turned his head to the side and looked gloomily over the crime scene. "Charley's unexpected departure saved him from a lot of trouble with the customs authorities."
"Your sarcasm is sometimes unbearable!"
"Life is unbearable. Look Herold: If the Spree-Heinz climbed from the lady only a little bit earlier, he would perhaps have prevented the murder. But no, he found not his pants, and already fate took its course."
"Yes, yes, life is hard and the Spree-Heinz has an alibi. Speaking of alibi, let's talk about my alibi!" Michael flicked his cigarette into the ashtray and pulled a notepad from the jacket pocket. Calmly he tore a side off, grabbed the pen from Charley’s calendar, and began to write down several names. "With these gentlemen I had a meeting at the Balkan-Grill and deserted them only twenty minutes ago. You should be able to verify this easily, especially, five of the persons are not entirely unknown for you."
"A working lunch with the Socialists! Probably even at the expense of the taxpayers." With a contemptuous snort Kowalski scanned the list and then leaned back. "Well! You are, despite all our dialectical differences, not on my list, although I've seen horses puke."
The creaking of the dark brown painted wooden planks interrupted Kowalski's already almost ended conversation. With a decidedly important expression walked the smaller of the two policemen to the table and announced: "Our colleagues from the crime scene are now finished with the front deck. We can move away, or do you need us for something special?"
"Not really, I finish that crap better alone and Mr. Herold is on his way." Kowalski's very red facial features twisted into a false smile, as he appraisingly looked over the reporter. "If you should still come up with something really new, please call. You know my number!”
"I know my duties."Michael Herold stubbed out his cigarette. Then he walked without looking back, thru the room, that smells now of a strong disinfectants. Behind him, the officer shook his head, and looked disapprovingly at his superior.
"Honestly, sometimes I do not understand you, Hans-Jürgen. Why do you let this wretched scribbler disappear so easily?"
"Do not worry; he will not get lost. We only need to follow our noses, if we need him. He stinks three miles upwind of fresh printer-ink."
Amused by his own joke, Kowalski strolled over to the bar. At the rough marking of the forensic team, he stopped and stared reluctantly down on the dried stain. Just a few hours ago laid here Charley's motionless body, twisted strangely, with a bloody temple. The lethal wound was almost unrecognizable, and if the deadly blow hits the head only ten centimeters higher, who knows?
Kowalski shook his head and nodded imperceptible to the colleagues. "I think we can seal the store now."
"That's what I'm saying. It`s all just routine, and there was not much to wipe up."
"What do you mean?"
“Well, at least the guy is not totally leak out, like this chick last week. I never thought that a single person can make such a mess." The officer looked with a contemptuous glance at the crime scene. "Fucking scum, slowly but surely, they changed every file in garbage!"
"This file? This is your personal nightmare, Schneider! I promise you that!" Hans-Jürgen Kowalski's quiet voice now has a sharp undertone. "Pull yourself together; here is perhaps more trouble, than you can digest."
Kowalski turned away, grabbed the documents, that lay scattered on the bar counter, and stuffed them in his leather backpack, while only a few meters from him, Michael Herold breathed deeply the cold night air. Thoughtfully, he leaned against the railing of the mooring and looked down at the river. A tiny light reflection danced over the black mirror and the rising wind blow from the near market place a familiar tune.
"Üb`immer Treu und Redlichkeit", murmured Herald and listened for a moment to the soft chimes. The bells hung above the entrance of a jewelry store, and tonight they played exactly the right lullaby for the good citizens of Spandau. "Exercise always trust and honesty, right up to your cool grave."
Michael Herold twisted his face into a sneer and turned around. Slowly, he let his gaze wandering over the Linden-Shore, and recognized even the most insignificant details. The little steamer, the reddish heaven, illuminated by the distant West-Berlin City, and the Charlotte-bridge at the end of the promenade. The steel construction spanned a path into darkness, and beyond the bridge Michael recognized the outline of several vessels. Without a doubt, the ships waited for a passage through the nearby, at that time of day closed floodgate.
Vessels from Charley's homeland; what for a coincidence! Michael Herold kicked a stone with the toe of his shoe to the side and looked again to the "cheerfulness". Charley had ordered him not only on a whim to the decayed steamer. Somewhere on this ship, or in the immediate area, lay the key to the events of the last few hours.
An obscene curse on his lips, Michael looked again to the lighted windows of the ship-restaurant and then turned his back to the ugly sight. With great strides he walked down the sandy way, crossed again the dark park, and hurried in the Charlotte-Street to his parked car. In a light daze, he climbed in the Datsun, launched him, and drive away from the scene of the crime.
2. CELEBRATE THE NEWS
The next morning, Michael Herold wakes up with a slight headache. Accordingly, he was in a bad mood, and after a light breakfast, which consists only of coffee and biscuits, he drove into the publishing house, and enters his office. The appearance of the small room was just as messy, as he had left him, and Michael stood at its center point. For a moment, he looked out of the window, and noticed then the surrounding chaos. On the desk lay the incoming mail of the last two days, the ficus plant had dropped some leaves, and the calendar had to be renewed.
Disgusted, Herold pushed the red arrow with the index finger on the 4th of October and allowed himself a slight sigh. 1985 was far too quickly gone by, and now it was again near December with its enormous time pressure. The editorial expected a brilliant idea for the newly introduced Sunday papers, the Christmas-market moderation weighted on his shoulder like the weight of the world, and the manuscripts were done best yesterday.
Michael Herold grimaced sourly the face, and looked superficially through the mail. Then he took the red stapler that waited in the inbox for so many days. The quarterly statistics was so alarming, as he had feared it, and Michael cursed silently. Instead of write down the events of the last evening, he began to study the tables, and cursed the publisher.
Dr. Candidus has delayed the costly, but vital modernization of the "Havelländische Kurier" again and again since 1979. Red numbers punish her bad decision, and Sybille Candidus had no other choice, but to approve the merger with a large media company. The new partnership frightens, as expected, the regular readers, who had appreciated the "Courier, because of his critical distance to the Berlin tabloid press. Now, as a direct result of the circulation, the sales fell within one month by 47 percent.
"Forty-seven percent" muttered Michael and closed the stapler, after looking at the also gone back by half advertising revenue. Frustrated, he occupied a comfortable position in his chair, closed his eyes, and began to meditate, until the bells of the nearby catholic Church of St. Mary rang the Angelus. 12 clock; high time that he get something warm in his stomach. Michael walked to the canteen on the first floor, ordered a serving of “Königsberger Klopse” and ate the meatballs, which lay in a warm caper sauce. Somewhat satisfied, he digests an Espresso, ignited then the obligatory second cigarette of the working day, and walked back to his office.
Here waited unfinished work on him, and so he grabbed an article on the illegal dump at the Mulberry-Avenue. He started the proofreading and threw after the third revision the pen on the sheet. For today it was really enough lousy work and besides, it was time for a strong coffee.
Michael leaned forward, pulled out the bottom drawer of the desk, and grabbed the necessary utensils for his "afternoon coffee". With the brown metal bushing and a filter bag in his hand, he went to the file cabinet and clicked the automatic water boiler. Then he put the paper bag in a porcelain filter, filled him with three spoonfuls of freshly ground coffee from