Small G: A Summer Idyll

Frau Stevenson asked what kind of work Dorrie Wyss did. She called her Dorrie.

  “I put the clothes on mannequins,” Dorrie said. Then with a laugh, “Pose them. Mainly female—but not always. Then I do backdrops too—with the help of a man called Bert.”

  Rickie shuffled his feet. Bert! Rickie could see him: either long-haired or skinheaded, and very likely plucked eyebrows.

  “Stores in Zurich . . . ? Such as which?”

  Dorrie mentioned a couple, in the Bahnhofstrasse. “I work freelance.”

  Rickie began, “Frau Stevenson—that piece of metal—what did the police say?”

  “Oh!” She was suddenly all alertness. “Well, they took it with them. They’re not optimistic, to put it mildly. Not enthusiastic about fingerprints, either. But they think it could be the weapon. It could have made a tear—as in Teddie’s jacket. And a wound like that.” She paused, then went on, “But this to happen by the car as early as just after midnight. Maybe the neighborhood doesn’t like Teddie—somebody doesn’t—because he’s not from that neighborhood.”

  Luisa exchanged a glance with Rickie. “The neighborhood’s not considered dangerous, Frau Stevenson,” she said earnestly. “Really. We all more or less know one another there. I realize it was the evening of the National Holiday. There were a lot of strangers at Jakob’s that night.”

  Rickie had a vision of Willi’s lank figure slipping through the crowd at Jakob’s, exiting at the right time to have struck Teddie. Had he possibly put that weapon beforehand in the front path near Teddie’s car? Willi might carry a small torch, considering the darkness of that alley in which he lived. “Madame, did you . . .”

  “We could talk about something else,” Teddie began at the same time. He leaned forward in his chair, with tea glass in both hands. “Sorry, Rickie.”

  “Yes, um-m—I was about to ask, Frau Stevenson, if you have the name of the police officer who came to see you here?”

  “Ye-es,” said Frau Stevenson, seemingly reluctant to share her facts. She frowned as easily as did her son.

  “Because I have a friend in the police force,” said Rickie, with a sense of pride. “It might help, you know—a word to keep them on the job. My friend could ask about their investigations.” Rickie’s hands opened for an instant between his knees. His tea glass was on the coffee table, and he had abstained from cake. He wanted a cigarette and was afraid to light up.

  “Excuse me a moment.” Frau Stevenson went into a hall where Rickie had glimpsed a telephone table moments ago. She returned with a card.

  Rickie wrote: Thomas A. Senn, 73rd Station, Zurich Eggstr. (01) 275-4556. Ext. 5. “Thank you.” He stood up to hand the card back to her.

  “And what’s your friend’s name?” she asked.

  Rickie replied carefully, “Friedrich Schimmelmann. I think he’s with the traffic department now, but he’s based in Zurich. Easy to reach.”

  Frau Stevenson chose this moment to pass the cake plate round again, to Dorrie then Luisa. “Not even just a little?” she said to Luisa, who accepted. “And you, Teddie? No need to ask.”

  Teddie took a piece with his fingers and put it on his plate. “I should’ve offered it, Mum, sorry.”

  “You—sit,” said his mother softly but firmly, as if she had said it many times in the last couple of days. She returned to the sofa where Rickie sat, her dark eyes again puzzled. “I haven’t much confidence in what the police are doing or can do. Oh, they did telephone this afternoon, to say they’d inquired at four or five houses near where Teddie parked that night—also on the opposite side of the street—asked if people had seen or heard anything. No news there, I’m afraid. It’s not punishment that I want, but I think people who do such things ought to be identified and warned. A meaningless act. Not even for robbery! What does one do with such a person?” She was ready to smile at herself, at her impotence.

  Silence for a few seconds.

  Rickie heard Luisa asking Teddie if he played the piano.

  “Yes, but I’m not great. My mother plays.”

  “Luisa, you must tell me when we should take off,” Dorrie said. To Frau Stevenson, she added with her quick smile, “I’m the driver today.”

  “Talking about going?” Teddie said, annoyed. “I want you to see my room at least, Luisa—all of you.” He was on his feet, insisting.

  Dorrie stood up and extended crossed hands to Luisa, who was deep in a leather chair. Luisa took her hands and Dorrie pulled her up.

  Frau Stevenson held back. “I’m sure the room’s neater than usual.”

  The four went down a hall to an open door.

  To Luisa, the room suggested the British Navy, blue and white, perhaps an officer’s room, full of severe lines. The bed, a three-quarter against the wall, bore a neat dark blue fitted cover.

  Rickie, blinking once, took in the CD player, the World Receiver near the bed on a shelf, books that seemed of a technical nature, a new-looking, dark red Olivetti typewriter, a beer mug full of pencils and ballpoint pens.

  “Cool,” Dorrie said, impressed.

  “See, Luisa, if you ring me—that’s where I can take it,” Teddie said, indicating his telephone.

  “Any news from the Tages-Anzeiger, Teddie?” Rickie asked.

  Teddie ducked his head. “Not good news, if that’s what you mean.”

  They went out, back to the living room, and said their thanks and good-byes in the foyer.

  “I think your apartment is lovely,” Luisa said to Frau Stevenson. “Thank you for having us.”

  “Thank you, Frau Stevenson. I appreciate very much your air-conditioning,” Dorrie Wyss said with a smile. “Take care of yourself, Teddie.”

  Rickie merely bowed and said, “Thank you.” He realized he was too intimidated—if that was the word—to ask Teddie to telephone him tomorrow, because Teddie’s mother was present.

  They were silent in the lift down, then on the pavement they broke into laughter.

  “How the other half lives,” said Dorrie Wyss.

  “So swank? No-o,” said Rickie. “Medium swank.”

  At the black BMW, Rickie called Lulu out and let her walk for a little. Then back into the warm car. Dorrie announced that she was putting her cooling system on, a fan, the best she could do.

  “Wasn’t that a great room, though?” Dorrie said. “Teddie’s. The size! My whole apartment could fit in Teddie’s room, I bet.”

  Luisa was thinking of the time, seven twenty-seven, and of what she was going to say to Renate about being late for dinner, or late in helping to prepare it, anyway. If she said she’d been in Jakob’s, Renate might say she’d looked in there (whether she had or not), and Luisa hadn’t been there.

  “By the way, Luisa, any time you want a ride to Teddie’s neighborhood, I’ll take you. No trouble, you know, to pick you up in Aussersihl and bring you here,” Dorrie said. “I’ll give you my card, once we’re up by Jakob’s.”

  Rickie thought, a card now! Dorrie was coming up in the world, even if her apartment was small.

  “And,” Dorrie went on, “I’d imagine Teddie could take you home in a taxi, providing he didn’t get out of the taxi!”

  Rickie hesitated over the question he wanted to ask, and decided to go ahead, “Luisa, did Renate say anything about last night? Willi and so on?”

  Luisa gave a start, and turned to look at Rickie. “No. But I heard something from the Wengers, you know, where I phoned you from. They know I talk with you sometimes. They said you came by with a police officer.”

  “We think—I think Willi might’ve hit Teddie with that piece of metal that Luisa found. But since we’re not sure—”

  Luisa described the piece of tripod to Dorrie.

  “You talked with Willi?” asked Dorrie.

  “Yes, and he says he never saw the boy,” Ricki
e replied. “Doesn’t know Teddie, didn’t see him Saturday night or any other night.”

  “Of course the Wengers think we’re trying to blame Willi because there’s no one else to blame,” Luisa said.

  “It’s next to impossible with someone so dim-witted as Willi, you know?” This from Rickie.

  “Impossible?” asked Dorrie.

  “You can’t go after a retarded person—the way you would a normal person. Even if I had more facts, or the police had,” Rickie said in a discouraged tone, “you’d probably never get Willi to admit anything. He acts sort of guilty now, but he’s like a machine programmed to say he never saw the boy in his life.”

  Silence again.

  “Renate was extra nervous today. Very cross with me. It’s going to be a mess tonight, because I’m late.” Luisa gave Rickie a tense glance. “My usual problem.”

  “How much longer is your apprenticeship?” Dorrie asked.

  “About six months.”

  “Can’t you switch to another atelier? Isn’t that allowed?”

  “Maybe allowed,” Luisa answered, “but Renate would give me the worst references possible. I know her.” She didn’t want to add the dramatic statement that Renate simply wouldn’t turn her loose. With a jolt, Luisa recognized her own neighborhood, and stopped her daydreaming. They were nearing Rickie’s studio and Jakob’s. “I can walk a couple of streets, you know. Best if I do, Dorrie.”

  “If you say so. I’ll go up to Jakob’s and make a turn there.” A few seconds later, Dorrie said, “Can’t you tell this Renate that you had a lift to go to Teddie’s and you wanted to visit? Has she got something against boyfriends too, this gay-basher?”

  “Well—y-yes,” said Luisa.

  The car stopped, and Luisa got out.

  “Oh, my card!” Dorrie groped in a briefcase, then leaned over to hand a card to Luisa. “Good luck, my sweet. Call me anytime!”

  Rickie was reminded of Freddie Schimmelmann saying that. “Me too! Good luck with the old witch.” He watched Luisa walking briskly toward Renate’s, as Dorrie turned her car.

  “You’re aiming for home, Rickie?”

  He was, and Dorrie said she had an eight-thirty date. They parted in front of Rickie’s apartment building.

  Rickie telephoned Freddie at once, and was surprised to get him. He told Freddie about the police agreeing that the tripod piece could have been the weapon. And he gave Freddie the name and particulars of Thomas Senn.

  At about that moment, Luisa was taking questions from Renate. What had kept her so long? Renate had eaten dinner. Tomorrow was a working day, and routine had to be kept.

  “You could have telephoned, no?” asked Renate. Her tone was mild—dulcet—compared to her voice when really in anger. She wore a Chinese red-and-gold kimono with wide sleeves, which she adroitly kept immaculate, regardless of kitchen activities.

  “I was at Teddie’s house. I went to see him, because I got a lift,” Luisa said calmly.

  “Oh! And they have no telephone, I suppose! Who drove you, this Mark—walder, whatever it is?”

  “No—a woman.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t even know her name—Beatrix, I think.”

  “Friend of his? Was he with you?” Renate scowled.

  “Yes,” Luisa said, feeling bold. “I don’t want dinner, it’s so warm. I may have a glass of milk.”

  “You will eat!” said Renate, glad to focus on something definite. “You worked today, you’ll work tomorrow, and you need to eat. There’s a pork chop. And potato salad. You help yourself!”

  Luisa hated it, but it wasn’t worth fighting about.

  19

  It was a few days later, as Rickie was taking his first bite of croissant at Jakob’s, that his eye fell on a name that made him pause. Georg Stefan. Why was that familiar? Rickie was gazing at a page of the Tages-Anzeiger. Georg Stefan had written an article called “An Old-Fashioned Date in a Brand-New World” and Rickie started to read it. With a shock, a twist of his thoughts, as if someone had turned his head full circle, Rickie realized that Teddie had written the piece about his date with Luisa at a mountain restaurant, dancing under the stars, a first date with a pretty girl who, like Cinderella, worse, had to be brought back home before eleven, or just a little after. The big car belonging to his mother, his promise to drink not even one glass of wine, his pleasure in the girl’s company now—but would she, could she make a second date with him? Teddie wrote that “her father” was the stern disciplinarian, which made Rickie smile. Caviar, a daring gin and tonic for her, the girl with eyes and hair like shining chestnuts.

  Alone, alone, the piece ended, after the drive back to the city to deliver the girl (she had no name) safely to her home. Funny, Rickie thought, that the paper would print it, and yet its naivety, its intensity, was much in its favor. Rickie supposed Teddie would be exploding with pride this morning. He thought Teddie really had not known about its acceptance last Monday.

  Rickie, having stuck a crisp bit of his croissant into Lulu’s pointed muzzle under the table, lifted his eyes just as Luisa and Renate arrived, and Andreas also with his Appenzeller. “Thank you, my good man,” said Rickie, putting on an English gentleman accent.

  “Do mansion it,” replied Andreas, “sir.”

  Catching Luisa’s eye, Rickie gave a smile and a nod, that from this distance might have included Renate too, but she was not looking, or pretending not to, as she fixed a cigarette in her long holder. Rickie wanted to point to his newspaper to pique Luisa’s curiosity, but she wasn’t looking his way now. He had lifted his drink for a second sip, when Fred Schimmelmann walked in, wearing uniform. The day was indeed shaping up!

  “Freddie—good morning!” Rickie relished every second, watching Renate stare with surprise at the police uniform. “Sit down, my friend. Off duty?”

  “Couple of hours ago, yes.” Freddie sat down on a chair. “Traffic again, twenty-two hours till six, how about that?” He took his cap off, laid it on the big table. “I went by your apartment, no answer, so I thought you might be here.”

  “Breakfast. Nearly every morning.”

  “I talked with Thomas Senn this morning, went to his home station,” Freddie said. “He’s a serious guy, had the house number, photographs—of the scene.”

  “He’s a detective?”

  “Same as. He’s with a squad. He’s not too hopeful about finding who did it. But”—Freddie lowered his voice— “I told him about Willi, and I asked, how do you go about questioning a mentally handicapped person? Maybe with a doctor present?” His blue-gray eyes looked sharply at Rickie. “So this Senn says it’s perfectly legal to question him, and thinks a doctor present is a good idea—quietly present, y’know? A doctor could confirm that we’re not trying to give poor Willi the third degree.”

  “No,” Rickie murmured, agreeing, but he saw another hitch. Ursie was heading toward them to take Freddie’s order.

  “Ah, our police officer! Good morning, sir.”

  “Morning,” said Freddie. “And I’d like a cappuccino, please.”

  “Our friend,” said Rickie, pleased that Ursie was well disposed toward Officer Schimmelmann. He continued when Ursie left, “It’ll be a neat job if we can make a date with Willi without Renate Hagnauer finding out and butting in.” Rickie had lowered his voice.

  “I know she’s sitting behind me,” Freddie said, gazing at the old scarred and sleek wooden table top. “They’re that close?”

  “Oh—she pretends to protect him. If Willi has an hour’s warning about a date with the cops, he’ll tell her—or tell the Wengers.”

  “We’ll have to surprise him—somewhere. With Senn plus a doctor from the police station.”

  Just the idea made Rickie happier. “Fred—to change the subject. What do you think, my friend Teddie sold an art
icle to the Tages-Anzeiger.” Rickie folded the paper on its stick, so the piece in question was visible.

  “He’s a journalist?” asked Freddie, taking the paper.

  “Wants to be—just now. This is about his first date with Luisa. Sort of naive—but it’s charming.”

  Freddie was taking a look at it. “Rickie, you’d say it was charming if it stank.”

  “Maybe. But if it stank, it wouldn’t be in the Tages-Anzeiger.”

  Rickie got to his studio just as Mathilde did.

  “You’re looking happy today,” she remarked.

  “Oh—a small bit of good news,” Rickie replied as he unlocked the door. Mathilde was curious, he saw, so he didn’t wait for her to ask what. “My friend Teddie—the boy who was hurt. An article by him is printed in the Tages-Anzeiger today. I just read it in Jakob’s.”

  “That he wrote? And he’s just a kid! An article about what?”

  “A first date. He signs it Georg Stefan.”

  “I’ll read it. We take it at home.”

  Coffee. Always more coffee. Mathilde opened envelopes.

  Rickie was cheerful for another reason: he had a “dry-skin” idea that he thought might work. It was true, some things are better dry, like champagne, some white wines, Dry Sack, and a dry martini cocktail, but not your skin. Rickie’s layout would have no person in it, only attractive wine and cocktail glasses. With his coffee and a cigarette, Rickie began to sketch.

  “Ah, Rickie, here’s something not so nice.” Mathilde came over to hand a piece of paper to him.

  This was a bill, with a small handwritten note from the Wengers, saying they were sure he would like to settle this as soon as possible. It was an estimate of two thousand, six hundred and forty-five francs for the two doors of Willi Biber, which had to be custom-made, because of the house’s antiquity.

  “Two doors. Why can’t these crooks stuff themselves,” Rickie muttered, and broke out in a grin, when he saw that Mathilde had heard him. “For a couple of flimsy doors that anyone could kick in. And I did!”

  They both laughed.