Free More Beer by Jakob Arjouni

engage in any activities concerned with the Böllig case.”
    He wrote that in a small black book, put the book into a desk drawer, and went to the door.
    “Hansmann!”
    Hansmann, a fat blond with sloping shoulders, shuffled in.
    “Get a rag and wipe up the mess.”
    He handed him the cuffs. “And rinse those off.”
    Hansmann grinned as if to indicate that his boss was the greatest, and disappeared. The boss approached me, holding out his hand, and said, “Well, Mr. Kayankaya, we have reached an agreement, haven’t we?” In a sharper tone of voice: “I do hope you won’t disappoint me.”
    He shook my hand, escorted me to the door as if I were his brother-in-law, and wished me a good day. I dragged myself through the hallway to the exit. On my way I passed Hansmann, who was carrying a bucket of water. Shaking her head, the girl at the switchboard watched us go our separate ways.
2
    I was working on my third slice of ham on toast in the Hotel Intercontinental’s breakfast room when Max Schwartz came marching in. He is a reliable fellow, and the boyfriend of one of the most beautiful women I know. Unfortunately, she is an alcoholic, and Max is also hitting the bottle, to drown his sorrows. He is a professional electrician and knows how to debug a room. He planted himself in a facing chair, squinted at me with interest, and said, “What on earth did they do to you?”
    I gave him a brief report, adding that my doctor had brusquely shown me the door an hour ago after I had refused to take to my bed. Max looked around the large, impeccable room until he located the small group of waiters standing by the buffet and waiting for a soft clapping of hands. Max signaled to them and ordered coffee and Scotch. I abandoned my good intentions and did likewise. Around us, bankers took their seats. Young, tanned professionals, all of the same model, trim and fit. They ordered lox and champagne and appeared to be in excellent spirits.
    I pondered what
I
would look like behind a desk in a bank. “So what’s up?” asked Max.
    I lit a cigarette.
    “Yesterday afternoon I started looking into the Böllig case. Last night the cops came to get me and beat me up until I promised to leave well enough alone. I need to know who tipped them off—or if and how they managed to find out, all by themselves.”
    “You want to know if they bugged your office?”
    “Not mine. The attorney’s.” A little later, when the gentlemen next to us had elevated their mood with bubbly to the point of expounding and exchanging useful advice on the gliding capabilities of secretaries and prop planes, we paid and left.
    A small señora in a brown smock, holding a bucket and a mop, came to the door. With many expressive gestures, she explained that she was Dr. Anastas’s Spanish cleaning woman, and that he had not told her anything about our visit. After I too waved my arms a lot, to reassure her that I had recently joined Dr. Anastas’s team, she allowed us toenter, albeit with some hesitation. Max started putting his equipment together in the entrance hall while I went in search of potables and found a refrigerator in the library. I returned with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. I had just poured them and persuaded the Spanish lady to have one when the phone rang. It was Anastas. I explained to him why I was there. He confirmed that my nice little man was a Detective Superintendent Kessler, and stated that he did not want any trouble with the police.
    “You don’t want any trouble with the cops, you don’t want any trouble with your clients. You want me to spend my time playing ping-pong?”
    He begged me to keep the lowest possible profile. “That’s just great,” I said, and hung up.
    Max growled, “What kind of a guy is he, this attorney?”
    “I really don’t know. Some kind of a cross between Gandhi and a guy with a chateau in France. For presents, he gives his friends either bottles of wine or the works of Wallraff. I suspect