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overlooked.”
    She sucked her finger pensively. “Are you always that persistent?”
    “Depends on the weather. Please—tell me one more time what happened before your husband ran over there, to the factory.”
    She sat up straight. The wool dress showed off her tanned knees. My attention wandered for a few seconds.
    “I’m not sure I can remember everything. It’s been six months …” Then, after a pause:
    “We were watching television, Friedrich and I. I was falling asleep. Then suddenly he jumps up and runs to the door. And while he’s pulling on his coat he shouts to me that he’s heard an explosion or something, and then—”
    “You hadn’t heard anything?”
    “No, I was half asleep. So Friedrich ran off, and I stayed here in the living room. When he didn’t return—”
    “For how long?”
    “Fifteen minutes or so … I went out and started calling for him. And then, after a while, I found him.”
    She sounded bored; she wasn’t even pretending grief.
    “Where?”
    “Near that pipe. Maybe ten meters from it.”
    “What did you do then?”
    “I ran over to Scheigel, the night watchman, and found him lying on the floor, unconscious. When he came to, we called the police.”
    “You didn’t happen to notice his head injury?”
    She gave me a suspicious look.
    “Listen, I had just found my husband murdered. I didn’t feel like playing nurse.”
    I rubbed my chin and thought about the drink I had not been offered.
    “Which means nobody paid any attention to that.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I just had a word with Scheigel. No one examined his head after the attack.”
    She raised her eyebrows.
    “Careless of him. Head injuries can be dangerous.”
    “That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
    I could feel Henry breathing down my neck. Mrs. Böllig ran the tip of her index finger around the edge of her glass. The ice cubes clinked quietly.
    “How long were you married to Friedrich Böllig?”
    “Sixteen years. We were married on the eighteenth of January, nineteen sixty-nine.”
    “Your father-in-law was deceased at that time?”
    “He was.”
    “How old was your husband when he became the head of the firm?”
    “Twenty-eight.”
    “And when you got married?”
    “Thirty-one.”
    “And how old were you?”
    She sat up straight.
    “Is that any of your business?”
    “Let that be my worry. How old were you?”
    “Nineteen.”
    “How did you meet your husband?”
    “I was his secretary.”
    “I see.”
    Henry was breathing more loudly.
    “Were you fond of him?”
    She slammed her glass down on the cocktail table. A vein started throbbing at her temple.
    “That’s enough! Get out.”
    “Do you have children?”
    A leaden weight descended onto my shoulder.
    “Come on, friend, I’ll walk you to the door.”
    I turned. “Hands off.” To her: “
Do
you have any?”
    “I have a son.”
    “How old is he? What does he do?”
    “He is seventeen. He was born handicapped, and he lives in an institution. Will that do?”
    She jumped up and towered above me like one of the Furies. It was clear that the handicapped child was a blemish in this solarium-tanned facade of fast cars, expensive parties, and good-looking tennis coaches. But then, probably any child would have been a blemish.
    “Did your husband do business with other firms?”
    That stopped her. This was not the question that would have led to my instant eviction.
    “Sometimes.”
    “Were there particularly close relations with some of them?”
    She charged across the room.
    “God almighty, of course there were! My husband did business with a lot of people. Check the books. Go see Meyer—he’s the business manager.”
    I poked the last cigarette out of my pack.
    “Was your husband the sole proprietor of Böllig Chemicals?”
    “I held thirty percent.”
    “Now you’ve got a hundred.”
    I smoked, and Friedrich’s widow leaned against the glass wall and contemplated the wet trees in her yard. She still looked