The Camera Killer (12 page)

My partner went over to the window and looked out.

Heinrich stared into space, cracking his knuckles occasionally. After about five minutes, he suggested a game of table tennis. Eva didn’t feel like it. Neither did my partner, who went to the table to light a cigarette and returned to the window.

After another five minutes or so, Heinrich said we could always play rummy. Thirty or forty seconds elapsed before Eva replied that she had no objection. Heinrich called to my partner to tear herself away from the window and join in. She nodded and returned to the table. I also announced my willingness to play.

Eva stood up and went to get the playing cards, which she deposited on the table with a weary gesture. Then she went out. Heinrich called after her. Where was she off to? he demanded. She was only fetching a jacket, she replied. She was back within two minutes.

Heinrich had meantime gotten out the cards, together with paper and a ballpoint pen for keeping the score. After we had been playing for around twenty minutes (Eva was in the lead, followed by me, my partner, and Heinrich, in that order), we heard a voice ring out outside. It grew louder. My partner, who had been hunched over the low coffee table while playing, straightened up and asked whom it could be. Her question was promptly answered: The voice was now coming from inside the house.

Moments later, the Stubenrauchs’ farmer neighbor strode into the living room, heedless of the fact that the filth on his rubber boots was soiling the wooden floor. Had we heard? he asked, looking at Heinrich. That youngster wasn’t the killer, he went on, waving his arms about. He’d thought as much—it couldn’t have been anyone from around here. He’d heard it on the radio it wasn’t that boy.

Heinrich asked if there was any new information.

It wasn’t that youngster, the farmer reiterated; that had been obvious from the outset. How could they have gone and arrested a young man from the neighborhood?

Heinrich inquired whether the farmer had spoken with his friend in the police. The farmer said they might never catch the
killer, who was bound to be long gone. Heinrich rose and towed the farmer outside, saying that he had to show him something; he didn’t know how to carry out a certain repair to the house.

After the two of them had left the living room, my partner expressed surprise that the farmer had simply breezed into the house like that.

It was the custom around here and far from unusual, Eva replied. One morning shortly after they’d moved in, when Heinrich was still on leave because of the move, they were in bed together. Suddenly, the bedroom door opened to reveal the postman standing there. It’d taken them an embarrassing few seconds to disentangle themselves and pull up the bedclothes. The postman hadn’t turned a hair. Far from beating an apologetic retreat, he’d handed over a certified letter and, in the overly loud voice typical of the locality, insisted on Heinrich signing for it. Heinrich blew a gasket, said Eva; he got out of bed and signed for the letter stark naked. As if that were not enough, the postman had spent a while talking, in his uncouth voice, about their move and the characteristics of the local weather at various times of year. He had also introduced himself and, with an eye to business, drawn their attention to his private poultry farm. Then, and only then, had he finally left the bedroom and the house.

My partner inquired if the postman had displayed any other signs of mental derangement. None, Eva replied; such behavior was quite customary here. Workmen, chimney sweeps, mayors, sports clubs, brass bands, ticket sellers for the firemen’s ball—all entered without knocking. If they found no one in the living room or kitchen, they blithely combed the whole house without evil intent.

My partner said she wouldn’t stand for such behavior; in the Stubenrauchs’ place, she would keep the front door locked at all times.

That would be unthinkable, Eva rejoined; such a step would cause people in the district to promptly infer either that they, the Stubenrauchs, had something to hide or that they didn’t feel part of the local community. Both inferences would entail certain disadvantages, principal among which were social ostracism and the withholding of neighborly assistance. In this neck of the woods, said Eva, you have to run with the pack.

Heinrich came back into the house and took off his shoes. Looking into the living room, he swore at the dirt on the floor and went to fetch a mop. In a low voice, Eva asked if he had managed to shake the farmer off. He mopped the floor with gritted teeth until the sweat stood out on his forehead.

Hadn’t he done well? he demanded, smiling at us. By showing the farmer a hole in the gutter, he had given him something to worry about and distracted him from his tirades. Eva hoped Heinrich hadn’t been unfriendly. He had combined cunning with tact, he replied; the farmer would have nothing to reproach him for. Eva manifested relief at this. She was the one that spent the most time with these people and had to get on with them, she said, being at home while Heinrich was at work.

Heinrich asked if we could go on playing. My partner fetched two packets of chips and two bottles of mineral water from the kitchen. Depositing them all on the coffee table, she said, Yes, she was ready. We went on with our game.

After we had played three more hands, the telephone rang. Grumbling, Heinrich searched around for his shoes, which the in-voluntary movements of his feet had pushed in different directions beneath the table, then jumped up and hurried out into the passage.

While he was speaking with the person on the other end of the line, my partner reverted to the subject of lack of privacy. She asked why people should consider it so reprehensible of someone
to keep their house locked up during the day. After all, everyone agreed that half of the rest of the world’s inhabitants were a bad lot. Why should it be any different here? Eva said she didn’t know, but now that unheralded visits from neighbors no longer made her feel uneasy, or she had gotten used to them, she had stopped thinking of locking the front door.

Unpleasant situations were rare. Indeed, if she discounted the postman’s intrusion, she could think of only one other incident that had unnerved her. On one occasion, one of the African immigrants who roamed around with self-produced and terribly ugly paintings had walked into the house when she was on her own there. Most of these men were students, she said. They went from house to house, mainly in rural areas, offering their little works of art for sale.

Some days before the visit in question, there had been a press report that Africans had committed two rapes in Graz, so the black picture-seller’s entrance had made her nervous. As a rule, she always gave such people something. This time, she had told him she was poor and he should leave. He’d laughed at her and said she had nice hair. Where was her husband?

That really alarmed her. He was working upstairs, she’d replied. The picture-seller laughed again and said he didn’t believe her; she was all on her own, and he’d appreciate something to eat and drink. Under other circumstances, said Eva, she would have given him something, but because she found him frightening, she told him to leave.

He’d started on again about her husband’s absence, however. This had caused Eva to leave the house and request assistance from their neighbor, who was strolling around his farmyard. On seeing the farmer, the picture-seller had promptly fled without trying to interest him or his wife in a picture.

So my partner could see, Eva concluded, that being embedded in the rural social structure has definite advantages.

My partner, who was about to raise some objection, was interrupted by an exclamation from Heinrich. We listened. He kept saying, aha, yes, so that’s the way it is.

Just as my partner was about to respond once more, Heinrich hung up and hurried into the room. The podiatrist had called, he said, but first he needed a drink. He poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle that had been standing around since the previous night.

The podiatrist? asked Eva.

Heinrich nodded. Yes, he said, the podiatrist they’d patronized several times since living in the district had called. Some thirty policemen and paramilitaries had passed her house, guns at the ready and heading north. Heinrich surveyed us expectantly.

My partner asked what he inferred from this. Where did the podiatrist live and what lay north of there?

Heinrich took a map from some wooden shelves in the corner. Back at the table, he lit a cigarette although he already had one smoldering in the ashtray. Unfolding the map, he said it was the most detailed graphic representation of the area obtainable; indeed, he doubted if even the CIA possessed a better one. He spread the map out on the table (actually, he held it in his hands for a while until we had cleared away playing cards, glasses, bottles, paper and pencils, cigarettes, ashtrays, etc.).

Then he asked Eva for the pen and drew a line. This is where the podiatrist lives, he said. He had gotten her to describe precisely which way the police were headed and where they had turned, etc., so he was able to plot their route with great accuracy. He extended the line on the map and said, This is where we live,
here in the north, then drew a circle around the Stubenrauchs’ house.

My partner asked how far apart the houses were. A mile or two, Heinrich replied.

You mean they’re coming here? my partner exclaimed. Is the murderer roaming around in this area? Her voice broke.

Heinrich said it didn’t amount to anything yet, but first he wanted to have a word with the farmer and instruct him to ask his acquaintances in the district by phone if they had observed any unusual police activity. He himself would do likewise, though he didn’t know many people around here. Meanwhile, we could listen to the radio and look at the news on online.

Just as Heinrich rose, we heard the neighbor’s voice outside the door. Once again, he came stomping into the living room in his rubber boots. He told us that a Herr Zach had called him and reported that a horde of policemen had tramped through his farmyard. They were heading for the property of the Weber family, not far from here.

Great excitement reigned in the room.

This is it, said my partner.

Heinrich picked up the map. Going over to the farmer, he asked him if he could point out or mark Herr Zach’s farm and the Weber family’s property with the pen. The farmer held the map away from him and squinted at it, then took it over to the window, with the result that his huge, gnarled, filth-encrusted hands and his equally huge, black fingernails were clearly visible.

Eva quietly remarked that it had stopped raining.

What did you say? asked Heinrich.

In the same tone of voice, Eva repeated that it had stopped raining.

Lucky for the policemen, Heinrich said casually.

He once more asked the farmer if he could indicate a definite location. Being unable to read a map, he couldn’t. Laboriously, Heinrich showed him which house lay where and which places, roads, and hills were shown. In that way, he managed to give the farmer an approximate idea of what the map conveyed. The man took the pen and drew on the map.

Heinrich came back to the table. With the aid of finger movements and oral explanations, he made it clear that the two police contingents so far identified were moving toward each other and said that the Stubenrauchs’ house lay roughly on their line of convergence. My partner sprang to her feet without uttering a word or doing anything else. It was evident that the situation Heinrich had described alarmed her. It didn’t really mean anything, said Heinrich; on the contrary, it was highly amusing.

About to add something, he was interrupted by the entrance of the farmer’s wife. She said a brief hello, then breathlessly informed her husband that the mayor had called to say he couldn’t get through.

The mayor? said the farmer.

Yes, she replied, Hans Fleck.

He called? said the farmer.

Yes, she replied, he can’t get through.

Get through where? asked the farmer.

By car, she replied.

Heinrich intervened. Had the mayor really called and what exactly had he said? The farmer’s wife replied that he had called to say he’d meant to drive to Farmer Kienreich’s, which was only a third of a mile from here, but a police roadblock had held him up—him, the mayor. The whole area was cordoned off. The murderer was being sought here. Even the mayor himself had been prevented from driving on. He had called to tell the farmer to
lock his door, and everyone in the area should do likewise. It was outrageous that nothing had been said on the radio.

Frozen-faced, my partner demanded that we leave at once by car. She had no wish to stay here, she said. Before I could reply, Heinrich told her she was being absurd. In the first place, a single individual posed very little threat to the persons assembled here. Secondly, she ought to ask herself if she wouldn’t have to summon up even more courage to drive along deserted roads under potential threat from the camera killer. And thirdly, she mustn’t leave him and Eva all on their own. This he said with a smile. My partner sighed and rolled her eyes.

Heinrich urged us all to remain calm. The farmer and his wife should go home and endeavor to obtain more information, for instance by calling acquaintances nearby. After a while, in half an hour or so, our two groups would meet again, either here or next door, to exchange news. He didn’t care where this council of war took place, but if their neighbors came here, he could offer them a glass of the excellent apricot brandy he and Eva had recently been given. The farmer pronounced himself in full agreement and promised to return with his wife after making a few phone calls.

When the couple had left, Heinrich locked the front door and picked up the phone.

My partner was seated in her armchair, pale-faced. She said she felt terribly nervous and didn’t even dare to go over to the window, for if she suddenly caught sight of a stranger on the road, she would very probably have a heart attack. Furthermore, she thoroughly disapproved of Heinrich telephoning outside in the hall. In the event of a surprise attack by the camera killer, who might be intending to take hostages and film them or escape with their assistance, we should all stay close together for mutual support.