Collision of Evil (12 page)

“So, Herr Kommissar, maybe you can tell me off the record what you think happened to my brother. Just between us. I know there aren’t many facts, but what do your instincts tell you?”

Waldbaer weighed the question and decided that it was fair enough. “Instinct is for animals. It’s nature’s compensation for beasts that can’t think properly. But I know what you mean. Every investigator develops a feeling for things, even before all the evidence is available to examine. My feeling is that your brother wasn’t randomly killed. I have a sense that whoever killed your brother is still around. And that the killer had a reason to murder, or thought he did.” Waldbaer brought the pilsner bottle to his lips.

“What reason?” Hirter asked.

The detective shrugged. “Don’t know. Not yet. But in general it would make sense that your brother saw something he shouldn’t
have. And to that extent, the murder was defensive. By which I mean, it wasn’t robbery, sex thrills, or political assault. Someone has something to hide. That’s what I think, but cannot at the moment prove. But this, too, might change.”

Hirter nodded. Maybe this rumpled, overweight heap of a smalltown detective is the right man after all, he conceded.

August Sedlmeyer slept deeply and dreamt of death. This happened invariably on those occasions when he had stirred up the embers of his past and permitted memories to give life to long, somber columns of ghosts. He turned onto his side to ease the chronic ache of old bones, stretching slowly in the wide bed that was his alone since the passing of his wife, Anna, ten years ago. His spouse of more than thirty years was a ghost too; a spirit, but she did not populate his dreams this night.

Sedlmeyer dreamt now of German ghosts, spectral ranks wearing the SS camouflage pattern. The German phantoms were comrades; death did not sever those bonds. The ghosts that visited Sedlmeyer this night did not display the twisted rictus of violent death, but looked at him with visages entirely alive. Why were they visiting him this night? Was his time finally here? No, not quite yet, he felt certain.

He had remained loyal to them,
treu.
He considered again his conversation with the young American. Had he said too much? No. He had related events from long ago that could neither jeopardize nor dishonor his comrades. He had felt impelled to do this, but didn’t know why exactly. Perhaps there
was
some obscure connection between the events of long ago and the death of the American’s brother.

Sedlmeyer turned again in his uneasy slumber. He had not told Hirter everything. Some postwar events had found no place in his tale. Sedlmeyer would say nothing further about the SS officer with the sling. He sank deeper into the caressing embrace of sleep and
saw again the long, taciturn line of phantoms, faces expressionless, patiently waiting for him across an expanse of field in the gloaming. And he thought again with fascinated dread of that dark and silent land from which no courier ever returns.

Waldbaer parked on the side of the narrow valley road, turning off in sequence the
Bayern Funf
classical music station from Munich and the ignition. Even with the radio off, the gentle, bittersweet musical sentiment of Bruckner’s String Quintet in F Major played on in his head. He nudged open the car door with his shoulder and climbed out, releasing a sigh more from habit than from any burst of exertion. He found that he sighed often these days and worried about what it meant. He stretched and was mildly concerned about the brittle snapping sound that his elbows seemed to make lately.

The detective took a few steps into the rich grass lining the road, his sturdy loafers, unpolished and neglected, sinking into the sea of soft blades. He noted how verdant the valley looked in the lush late afternoon sunlight. It was, he thought, like one of those eighteenth-century landscape paintings on display at the Lembach gallery in Munich, with their arresting contrasts of vivid color and deep shadow. The scenes of paint and canvas had long outlived their creators. We are ephemerons, he mused, but a few leave something behind for others to reflect upon. He turned his mind to more pressing directions.

He could not shake the sense that the recent murder might be connected to old Sedlmeyer’s story. Two events separated by half a century, but both transpiring in roughly the same patch of terrain. Both events were violent; an SS man had been shot at war’s end by one of his own, according to Sedlmeyer’s tale.

And there was something else that Waldbaer recalled from several years ago. Two young campers had gone missing. The couple had been seen in this valley before their disappearance. The episode was never resolved and the police eventually lost interest. But now Waldbaer was unsure about what might have transpired and wondered if there was not a pattern forming. Over a long time span, there
had been a series of deaths and disappearances in the same tract of mountainous terrain.

Waldbaer’s thoughts were broken by the noisy passing of a flock of wild geese high above. He followed their trajectory for a moment, concluding that they were headed for the broad waters of the Chiemsee, miles away. Waldbaer returned his gaze to the mountain massif in the distance. If there were answers, they were there, concealed amidst the dense tangle of pine and ragged peaks of unforgiving dolomite. The answers would not reveal themselves without effort. He would have to pry them from this alpine terrain, at once so seductive and so forbidding.

Perhaps it had been a vision, a revelation. He sat up in the bed in the small, undecorated room and felt the sheen of sweat cooling against his skin. He reflected on what he had seen before waking. The dream had been remarkable for its clarity. The new interloper, following where the other had gone. In his dream, the man moved through meadows and woods and into the cavern. The interloper moved as if he knew where to go, as if he knew where the secrets were hidden. And then other men followed him into the cave and the secret was secret no more, and the things hidden there were discovered. All of his efforts were laid waste. So much planning destroyed. It made him feel ill.

He pushed a hand through sleep-matted hair to ascertain that he was fully awake and he thought some more about the dream, which might have been a vision, that metaphysical borderland where the terrestrial is touched by the invisible.

At least he knew that the cave had not
yet
been discovered, there was no cause for despair, only a message of warning. The earlier intruder had entered the cave and paid with his life. The new intruder would have to be killed, too; that was the advice of the dream. He frowned, uncertain at this interpretation of the nocturnal images.

There were others in the dream. Surely he couldn’t kill them all? He suspected that the dream was meant to convey another message: it was time to move the contents of the cave. The place that had provided decades of safe haven was no longer secure.

And, once the evacuation of the objects had been accomplished,
it would be time for action, for the justified and implacable violence that had lain dormant too long. He smiled at the thought of doling out death; the idea was like a stimulant.

He knew that he would have to contact the others. Emptying the cave was not something he could accomplish alone. The man resolved to gather his associates. Even this was no simple act, it demanded discretion.

Dressing quickly, he locked his one-bedroom apartment behind him and took the stairs to the street below. Fresh air and the sights and sounds of vehicles and pedestrians greeted him. He walked three blocks to a small grocery, went inside, and purchased an apple. Emerging again onto the street, he checked his surroundings to ensure that no one was following him. All seemed normal. He continued his stroll, entered a
tabak
, studied the wares, and bought a pack of cigarettes. He stood outside the store and lit one, again employing the half-minute of time to check for surveillance. There was none.

More relaxed now, he continued his journey to the post office and the row of yellow telephone booths in front of it. Of the six public phones, three were equipped to take phone cards and three for change. He chose a booth that accepted change, knowing it would leave no trail that could be traced back to him. The glass of the booth was smudged but provided sufficient clarity to view the surrounding area. He glanced around furtively and determined again that the world was indifferent to his presence. Removing a battered wallet from his jeans, he searched for a carefully folded slip of paper containing scrawled phone numbers. He found the first one that he required. There were six digits. The first two digits written on the paper were in reality the last two digits of the telephone number. The last two digits were in fact the third and fourth in the sequence. The middle digits written on the strip of paper were to be dialed first. He dialed and waited for the voice on the other end.

“Hello,” said a tinny, suspicious voice.

“Hello, my friend. You recognize me? I think we should try to go bowling tomorrow night.” There was a brief pause as the individual
who had been called let the covert meaning of the words sink in.

“Yes. I’m sure I can make it; there’s nothing else going on that I need attend to. I’ll get in touch with our other friend, but I have no doubt it will be fine with him too. I presume you are well?”

“I am entirely well.”

“Good. See you at the usual time.”

“Yes. Okay. Good-bye till then.”

He hung the phone back on its metal hook, pushed open the door, and left the booth. He let the images run through his mind like a film. The associate he had spoken to would now also go to a pay phone. The associate would dial up a third man and pass the same bowling information. The third man would go to a pay phone not directly in his neighborhood and dial a fourth colleague, repeating the message. Through an arrangement made at their last personal meeting nearly a year ago, they already knew where and when to meet. His interlocutor had inquired if he was well. That was the code to establish that the call had not been initiated under duress, at police direction.

The brief conversation was anonymous, simple, and entirely secure. Even in the highly unlikely event that they were overheard by the authorities, the dialogue would provide no clues as to what was going on, or when or where. He smiled at the elegance of it.

The conspirative machinery set in motion, he took his time returning to the apartment, enjoying the cascade of sunlight that had broken through the early morning blanket of clouds. The street had picked up more bustle as rush hour approached. He had time to enjoy his usual strong coffee and fresh rolls with sunflower seeds. After that, he would open up his little business below the apartment and prepare for the day. He would have time to consider the issues to be addressed tomorrow night at the bowling alley. He would make no notes; the agenda was secure in his head.

The undertaking at hand would be difficult, but this did not deter him. What he and his comrades were undertaking was of supreme importance, this was his unshakeable conviction. The everyday
slights and resentments of his life counted for nothing when measured against his mission. He felt exhilarated, wanted to laugh aloud. It did not occur to him that he was considerably more than a little mad, and that his brain had for years been a haven for malign thoughts.

Waldbaer had decided on a dark Franziskaner wheat beer and so informed the dour waitress, who marched off to the tap to draw it. It was early evening in the middle of the week and Zum Alte Post was nearly empty. A steady rain had come in from BadenWuerttenburg and moved over the Alps, promising to remain until the following morning. The temperature had dropped, and it was understandable that few people had ventured out. Other than the inspector, only Hans, the doctor, was present from the regular stammtisch.

“As I was saying, it could be that something from the end of the war is hidden up there. On the other hand, the war ended over half a century ago, and whatever was secreted could have been removed in the intervening years.”

The doctor held a hand up to signal a pause. “Who do you think would have removed whatever was hidden away?”

“My guess would be the people who brought it there in the first place.”

The doctor plucked at his multiplicity of chins. “You mean the SS troops?”

“Well, the SS officers anyway, or maybe just one of them. It could just as easily be the case that the stuff was never removed. Maybe the officers who concealed the items were killed or didn’t care about it once the war ended. Who knows?”

The doctor snorted out a guttural laugh. “I imagine that depends entirely on what was hidden. If it was Nazi gold, and someone knew
it, I expect it’s no longer in the neighborhood. I tell you one thing, it wouldn’t be if I knew about it.”

The waitress appeared, indifferently tossed a beer coaster on the table in front of Waldbaer and placed a foaming glass on top of it with a thud. The glass bore the image of a smiling, corpulent Franciscan monk drinking a beer and rubbing his belly contentedly. Waldbaer thought the image bore a disturbing likeness to Hans, seated across from him.