there’s a warrant out for you, for murdering that guy.”
“Schmidi?”
“Right. Murder, and robbery too. There’s a police artist’s sketch of your partner that looks quite a bit like me. I’ll put it up on the wall between the Playmate and the barred window. If they allow pinups in the joint.”
My mutton arrived.
“I could turn you in. Then I might stand a chance.”
“Go ahead.”
“It would be too tacky.”
The waiter stood behind the counter, tuning the radio to the two o’clock news. The headlines were followed by a police announcement. They were looking for a Turk who spoke German without an accent and traveled in the company of a short man with curly dark hair. “… The suspects are thought to be in the Frankfurt or South Hesse area. You may call any …”
“Let’s get the check.”
Slibulsky was getting into his overcoat when the waiter came over.
“Gentlemen, please. Enjoy your meal. Don’t worry.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I’m from Naples. Beautiful city, beautiful people, but police,” he made a fist, “tutti figli di una putana!”
We sat down again. The waiter wished us guten Appetit and went back to the counter. Slibulsky growled, “Let’s do our next heist in Italy.”