Self's Murder Read Free Page A

to an end. Now I can’t really imagine any great-grandsons suddenly turning up. Anyone who had a large pile of money stashed away with us would have had ample reason in all these years to come claim it.”
    “Why don’t you hire a historian? I bet there are hundreds of them who get degrees every year and can’t find a job—they’d jump at the chance to go looking for lost partners.”
    “I’ve tried my luck with history students and retired professors. It was a disaster. I ended up knowing less than when I started. No”—he shook his head—“I’ve chosen you for a reason. One could argue that your job and theirs is the same: historians and detectives both go after truths that are buried and forgotten, and yet the methods are quite different. Maybe your approach will get better results than those history fellows.‘ Take a few days, cast about a bit, follow different leads. If nothing comes up, then nothing comes up—I’ll get over it.” He picked up a checkbook and a fountain pen from the table and placed them on his knees. “How much should I give you as an advance?”
    I’d do some casting about for a few days—if he wanted to pay me for that, then why not?
    “Two thousand. My fee’s a hundred an hour, plus expenses. I’ll provide you with a detailed breakdown once I’m done.”
    He wrote out the check, handed it to me, and got up. “I hope you’ll get back to me soon. I’ll be here at the office, so if you prefer dropping by to calling, I’d be delighted.”
    Samarin walked me down the stairs and past the tellers. When we reached the door he took me by the arm. “Herr Welker’s wife died last year, and he’s been working day and night ever since. He shouldn’t have taken on the history of the bank on top of everything else. I’d be grateful if you would call me should you come up with something or if you need anything. I want to lighten his load any way I can.” Samarin peered at me expectantly.
    “How do the names Welker, Weller, and Samarin go together?”
    “What you mean is, how does Samarin fit in with Weller and Welker. It doesn’t. My mother was Russian and worked as an interpreter during the war. She died when she gave birth to me. The Welkers were my foster parents.”
    He was still peering at me expectantly. Was he waiting for confirmation that I’d come to him and not to Welker?
    I said good-bye. The door didn’t have a handle, but next to it was a button. I pressed it and the door opened, then fell shut behind me with a loud snap. I gazed over the empty square and was pleased with the job and the check in my pocket.
     
     
     

— 5 —
     
The Gotthard Tunnel
and the Andes Railway
     
     
    A t the University of Mannheim library I located a history of German banking: three fat volumes filled with text, numbers, and graphs. I managed to check them out and take them with me. Back at my office I sat down and began to read. The traffic hummed outside, then came twilight and darkness. The Turk from next door, who sells newspapers, cigarettes, and bric-a-brac of every kind, closed his shop, and when he saw me by the lamp at my desk he knocked at the door and wished me a pleasant evening. I didn’t go home until my eyes began to hurt, and was once again poring over the books when the Turk opened his shop in the morning and the children who were always his first customers were buying their chewing gum and Gummi Bears. By afternoon I had finished.
    I’ve never had much interest in banking—and why should I? Whatever I earn ends up in my checking account, and what I need on a daily basis gets drawn from there, as do payments for health insurance, social security, and life insurance. There are times when more money accumulates in my account than gets withdrawn, and what I do then is buy a few shares of Rhineland Chemical Works stock and put the certificates in my safe. They lie there untouched as the market rises and falls.
    And yet banking and its history is anything but dull. In