But there’s always Thiel!’

‘Let me worry about him! Do you think Thiel will talk? He fell in a ditch, his ox took off, his suit was wrecked, he’s bruised and battered and out of a job as of now, because he let his ox run away—do you think he’s about to make any identifications? Is he as stupid as that?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I know what the answer is. Between ourselves: Thiel has got a new job. At a newspaper. But I’m not saying where.’

For a while the two men are silent, then Kalübbe says: ‘Well, I think it all happened too quickly. I really couldn’t say which farmers I saw in the Krug, and who was doing the straw fire.’

‘You see, Kalübbe. And if you’re ever fed up with serving orders and things, just send me a postcard . . .’

They turn to leave . . .

III

A voice speaks up behind them: ‘Just one moment, gentlemen. That was very interesting.’

In the door to one of the stalls is the young man Stuff raised his glass to just a quarter of an hour back.

‘Really. Extraordinarily interesting.—Yes, I was busy in there, gentlemen. I didn’t want to interrupt. I think it’s about the clearest case of tampering with a witness I’ve ever experienced personally. Charming.’

He stands in the doorway, the toilet seat behind him, quite needlessly fiddling with his braces. There are a thousand little wrinkles playing around his eyes, and in the midst of his discomfiture, Stuff manages to think: A boy? That son of a bitch is a thousand years old. Been round the block. What a piece of work.

He growls back: ‘Don’t get any ideas. You couldn’t hear much. Not with the water going the whole time.’

The young man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of paper. ‘Excuse the material, it’s toilet paper. But I do shorthand. Your conversation struck me as worthy of being recorded.’

‘You’re lying. That’s white paper. Don’t think you can fool me. Let’s have a look at it.’

Fat Stuff grabs with extraordinary speed at the left hand of the youth, which is holding the paper. But like a hammer his right fist slams against Stuff’s arm. Stuff tries a left into the solar plexus of the youth, who doubles back over the toilet seat.

Stuff grunts: ‘Come on, Kalübbe, we have to get hold of the paper!’

And the youth, completely calm, now standing on top of the loo seat: ‘Very droll, gentlemen—’

The toilet door swings open, and a couple of men walk in. The three combatants take up various casual poses. Kalübbe is fooling with the soap dispenser.