Merlin rose from his seat and walked back to the door. He staggered, and Hannes resigned himself to the fact that the old man would slam the door in his face again. But at the door, Merlin turned around. He motioned with his head for Hannes to come inside.
Hannes jumped to his feet and was relieved that his knee wasn’t bothered by this sudden movement. He looked forward to training again soon. Then he felt ashamed. He was standing in front of a dead woman’s confused father, thinking about sports. He followed Mr. Ternheim inside.
Just like last time, the hallway was very dark because the shutters were closed. Hannes wondered how it was possible to paint in the dim light and reluctantly followed him into the room where the demons and flames had jumped out at him. But the room had changed. White sheets hung over all the frames. Only one image was not covered. Merlin stood in front of it. Without turning around, he waved Hannes over. Hannes looked over his shoulder and caught his breath. It was a black-and-white drawing unlike any of the old man’s paintings. A strikingly beautiful woman stared back at Hannes. Despite the lack of color, she almost seemed alive. Her face was drawn with soft, almost loving strokes, and even though she appeared younger in the painting, he immediately realized it was a portrait of Helene Ternheim.
Merlin stepped aside so Hannes could see the whole painting. Hannes gasped. The scene continued below, turning more and more nightmarish the lower he looked. Helene’s body was likewise drawn in a realistic fashion, and at her feet blazed images of immense horror that were reminiscent of the ones depicted in Merlin’s other paintings. Several hands clutched at her ankles, attempting to drag her into the depths. Farther down were scenes of people being slaughtered and houses burning while figures standing at attention, their right arms outstretched, watched from the sidelines.
Hannes looked over at Merlin. From an artistic point of view, the painting was certainly a masterpiece—even Hannes recognized that. At the same time, it was incredibly disturbing. What did Merlin want to say with the painting? Hannes forced himself to take a closer look and saw women being raped, the faces of children crushed by heavy boots, and kneeling men resigned to their fates, guns pointed at the backs of their heads by Nazis.
“Are . . . are you saying that your daughter was being harassed by Nazis? Has . . . was she threatened?”
Merlin watched him intently.
“You know, this is . . . well, hard to understand. You have to tell me. I know nothing about art and don’t know how to interpret this. Who threatened or harassed your daughter?”
Merlin waved him off. Then he walked over to a table and picked up a sketchbook, like the one Hannes had had in school. He drew a face in pencil and held the pad up for Hannes to see. Again Hannes was overwhelmed by the man’s skill. In just a minute, he had created an instantly recognizable portrait.
“That’s your son! What about him? Talk to me! What are you trying to tell me?”
Merlin shrugged and started drawing again. When he was done, he laid the pad and pencil down on the table and turned to face Hannes. He stood so close that Hannes detected a sour smell in addition to a whiff of vodka. Merlin looked him straight in the eye and nodded without breaking eye contact. Then he turned and left the room. Hannes heard his footsteps in the hall, then the sound of a door, and finally the turning of a key. Apparently, the visit was over.
Hannes looked at the sketchbook and recoiled. Christian Ternheim had been transformed into an angel of death swinging his scythe at him with a diabolical grin.
He was surprised that he had not thought of it sooner. He had already encountered pictures of forearms tattooed with numbers in his history classes. But it was Merlin’s portrait of Helene Ternheim surrounded by Nazis that awoke this memory in him.
He was so lost in thought that he nearly collided with an oncoming vehicle just as he was about to turn back onto the main road. After some frantic braking and turning, the car came to a stop only inches from the lighthouse.
After two deep breaths, Hannes glanced at the frightened driver, then got out of his car and walked over to the metallic-green vehicle. He signaled the driver to roll down the window.
“We were lucky,” the man said and looked over at the police car.
“May I ask where you’re headed?” Hannes said as he leaned on the door frame.
“Certainly,” the man said in a falsetto voice. “I’m on my way to my best horse in the stable, so to speak. My cash cow.” He chuckled, opened the door, and got out. He was short and only came up to Hannes’s chest. He had thinning black hair and a scraggly ponytail. “Louis Laval,” he said in a pompous French accent. “I’m an art agent and represent that veritable genius who’s retreated into this desert.”
“If by ‘genius,’ you mean the old man who manages to make hell look like paradise compared to his paintings, then you’re right,” said Hannes.
Laval laughed. “Yes, his pictures are certainly one of a kind, no? But I’ll tell you what: Merlin’s hugely sought after by collectors. He has a real fan base that eagerly awaits his new work. I just came back from the US and the Americans are crazy about him. Unfortunately, he’s so shy I can’t take him to exhibitions. That’s too bad! It would double the price of admission.”
“So there are actually people who hang his pictures in their homes?” Hannes asked.
“You better believe it! Let me tell you, there’s never been anything like his style of painting. Try to describe it. Expressionist? Maybe in part! But you can also find features of naturalism and realism—that is to say, the total opposite of expressionism. You will also find sporadic elements of impressionism and other styles. He cannot be lumped into any one category and has his own inimitable style.”
“I see. Do you have a few of his masterpieces?”
“That would be a tremendous waste. All of his paintings have gone for tons of money!”
“You wouldn’t know it by the way he lives,” Hannes said.
“Don’t be fooled. His eremitic lifestyle is self-imposed. Money’s not important to him, especially since he was financially secure before his time as an artist. He used to lead a pharmaceutical company and—”
“So a little money comes your way since it isn’t important to him?”
“I’m not driven by the money! I discovered Merlin years ago by accident. And it wasn’t easy to get him to share his paintings with the world. It would have been a crime against art to keep these masterpieces hidden. I saw his first paintings in a newspaper column entitled ‘What’s So-and-So Up to These Days.’ There were only two fuzzy black-and-white images, but I knew right away I had a mission to fulfill. And it was not easy. Since he doesn’t talk, I had to negotiate with his two children. They wanted to keep his paintings from going public. But I prevailed! His son was furious. Since then, Merlin has been a fixture in the art world.”
“Why does he call himself Merlin?”
“That was my idea!” said the little man, who was becoming more and more unlikable. “Great, no? I thought the artist who painted these extraordinary pictures needed a mystical name. His son didn’t like that, but our contract expressly acknowledged my right to choose an artist’s name for his father. Ultimately, his son was probably glad the images were not sold under his real name.”
“So what do you want from your cash cow today?” Hannes asked. He could not share the man’s enthusiasm; Merlin was hardly a fitting name for the old artist. Sure, his paintings were special and mysterious, but Hannes had always associated the legendary Merlin with a bright, cheerful figure and not a creator of hellish agony. Whatever the outcome of the investigation, one thing was already clear: the positive image of the magician Merlin had lost its innocence for him, and this strange excuse for an agent was the one to blame.
“What do I want with him? Well, to pick up the goods! I’ve already sold six paintings, and the buyer hasn’t even seen them.”
Hannes shook his head in disbelief. The world was certainly a colorful place. “You should be careful. He’s a littl
e upset.”
Laval chuckled. “Don’t worry, I can handle him. I’ve been dealing with him for years.”
“Well, that may be so. But now the circumstances are a little different.”
“How so? Did something happen to him? Tell me!”
“Haven’t you checked the paper today or listened to the radio?”
“No! I came straight from the airport. What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Ternheim, or Merlin, found his daughter dead on the beach last Sunday.”
Laval froze. He stared at Hannes, his mouth open. “That . . . that can’t be!” He shook his head.
“When did you last see his daughter?”
“Nine years ago on the day the contract was signed. That was also the last time I met her brother. I have regularly heard from him in the meantime, only because he has done everything possible to void the contract. But our exclusive deal is valid for another six months. After that I’ll probably have to deal with his son somehow. My God, his daughter, how awful! I hope it has not upset Merlin so much that he can no longer paint?”
“Don’t worry, I have a feeling his talent hasn’t suffered. I’ve got to go now. Do you have a business card in the event that I need to contact you?”
Laval took a gold-colored card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Hannes. It had an ornate “L” to the left of his first name that extended downward to incorporate his last name. His address and phone number were diagonally opposite his name.
“Tell me something, is that your real name or have you also adopted an artist’s name?”
“In the art world, you need a name that has a ring to it, even better if it has a French touch. My actual name is Ludwig Lachmann. I kept my initials.”
Hannes smiled. “Do you know why Mr. Ternheim doesn’t speak?”
Laval shrugged. “No idea. Ever since I’ve known him, he hasn’t said a word. But every artist has some kind of quirk. Whenever I come here, he leaves me the finished paintings and disappears into the forest. I once asked his children about his silence, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“How long were you in the US?”
“Two weeks. I organized an exhibition tour in ten cities. It was hard work!”
Hannes quickly said good-bye and waited until Laval had turned off the main road. He glanced at his cell phone and discovered that he’d missed five calls from Fritz in the past few minutes.
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Fritz was back on the case. He limped to his car after leaving the doctor’s office with painkillers. He took a water bottle from his glove compartment and washed down two small pills. While waiting for the pain in his back to die down, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to a melody from the radio, lost in thought.
So there actually was a connection between Schneider and Ms. Ternheim. It was his only viable lead, but how was he supposed to track Schneider down in this sprawling city if he hadn’t already taken off? When Fritz’s back pain had finally grown tolerable, he decided to head to the outskirts of town. He had to pick up Schneider’s trail somewhere, maybe starting with his home.
Just as he was about to squeeze his Jeep into a parking space along the wall surrounding the mansion, the driveway gate slid open. A red Mini waited to pull out. Fritz shifted forward. The driver waved for him to move over as he stationed his Jeep in front of the driveway. Fritz shut off the engine and awkwardly got out of the car. As he approached the Mini, a window came down and a perfumed cloud of smoke blew in his direction.
“Can’t you see that I’m trying to leave?” an outraged Mrs. Schneider screamed. “Who do you think you . . . Oh.”
“Hello, Mrs. Schneider. Sorry to keep you. May I have a word with you?”
Mrs. Schneider glanced at her gold watch. “Is this going to take long? I have a tennis lesson in twenty minutes.”
“We’re still looking for your husband. Has he been home since we last met? Why hasn’t he contacted us?”
“No, he hasn’t been home,” she said and took a nervous puff of her cigarette.
“Oh? He was away last night? Where is he now?”
“I have no idea.”
“So he wasn’t at your party last night?”
“No, and I haven’t heard from him either. Why don’t you call him if you want to speak to him so badly?”
“I’d love to, but unfortunately his office is still closed, and I forgot to ask you for his cell phone number yesterday.”
“Let me give it to you. Hold on.”
She wrote the number down, and Fritz cleared his throat. “You know, I’m a little surprised. Your husband hasn’t been home for more than a day, his business is closed, and you haven’t heard from him, yet you’re headed to your tennis lesson rather than reporting him missing?”
Mrs. Schneider held out the piece of paper; her hand trembled a little. “My husband and I have a modern relationship. It’s not unusual for him to have some important business matter he has to attend to and be unreachable for a while. The police would have their work cut out for them if I got worried every time this happened.”
Fritz recognized the nervousness in her eyes, a look that did not match the sharp tone of her voice. A clear sign of a lie. He had seen this look hundreds of times.
“Well, that’s the downside to modern relationships,” he said, pretending to be sympathetic. He stuffed the paper with the phone number in his pocket. “Should you see your husband again soon, please remember to tell him he should contact us. But I don’t want to keep you any longer from your tennis lesson. Have fun and enjoy the rest of your day!”
With that, he went back to his car and reversed a few feet into a parking spot. The red Mini turned onto the empty street and disappeared behind a curve. Fritz pulled out the piece of paper with Schneider’s number and typed it into his phone. Moments later, Schneider answered.
“Thanks for calling Schneider Real Estate. Unfortunately I can’t take your call at the moment, but please leave me a message after the tone . . .”
Fritz considered leaving a message but hung up and called an old colleague at the station instead.
“Marko, it’s Fritz. I just got the cell phone number for the only suspect we have in the Helene Ternheim case. Could you get a court order to tap his line? It’s very urgent.”
After providing the details, Fritz pushed his seat back as far as it would go. With a sigh of relief, he reclined and waited for his colleague to get back to him. He couldn’t do much more at the moment. He tried to reach Mr. Schneider every few minutes, but all he got was his voice mail.
Fritz was startled by the sound of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. His phone was ringing. He slapped his cheek and looked at the dashboard clock. Almost an hour had passed! Although he had not seen his colleagues responsible for monitoring the house, he doubted they had missed his nap. There was a good chance there would be a new story about Old Fritz making the rounds at the station.
“Fritz Janssen,” he said into the phone.
“It’s Marko. We got the judge’s permission. But between you and me, since we knew the judge would grant us permission anyway, we got started a little early.”
Fritz hummed in satisfaction. He could always rely on Marko.
“Unfortunately, the phone’s turned off, so we couldn’t listen in or locate its position.”
“Okay. Just keep at it and let me know as soon as you have something.”
Fritz sank back into the seat and wondered if there was anything useful he could be doing. But his doctor had failed to inform him of the painkiller’s drowsy effect. Half an hour later, another phone call woke him.
“Marko again. Mr. Schneider’s phone has just been switched on. He called a landline belonging to a Leonie Kustermann.”
“That’s his assistant! What did he say?”
“That he’s leaving in twenty minutes and they’ll meet at three o’clock as they’d agreed. He reminded her to bring the documents and to be sure no one followed her. She answered ‘Got it’ a
nd then the call ended. After that, he immediately turned off the phone again.”
“Did he indicate where he was or where they were supposed to meet?”
“No. They probably discussed that before. But I can tell you his approximate location. Each cell phone tower represents a defined cell or area of coverage, and we determined the position of the tower he used to connect to the network. Using the signal’s strength and reception angle, we were able to limit the area even further. He’s currently in the southern outskirts of town, somewhere near the former container terminal where the new residential development is being built. Unfortunately, only a few towers have been installed there, so we’re unable to isolate his whereabouts any further.”
Fritz started the engine. “I’m headed there now. He’s leaving in twenty minutes, you said?”
“Exactly, only now he’s leaving in fifteen minutes. Should we send backup? There may be some officers already in the area who can get there quicker.”
Fritz bolted from the parking spot. “Just let me know if Schneider switches his phone back on!”
He placed his flashing police light on the roof and raced along the quiet residential street. He called Hannes and cursed when he only got his voice mail. He drove through the city at breakneck speed, trying every minute to get ahold of Hannes until he finally reached him.
“Man, Hannes!” Fritz yelled. “What are you doing?”
“I was just—”
“You can tell me later! Where are you right now?”
“At the old lighthouse near old Ternh—”
“Get back to the city as soon as possible! Drive to the home of Schneider’s assistant, Leonie Kustermann! Twenty Post Street! Understand?”
“Yes, but what—”
“Don’t ask, just drive! And hurry, damn it! She’s supposed to meet Mr. Schneider at three o’clock.”
“How do you know?”
“Quit asking questions and get moving! I’ll explain later. I have an idea where he’s been hiding, but he’s leaving in a few minutes to meet his assistant, and I have no idea if I’ll be able to catch him in time. So follow his assistant, but be careful she doesn’t notice you! Schneider warned her she might be followed. Got that?”
Time Heals No Wounds (A Baltic Sea Crime Novel) Page 14
