It was very tight beneath the bed and I wanted to get out. But that proved more difficult than getting in. I pushed against the wall and kicked my legs but didn't get very far. I had used my legs to push my way under the bed, but I couldn't use them to pull myself out. More proof, I thought, that getting oneself into something is easy enough, but getting out again is another matter altogether. Just like monasteries or marriage, the foreign legion, or bad company, I reflected. I remembered a pool I had jumped into as a small boy. I had just learned to swim. After two laps I realized that there was no climbing up the smooth concrete walls. I was trapped.
Finally I stemmed and kicked, pushed and pulled myself centimeter by centimeter out from under the bed. Things got easier once my bottom was no longer stuck between the bed and the floor. First my shoulders got free, then my head. I breathed a sigh of relief, closed my eyes for a moment, and rolled onto my back-I simply couldn't get up right away.
When I opened my eyes, Peschkalek was standing over me. He was looking down at me, one hand in his pocket, the other twirling his mustache.
“How long have you been standing there?” This wasn't a good opening. I should have left him the first word and gotten up quietly.
“I should have pulled you out. Perhaps with a little apology, because it's so tight down there? And with an invitation, perhaps: As in, what would you like to see next? Where would you like to snoop around now, Mr. Private Investigator?” He took an ironic bow.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. That wasn't a particularly good beginning either. I was confused. Just the same, I got up.
He grinned. “I heard my clock chime when you called Brigitte.” His grin grew malicious. “And three guesses how I managed to listen in when you called. Now why would your Brigitte and I be sitting cheek to cheek? Well?”
He took his hand out of his pocket and clenched his fist. I don't know whether he hoped or feared that I would fling myself on him. The thought didn't even cross my mind. I took my time.
“Well?” He hopped from one foot to another.
“Where is your gun?”
He stopped in his tracks. “My gun? What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Ingo. No one's here except you and me. There's no police inspector in the closet and no microphone in my tie pin. You know what I'm talking about, and I know that you know. Why play games?”
“I really don't know what you're talking about. How-”
“You're right. My question was a game, too. Why should you tell me where you've hidden the gun? Or did you throw it away?”
“Cut the bullshit, Gerhard. I told Brigitte I'd come get my camera, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. Then I'll take the pictures of Manu she wants, and eat the potato soufflé that's in the oven. Feel free to turn on the light and continue your search for pistols, and don't forget to lock up when you leave.”
He turned around and went into the other room. He was good. He was much better than I'd given him credit for. And the matter-of-factness with which he spoke of Brigitte, Manu, and the soufflé hit me harder than the sucker punch of him and Brigitte sitting cheek to cheek when I called. I watched him pack two cameras and a flash into his leather bag, and said, “I'd also take binder 15.6 and the video.”
He pulled the strap very slowly through the buckle, pushed the prong into the hole in the strap, and pulled it tight. He shot a quick glance at the shelf.
“It's all still there,” I said.
He had finished packing, but seemed unsure what to do next. He stood looking out the window, his hands on the leather bag.
“Not to mention that I have the map you wanted from Rolf.”
Now he was even less certain what to do. Was I throwing him some bait? Was I making him an offer? With his left hand he tapped a disjointed rhythm on the leather bag.
“Isn't Lemke a risk, after all? You assumed he'd play along and keep his mouth shut. Then he'd have made his grand entrance at the trial, and you'd have had your feature in the media. When he gets out of prison, he'll have half the proceeds, with interest and compound interest. He'll get-what, eight years, ten? A high price, but as he got caught anyway and will be punished, what would he stand to gain if he didn't play along and keep his mouth shut?”
Peschkalek's hand tapped slowly and evenly.
“And yet he would stand to gain something,” I said. “He'd be paying you back for squealing on him.”
He turned and faced me. “Squealing on him? I don't understand.”
“I don't know if one can actually prove that you squealed. Voice recordings, voice matches-nowadays there are all kinds of possibilities, but I doubt the police would go to all that trouble.” I shook my head. “But Lemke doesn't need concrete proof. If I point him in the right direction, then he'll realize, just as I've realized, that it could only have been you who made that call to the Spanish police, not some German tourist, or whatever you passed yourself off as.”
Peschkalek looked at me as if he were bracing himself for the next blow.
I took aim. “What's bad for you is that Lemke is not out just to get even. If he's going to start talking, it wouldn't surprise me if he chose to save his own skin. If he ends up as the chief witness, he might only get four to five years. So why not? He'll start talking and lay all the facts on the table. And he'll lay them out in such a way that you'll be the one who was behind it alclass="underline" You came up with the idea, you masterminded it, and you saw it all through. You fired the gun- both in Viernheim and in Wieblingen. It was you!”
30 All's not lost
He gave up. Bait, offer, threat-whatever game I was playing, he no longer dared not play along. But playing along in my game meant giving his game up.
“You don't seriously believe that it was I who shot Rolf Wendt?” He looked at me, appalled.
“You put him under pressure. You had Lemke's gun. You contacted the newspapers. You-”
“But how-”
“How?” I shouted. “You want to know how it can be proved? One thing you can be sure of is that when the police have a lead they find the proof, too, and whatever they won't find, Lemke will provide them with.”
“No, what I meant was, how could I have been the one who killed him if what I was after was to blackmail him?”
“Believe me, I won't lose any sleep over that one.”
“It was an accident. Rolf-”
“The gunshot was an accident? Come on, Ingo-”
“If I'm going to talk, at least listen to what I have to say.” He looked at me half desperate, half furious. I was silent. “You don't have to tell me it sounds crazy! Rolf and I had gotten into a fight because I wanted the map and he wouldn't give it to me. I threatened that I would tell the police that he had hidden Leo in his psychiatric hospital. He grabbed hold of me and I slapped his hands out of the way and pushed him, and he fell backward.”
“And?”
“He just lay there. At first I thought he was playing games, then I thought he had fainted. Then I suddenly got this really weird feeling and felt for his pulse. Nothing. He was dead.” Peschkalek sat down in the Venetian chair, put his arms on the armrests, raised his hands, and let them fall again. I waited. He smiled crookedly and shot a quick glance at me. “I had taken the gun along to frighten him a little, and, well, as he was dead anyway…I fired it.”