The Snowman by Jörg Fauser Page A

dealer stared at him for a while and then lit a cigarillo. The conversation had reached deadlock. The dealer would go no higher than 85,000, otherwise, he said, he saw no profit worth mentioning. Blum was not giving way. He felt that he mustn’t. When you’ve been thinking in terms of 480 grand you can’t go below 100. After all, you had your reputation to think of, and even if you didn’t have much of a reputation you still had your self-respect.
    â€œWell now, Herr Blum . . .”
    â€œHow come you suddenly know my name?”
    â€œThe name Blum is quite well known in Munich. But you’re right, let’s leave names out of this. If you’d rather risk selling it on the street . . . well, I suggest you open a little stall. You’ll see how long you live that way.”
    Blum didn’t like it, but there was no point in stonewalling any longer. The tall man was his only contact. It was time to close the deal.
    â€œAll right, I’ll go halfway to meet you. Let’s agree on a round figure. A hundred thousand marks.”
    â€œDone,” said the dealer. “We’ll meet here tomorrow evening at six-thirty and drive over to Oberrad. I have an apartment there. It’ll be safe.”
    Oh yes, so you’ll be taking me for a ride, thought Blum. You think it won’t be difficult. While the tall man was paying the bill he went out. The weather had changed; there was a cold wind with showers of rain.
    â€œI’m not too keen on that idea,” said Blum, when the other man joined him in the street. “I’ve been thinking. I’d be on your home ground. That’s not secure enough for me.”
    The tall man frowned. It made him look twenty-three.
    â€œA little trust is part of the deal.”
    â€œYes, but not on my side.”
    â€œListen, after all I have a business to run . . .”
    â€œThat never stopped anyone cutting a few corners too.”
    â€œYou’re an odd fish, I must say. Right, then, think up something else. But we meet here at six-thirty. Do you have a car?”
    â€œI’ll get hold of one.” Blum had one more question. “Tell me, why do you do this? I mean, with youradvertising agency, your restaurant – why risk so long in jail for your high C? Are you so fond of money?”
    The tall man climbed into his Mercedes, and then looked at Blum once more. He was smiling. Now he looked only seventeen. “It’s fun,” he said, and closed the car door.

17
    â€œA nice room, Mr Blum – by comparison with Valletta.”
    The Pakistani pushed the chair with its worn upholstery over to Blum, and sat on the bed himself.
    â€œVery nice, Mr Haq. May I ask what you’re paying for this delightful spot?”
    The delightful spot was a dark room on the fourth floor of a mid-nineteenth-century building with a view of a large filling station. The ground, third and fourth floors belonged to the Pension Waldfrieden – the Woodland Peace Boarding House, although there was no sign of any woodland. The name probably dated as far back as the furniture. Mr Haq at least seemed to feel at ease with the German oak cabinet and wardrobe and the wash-stand with its flowered enamel bowl. The one modern piece was an electric hotplate, on which Mr Haq was cooking a meal.
    â€œYou were invited yesterday, Mr Blum, but of course you’re very welcome today too. I hope you like curry. I’m afraid I can’t offer you any of the iced drinks you’re used to, but perhaps they’ll have cooled off in the fresh air.”
    He went to the window, opened it, and brought in a bottle of beer and an open bottle of Coca-Cola.
    â€œThere, you see – the cold weather has its uses. I’m not paying much more here than in the Cumberland, and I have a bathroom. Beer or cola, Mr Blum?”
    â€œIf you had a tea . . .”
    â€œOh, you’d like tea? I always have tea around, Mr Blum.”
    He poured Blum