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really good. So good that I had to force myself out of the chair. Henry rose too, a small cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth.
    “Mr. Meyer’s office is over there?”
    “Yes.”
    “All right. That’s it, for the time being.”
    We parted. It was still drizzling outside. I estimated the distance from the driveway to the waste pipe. It was considerable, and I asked myself why five people who had just committed an act of sabotage against an industrial enterprise would stick around and wait for the owner to appear on the scene.
    “Mr. Meyer? Room number twenty-eight.”
    I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. Someone sneezed, then said, “Come in.” I opened the door and found myself in a reception area. The secretary behind the desk held a handkerchief to her nose and looked at me as if I were some long-extinct reptile. She was in her twenties and had a blond perm, freckles, and pink heart-shaped earrings. Every German country boy’s dream. A collection of postcards had been taped to the wall behind her.
    “This is Mr. Meyer’s office?”
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “Mrs. Böllig sent me.”
    “I see … Let me check.”
    With one hand, she depressed a key on her intercom; with the other, she went on working on her nose, all the while eyeing me suspiciously. Finally someone came on the line.
    “Mr. Meyer, I have a gentleman here who wants to see you. He says Mrs. Böllig sent him … I don’t know … He’s not from here … No, I mean he’s not from here at all, if you know what I mean. Very well, Mr. Meyer.” She looked up.
    “Have a seat, please. Mr. Meyer is still on the phone.”
    I sat down on the visitors’ banquette. It was getting dark outside, and the village princess switched the light on. While I rummaged in my pockets for cigarettes, in vain, she cast a surreptitious glance at me, moved her own pack of HBs into a drawer, and went back to her papers. Finally the door opened and Mr. Meyer peered out.
    “Yes?”
    I got up.
    “Kayankaya, from the public prosecutor’s office. I’m investigating the Böllig case, and I need to take a look at your business records. For various reasons. Mrs. Böllig suggested that I talk to you.”
    When she heard me mentioning the prosecutor’s office, the princess looked flabbergasted. Meyer, embarrassed, compressed his lips.
    “The prosecutor’s office? I see. I thought we were done with all that. The murderers have been apprehended, haven’t they? But all right, you have to do what you have to do. I was getting ready to go home, but …”
    He was a head shorter than I, skinny and wiry. In his blue corduroy suit and elevator shoes, he looked as if he had been to the dry cleaners. When he spoke, his ears wagged. An electronic timer dangled from his wrist, and he kept moving it tenderly up and down his arm.
    I’m sorry, Mr. Meyer, I’m just doing my job.”
    He liked that.
    “As we all are. Come on in, Mr.—what was the name again?”
    “Kayankaya.”
    “Very good. Come in.”
    Before he closed the door, he cast another glance at the princess.
    “Petra? Could you be so kind and stay on for a while? We have a few more things to discuss.” He twinkled paternally at her bosom, closed the door, and strutted over to his desk.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Kayankaya?”
    “I need all the records on business connections with other enterprises, starting from nineteen sixty-six. I also need to see the complete and up-to-date personnel and payroll records. And the financial records and balance sheets, also dating back to sixty-six.”
    He had stopped gnawing on his lower lip. He put a piece of peppermint candy in his mouth.
    “That’s quite a task you’ve taken on there.”
    “The sooner I start, the sooner I’ll be done.”
    He nodded.
    “That’s what I always tell my people. Procrastination destroys morale and is bad for the firm. You know what I mean?”
    I didn’t.
    “Just a moment. I’ll have the files brought