Dr. Oberdorfer’s telephone gave Rickie his answering service, and Rickie cursed aloud, then a female voice interrupted: the doctor’s wife? Rickie didn’t care who it was, the sober voice was willing to take a message and to reach the doctor. Rickie identified himself and explained the situation.
“Please! I think it’s urgent. Dr. Oberdorfer knows my address. My home address.” Rickie gave it anyway.
It sounded as if the doctor might be able to arrive in minutes: he was at a party in Zurich, and of course he would have to pass by home to get his kit.
Back on the terrace, Rickie saw Ursie setting a cup of tea before Teddie. “Thank you, Ursie!”
“What happened to the boy?” she asked.
Willi, Rickie thought suddenly. Having suspected it minutes before, Willi Biber as the culprit suddenly was a fact. “Attacked,” Rickie replied, frowning. “Couple of streets from here.” The direction in which Willi lived too. Rickie had seen Willi leaving, seen his old hat above the throng. The time fitted.
Ursie went off, busy elsewhere. Teddie had his shirt back on, unbuttoned. He wore a thin gold chain round his neck.
“To my place!” said Rickie, giving orders now. “Let’s go!”
“How far . . . a taxi! Shall I—”
“My car’s there!” said another, pointing to the street.
Plenty of willing hands. They got Teddie upright. The boy threw his head back and shut his eyes. Two fellows, one the sturdy Ernst Koelliker, had Teddie by the elbows, lifting his feet off the ground. Philip Egli was now with them. Another man was going to walk.
Rickie hovered, seeing that Teddie was as comfortable as possible in the front seat. Rickie got in the back with Lulu on his lap. Whose car?
At Rickie’s apartment house, Teddie was lifted up the front steps by a couple of fellows who kept telling him, to Rickie’s annoyance, that he was going to be all right in no time.
“My bed! Here!” Rickie said, turning his own bed down.
Teddie of course had to lie prone. Someone had taken his shirt off, another wanted his trousers off, and still another said the doctor could perfectly well see the wound, couldn’t he? The blood colored the white pocket under the belt, but the bleeding had all but stopped.
Rickie had barely gulped a small Chivas Regal from a glass and brought the bottle in for any who wanted it, when his doorbell rang. It was the good Dr. Oberdorfer, smiling, looking puzzled as he walked into the apartment with Rickie.
“Evening! What’s happened, Herr Markwalder?”
“Come—please. Friend of mine . . .”
All made way for the doctor, who had his brown leather kit, Rickie saw. The doctor called for a clean towel and some water. Philip Egli obliged, after Rickie indicated the towel cupboard. Rickie brought water in a saucepan.
“What happened?” asked the doctor. “It’s going to be a bad bruise.” His gray eyes peered up at Rickie over the top of his glasses.
“A mugger on the street!” It hadn’t occurred to Rickie till now to see if Teddie still had his wallet. “Teddie didn’t see the person.”
Dr. Oberdorfer had washed his hands at the kitchen sink, and now he swabbed gently, cleaning the area around the injury, and Teddie winced.
“. . . metal or a piece of wood,” Rickie heard the doctor say in answer to someone’s question.
Here came a square bandage, affixed with stripes of white adhesive. The doctor murmured an apology to Teddie for the jolt of an anti-tetanus needle in his arm. They got the boy’s belt undone; the stained trousers were pulled off, then the stained slip. The doctor pulled the sheet over Teddie, added a blanket too, and proffered two pills.
“One against pain, the other to make you sleep,” said the doctor, and took the glass of water that Rickie had hurried to fetch.
Teddie dropped the second pill on the sheet, picked it up and swallowed it with water, then sank the right side of his face into the pillow again. The doctor had washed the left side of his face, which bore some scratches.
Then Dr. Oberdorfer took from Rickie Teddie’s name and age, twenty or twenty-one. The address?
“Just put mine for now. He lives in Zurich but I don’t know his address by heart.”
“If there is blood in the urine—telephone me, Mr. Markwalder.”
“Got to telephone my mum,” Teddie said suddenly and clearly, as if the pills had woken him up. “What time is it?”
“Thirteen minutes to two,” Ernst replied.
Rickie got the telephone. “Can you say the number, Teddie? It won’t reach.”
“No!” cried the doctor. “You’re not to sit up just now, you’ll start the bleeding again!”
Rickie suddenly remembered the telephone lead near his bed, unplugged the cord in the living room and brought it in. He had removed the cord months ago from his bedroom, because the phone near his bed reminded him too much of talking with Petey. Rickie dialed carefully from Teddie’s dictation.
“May I talk first?” asked Rickie, firmly.
Teddie’s mother sounded shrill and anxious.
“Frau Stevenson—Rickie Markwalder. Your son is late, but he is quite all right and—”
“And the car too,” said Teddie into the sheet. “Give it to me.”
Rickie did.
“Hello, Mum . . . Well, a—somebody swatted me in the back. You know, August the first . . . I am not—not much hurt . . . No, Mum, it’s not serious, but it’s better if I stay where I am tonight . . . Yes, we got a doctor, Rickie’s doctor.”
Dr. Oberdorfer was making signs that Teddie should conclude his conversation. Peace, calm! his spread hands said.
“He just put a little bandage on . . . Mum, I wasn’t even in the car.”
The doctor took the telephone, to Rickie’s relief. He said the boy had an abrasion on his back, but it was not deep, more a bruise. Exchange of names and addresses. The doctor wrote, and assured Frau Stevenson that he would see her son tomorrow and report.
Meanwhile, Rickie had started heating water for coffee. The doctor declined coffee.
Teddie, with eyes shut now, might have been asleep.
“I’m off, Herr Markwalder,” the doctor said. “Two pills by the lamp there. Anti-pain. He may wake up with pain in a couple of hours. Four-hour interval between each of those pills.”
Then the doctor was gone.
14
They had all drifted into the living room with the doctor. There was silence for a few seconds, then Ernst looked at Rickie, smiling, and said, “Wasn’t it lucky that—”
“Rickie! Jesus, man! What a crazy night!”
“The doctor gave him two needles, didn’t he?”
Laughter. “A rough neighborhood . . .”
Rickie said authoritatively, “Sh-h! Everybody! Who can sleep with all this? Sh-h!”
One man took his leave. No one wanted coffee except Rickie and Philip.
Rickie said to Ernst, “The night is young! What do you say two or three of us call on Willi Biber? Wish him a happy August the first?” Rickie gave a deep chuckle. Just what was Willi doing now?
“Where does he live? I’m game.” This from Ernst.
“Behind that teashop. What’s it called?”
“Milady’s Piss!” cried someone in falsetto, maybe Philip Egli, because he was grinning, lifting his coffee cup.
“Someone hit—Teddie. We can just ask Willi about it. No?” asked Rickie.
“Yes,” replied Ernst, as if Rickie’s proposal showed absolute logic. “I’m with you, Rick!”
“So—” This left Philip. “Philip, you stay, will you? Because of Teddie. Snooze here on the sofa if—”
“Oh sure, Rickie,” said Philip. “I can stay. How long you going to be—about?”
“Oh-h, an hour. Less maybe. And if—
maybe you heard the doctor—any blood in Teddie’s urine, I’m to tell the doctor. So tell Teddie if he wakes up.”
“Right,” said Philip.
Philip might snooze, read something, but he could be trusted. So thought Rickie as he found himself out on the pavement walking rather briskly with Ernst toward Jakob’s, which still had a lot of lights on, but was slowly closing, Rickie could feel in the atmosphere. The front terrace’s tables were all empty, though a few people stood at the bar. Rickie thought of looking in for Willi, and decided not to: Willi was never out this late.
“You know how to find this place, Rickie?”
“I know where the tearoom is. Willi works there. Not with teapots.”
Ernst grinned. “So we wake the tearoom people up?”
“We’ve got to ask them—exactly where he lives. Maybe right there.”
L’Eclair—this was the tearoom’s name—was dark, and its glass door far from any visible dwelling. Rickie knocked with increasing loudness, and ended his efforts with a kick.
Ernst laughed nervously. “They’ll love us!”
Rickie repeated the knocking and with a “Hello-o?” instead of a kick.
At last a woman’s voice asked from a dark first-floor window, “Who is there?”
“Markwalder,” said Rickie soberly, as if he were a police officer. “I have a question to ask, Madame, and I am sorry to disturb you. Can you tell me where Willi lives? Willi Biber?”
“He—has he done something wrong?”
“No, Madame! Just a question or two—to ask him.”
“I am not responsible for Willi, you know. It’s the little passage to your left, then second door on your right—in the wall there.”
There were two steps down into the dark alley, and both nearly fell.
“Shoulda brought a torch,” Ernst murmured.
Rickie had a cigarette lighter. The alley was narrow, and the next obstacle would have been two dustbins which took half its width. Rickie saw the second door, and lit his lighter once more. To the left of the door was a single dark window, closed and dusty-looking.
“Willi-i? Happy first of August! Open up!” said Rickie, trying the friendly tone first, sure that Willi wouldn’t recognize his voice.
“Willi-i?” Ernst called.
Silence.
Rickie tried knocking with his fist. He could see better now and was not using his lighter.
“Who’s there?” Willi’s voice asked, somewhat shrill.
“Open up!” Rickie now gave the lower door panel a hard kick and he heard it crack.
“Hey!” Willi yelled.
Rickie grabbed the knob and put his shoulder to it. The door only creaked.
Ernst took a dustbin lid and charged the door.
The door made a snapping sound and opened. They were again in darkness, and the lighter came into service. There was a door to the left, which moved and shut even as they watched. This door had no lock, it seemed, and Rickie simply shoved it open.
“Put the light on, Willi!” Rickie said. Again he used the lighter, had a glimpse of Willi hunched and wide-eyed like a mad figure in a Munch painting, a lamp by an untidy bed. “The light, put it on!”
Willi did.
The room had a look of being a hundred years old, Rickie thought. The lamp had a crumbling beige shade, the carpet had been worn to something like burlap, and the armchair oozed its upholstery. The place stank of sweat and dust. Skinny Willi stood trembling in short underpants and an indescribable shirt.
“You hit a boy tonight, didn’t you, Willi?” asked Rickie, holding his right fist at the ready. “The boy in the blue jacket? You waited by his car, Willi?”
“You can’t come in like this—break my door in, you homos! Faggots! I’ll tell my landlady!”
Rickie gave a laugh. “What did you hit him with, Willi? Big piece of wood? Piece of metal?”
“He’s not dead! Why’re you—get out! Out of m-m-my house!”
Ernst, fists clenched, watched both of them. “Rickie, the landlady—she just might phone the police, y’know?” He spoke quickly, softly.
“Is Renate giving you orders, Willi? You take orders from her? And money—a little money?”
“A little,” Willi echoed, as if to beg off with this.
“Rickie,” said Ernst, “let’s take off—while we can.”
Rickie moved his fist, not intending to hit, and Willi flinched, stumbled backward onto the sagging single bed.
“You admit you hit him,” Rickie said.
“Ja.” Then seconds later, “Nein!—nein!”
Ernst moved to the door, and Rickie reluctantly followed.
“See you again soon, Willi,” Rickie said.
The alley was silent. Rickie remembered the two steps and so did Ernst. They headed for home, Rickie’s place. Again the cozy glow of the Small g, a smaller glow but still there. Now Rickie didn’t want a nip of anything, though he knew Ursie or Andy would’ve obliged. Rickie felt odd, quite strong, though just then he staggered, and Ernst caught him.
“You heard him, eh, Ernst? He’s our man! Willi!”
They both heard a police car’s siren then. It sounded far away. Then it was behind them in the direction of the tearoom.
They were home.
Philip awoke from a sleep on the sofa.
“How’s Teddie?” asked Rickie.
“Still asleep.” Philip spoke softly, looking half asleep himself. “His mother phoned—said she wanted to make sure she had the phone number and address right. What did you find out—just now?”
“Shitty Willi—he confessed! Didn’t he, Ernst?” Rickie looked at Ernst in triumph. “Says he takes ‘a little bit’ of money from Renate Hagnauer.”
“Gotta wash, Rickie. Look!” Ernst held out his palms which were as black as if he had been handling coal.
So were his own, Rickie saw. He peeked into his bedroom, and saw the boy lying as before, face to the wall. A dim bedlight stood on a nearby table. “Did he pee?” Rickie whispered.
Philip shook his head.
Ernst washed at the sink, and so did Rickie. Someone had turned the electric burner on under the kettle.
“Got any cheese, Rickie? Or cake?” Ernst asked.
“Both!” said Rickie proudly.
Ernst helped with coffee mugs, Philip with the rest. All went on the coffee table.
“So Rickie, what’re you going to do about this Willi nut? He is a nut, isn’t he? The one who came to my place the night of the party, isn’t he?”
“Yes. I’ll tell the police,” said Rickie, sure of himself. “Let the police handle it. And tomorrow when it’s light—”
“Hear that?” Ernst nodded toward the window.
They all heard a faint police siren.
“Maybe I should skip while I can,” Ernst said, setting his coffee mug down.
Rickie knew: the police knew his name, not Ernst’s, from Willi’s landlady.
Ernst turned at the door. “No. I’ll stay, Rickie—if they’re coming.”
“What happened at Willi’s?” Philip asked.
“We broke his door in,” Rickie replied.
The police car had audibly stopped at the curb. Rickie glanced nervously at his watch. It was just after four now.
His bell rang. Rickie smoothed his hair, pulled in his bulging waist, glanced at the living room.
“We look respectable!” Philip said solemnly, meaning all of them, imbibing coffee.
At the front door, the police identified themselves; Rickie confirmed his identity.
The outcome of all this went through Rickie’s mind as he led the two officers to his apartment door. He’d get a fine for breaking a door down, and he’d pay it. Had he even touched the bastard who’d
hit Teddie? No!
Rickie entered his flat, followed by the officers, who barely nodded at Ernst and Philip.
“. . . at Leckler tearoom about an hour ago . . .”
Rickie calmly admitted everything: he had been noisy, knocking, he had broken a door in.
“Two doors.”
“All right—I wanted to speak with Willi Biber. I don’t think he was going to let me in.”
“You were with another man, Frau Wenger says.”
“I was with my friend,” Ernst said, and gave his name and address to the police.
“But I’ll take responsibility,” Rickie said to the two cops, one writing, one staring.
“You may be responsible for the damage, Herr Markwalder, and for—menacing this Willi—Biber. You’ll probably have to appear before a magistrate for that.”
Rickie frowned. “Menacing?”
“He said you knocked him backward—hit him. He fell on his bed, he said.”
“I was there,” Ernst put in. “My friend didn’t touch him. He fell backward all by himself. Why don’t you ask why we wanted to see him? Because he attacked—”
“Ernst—” Rickie felt suddenly protective of Teddie, and had no confidence that the police here could grasp Willi’s motivation.
“Attacked?” asked the officer.
“Well, show them, Rickie!” Ernst gestured toward the bedroom, whose door was partly open. “If you don’t explain—”
“All right. Have a look. There is a young man here—we had a doctor.” Rickie hated it.
Ernst beckoned, and the officers followed him into the bedroom where Teddie slept. Ernst pulled the sheet down to Teddie’s waist.
The officers looked impressed.
“I shall mention this assault”—Rickie indicated the bedroom—“when I speak to the magistrate.”
“You say this Willi hit the boy?” asked the officer.
“No. But we have reasons to think he did. Thank you, gentlemen,” in a tone of dismissal.
The cops smiled vaguely, shifted. They looked warm in the face, warm all over. With caps off for coolness, they still sweated. The night had brought little improvement in the temperature.