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17

T
he alarm awakened Rickie from a heavy sleep. Frau Stevenson, he recalled. And he hadn’t rung Freddie Schimmelmann yet. He peeked into the bedroom and saw Teddie lying face down, chin on folded arms, watching TV.

“Got to dress, Teddie.”

“I know. Could you maybe hand me my trousers, please, Rickie?”

Rickie did. The day was still warm, breezeless, though the windows were open top and bottom. He took a fresh hand towel and brought it, damp with cold water, to Teddie. “Can you use this?”

Teddie groaned appreciation. “Thanks. Just what I need.” Grimacing, Teddie rubbed the back of his neck, started to drag a foot up and dropped the idea. He washed his chest and a thigh.

“I’ll do it,” said Rickie, took the towel and rubbed the boy’s feet quickly.

“Do you know where my sneakers are, Rickie?”

Not sneakers but black leather shoes. Rickie got them from his cupboard. “Never mind socks. I’ll get your shoes on after you—”

The doorbell rang.

Florence Stevenson. She said her name. There was a man with her whom she introduced as David somebody, about her own age.

“I think the patient is feeling better,” Rickie said.

She carried a blue shirt over one arm. “We’ll manage,” she said over her shoulder, with a slight smile, as if to dismiss him.

So the David somebody helped Teddie get dressed.

“OK, but slowly, please.
Ow!
” from Teddie. “OK,
I’ll
make it.”

A chiding murmur from his mum, and something unintelligible from David. Was David Frau Stevenson’s boyfriend, lover? And who gave a damn? He watched Frau Stevenson and David—a slender type with blondish hair and rimless glasses—partly supporting Teddie by the elbows, one on each side. Rickie was ready to help, but it appeared he was not necessary. Teddie seemed to know David well.

“Rickie’s been very good to me, Mum. So was his friend—Philip.”

Frau Stevenson seemed to force a smile. “I do thank you, Herr Mark—”

“Markwalder.”

Her smiled warmed. “I have a little trouble with that name, I don’t know why. I realize you’ve been very kind to my son. I do thank you.”

Rickie made a gesture. “Only natural! It happened in my neighborhood—I’m sorry to say.”

Teddie, supported, shifted gently from one foot to the other.

“May I ask—have you learned anything from the police today?” David said.

“No.” The household had been rather busy with Teddie, Rickie felt like saying. “Two officers were here around four in the morning, as I told Frau Stevenson, but that was because I broke in a door near here.”

“Ah yes. The door of someone you suspect, you said this morning,” Frau Stevenson put in.

“What’s his name?” asked David.

“Willi Biber. But I have little to go on.” Rickie spoke reluctantly. “It’s more of a guess on my part.”

“You should see this Willi, Mum,” Teddie said. “He’s
weird
to look at.”

“When you mentioned a suspect—I thought you would talk to the police,” said Frau Stevenson. “Would you like us to do it?”

Rickie tried to think. Would the police act if Frau Stevenson told them someone suspected Willi Biber of assault and battery? “I think Willi should be questioned, shown that piece of tripod that you have.”

“Can you give us his address?” asked David.

“We can get that by telephone,” said Frau Stevenson. “I’d like to get home soon.”

“The fact is,” Rickie pushed on, “I didn’t
see
Willi doing anything wrong.”

Frau Stevenson looked at her friend. “I think we should talk to the police, David. Don’t you?”

David murmured something. They were moving.

“I’ll come out with you.” With housekeys in pocket, Rickie came with them out to the brown Audi. Teddie was taking ever longer steps. Frau Stevenson unlocked the car and opened a back door. Teddie’s forehead glistened, and he was biting his underlip.

“Other side’s easier, Mum. I have to lie on my right side—sort of.”

Rickie held open the door on the other side, finally had to grip Teddie’s left hand for his painful slide onto the back seat.

“Ow! Oh boy!” Teddie said miserably.

It was Frau Stevenson who wanted the boy moved home, Rickie was thinking. Finally, after more smiles and thanks, the car rolled off.

Rickie went back to his flat, closed the door, and felt a huge emptiness, an aloneness that was familiar. He put his hands over his face, his eyes for a moment, but the darkness did not change the emptiness, the rude shock of the rumpled white sheets on the bed.

Try Freddie, Rickie told himself. What was he getting into? Always dangerous, police. Might seem to be friendly, and then— He moved to get Freddie’s card, now in a little box with at least ten others on Rickie’s writing table.
Your work
, an inner voice said. Next assignment—that dry-skin job. Could yet another dry-skin softener be hitting the market? Well, yes. Rickie stared at the telephone, and the image of David’s slender waist came to him, encircled by a brown alligator belt. Fitness. Money. Skiing and swimming in season, and a fat-free diet. Of course. He could keep up with that lifestyle, Rickie told himself, food and dress department, he just didn’t want to.

Lulu stood up and licked his hand quickly, whimpering.

“I know, my angel, you are right! Just one quick phone call first.”

Rickie dialed.

A woman answered, to Rickie’s shock, then he remembered: Freddie was married. “Freddie’s out just now, but he ought to be back in less than half an hour. Can I—”

“I’ll phone again then. Thank you.”

Rickie took Lulu out.

When he rang again, Freddie was home, and sounded surprised and happy that the caller was Rickie.

“Got a problem,” Rickie said. “Are you alone—sort of?”

Freddie said he would close a door.

Rickie told about Teddie being brought back wounded, supported by two strangers last night at Jakob’s. And Willi’s smashed door. “Willi needs a goddamn scare—the right cops. Or cop,” Rickie finished.

“You
sure
about Willi? He did it?”

“N-not a hundred percent sure—just almost. There are other things too. Facts, I mean. That I
know
. I was wondering, can I see you this evening?”

Freddie was going to have a snack with his wife now, then he could come to Ricki’s place by about nine.

That suited Rickie. He asked Freddie to bring his workpad or notepad. “What you give tickets with. Looks authentic. We might visit somebody tonight.”

As soon as he had hung up, Rickie thought of his next duty: ring Dr. Oberdorfer. What was it the doctor wanted to tell him? Something worse in regard to the unmentionable? Something new? Tomorrow.

Rickie’s doorbell rang at a quarter past nine. The smiling Freddie Schimmelmann in civvies stood at his door with his curiously crinkly eyes, his shy yet confident manner. Freddie’s pad was a big lump that partly projected from a back pocket of his black cotton trousers.

“Heineken’s or Hopfenperle?” asked Rickie.

Hopfenperle. Over their beer at the dining table, Rickie enlightened Freddie about Renate’s attitude toward Teddie, and her control of Willi Biber.

I think if Willi didn’t hit Teddie, Renate could persuade him he did—and if he did, she could convince him he didn’t.”

“What’s the matter with the guy?”

“You’ve heard of morons. Mentally challenged, maybe that’s nicer.”

“And you’re hung up on Teddie.”

Rickie squirmed, happy. “Not really hung up. He’s a nice boy. Likes me quite well, I think.”

“And he’s in love with Luisa. Rickie, you’re asking for trouble!”

“And not getting any!” Rickie laughed.

Finished with his beer, Freddie strolled around the big living room, hands in trouser pockets. “Who’s this again? The pretty blond?”

Rickie took a breath. “That’s Petey Ritter. I—” Rickie had told Freddie how Petey died, because Freddie had asked about the photos the first evening he had come to the house. “There’s something else I might tell you,” he said, then he told Freddie Renate’s story—that a pickup of Petey had stabbed Petey here in Rickie’s bedroom.

Freddie took this in solemnly. It was the first time Rickie had seen Freddie frown, as if he had a problem he couldn’t deal with.

“Well, let’s take off.”

“Where’re we going?”

“Up to Jakob’s, I thought. The Small g. By the way, got your identification card with you? Police?”

Freddie nodded. “Yup. Why?”

“Because I thought I’d introduce you—as a friend. Unless you have any objection. My friend in the police force.”

Freddie pondered. “No. I suppose that’s OK. OK, Rickie!”

As they neared Jakob’s, Rickie heard an organ-grinder’s music. Yes, there he was, visible now through some trees and bushes, near Jakob’s back terrace.

“Organ-grinder! Most exceptional, Freddie!” It was an exceptional day all round, however, Rickie thought as he reached for some change. “The Blue Danube.” How corny could you get? Rickie chose a five-franc piece, a heavy coin. “No monkey?” Rickie said, dropping it into a tin pie plate.

Freddie contributed too.

“Thank y’, sir!
Schö’n Sonntag!
”

They went in, Rickie with the intention of standing at the bar. Did Freddie look like a cop? Not today, with a brown cotton jacket, no cap.

“Rickie! Back again? How was the goulash?” asked Ursie behind the bar.

“Ursie—superb! And you’re going to drop dead one of these days if you don’t get more sleep.”

Ursie gave a laugh, as if he’d said something funny. “What will the gentlemen have?”

“I—a small beer, please. Freddie?”

“Same.”

Before Ursie moved away to the taps, Rickie said, “I’d like to introduce my police officer friend—Freddie Schimmelmann. Ursie—queen and guiding spirit of Jakob’s restaurant and Biergarten.”

Ursie’s face betrayed that she was impressed, or surprised. “How d’you do? A police officer.”

“Show her, Freddie.”

Freddie reached for his wallet, and opened it to a plastic window.

Rickie glimpsed a picture of Freddie in cap above a lot of printed lines and signatures, and he saw Ursie’s pale blue eyes bulge almost to normal size. “It’s true,” said Rickie.

“Ruth told me your young friend went home,” Ursie said, working at the draught tap.

“He was taken back home. Practically carried. But he’s on the mend.” Rickie looked over his left shoulder toward Renate’s table: no Renate, no Luisa. No Willi Biber in sight either.

Their beers arrived. Rickie laid out the coins for them, over Freddie’s protest.

When Ursie was back in the area, Rickie said, “We’re going over to see
Willi
—if he’s home. Has he been in this afternoon?”

He hadn’t, that Ursie had seen. “Going to
see
him?” she asked, curious, Rickie knew, because he was with a policeman.

“Social call. Freddie would like to meet him,” Rickie said calmly. “What’s the name of the tearoom people—Waengler?”

Ursie thought for moment, stayed her hand on the draught handle and closed her pinkish eyes, then opened them. “Wenger.” She was on the move again.

A quarter of an hour later, Rickie and Freddie approached the tearoom L’Eclair, now dark and shadowy.

Rickie said, “Willi lives behind here.” Then he noticed a feeble glow at a front window, first floor. The tearoom owners were home. “Down this alley,” Rickie motioned.

A somewhat brighter first-floor window showed in the alley, but no light from Willi Biber’s quarters. Freddie produced a flashlight the size of a fountain pen. “Bless you!” said Rickie. He knocked on the alley door, which had a lower panel missing. There was no answer; Rickie tried the knob and the door opened at once. The dark hall again. Rickie gestured toward the door on the left. “Maybe asleep.” Rickie knocked. “Willi? You have visitors! Somebody wants to see you!”

Still no answer, and Rickie was about to try this door, when a female voice cried, “Who’s there?” from the lighted window direction.

Rickie tried the door anyway. The lock held. He and Freddie went into the alley. “’Evening, Frau Wenger. We would like to speak with Willi, please.”

“Who would?” Frau Wenger had her hands on the sill.

“Markwalder—I’m with a police officer. Is Willi at home?”

A pause. “Are you saying he’s done something this afternoon? We’re not responsible—my husband and I.”

“No, Madame. The police would like to
see
him. Is he with you?”

“Police, Madame,” said Freddie, showing his wallet’s identification, which Rickie illuminated, illegible at this distance for Frau Wenger, but impressive enough.

“So—come up,” she said.

She buzzed them into a well-appointed little hall with table, looking glass, and carpeted stairs up. They climbed, Freddie with identification at the ready.

Frau Wenger, a plump blonde of about fifty, plainly recognized Rickie and disliked him. Rickie not even vaguely found her face familiar.

“Officer Schimmelmann,” said Rickie. “Frau Wenger.”

And there was Willi Biber, the scarecrow scared, standing now at the end of the living room sofa, and visibly shaky, his droopy blue eyes sunken with fatigue. “Willi Biber—” Rickie said for Freddie’s benefit.

Herr Wenger stood to one side of Willi. Rickie exchanged a “Good evening” with him. Rickie said to Freddie, “It’s about last night at midnight and just after that I’d like to ask a question.”

“Herr Markwalder,” said Frau Wenger, finding her tongue, “last night around two or three in the morning—this morning—you broke in two of my doors. You—”

“For which I shall pay,” Rickie said in a pacific tone.

“You hit Willi—frightened him—”

Rickie had told Freddie that he might have to face such an accusation. “I have a witness—last night—that I didn’t touch Willi,” Rickie replied.

“The man who helped you break the door in? Is he a reliable witness?” asked Frau Wenger.

The woman had a point, Rickie supposed. “I would like to ask Willi—if he knows anything about a piece of metal—” Rickie turned to Willi and continued. “About this long, Willi? A little rusted, painted yellow? Did you use it to hit Teddie?”