The Murder Farm (4 page)

T
he knife. Where’s the knife, his pocketknife? He always has it on him, in his back trouser pocket. It’s been a fixed habit since the day he was first given that knife.

He can still remember every detail; he got it the day he was confirmed. A present from his sponsor at his confirmation. A clasp knife, a beautiful, useful knife with a brown handle. It was in a box. He remembers every detail.

He remembers the gift wrapping of the box. Thin tissue paper printed with flowers, garden flowers in bright colors. And the package was done up with a red bow. He was so eager to undo it, he tore the paper. A brown cardboard box came into sight. His hands trembled with excitement and delight as he opened that box. And there it lay, a pocketknife. His pocketknife. From that day on, he proudly took the knife around with him everywhere he went. It was his most precious possession.

None of the other village boys had a knife like that. He still sensed the good feeling he had when he took the knife in his hand or just had it somewhere on him. He often liked to hold
it, passing it from one hand to the other. It gave him a sense of security. Yes, security.

Over the years, the knife became worn with much use. But the feeling stayed with him.

And now he’s been looking for the knife all day. When did he last use it? Where had he left it?

He goes through this last day again in his mind. Slowly, as if emerging from the mist, a picture comes before his eyes. He sees himself, knife in hand, cutting off a piece of smoked meat. Sees himself putting the pocketknife down beside the plate with the meat on it.

He feels uneasiness rise slowly inside him. His heart is racing; his heart’s in his mouth. He didn’t put the knife back in his pocket. He was sure of that. He left the knife there. His knife. His knife is in the larder next to the smoked meat. He sees it there in his mind’s eye quite clearly. He feels he only has to reach for it.

Panic seizes him. He must go back to the house. He must retrieve the knife, his knife. He can’t wait until evening, can’t wait for nightfall. That will be hours, it will be too long. So much can happen before evening.

Why didn’t he think of that this morning? He was feeding the animals, he was in a hurry. He left without checking that everything was back in its proper place. That was his mistake. Why didn’t he think of it until now? Never mind that, there’s nothing for it, he must go to the house. He must run the risk of entering the place in broad daylight.

He sees the bicycle leaning against a fruit tree. Sees the open door of the shack where they keep the root-slicing machine. He hears someone humming, whistling. Cautiously, he comes closer to the shack. He peers in. The man is so busy repairing the machine that he doesn’t notice him. From where he lurks by the door, he watches the unknown man.

Something drops from the man’s hand, falls on the floor, rolls over the ground and into the cistern. The stranger curses, looks searchingly around. Finally he climbs into the cistern.

This is the moment he’s been waiting for. He hurries past the open door. He’s already around the corner of the house before the other man can climb out of the cistern. Takes the key out of his jacket pocket and disappears through the door. The pocketknife is right where he left it. He waits a few more minutes. They seem to him like an eternity. He wants to wait for a good moment to leave the house again. The engine of the root-slicing machine begins turning over. He hears the noise. Quickly, he leaves the house without being seen.

M
ichael Baumgartner trudges toward the Tannöd farm through the sleet. The wind is blowing into his face. He knows the way, he knows the property. Otherwise it would have been tricky, finding the farm in the middle of the night, in this weather. He’s worked there quite often over the years. In the woods in spring, in the fields in summer. Always plenty of work going on the Danner farm.

Mick, as he’s generally known, doesn’t like working too long on any one farm. He moves from place to place, “always on the road,” as he says. Sometimes he sleeps in a barn, sometimes in a loft.

He makes his living, or so everyone thinks, from casual labor. Now and then he’s been on the roads as a peddler, too.

In fact, however, he lives mainly by theft, breaking and entering, taking his chance to commit minor criminal offenses.

He takes a good look around the farms where he works. By the time he moves on again, he usually knows plenty about them. What’s to be had where and who from. Mick can use this trick to manipulate people. He has a natural talent, “a bent for it” is the way he puts it.

He’ll work at a farm for a time. He works hard, too, that’s how to win the trust of the farming folk. Flatters them, says how well a man “keeps his place going,” tells him “what a fine farm this is,” cracks a joke or two with a twinkle in his eye, and the proud owner of the farm will start bragging. Even if he’s usually buttoned up, perhaps most of all if he’s usually buttoned up. Mick keeps his ears and eyes open, and after a while he goes on his way. He passes on what he knows about the farms and their owners, or if a good opportunity arises, he may seize it himself. Whatever suits him best.

If you go about it cleverly, if you’re not too greedy and you can bide your time, you can usually get by pretty well. You don’t want to let yourself get caught, but only the greedy, the careless, and those who go too far are caught.

Mick’s not greedy, it’s not in his nature, and he has all the time in the world.

And his brother-in-law disposes of the stolen goods. His sister and her husband have a little farm in Unterwald, ideally situated. Out of the way, difficult to spot.

His brother-in-law did very well out of the black market just after the war. With the currency reform on June 20, 1948, that kind of trade died a natural death.

But during his time as a black marketeer, the brother-in-law managed to build up good contacts. A little ring of receivers, traders, and petty criminals got together.

Now their functions are distinct. Mick goes from farm to farm, picking up information. When the right time comes, he, his brother-in-law, or one of his brother-in-law’s old friends will break into the place. Steal money, clothes, jewelry, food, anything that can be turned into cash. No one ever thinks of
connecting him, Mick, with the burglary. It’s too long since he let whatever farmer is the victim set eyes on him.

If it gets too hot for him in one place, he moves on to another. Or he takes a break. Shifts his business interests into other areas.

Working as a peddler was a good one.

His brother-in-law was on the road as a peddler before and even during the war years. Used to sell the country people all kinds of stuff: shoelaces, hair lotion, real coffee before the war, ersatz coffee in wartime. All manner of other bits and pieces. A leg injury kept him out of the forces. “Old Adolf needed men, not cripples. He could make cripples of them himself,” he always used to say, laughing and clapping his thigh.

Even now, with the end of the black market trade, he, the brother-in-law, goes around on the road with his wares every so often.

At first Mick went with him. Now he sometimes goes on the road selling stuff himself. But only occasionally.

He much prefers working on the land as a casual laborer, finding out about the farmers and their properties.

Late last summer he worked as a picker during the hop harvest for a while. The pay wasn’t bad and neither was the food. Even the pickers’ sleeping quarters in a barn had been to his liking.

In autumn he went from house to house as a peddler for a short time. He even passed Tannöd, but he didn’t let them see him at Danner’s farm. He didn’t want to be spotted, because the Tannöd folk were still on his list. For a rainy day. Something in reserve, you might say.

There are no flies on Mick. You want to save up some of your best opportunities for times of need, like keeping your savings in a sock. And Danner is a nice fat sock full of savings, Mick knows that for certain.

November didn’t go so well for him. He and his brother-in-law were planning to sell some copper wire.

Copper was still in great demand, always had been; fetched a good price if you knew the right dealers. His brother-in-law knew a couple of guys who cut the overhead wires of telephone lines. Then the wires could be sold. The two guys weren’t all that bright, the whole plan flopped, and for the first time ever Mick found himself spending a few weeks in jail for receiving and a few other minor offenses.

Not a lengthy sentence, but it was three months all the same. He hasn’t been free all that long yet. He can’t go to his sister’s. His brother-in-law is still in jail, and his sister can’t handle another mouth to feed. So this is the right time to go to his sock full of savings. The Tannöd farmer is ripe for the plucking.

He knows the farm well from his previous visits. Old Danner once took him around the whole house and farm. It was pure joy to hear him showing off about “his place.”

The old fool had even told him about his money, adding that he “didn’t put it all in the bank,” not he. He always had something in the house, he said, plenty to be going on with. They’d been great cronies back then. He knew just how to cozy up to Danner.

The old man was crafty, but Mick could handle him. Danner boasted of how he’d outwitted his neighbors, of the times he’d taken them for a ride.

He talked and talked, and soon Mick had the farmer where he wanted him. That’s why he’s on his way to the farm now, in the middle of the night. He wasn’t reckoning on such lousy weather, though. He’s already drenched to the skin when he finally reaches the farm. He knows his way around the property. Even the dog is no problem. When he was on the road he once
lodged with a shepherd who taught him how to handle dogs. And the animal still knows him from his time at the farm.

He gets into the barn from the old machinery shed and then up into the loft. Dead easy. Everything went without a hitch. No one saw him in the darkness. The dog knew him and didn’t start barking. He fastens a rope to a beam in the suspended ceiling of the barn as an emergency exit. Better safe than sorry. After that he puts straw on the floorboards above the suspended ceiling to muffle his footsteps. He doesn’t want to wake the sleeping family in the house below. He doesn’t want anyone to notice his presence. This is Friday. The sun will rise in a few hours’ time. From up here he can watch the farmyard, seize his moment to get into the house, and plunder the piggybank. He’s satisfied. Moving fast is always a bad idea in his line of work. Haste makes waste, as they say. No one will find him up here. From inside the loft he can push the roof tiles a little bit apart to get a view of the whole farmyard. He can wait. He has plenty of time.