The Dark Meadow by Andrea Maria Schenkel

Hermann Müller
    Roswitha Haimerl stood there with her coat buttoned up and her bag under her arm. ‘I’m off home now, Hermann. I’ve cleared up the bar and stood the chairs on the tables, except for the one at the corner table. There’s some no-good layabout still sitting there, he’ll have to throw himself out. He’s paid what he owes.’
    â€˜Steady. You can’t be sure he’s a drifter just because he looks like one. But off you go. We’ll be busy tomorrow, the regulars will be back.’
    The landlord was just rinsing out the last glasses. He put them on the draining rack beside the sink to dry and wiped his damp hands on the dish towel.
    â€˜Oh, and before I forget, I was going to ask if you can get here a little earlier.’
    â€˜Yes, that’s OK. See you tomorrow, then.’
    Roswitha Haimerl went to the door. Hermann Müller accompanied her.
    â€˜Good night, and mind you don’t let anyone pick you up.’
    â€˜Don’t you worry, Hermann, if anyone comes to meet me at night he’ll bring me back next morning at the latest. So long, and make sure you get rid of that no-good fellow.’
    Roswitha Haimerl went away, laughing, while the landlord locked up behind her. He left the key in the lock. Then he went over to the corner table.
    The guest lay with his torso slumped over the table, one hand under his face, the other holding his half-full beer glass. The landlord picked up the glass and put it out of the sleeping man’s reach. Then he placed a hand on his shoulder and tried to wake him.
    â€˜Hey, time to go home. We’re closing. Can you hear me?’
    The man, obviously muzzy, straightened up. ‘OK, OK, just going.’
    â€˜Want me to get you a taxi? Or can you walk home?’
    The stranger tried to stand up, slipped, and fell back on the chair. ‘You let me be! Like I said, I’m just going. Take your great paws off of me!’
    â€˜Go easy, go easy. Like me to help you?’
    â€˜I don’t need no help, I don’t.’
    He tried to get to his feet again, clinging to the table top with both hands. As he did so his key ring fell to the floor.
    Hermann Müller bent down and picked the keys up. ‘Tell you what, I’m getting you a taxi. You can’t drive in that state, friend! Or the police will pick you up, and I’ll be in the shit for not calling a taxi.’
    â€˜The police, what a laugh!’ And indeed, the guest tried laughing. ‘You think they care? Someone’s had one over the eight, oh yes, they’ll stick their oar in then, they’ll take him in, the police will, but murder someone and they don’t give a damn. It’s all one to them, I’m telling you.’
    â€˜What are you babbling on about? What’s all right to who?’
    Somehow or other the drunk had managed to get to his feet. He leaned slightly forward, swaying, and brought his face close to the landlord’s.
    â€˜The police let murderers go free, let me tell you that.’
    He kept tapping the landlord’s chest with his forefinger.
    â€˜I know about a murder. Two years after the war, that was, and no one wants to know. But
I
know, and I’m not letting it rest. I know who done it and why. But
they
don’t want to know a thing about it.’
    â€˜I can’t think that the police don’t want to know about a murder.’
    â€˜Them? They don’t want to know a thing, not a thing. It’s all the same to them, they don’t care. Never even investigated properly, they didn’t.’ He put his forefinger to his mouth. ‘Ssh! Not a word, got to keep mum! Oh yes, I know all about it.’
    He dropped back on the chair again.
    â€˜See, it’s like with them three monkeys. See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil. And if it looks like foreign cops got to be brought in, they don’t want to touch it. Better keep their mouths shut than call the