‘There is a cake inside as a surprise for you. Frau Schmalz baked it.’
I had the taxi take me to the Herschel baths. It was women’s only day in the sauna. I had it take me to the Kleiner Rosengarten, my local, and ate a saltimbocca romana. Then I went to the movies.
The first movie showing in the early afternoon has its charm, regardless of what’s playing. The audience consists of tramps, thirteen-year-olds, and frustrated intellectuals. When there were still students who lived out of town, they went to the early showing. Pupils who matured earlier used to go to the early showing to make out. But Babs, a friend who’s headmistress of a high school, assures me that pupils now make out at school and are all made out by one o’clock.
I’d ended up in the wrong theatre – the cinema had seven of the things – and had to watch On Golden Pond. I liked all the actors but when it was over I was glad I no longer had a wife, and never had a daughter or some little bastard of a grandson.
On the way home I looked in at the office. I picked up a message that Schneider had hanged himself. Frau Buchendorff had spoken with extreme matter-of-factness on the answering machine and asked to be called back immediately.
I poured myself a sambuca.
‘Did Schneider leave a note?’
‘Yes. We have it here. We think your case is over now. Firner would like to see you to talk about it.’
I told Frau Buchendorff I’d be there straight away, and called a taxi.
Firner was light of heart. ‘Greetings, Herr Self. Terrible thing to happen. He hanged himself in the laboratory with an electric cable. A poor trainee found him. We tried everything to revive him of course. No use. Read the suicide note, we have our man.’
He handed me the photocopy of a hastily scrawled sheet of paper, apparently meant for his wife.
My Dorle – forgive me. Do not think you didn’t love me enough – without your love I’d have done this a long time ago. I can’t go on now. They know everything and leave me no option. I wanted to make you happy and give you everything – may God grant you an easier life than in these past dreadful years. You deserve it so much. I embrace you. Unto death – your Franz.
‘You have your man? This leaves everything open. I spoke with Schneider this morning. It’s gambling that had him in its clutches and drove him to death.’
‘You’re a defeatist.’ Firner bellowed with laughter in my face, his mouth wide open.
‘If Korten thinks the case has been solved, he can of course relinquish my services at any time. I believe, though, that you’re jumping to conclusions. And you yourself don’t take them that seriously. Or have you already deactivated the computer trap?’
Firner wasn’t impressed. ‘Routine, Herr Self, routine. Naturally the trap is still in place. But for the time being the matter is over. We just have a few details to clear up. How, above all, Schneider managed to manipulate the system.’
‘I’m quite certain you’ll be on the phone to me soon.’
‘Let’s see, Herr Self.’ Firner, honest to God, stuck his thumbs into the waistcoat of his three-piece suit and played ‘Yankee Doodle’ with his remaining fingers.
On the way home in the taxi I thought about Schneider. Was I responsible for his death? Or was Eberhard responsible for bringing so much Bordeaux that I had been hungover today and too gruff with Schneider? Or was it the senior chef, with his Forster Bischofsgarten Spätlese that finished us off? Or the rain and the rheumatism? The links between cause and effect and guilt went on and on.
Schneider in his white lab coat was often in my thoughts in the days that followed. I didn’t have much to do. Goedecke wanted a further, more detailed report on the disloyal branch manager, and another client came to me not realizing he could have got the same information from the town clerk’s office.
On Wednesday my arm was on the mend and I could finally collect my car from the RCW parking lot. The chlorine had eaten into the paint. I’d add that to the bill. The guard greeted me and asked whether the cake had been good. I had left it in the taxi on Monday.
12 Among screech owls
While playing Doppelkopf with my friends, I presented them with the links between cause and effect and guilt. A couple of times a year we meet on a Wednesday in the Badische Weinstuben, to play cards: Eberhard, the chess grandmaster; Willy, the ornithologist and an emeritus of the University of Heidelberg; Philipp, surgeon at the city hospital; and myself.
At fifty-seven Philipp is our Benjamin, and Eberhard our Nestor at seventy-two. Willy is half a year younger than me. We never get particularly far with our Doppelkopf, we like talking too much.
I told them about Schneider’s background, his passion for gambling, and how I’d cast suspicion on him that I didn’t really believe in myself but nonetheless had used to take him harshly to task.
‘Two hours later the man hangs himself. Not, I think, because of my suspicion, but because he could foresee the uncovering of his continued gambling addition. Am I to blame for his death?’
‘You’re the lawyer,’ said Philipp. ‘Don’t you have any criteria for this sort of thing?’
‘Legally I’m not guilty. But it’s the moral aspect that interests me.’
The three of them looked at a complete loss. Eberhard ruminated. ‘Then I wouldn’t be allowed to win at chess any more because my opponent might be sensitive and might take a defeat so to heart that he kills himself over it.’
‘So, if you know that defeat is the drop that will make the glass of depression overflow, leave him alone and look for another opponent,’ Philipp suggested.
Eberhard wasn’t satisfied with Philipp’s hypothesis. ‘What do I do at a tournament where I can’t select my opponent?’
‘Well, among screech owls…’ Willy began. ‘It gets clearer by the day why I love screech owls so much. They catch their mice and sparrows, take care of their young, live in their tree-hollows and cavities in the earth, don’t need any company, nor a state, are courageous and sharp, true to their family. There’s real wisdom in their eyes, and I’ve never heard any such snivelling outpourings about guilt and expiation from them. Besides, if it’s not the legal but the moral side that interests you, all people are guilty of all things.’
‘Put yourself under my knife. If it slips from my grasp because a nurse is turning me on, is everyone here guilty?’ Philipp made a sweeping hand gesture. The waiter understood it as the ordering of another round and brought a pils, a Laufen Gutedel, an Ihring Vulkanfelsen, and a grog for Willy, who was suffering from a cold.
‘Well, you’ll have us to deal with if you hack up Willy.’ I raised my glass to Willy. He couldn’t drink back to me, his grog was still too hot.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not stupid. If I do something to Willy, we won’t be able to play Doppelkopf any more.’
‘Exactly, let’s play another round,’ said Eberhard. But before we could start he folded his cards together pensively and laid the little pile on the table. ‘Although, seriously, I’m the eldest so it’s easiest for me to broach the subject, what’s to become of us if one of us… if… you know what I mean.’
‘If there are only three of us left?’ Philipp said with a grin. ‘Then we’ll play Skat.’
‘Don’t we know another fourth player, someone we could bring in now as a fifth?’
‘A priest would be no bad thing at our age.’
‘We don’t have to play every time, we don’t anyway. We could just go out for a meal, or do something with women. I’ll bring a nurse for each of you, if you like.’
‘Women,’ said Eberhard mistrustfully, and took up his hand of cards again.
‘The idea of a meal isn’t a bad one.’ Willy asked for the menu. We all ordered. The food was good and we forgot about guilt and death.