seconds of nervous amusement.
She could have convinced Willi Biber that he’d stabbed this Petey to death in Rickie’s apartment. That balcony door was broken, Willi had so informed Renate months ago at the height of the Luisa-Petey infatuation—last December. That information hadn’t interested Renate then, but after Petey’s death, she had indulged in a little fantasy. Willi had a stout Swiss army knife. By now he looked on homos with almost as much revulsion as did Renate herself. She had convinced him that he’d served in the Foreign Legion; why not that he was the murderer of Petey too? But she had confined herself to telling Willi that she had inside information that a third man had come into the apartment, one night when Rickie had been working in his studio—invited or not by Petey, no one would ever know—and had likely made his exit via the balcony. Willi had passed this story on to a few in Jakob’s, Renate knew, maybe to his employers the Wengers at L’Eclair, where he washed baking pans and took out dustbins. That satisfied Renate, or had satisfied her. It did annoy her that Luisa had, apparently, spoken with Rickie or someone who was sure of the newspaper account.
While she was putting soiled dishes into the dishwasher, humming tunelessly as she often did when nervous, Renate decided not to telephone Jakob’s tonight.
“Hmm-mm-hmm-mm-hmm-mm,” she hummed as she looked about, making sure that she had collected every object that the machine could handle. “Hmm-mm-hmm . . .” She would give Luisa an unpleasant time tonight, make her wait a while.
6
A t about the same time, Luisa was walking back the way she had come a couple of hours before, toward Rickie’s apartment, hoping she’d see a light behind the balcony. Then—she was sure she would find the courage—she would ring his doorbell.
But there was no light, just blackness at the tall french windows.
Well, there was Jakob’s, not far away. Hadn’t she been there a few times on her own after supper, to take a coffee? Certainly.
Since Willi the Dunce always sat at the long table in the front part of Jakob’s, Luisa entered via a side gate that opened onto the back garden. A path led to the back terrace, where lights hung from grapevine-covered beams. Voices and laughter. Luisa’s shoulders relaxed, and she felt her frown go away. All the tables but a small one seemed occupied. She would sit at the little table and not care when Andreas or Ursie appeared to take her order. It was wonderful to be among people who were having a nice evening, people who weren’t Renate Hagnauer and didn’t know she existed.
She was about to sit down, when a male voice called, “Luisa!” Rickie had half risen from a full table at the other end of the terrace, tall and very visible in a white cardigan. “Come over to us!”
Luisa made her way.
“Welcome!” said Rickie, indicating a chair that someone had secured for her.
There were five or six people at the table, one of them a woman. A single candle burned low between ashtrays.
Rickie introduced the woman as Evelyn Huber. “And Claus—Bruder,” he went on. “Philip Egli—”
“Enough!” said a dark-haired young man, smiling and a bit drunk. “I’m Ernst.”
Lulu barked from her own chair.
“And Lulu,” said Rickie.
“I know Lulu!” said Luisa, smiling.
“This is Luisa—Zimmermann.” Rickie was happy that he had managed to recall her last name. “And what would you like to drink—or eat?”
“There’s wine! Where’re the glasses? Give me the—” This from Ernst who was extending an arm in Rickie’s direction.
Andreas arrived.
“A Coke?” asked Rickie, who had sat down. “Wine? The peach tart is lovely tonight.” He was aware that he had drunk enough, but he had not made any mistakes as yet. “Another espresso for me, please, Andy. And for the young lady,” Rickie continued, “our guest of honor tonight—”
“A Coke, please,” said
She could have convinced Willi Biber that he’d stabbed this Petey to death in Rickie’s apartment. That balcony door was broken, Willi had so informed Renate months ago at the height of the Luisa-Petey infatuation—last December. That information hadn’t interested Renate then, but after Petey’s death, she had indulged in a little fantasy. Willi had a stout Swiss army knife. By now he looked on homos with almost as much revulsion as did Renate herself. She had convinced him that he’d served in the Foreign Legion; why not that he was the murderer of Petey too? But she had confined herself to telling Willi that she had inside information that a third man had come into the apartment, one night when Rickie had been working in his studio—invited or not by Petey, no one would ever know—and had likely made his exit via the balcony. Willi had passed this story on to a few in Jakob’s, Renate knew, maybe to his employers the Wengers at L’Eclair, where he washed baking pans and took out dustbins. That satisfied Renate, or had satisfied her. It did annoy her that Luisa had, apparently, spoken with Rickie or someone who was sure of the newspaper account.
While she was putting soiled dishes into the dishwasher, humming tunelessly as she often did when nervous, Renate decided not to telephone Jakob’s tonight.
“Hmm-mm-hmm-mm-hmm-mm,” she hummed as she looked about, making sure that she had collected every object that the machine could handle. “Hmm-mm-hmm . . .” She would give Luisa an unpleasant time tonight, make her wait a while.
6
A t about the same time, Luisa was walking back the way she had come a couple of hours before, toward Rickie’s apartment, hoping she’d see a light behind the balcony. Then—she was sure she would find the courage—she would ring his doorbell.
But there was no light, just blackness at the tall french windows.
Well, there was Jakob’s, not far away. Hadn’t she been there a few times on her own after supper, to take a coffee? Certainly.
Since Willi the Dunce always sat at the long table in the front part of Jakob’s, Luisa entered via a side gate that opened onto the back garden. A path led to the back terrace, where lights hung from grapevine-covered beams. Voices and laughter. Luisa’s shoulders relaxed, and she felt her frown go away. All the tables but a small one seemed occupied. She would sit at the little table and not care when Andreas or Ursie appeared to take her order. It was wonderful to be among people who were having a nice evening, people who weren’t Renate Hagnauer and didn’t know she existed.
She was about to sit down, when a male voice called, “Luisa!” Rickie had half risen from a full table at the other end of the terrace, tall and very visible in a white cardigan. “Come over to us!”
Luisa made her way.
“Welcome!” said Rickie, indicating a chair that someone had secured for her.
There were five or six people at the table, one of them a woman. A single candle burned low between ashtrays.
Rickie introduced the woman as Evelyn Huber. “And Claus—Bruder,” he went on. “Philip Egli—”
“Enough!” said a dark-haired young man, smiling and a bit drunk. “I’m Ernst.”
Lulu barked from her own chair.
“And Lulu,” said Rickie.
“I know Lulu!” said Luisa, smiling.
“This is Luisa—Zimmermann.” Rickie was happy that he had managed to recall her last name. “And what would you like to drink—or eat?”
“There’s wine! Where’re the glasses? Give me the—” This from Ernst who was extending an arm in Rickie’s direction.
Andreas arrived.
“A Coke?” asked Rickie, who had sat down. “Wine? The peach tart is lovely tonight.” He was aware that he had drunk enough, but he had not made any mistakes as yet. “Another espresso for me, please, Andy. And for the young lady,” Rickie continued, “our guest of honor tonight—”
“A Coke, please,” said
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