More Beer by Jakob Arjouni Read Free Book Online Page B

scrutinized me.
    “The lawyer?”
    “Right. Can you spare a moment for a couple of questions?”
    “… Awlright.”
    He took me to the kitchen, through a short hallway plastered with posters and newspaper clippings. A tatteredJapanese paper lampshade lit the room. You could smell the garbage. I sat down at a table that looked homemade and watched Schmidt pick up some empty coffee cups. Then he leaned against the sink and stuck both his thumbs into the elastic of his underpants.
    “Go ahead.”
    “Were you and Lechmann and Heinzel close?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “All kinds of things. For instance—have you given any thought to the Böllig case?”
    He rubbed his unshaven chin.
    “Well, what do you think? We’ve been sharing this place for two years.”
    “And why do you think those four were arrested so quickly?”
    “Didn’t surprise me. Computers and networks and all that shit. Of course it wouldn’t take them long.”
    “Were you there when they planned the operation?”
    “Oh no, boss. I didn’t know anything about it, and all I know now is what I’ve read in the papers.” He sneered.
    “You’re not a cop, are you?”
    “Do I look like one?”
    “Well, you guys were raised in a dictatorship …”
    He grinned. He liked his joke. I lit a cigarette and waited. “Has it occurred to you that the fifth man could have been an informer who ratted on his buddies?”
    He leaned forward, made a serious face, and said, “You speak in riddles, chief. I don’t know what you mean by the fifth man.”
    “It was in all the papers. There were
five
people at Böllig’s. One of them is still running around free. The computers don’t seem to be catching up with him.”
    “You mean the story by that character who was camping out there? No one believes that.”
    “But I do. And I ask myself why the police found those four in only three days, and haven’t been able to find the one guy in seven months. Then I ask myself, how is it possible that four people can deny, so convincingly, that they committed a murder which they clearly …”
    “OK, chief, I see what you’re driving at. Not a chance. I have nothing to do with any of it, I don’t know any fifth man, and I’m not the least bit interested.”
    He crossed his arms and looked me up and down. More down than up. He was about thirty-five, lived in a run-down apartment, and knew that his train had been and gone. It was obvious that he felt somewhat illegal because he knew the fifth man’s name but did not divulge it, and he was proud of that, without having the faintest idea who it was he was protecting. He was the kind of guy who walks down the street with you and at some point, a tear glittering in his eye, points at a window and whispers,” That’s where Ulrike Meinhof hid for a while.”
    I tossed my cigarette into a half-empty yogurt container and got up.
    “If that’s all you have to say, Schmidi …”
    “Mr. Schmidi. I don’t call you rat-Turk.”
    “So that’s what you wanted to get off your chest all this time?”
    “You better leave while the going is good.”
    “Yes, I might just give in to the urge to beat the name of that fifth guy out of you.”
    He took a step toward me.
    “Fuck off!”
    He was too unappetizing. I left.
    For about ten minutes I stood behind the fence and kept an eye on the front door of number five. Then it opened. Schmidi looked quickly up and down the street, then walked off. It was raining again. I pulled my coat collar up higher and followed him. We made a left turn, then a right, then proceeded down an alley and ended up in front of Lina’s Cellar. After scanning the street again, Schmidi went in. Five minutes later I followed. Lina’s Cellar was a rustic tavern with a bulletin board next to the restrooms and a blonde behind the counter. I sat down at a vacant table and ordered some Scotch. The joint was fairly busy. I couldn’t see Schmidi anywhere. A young couple next to me were