Free More Beer by Jakob Arjouni Page B

Kessler didn’t tell me anything.” Peace and quiet reigned for about a second, followed by a hoarse “What?” and another tirade. Screaming women give me a headache, unless they’re screaming in Italian, and I hung up.
    I took a pencil and a sheet of paper and made a plan. Half an hour later I had a list of names and many question marks. I decided to visit the night watchman again. He had been the least talented liar of all.
3
    The small half-timbered house was the most run-down in the street. The plaster was crumbling, the woodwork had not been painted for ages, and the flowerpots below the windows were empty. The curtains were closed. I rang the bell. Above me, someone coughed quietly. A window opened.
    “Who is it?”
    A head with short, tousled blond hair looked down at me. She was in her early sixties. Her green eyes were alert.
    “Is this the Scheigel residence?”
    “What do you want?”
    Her voice was gravelly from alcohol and cigarettes.
    “I’m working for the public prosecutor’s office on the Böllig case. Yesterday I talked to Mr. Scheigel, and I’ve come up with a couple more questions I’d like to ask him.”
    “Just a moment.”
    She closed the window. A moment later the front door opened.
    “Please come in.”
    She wore a faded pink robe that must have been very expensive when it was new, a pair of slippers with heels, and a lot of rings and bracelets. I couldn’t tell if the latter were genuine or not. Deep, dark lines underscored her eyes, and her cheeks were pale and puffy. A used-up face that still betrayed its former beauty.
    She led me through a dark hallway to a kind of salon and told me to have a seat. The room was furnished with delicate pieces from another era. A heavy chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the place smelled of stale cologne. Here too the curtains were closed, and the faint daylight coming through them created a murky chiaroscuro. I sat down on the couch and watched her light a candle. Then she reached into a pocket of her robe and pulled out a pack of Russian cigarettes with paper mouthpieces. She tookone, creased the mouthpiece, and stuck it into a gold cigarette holder. I lit it for her, and she sat down in an armchair.
    “What is it you want to ask my husband?”
    “I want to know why he didn’t see a doctor after someone whacked him on the head.”
    She looked at me through the smoke of her cigarette.
    “You don’t work for the prosecutor’s office.”
    “I don’t? Why not?”
    “Because.” She smiled. “I like liars. They’re romantic.”
    “I’m a private investigator.”
    “Well, there you are.” She got up and took a bottle of vodka off a shelf. She got some ice from the kitchen.
    “Would you like a drink?”
    I nodded. She filled two hand-made crystal glasses and said, “Cheers.”
    It tasted better than any vodka I had ever had. I told her so. She laughed.
    “It’s genuine Russian. Contraband.”
    On the wall there was a brown photograph of a small girl with long braids. She was dancing on a dining table for an audience of adults.
    “You were raised in Russia?”
    “Poland. Warsaw. But that’s a long time ago. When I’ve had a few more drinks, you can tell by my accent.”
    I liked her matter-of-fact attitude toward drink.
    “And what brought you to Doppenburg?”
    “Men. What else?”
    We finished our drinks, and she refilled our glasses.
    “Have you been living here long?”
    “Half a lifetime. Back then, you took what you could get. Now it’s too late. Here I am, and here I’ll stay.”
    A convulsive cough shook her whole body. She apologized.
    “It is horrible to get old. Old people can’t walk too well anymore, they drool and smack their lips when they eat, they spit and cough … Oh, how I hate it.” She drank deeply from her glass. “All right, that’s better.”
    I tried to think of a question to take her mind off her cough and her age. Finally I decided to ask her when she had first met her husband. He was,