“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.