Black Ice E-Book

Hans Werner Kettenbach

• Herausgeber: Bitter Lemon Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2006

Beschreibung

An amateur investigation into Erika's watery death buys our anti-hero a ticket for a vertiginous ride.

Das E-Book Black Ice wird angeboten von Bitter Lemon Press und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

 

Title Page

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

 

Copyright Page

Hans Werner Kettenbach was born near Cologne. He is the author of several highly acclaimed novels, including Black Ice, which was made into a film in 1998. He came to writing late in life, publishing his first book at the age of fifty. Previous jobs he has held include construction worker, court stenographer, football journalist, foreign correspondent in New York and, most recently, newspaper editor. His crime novels have won the Jerry-Cotton Prize and the Deutscher-Krimi Prize; five of them were made into successful films. Black Ice is his first novel to be translated into English.

1

People thought it was an accident. Scholten didn’t.

It wasn’t suicide either. Scholten would have sworn to that. Naturally such a strange death was bound to put ideas into certain heads. And very likely scandalmongers were now going around saying Frau Wallmann hadn’t had an accident at all; she’d killed herself intentionally. Don’t let anyone try telling Scholten that. He’d give them a piece of his mind.

What nonsense anyway. Why would Erika Wallmann have killed herself? Because that fellow had a bit on the side? He’d been sleeping around for years, starting the moment he married her. And she’d known it as well as Scholten did. Why would she kill herself because of that, after twenty-five years?

Such a beautiful woman.

To look at her, no one would have thought she was forty-six. The way she walked, with a firm, energetic step, the way she held her head, the way she threw it back when she was displeased, always reminded Scholten of the time when her father offered him the office job. She was fifteen then, but you could already see what a fine woman she’d be.

And now it was all over. Scholten stared at the coffin. As the harmonium player began the Ave verum, tears came to his eyes. He covered them with his hand and tried to picture her lying there now in her coffin. But he very quickly gave that up.

She must look dreadful. The fall from the flight of steps to the steep bank. Broken bones and head injuries, they’d said. From the sharp edges of the rocks on the bank. Then two days lying in the lake. And after that the forensic scientists took their knives to her. They probably opened her up entirely. They’d have to, with a drowned body.

Scholten gagged. Taking out his handkerchief he quietly blew his nose, wiped the corners of his eyes, pressed the fabric over his mouth. He sensed that Rothgerber, sitting beside him, was looking at him. Scholten tried to divert his mind by reading the messages on the ribbons of the wreaths.

To my beloved Erika, a last greeting from her Kurt.

The hypocritical bastard. He’d spent a lot on that wreath, obviously, and the coffin and the whole funeral. The chapel was full of flowers and candles. He’d always been open-handed with Erika’s money. And now he had it, all of it, no strings attached. The bastard.

Scholten moved slightly to one side so that he could see him. Wallmann was sitting by himself in the front row. Poor fellow, people would think. No children, no family, nothing.

No. Only Erika’s money. And the firm.

Enough to drive you round the bend. Scholten stared at the broad, red neck, the dark-blond, well-cut hair, the massive shoulders in the black coat.

Rothgerber leaned over and tapped his arm. He whispered: “That’s a handsome wreath you chose. Excellent.” Scholten made a dismissive gesture.

Arsehole. When they were arguing in the office about the message on the wreath Rothgerber had been on Büttgenbach’s side. Of course the chief clerk is always right. What was it Büttgenbach had suggested? In silent remembrance of Frau Erika Wallmann. What nonsense!

But Scholten had got his way. The wreath really was a handsome one. And those not too slow on the uptake could read the real meaning of the inscription: We will not forget our boss Frau Erika Wallmann. From the office staff of Ferd. Köttgen, Civil Engineering Contractors. Wallmann for one would get the message.

When the coffin was lowered into the grave Scholten was in the third row. The members of Wallmann’s bowling club had pushed their ostentatious way to the front. They and their wives, who were all tarted up, had ranged themselves right behind Wallmann and didn’t even let Büttgenbach through. Scholten stood on tiptoe and craned his neck to see, but there was a broad-brimmed black hat in the way.

Scholten bowed his head. He moved his lips as his tears flowed. He said to himself: that’s not the end of it, Frau Wallmann. I promise you. You can count on me, Erika.

Wallmann did not meet Scholten’s glance as he shook hands. He kept looking fixedly down, his eyes red and damp, his chin quivering although he kept it pressed against his chest. One of his friends from the bowling club was standing beside him holding his arm, as if Wallmann might fall over any moment. Would you believe it? What a farce!

On the way back to the cemetery gate, Scholten found himself walking with a group of the Yugoslavian workmen. They had put on their dark suits and black ties. They walked along in silence beside him for a while.

One of them touched his arm. “Herr Scholten, how can such terrible thing happen? Boss’s wife was strong woman, healthy. How can she fall off steps, splash, fall in water? Had been drinking, don’t you think, Herr Scholten?”

Scholten stopped and grabbed the Yugoslav by the lapels of his coat. “Say a thing like that again and you’ll have me to deal with, understand? And then you can pack your bags and fucking go home, get it? Because you’ll be out of a job!”

The Yugoslav said: “Let go.” Scholten let go. The man was one of the plasterers, hands like shovels, and a head or more taller than Scholten. He brushed down his lapels and said: “You no decide when I’m out of a job.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Scholten. He turned away and walked on. The Yugoslavians fell behind.

At the cemetery gate Scholten looked around. Rosa Thelen was standing there alone, wearing a black coat that was now too tight for her. Scholten said, “You can come with me, Rosie.”

She blinked her short-sighted eyes at him in the March sunlight and said: “Thanks, but Herr Büttgenbach is giving me a lift.”

“Fine. Your arse will have more room in his car.” Scholten got into his own vehicle.

“You brute,” said Rosa Thelen. “Can’t get a grip on yourself even on a day like this.”

Scholten had to wait. The four minibuses were barring the road. The workmen got in, jostling each other, and now and then one of them laughed. They were looking forward to the day off and the beer and cold meats that Wallmann had ordered for them in the bar opposite the works. Scholten muttered: “Wait till it’s your own wake. Then you won’t be laughing.”

He followed the last bus but then turned off on the road to the Forest Café. He was sure Wallmann would rather have sent him off to the bar with the workmen, but in the end he hadn’t dared to. He had invited the office staff to the Forest Café. Not just the office staff either. Scholten was sure the whole bowling club would turn up. And the people from the Civil Engineering Inspectorate, of course. He had seen the Government Surveyor at the graveside and three or four of the inspectorate’s project managers. And all at the company’s expense.

Well, it belonged to the new boss now.

2

A couple of flashy cars were already parked outside the Forest Café when Scholten arrived. He was about to leave his own car beside them, hesitated, then drove into the overflow car park behind the building.

Von der Heydt, one of the project managers from the Civil Engineering Inspectorate, was standing in the doorway of the restaurant bar, holding a schnapps glass. He shook hands with Scholten and asked: “How could a thing like that happen, Herr Scholten? I mean, those steps were checked by the Building Inspection people. Surely they can’t be all that dangerous?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the steps,” said Scholten. “But I don’t know the details. You’ll have to ask Herr Wallmann.” He reached for a tray that a waiter was carrying past and took a glass of schnapps himself. Von der Heydt emptied his own in a hurry, put the empty glass down on the tray and picked up another. Placing a hand on Scholten’s arm, he guided him over to the table. “Come along, let’s sit down.”

Scholten said: “Not here, though. I’m sure this is for Herr Wallmann’s friends. I’ll sit over there.”

“No, no, you’re Herr Wallmann’s guest today too. Come along, sit down. We’re all equal in the face of death.”

Von der Heydt made Scholten sit on the chair beside him. He raised his glass. “Let’s get this down ourselves first. To help with the shock.”

Scholten gulped the schnapps down. Von der Heydt detained the waiter, who was about to move on with his tray, saying: “Hang on a moment, we’ll have another couple of those.”

He put the two glasses carefully on the table and lit a cigarette. Then he placed his arm on the back of Scholten’s char, leaned towards him and said: “Tell me, Herr Scholten, is it true about Wallmann having it off with the secretary in your firm?”

Scholten looked at his schnapps glass.

“What’s the girl’s name? There she is, over by the fireplace.”

Scholten did not look up. He said, “You probably mean Fräulein Faust.”

“That’s it. Inge, am I right? Inge Faust. Not a badlooking girl at all. I guess she’s worth a mortal sin or so.” Von der Heydt laughed.

“Could be,” said Scholten.

“But listen, Herr Scholten, she must be at least twenty years younger than Wallmann, am I right? How old is Wallmann, actually?”

“Forty-eight.” Scholten twirled his glass on the tablecloth. “And Fräulein Faust is twenty-five.”

“Wow! So does Wallmann think he’s up to that kind of thing? I mean, sure, he keeps fit. But wouldn’t you say this is rather overdoing it?”

“It’s no use asking me. Ask Herr Wallmann.”

“So it’s true? They really are having it off?”

“I didn’t say so. There’s always gossip.”

Von der Heydt clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, yes, Herr Scholten, I know. I quite understand you don’t want to tell tales on your boss. Don’t worry, no one’s going to hear about it from me.”

Scholten picked up the schnapps and tossed it down his throat. Von der Heydt instantly followed his example. Then he looked around. “They’re slow with the beer.” He wiped his mouth and leaned towards Scholten again. “But you know, Herr Scholten, if it is true, people might get ideas. About poor Frau Wallmann, I mean.”

Scholten sat very upright and looked at von der Heydt. “What are you implying?”

Von der Heydt went “Ssh” and nodded at the doorway. Wallmann had come in with his friend from the bowling club who had been supporting him at the graveside, the Government Surveyor on his other side and the rest of them behind him. Wallmann invited the Government Surveyor to sit down. Seeing Scholten directly opposite, he frowned. Scholten was about to rise to his feet, but von der Heydt laid a hand on his shoulder and said: “Excuse me, Herr Wallmann, we sat down here just this minute, but is there a seating plan?”

Wallmann said: “No, no. By all means stay put.”

One of the tarted-up women took the chair on Scholten’s left. Scholten half rose and adjusted it for her. She smiled at him, a sad little smile as befitted the occasion, but her expression was very friendly. Scholten rose again, bowed and said: “May I introduce myself? Jupp Scholten.”

“How nice to meet you, Herr Scholten,” she said. “I’m Frau Sauerborn.”

Scholten said, “Pleased to meet you too,” and sat down. He smoothed the tablecloth, pushed his schnapps glass slightly to one side, drew it towards him again.

The woman wasn’t bad looking. Dolled up a bit too much in her black costume, but there was real flesh and blood under it. Scholten smelled her perfume and unobtrusively took a deep breath. Pretending to be looking at the door, he let his eyes dwell briefly on her throat. She was no older than her mid-thirties. Sauerborn, Sauerborn. Wasn’t that the bowling club member who owned the brewery?

She settled on her chair. Scholten cast a quick glance down and got a glimpse of her rounded knee encased in black nylon.

He started, as if caught in some guilty act, when she said, “Do you work in Herr Wallmann’s company?”

“Herr Wallmann’s company? Oh, yes. Yes, I work there.”

“I mean, I suppose it is Herr Wallmann’s company now?” She glanced briefly at Wallmann, who was talking to the Government Surveyor, and moved a little closer to Scholten. “Or wasn’t it all left to him?”

“Yes, yes, of course it was.” Scholten felt this was awkward. Wallmann was sitting too close for comfort. But the woman’s perfume won the day. Scholten smiled, moved his mouth closer to his neighbour’s ear and said: “There’s no one else to inherit.”

“That’s what I mean.” She sat upright, pushed her plate back and forth a little. Then she smiled at Scholten. “Have you worked for the company long?”

“Oh yes!”

“How long?”

“Good heavens. I’d have to think.” Scholten acted as if he was indeed thinking. He nodded. “Yes, you could call it a long time.” He looked at her. “Thirty-one years.”

“That’s amazing! Well, now you must tell me how old you are.”

Scholten rested one arm on the back of his chair and smiled. “Guess.”

She looked at him, put two fingers to her cheek, then shook her head. “It’s really hard to say.”

Scholten kept smiling. “I’m fifty-eight.”

“I don’t believe it! No one would think so to look at you.”

The waitress leaned over Scholten’s shoulder, serving turtle soup. Scholten said: “Could we have a beer too?”

“Coming, sir.”

Between two spoonfuls of soup, Frau Sauerborn said: “And what do you do in the firm?”

“Oh, just about everything.” He glanced across the table. Wallmann was drinking his soup and nodding as his friend from the bowling club talked to him. Scholten said, “Bookkeeping. Looking after the filing room, that’s very important in a firm like ours. Business with the bank. Instructions to the workmen. Organizing the trucks. And checking up on the building sites. You have to keep an eye on everything.”

“Just like in our own business. Then you must have been with the company already when Herr Wallmann started there?”

“Yes, indeed. I’d been in old Köttgen’s office for four years before Herr Wallmann joined us.”

“And he began in the office too?”

Scholten picked up his napkin and dabbed his lips. He spoke into the napkin. “No, you’ve been misinformed there. Herr Wallmann drove an excavator.”

“You don’t say! And didn’t old Köttgen mind when he married his daughter?”

Scholten laughed and dabbed his lips again. “Old Köttgen — ah, well, you should have known him.”

The beer came, and then the main course. Fillet Steak Special, served on toast. After the first mouthful, Frau Sauerborn lowered her fork and leaned towards Scholten. She spoke from slightly behind his back. “Is it true that Frau Wallmann was pregnant – Erika Köttgen, I mean – when she married Wallmann?”

Scholten, his mouth full, nodded heavily. He leaned back and picked up his napkin. “A miscarriage. After the wedding. She couldn’t have any more children after that.”

Frau Sauerborn nodded and cut a piece off her fillet steak. She was about to lean towards Scholten again when the bowling club member sitting opposite on Wallmann’s left pointed his fork at her. “Ria, you noticed the time, didn’t you? When did Kurt leave us on Saturday afternoon?”

“It was exactly four-thirty,” said Frau Sauerborn.

“And how long does it take to reach your weekend retreat?”

Wallmann shrugged. “Just under an hour and a half. An hour and a quarter if there’s not too much traffic on the road to the lake.”

The Government Surveyor nodded. “But then it would have been too late anyway. I mean, it wouldn’t have been any use even if you had arrived earlier.”

Wallmann shook his head in silence.

Von der Heydt, knife and fork poised in mid-air, leaned forward and said: “Forgive me, Herr Wallmann, I didn’t quite catch that. So the police really did check your alibi, or shouldn’t I call it that?”

The bowling club member took a forkful of mushrooms and said: “You can certainly call it that. It was harassment, no less. They questioned us at the bowling club, they even went to see my wife, isn’t that right, Ria?”

Frau Sauerborn nodded. “They wanted to know exactly how long Herr Wallmann spent at our place.”

“And they even got Büttgenbach to go to the police station,” said Herr Sauerborn.

The Government Surveyor shook his head. “Outrageous, if you ask me. Imagine them coming along after such a tragic accident and suspecting someone of murder!”

Sauerborn gestured vigorously, chewed and swallowed. He took a large gulp of beer and said: “They have to. It’s the rules. If someone’s fished out of the water they have no option but to investigate.”

Frau Sauerborn looked at the Government Surveyor. “They can’t be sure there may not be something in it.”

Wallmann, who had been brooding gloomily, said suddenly: “But there wasn’t.”

“Exactly,” said Sauerborn. “There wasn’t. The alibi was absolutely watertight.”

Von der Heydt, head still thrust forward, shifted in his chair. “But how could you prove that? I mean, sometimes proof is difficult. Who expects a thing like this to happen?”

Sauerborn propped his elbows on the table. “Well, listen.” He began checking points off on his fingers. “Herr Wallmann came back from his sailing trip on Friday evening. He saw to the boat and went up to his weekend house. Then he realized he’d forgotten the files.”

Scholten abruptly clutched his ear and then acted as if he were just scratching it.

“What files?” asked von der Heydt.

Wallmann, red-rimmed eyes fixed on the beer glass he was slowly pushing back and forth, said: “Files I needed for a tender I was putting in. I wanted to get the details finalized at the weekend. I thought I’d brought the files from town with me. While I was out on the boat I hadn’t realized they were missing.”

“You see?” Sauerborn said, nodding. “He didn’t notice he’d left the files in town till he got back to the house. But by then his wife was already on her way. She was going to spend the weekend with him out by the lake. So he couldn’t phone and ask her to bring the files with her.”

“Yes, I see,” said the Government Surveyor. “What a tragic chain of circumstances.”

“Yes,” said von der Heydt, “but I don’t understand what that has to do with the alibi business – I mean, what does it prove? To the police, I mean?”

“Just a moment.” Sauerborn raised both hands. “I hadn’t finished. So he drove off to fetch the files. Just under three hours to get there and back, no problem. And then he saw Erika’s car up by the lake, in the village. She’d arrived already. There’s a bar with a butcher’s shop attached in the village, you see, and when she went to the lake she always stopped off there to buy meat for the weekend. And to drink a little glass of grog. That’s right, Kurt?”

Wallmann nodded.

“Grog was her favourite,” said Frau Sauerborn.

Scholten crossed his arms over his chest.

“So then what?” asked von der Heydt avidly.

“Well, pay attention,” said Sauerborn, “because here comes the alibi.” He paused for the waiter to take the plates away and pointed to the empty beer glasses. “Bring us a couple more, will you?”

“And some spirits,” said Wallmann. “Not the schnapps you were serving before.”

“Cognac, sir?” asked the waiter.

“Yes, cognac,” said Wallmann.

Sauerborn settled comfortably in his chair, leaned his elbows on the table, pointed his forefinger at von der Heydt and said: “He went into the bar and told his wife what had happened. And then he set off for town from there, at ten to seven. The butcher, sorry, I mean the barkeep, he confirmed it. Erika was sitting there drinking her grog at the time. And he reached us in the bowling club at eight exactly.”

“You must have driven pretty fast,” said von der Heydt, “if it usually takes an hour and a half.”

Sauerborn laughed. “He’s never needed that long. Speedy Kurt, we call him in the club. He always drives that way, don’t you, Kurt?”

Wallmann said: “And they call you Randy Günther.”

Sauerborn laughed. “So they do.”

Frau Sauerborn shifted in her chair and said: “But what’s that got to do with Kurt’s alibi?”

“Now, now, take it easy,” said Sauerborn. “I was only joking!”

Von der Heydt raised his beer glass, noticed that it was empty, put it down again and said to Wallmann: “Hang on a minute, I don’t quite understand. So you went to the bowling club before you fetched the files?”

Wallmann nodded. “On impulse.”

Sauerborn took a deep breath and let it out again. Then he said: “So there you are. We were living it up a bit that evening. It was our fault.”

Wallmann said: “No, mine. I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Nonsense, Kurt. It could have happened to anyone. And you’d have been back too late in any case. So we got rather merry, and by the end of the evening he wasn’t fit to drive. I took him home with me. Better safe than sorry – I know Kurt. And he didn’t leave our place until four-thirty on Saturday afternoon. Fetched those files from the office and drove back to the lake. He arrived at the house there just after six.”

Von der Heydt leaned back in his chair. “Yes, now I see. So he has what amounts to a twenty-four-hour alibi.”

Wallmann was playing with a beer mat. “Just a little over twenty-three hours,” he said.

“Well, put it however you like, but it was during that time your wife fell off the steps and into the lake.”

“On the Friday evening,” said Wallmann.

Sauerborn said: “She didn’t go into the house at all. Her car was still outside the door, with the meat she’d bought in it and her weekend things.”

“You don’t say.” Von der Heydt rubbed his chin. “So why did she go down the steps? I mean, they lead to the landing stage, if I’ve understood the situation correctly. Does anyone know what she did that for?”

The Government Surveyor said: “Herr von der Heydt, I think that’s enough in the way of questions. This is a wake, you know.”

Wallmann put the beer mat down and clasped his hands on the table-top. “I don’t know why she did it. I’d give a lot to know. But I really have no idea.”

Scholten folded his napkin and then unfolded it. The waitress served ice cream. After her second spoonful Frau Sauerborn said: “It’s really odd, her going down those steps. Particularly as she didn’t like boats or going sailing, did she, Kurt?”

“No, she didn’t.” Wallmann pushed his ice away, picked up his empty cognac glass and signalled to the waiter.

“Oh, Ria, really!” Sauerborn’s voice had risen slightly. “Sometimes you talk pure nonsense! What’s so odd about it? She probably heard a noise and went to see if there was anyone prowling around the boat. After all, it’s valuable. Four bunks, heating, toilet. Built-in kitchen. Right, Kurt? Must have cost you a packet, after all.”

Von der Heydt’s spoon remained in mid-air. “How much, then?”

The Government Surveyor noisily cleared his throat and then asked: “Are you having any trouble with the Buildings Inspectorate, Herr Wallmann? Over that flight of steps, I mean? Because if I can help you in any way . . . ?”

“No, the steps are fine. Solid timber, with handrails. And made of good stout planks. You only have to ask Scholten here. He replaced half a dozen steps last autumn because they’d developed some cracks. When was it exactly, Scholten? When you went over to paint the fence?”

Scholten felt Frau Sauerborn looking at him. He said: “Yes, it’ll have been around then.”

The bastard. Wallmann was just trying to belittle him in company. As if anyone would be interested in the fact that he’d painted the fence. Scholten finished his cognac.

The waiter came and refilled the glasses. “Coffee will be served in a minute.”

Wallmann said, “Where’s your wife, Scholten? I didn’t see her at the cemetery.”

Scholten swallowed. “She couldn’t come. She’s feeling unwell again. She asked me to give you her regards and say how very sorry she is.”

“Thank you. My regards to her, and I hope she’ll soon be better.”

Frau Sauerborn asked, “What’s the matter with her?”

Scholten shook his head. “Poor health in general. It’s her nerves. A funeral like this upsets her too much.”

“It upsets us all,” said Sauerborn.

Silence fell. After a while von der Heydt said: “Perhaps the steps were slippery? After a frost, maybe? We had that sort of weather last week. Or was it different up by the lake?”

“No, you’re right,” said Sauerborn. “The steps must have been slippery. Timber like that can get very icy in frost. She wasn’t expecting it, she slipped, and she couldn’t catch hold of anything to stop herself falling.”

The Government Surveyor nodded. “That’s perfectly possible. Yes, very likely.”

Wallmann rose to his feet. “Would you excuse me a moment?” He went out.

Sauerborn pushed his own chair back. “You must excuse me too. It’s the beer.”

3

That morning Scholten had planned to leave the funeral party early and go to the brothel on the way home. It was a good opportunity. He could leave the wake on the pretext of Hilde’s poor health, and Hilde wouldn’t be able to work out when he ought to be home.

But in the end it was almost three in the afternoon when he left the restaurant bar. One of the bowling club members had already stumbled over a chair leg and brought a tablecloth down with him as he fell; two others had taken him out and loaded him into his wife’s car. Before that Rosa Thelen had been overcome by a fit of weeping, and Herr Büttgenbach was still sitting in the tearoom with her, trying to comfort her. And von der Heydt, who had moved from his seat beside Scholten after coffee and gone to sit next to Fräulein Faust, had exchanged words with Wallmann and gone off uttering threats. By now the Government Surveyor was dozing off in his chair.

Scholten ate two peppermints when he got into his car. He put the hollow of his hand in front of his mouth, breathed into it and sniffed. Not too bad, he thought.

He joined the motorway. The forest was left behind, there were factories to right and left, suburban gardens, apartment buildings. Blue-grey clouds covered the March sky. It wasn’t as sunny as last week, but not as cold either.

Scholten thought of the woman he planned to pick. He had definite ideas about her. He’d find someone with black stockings. Black stockings look terrible on thin legs, but on a nice plump pair, who can resist them? Scholten smiled. He’d never yet seen a girl with thin legs in the knocking-shop.

He tried to paint a clear mental picture of his imagined girl, as he always did on the way to the brothel. But this time he didn’t succeed. Scraps of the conversation around the table at the wake kept getting in the way.

The alibi, oh yes. Herr Wallmann had thought it all out very neatly. And what about those files? He’d forgotten about them, or else he’d thought Scholten was so stupid he’d never notice. The hell with that.

So he has no idea why Erika was going down to the boat? What a laugh! He knows perfectly well what Erika was looking for on that boat. So does his bit of fluff Fräulein Faust. You bet your bottom dollar she does.

Then that fool van der Heydt comes out with some tale about slippery steps. And of course Sauerborn takes the bait at once, positively falling over himself to provide an alibi. A watertight alibi. He had to be joking! Maybe Sauerborn’s actually in cahoots with Wallmann.

Slippery steps after a frost. Rubbish.