Desolation Flats

by Andrew Hunt

  “Art, this is my bodyguard, Karl von Rimmelkopf.”

  He showed no interest in meeting me halfway for a handshake, so I quietly said, “Nice knowing you, Karl.”

  Two others, Ernst Voss, the petite man with the deathly pallor that I met out at the Salt Flats earlier today, and that intimidating bald mammoth that saw Insley off a short time ago, both stood and made their way over to me. Heinrich closed the door and joined us. Through a giant picture window, a distant strip of greenish-blue that was the Great Salt Lake shimmered on the western horizon. Cigarette smoke filled the room, and I spotted a big ashtray full of cigarette butts on the center of the table. The bald man puffed away on some sort of intricately carved German Black Forest pipe, and his head was as shiny as the floor of the Ben Lomond’s lobby.

  “Art, you remember Herr Voss,” Heinrich said.

  Perfunctory handshake—loose and clammy.

  “And this is Hans, err, I mean, Herr Doctor Hans Meinshausen.”

  “This is the polizist I’ve been hearing all about,” Meinshausen said, his teeth clenching the pipe. He gripped my hand tightly and shook it with an intensity that took me aback. “What a pleasure to meet you at last, Oveson. I was in the stands on Saturday when you pulled Clive Underhill out of his burning car. What a most impressive act of selfless heroism.”

  “Thank you,” I said, subtly shaking the pain out of my hand after he let go. “That’s very kind, Dr. Meinshausen.”

  “Let’s sit down,” said Heinrich. “Art, may I get you something to drink? Beer? Cocktail? A bottle of soda?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m wondering if I might have a word with you in private?”

  I felt the weight of von Rimmelkopf’s stare. Meantime, Voss approached with a frown. “As I said before, I am Herr Heinrich’s manager on this trip,” he told me, almost whispering. “I must be present at your interrogation, in the event counsel is needed.”

  “I’m not planning to interrogate him,” I said. “I’d prefer talk to him alone.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow…”

  “Nonsense,” interrupted Meinshausen, pulling that smoky pipe out of his mouth. He patted Voss on the shoulder as he sized me up through bifocals. “Oveson strikes me as an honest fellow. There’s no need for such stringent security measures in this case. Come, Ernst, Karl. I’ll buy you men a drink in the bar on the main floor.”

  One could plainly see that Voss was unhappy, but the jovial Meinshausen hooked his elbow and tugged him out of the room. Following them was von Rimmelkopf, who glared at us as he pulled the door closed.

  I gestured to the sitting area. “Shall we?”

  “Lead the way.”

  I ambled over and plunged into an armchair where Voss had been sitting when I first entered. Still warm. I placed my elbows on the armrests. Heinrich took a seat on the couch, kicked his right leg over his left knee, and leaned back. I noticed some minor fidgeting. He felt uneasy facing me alone in that hotel suite.

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  He laughed. “No. My mindreading skills are not what they used to be.”

  “Maybe Peter Insley filled you in on the details.”

  He gave me his best confused look. “What does he have to do with this?”

  “You tell me,” I said. “I’m no better at mindreading than you are.”

  “What would you like to ask me, Detective?”

  “It has to do with the Underhill brothers.”

  “Is something the matter with them?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Clive’s missing. Nigel is dead.”

  “Oh my God. When…” He swallowed hard and drew a breath. “When…”

  His response struck me as heartfelt. If he was faking it, he was a skilled actor.

  “Early Sunday morning. Nigel was found dead in his hotel room. Clive has vanished and nobody seems to know where he is.”

  “Oh dear God. That’s terrible. What do you want to know? I mean, how can I help you?”

  “Was Clive ever in touch with you at all after we saw you Saturday night at the Coconut Grove?”

  “No.”

  I decided to change my tack: “He writes fondly of you in his memoirs.”

  “Oh? Has it been published?”

  “Not yet. I read about you in a draft manuscript. He says flattering things about you. He clearly admires you as a racer and a man.”

  “Does he?”

  “Yes. To hear him tell it, it sounds like the two of you are good friends.”

  “We were good friends.”

  “Did you have a falling-out?”

  “We drifted apart. I met him at Oxford years ago, in the twenties. We got to be close when I was there. After that, he attended Heidelberg for a term, at my urging. Those were simpler days.”

  “Your English is marvelous,” I said.

  That compliment brought back his smile. “Thank you.”

  “Did they teach it to you at Oxford?” I asked.

  “I took language courses in school in Germany so I could read the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe in the original English. I had an adolescent obsession with him.”

  “Heck of a writer,” I said. “So is this your first trip to the United States?”

  “Yes. It’s everything I hoped it would be. I toured New York City for a couple of days. The press followed me around wherever I went.”

  “I understand you’re going to set a new speed record on Saturday,” I said.

  “If all goes well.” He held up crossed fingers.

  “You must be feeling the pressure,” I said.

  “Yes, well, I will be glad when it’s over,” he said with a tentative nod. “I can finally relax. Take that ocean cruise I’ve been promising my wife.”

  “Gerda Strauss?” I asked.

  He reared his head in surprise. “You know of her?”

  “I read about her in Underhill’s memoir,” I said. “She and Clive were friends before she met you. Where are you going on your cruise?”

  “We were thinking of Havana. I hear it’s charming. But I have to get past Saturday first.”

  “It’ll be easier for you now that Clive is out of the running,” I said. “He’s your only real rival for the world land speed record. Now that he’s out of the picture, you have a clear shot at—”

  “What are you getting at?” he interrupted.

  “Well, here we’ve got the two fastest drivers in the world going up against each other at the Salt Flats, only one of them goes missing. I’d say that’s pretty convenient. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I had nothing to do with his disappearance, and I do not know where he is,” said Heinrich. “I believe our business here is concluded. I’m a busy man. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  He abruptly stood and headed over to sliding twin doors, opening them to reveal a bedroom big enough to be an independent republic. He slipped in, and a minute later, came out carrying a pad of hotel stationery, a pencil, and a book. He set the stationery and the pencil on the table and he handed me the heavy hardback volume.

  Mein Kampf, by Adolf Hitler.

  I opened it to an inscription scrawled on the opening blank page in black ink. I could barely make out the word “Heinrich.” The rest was in German of course. Even if it’d been written in English, I’m sure those scribbles would still be illegible. I assumed it was Hitler who had autographed it.

  “What’s this?”

  Heinrich leaned in close and said softly, in almost a whisper, “Der Führer is the only leader in the history of the world who has stated precisely what he is going to do before actually carrying it out. It’s all spelled out here, in print, for men of all nations to read. He’s not always as specific as one might hope. Yet when the day of reckoning finally arrives, as I’m sure it will, nobody can possibly say, ‘I didn’t know.’”

  I set the book on the table.

  “What does this have to do with Underhill’s disappearance?”

  He sh
ook his head. “You’d never make it as a polizist in Germany, Art.”

  “Oh no? Why?”

  “You fail to understand subtleties,” he said, still talking quietly. “Germany is not a democracy, like America. My homeland is a different animal entirely. Der Führer warned us that the brain grows lazy in a democracy, because of too much decadence and too many low expectations. We Germans do not have the luxury of freely stating our opinions. Everything is a puzzle one must solve. We select our words carefully. They come with hidden meanings. A sharp mind is needed in order to read between the lines, the same way a big antenna is required to pick up shortwave radio signals. If you lack such an antenna, you won’t last a week in the Third Reich.”

  I reached for the stationery and pencil, ripped a sheet off the pad and placed it flat on the table so what I wrote would not press into the next blank sheet.

  I jotted down the following:

  DO THE WALLS HAVE EARS?

  I handed it to him. He read it, looked at me, and nodded.

  I took the paper from him, placed it on the table, and scratched out:

  CAN WE FIND A MORE PRIVATE PLACE TO TALK?

  I gave it to him, with the pencil. He jotted something and handed it to me.

  NO PROMISES. WILL CONSIDER IT.

  I folded the paper and stuffed it in my pocket.

  He whispered, “Have you a business card?”

  I took out my cardholder, opened it, and pulled one out.

  “Please write your home telephone number on back.”

  I did as he asked and slid it to him. He tucked it in his billfold. He leaned in close, so his mouth was an inch from my ear. I caught a whiff of his cologne through the lingering veil of smoke. His words came out as softly as the flitting of a butterfly’s wings.

  “If I can, I’ll be in touch.”

  He moved away, and his voice returned to its normal volume.

  “Sorry I must cut this short, Herr Oveson,” he said, at full volume. “Perhaps I will see you on Saturday.”

  Heinrich was spooked and wished to end our conversation. Perhaps the suite contained listening devices planted in key spots. For all I knew, someone might’ve been in the next room, monitoring our every word. I made a few minutes of small talk with him about Utah and neat places to see, so if someone were listening in, my visit would seem routine and ultimately unproductive. The last thing I wanted was to land Heinrich in trouble. But I also sensed he knew more than he was telling me, and that I’d get a more detailed explanation when—or if—he could pry himself loose from the Nazis circling him.

  I caught the elevator to the lobby. On my way out, I poked my head into the smoky bar to bid farewell to the Germans I met in Heinrich’s room. They weren’t anywhere to be found. Outside, with the piping hot sun drilling down on me, I glimpsed Ernst Voss getting into a black Packard sedan. I got in my car and followed him out of the parking lot, in the direction of the highway.

  Seventeen

  I stayed four car lengths behind Voss down U.S. 91, which connected Ogden to Salt Lake City. The drive took us past roadside diners, farms, and grassy wetlands adjacent to the Great Salt Lake. The sun beat down on me through my windshield, so I kept the windows rolled down. Even though hot air blew in, it felt cool against my soaking brow. Voss exited 91 at 8th South and headed east. I did likewise. We sped through a warehouse and business district, then past blue-collar bungalows, and finally to the edge of the city, where the houses thinned out into open fields and clusters of trees. The Wasatch Mountains, in their sheer, jagged splendor, drew closer, and it soon became evident Voss was heading up Emigration Canyon.

  The road grew steep. At the mouth of the canyon, we drove past the This is the Place Monument, a serene park overlooking the valley and home to a stone obelisk commemorating the spot where Brigham Young first looked out at what would become the Mormons’ new home. Across the road from the monument was the seven-year-old Hogle Gardens Zoo, where vast enclosures and plentiful trees provided idyllic homes for animals to move about freely. I took one last glance in my rearview mirror at the city dropping behind me. The entire way, I puzzled over where the enigmatic Voss might be going.

  Emigration Canyon Road wound its way between steep slopes, around pines and vertical rock walls, running parallel to a creek. I imagine the canyon probably looked much the same as it did when the Mormon pioneers passed through it in the summer of 1847, or when the ill-fated Donner Party steered their ox-drawn wagons through the passage the year previous.

  Up my car climbed, past cabins and houses spaced far apart, and narrow turnoffs that led to isolated dwellings hidden back among the trees. Because this area was so susceptible to wildfires, locals generally avoided moving here. Despite that, you could still find intrepid souls prepared to give it a try, especially those drawn to the splendid natural scenery and cheap price of land.

  When the black sedan ahead of me reached a sign that said PINE HILL FORK RD, it veered off the main road and accelerated up a poorly graded dirt lane. I followed, shaking violently as my car rolled over and slammed down into ruts and potholes. I’m sure my car’s poor suspension took a beating as I thudded past ramshackle cottages nestled among towering Douglas firs. At the top of the hill, Voss slowed. So I slowed. He parked in the driveway of a narrow shotgun house above me. I swerved into a gravel bed surrounded by bushes and trees that would provide camouflage and much-needed shade. I killed the engine. I reached under my seat and scooped up a leather case holding a pair of binoculars. I got them out for a better look. Blurry at first, I adjusted the focus knob. Between needle-spiked branches, the green shack came into view, standing in a little coniferous nook of its own, boasting a paved driveway leading to a detached garage.

  Voss got out of his car. He walked to the road and peered down the hill, toward where I was parked. I don’t think he saw me, but I instinctively crouched low on the front seat, dipping my head below the dashboard. When I came back up a moment later, he was gone, but his car was still in the driveway. Presumably he went in the house. I got comfortable. I wondered how long I’d be there, squirming inside of this oven. At least I was parked in the shade, where it was a cool 87.

  To kill time, I thumbed through an issue of Street & Smith’s Wild West Weekly that I’d happened to snatch out of my mailbox on my way to work. I settled on a rip-roarin’ serialized tale called “The Branded Skull,” packed full of nocturnal shootouts, cowardly murderers, and miscellaneous derring-do. Every couple of paragraphs, I’d look up at the house and the sedan still parked in the driveway. Voss was taking his own sweet time. My watch told me it was coming up on three o’clock.

  Just then, Voss rushed out of the hilltop house. I exchanged my magazine for binoculars. Twin scopes gave me a prime view of Voss climbing into the black car, backing out of the driveway, and racing downhill, past me, whipping up clouds of dust. Thick foliage blocked his view of me.

  I got out of the car, closed the door, inhaled pine air, and crossed the dirt road. I spooked a nibbling chipmunk, sending him running for the nearest bush. I came to the green shotgun house and walked up wooden steps. A professional-looking metal sign, screwed into the door, said TRU-WEST SCENIC TOURS. Underneath that, it said in smaller print: TELEPHONE WASATCH 5292. I gave a knock on the screen door. Nothing. I trotted down the stairs and walked around the side of the house, past windows with shades drawn. I walked over to the garage and peered in a side window.

  A beam of sun partially lit what I guessed to be a ’35 Chevrolet four-door sedan, black or maybe dark blue or brown. I jiggled the doorknob. Locked. I returned to the house, heading directly below an open window with drapes waving inward like ghosts. I caught a snippet of a baritone newscaster from a radio inside: “Fighting in the Far East continued yesterday as Japanese warplanes bombed a crowded public square in Canton, China.…” I rounded the corner and could no longer hear the broadcast as I went up the porch steps.

  I knocked on the screen door. I gave it a minute. No response. Another knock, ano
ther moment, and silence.

  I opened it. A metal spring twanged. To my surprise, the door creaked open. I nudged it until the front room came into view. Couch. Armchairs. Cathedral radio. Desk along the south wall, with papers, magazines, and maps sprawled across it.

  “Women across America are finding that economical, no-rubbing Aerowax makes dingy floors shine and sparkle and look like new.…”

  “Hello!” I called out. “Anybody here?”

  “And now Aerowax proudly presents Your Organ Interlude, performed by America’s favorite virtuoso organist, Eddie Dunstedter.…”

  I switched off the radio.

  “Hello! Is anybody home?” I called out. “My name is Detective Art Oveson. I’m with the Salt Lake City Police Department.”

  I pushed my fedora back on my head and wiped sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. Floorboards whined with every footstep. I knew what I was doing—entering a house uninvited and without a warrant—was strictly off-limits. Still, I could not escape the nagging sense that something was amiss here.

  A few framed photographs of scenic rock formations in southern Utah graced the green-and-white-striped wallpapered walls. This being a shotgun house, there was no hallway, just doors linking one room to the next. I entered the kitchen, really more of a kitchenette. An icebox stood against one wall, a stove against the other, and a pair of chairs were parked at a little round table covered with newspapers, boxes of cereal, and a porcelain sugar bowl. The sink was full of dishes, and a carton of Rinso dish soap sat near the faucet.

  “Hello! I’m with the Salt Lake City Police Department! Is anybody here?”

  I stepped inside of a windowless bathroom and switched on the electric globe. Tiny space, barely big enough to house a toilet, sink, medicine cabinet, and shower stall. I peeled back the shower curtain. Nothing but blue tiles, a bar of soap, and a bottle of Fitch’s Dandruff Remover Shampoo.

  A faint scratching noise came from the next room. I went for a look. Closed venetian blinds dimmed the room considerably. I switched on a light.