by John Brooke
Aliette wondered if better communication might have helped Hans Grinnell avoid today.
Or was that useless wishful thinking? Riding back into France with French shoppers and workers, Aliette said a silent prayer for Hans. And his typical wife. His soccer-crazy boys.
32
Managing It
Monique buzzed. ‘Max. From Basel?’ The inspector shook away her guilty torpor.
Adelhard was on another phone. They were scared. No, the police had not been in. They knew they ought to step forward with the information. If they didn’t, one of their regulars would, which could be worse for them. Either way pointed to disaster. Please help!
No police knocking at the door to Zup most likely meant Frederik Rooten’s wife had not told Basel City Inspector Morenz of her husband’s extra-curricular activities, and it had not occurred to Morenz to infer a link from the society lawyer to the seedy club in Klein Basel. Either Frau Rooten couldn’t tell what she didn’t know, or wouldn’t tell what would surely heap shame and endless media attention on top of her pain. That was good. Max and Addie did not deserve the likes of Morenz bashing through their special world. Aliette could sense a bully.
She didn’t tell them that. She told them, ‘Don’t say a word beyond your door. Just sit tight.’
They protested. They pleaded.
She commanded, ‘You have to manage it, mes amis. Tell your people. Ask them what they want — Zup, or twenty seconds on the news?’ Adding, ‘My gut tells me your problem has left with Fred and Greta. Why invite it back?’ She did not mention there was little she could do except hope that she was right. All in all, pretty irresponsible advice. But it made sense to them. They calmed down. They would manage it. She would be there for them.
Because it was not her case, but it was. Because Frederik Rooten was Fred and both Martin Bettelman and Justin Aebischer had been regulars at Zup. Because Beppi Crerar had died, and she had come too close herself. Would Hans Grinnell admit it now? …He would live, but barely.
Attempts to be rid of investigating police had obvious motivation. But why assassinate the fraud victim’s attorney? Probably for the same reason you’d want to silence Josephina Perella and Justin Aebischer. They were no longer assets, but had become a threat, a liability. Was jokey Fred one more piece in a suddenly vulnerable network, if not gang? A high-end attorney would be an even more perfect partner than a crooked police officer brought in to monitor things from the ‘inside,’ as it were. A high-end attorney would also be a welcome guest, a trusted advisor. He could actually touch the money, not to mention the art itself.
The Basel media did not go anywhere near there. Of course not. They were saying a tragic, heinous accident — in the sense of a cop-killer’s errant first shot. Because a maid in the place across the street was sure she’d seen the neighbour go down first, and a community wants to believe that their best and brightest are also their true and good.
From the gravity of Grinnell’s wound, Aliette was assuming a rifle had replaced Martin Bettelman’s SIG 220. As promised, Dieter Taub had sent a file. Thirty names on the current VigiTec payroll with military background. It included seven Roberts, or variations thereof, three Italian, four French. One helpful gesture, one hopeless task.
Basel City played its boring game, keeping her on hold until she was at the point of screaming; then, ‘Désolé, Inspector,’ Inspector Morenz purred in his best French. ‘I’m afraid that will be classified for the next little while.’ The twerp would not even divulge the type of bullet.
Stupid man. If he knew what she knew… But no, she’d never share with a man like that.
She tried Basel Lands Inspector Hilda Gross but Hans Grinnell’s colleagues had not been apprised either. The hospital had been warned not to speak to anyone without clearance.
Talking to Fred Rooten’s widow, and not just about murder, would likely be interesting. Greta was the other other half of Fred and the poor woman might know this. Or something. Anything might help in tracking down Greta. But Rooten’s wife was being guarded by two Basel City uniforms, posted at the baronial iron gate seen on the evening news across the region.
Was Greta next on a list of liabilities? Was Greta already dead? Who and where was Greta?
She called the boys. Max picked up. Addie opened his cell.
‘There’s one thing you can help me with.’ Yes? ‘Fred and Greta — who wore the pants?’
Adelhard immediately got bitchy, but Max stayed cool. He understood. ‘Greta. That’s what Greta is. No matter what, Greta always wears the pants.’
That sounded true. Another question: Did Greta ever show up in an ugly pink coat?
Adelhard sniffed, mocking the very notion. Such a thing was never seen in Zup.
Of course it wasn’t. ‘Merci. I mean, Danke. You have to hang tough. And silent!’
Then Aliette sat back in her chair and stared out the window, considering directions, still precariously close to the edge of torpor. And wishes…
If only Hans had shared a little more.
She had tried to share. J-P Blismes helped confirm this (in her mind).
33
Ready for the World
A week later, on the twentieth of November, she received a call. ‘Bon!’ She’d been waiting. She hobbled down to the garage. Though still using the cane, the inspector insisted she could manage, solemnly promising mechanics Joël and Paul she’d stay off the main roads. She signed for the car and headed for the village of Kembs. The chestnut trees along the river were losing their leaves at a rapid rate now. The willows and poplars might hold out against death for another few weeks. A drive by the water was good for her soul.
And the shoemaker was immaculate! Ready to meet the public.
‘Almost ready,’ Gregory Huet corrected. ‘Don’t touch, please.’
‘What is this?’
‘Vacuum table.’
‘Feels warm.’
‘That’s the idea, Inspector. The vacuum applies a gentle pressure while the heat and solvent combine to soften the paint and it gradually flattens. Gets it back to where it was.’
‘The original paint?’
‘Yes, but interspersed with mine. Touch-ups. An entire new sector through here, where it was ripped…’ His finger guiding her eye; ‘consolidates old with new, though my paint is a beautiful replica of what this man was using, if I may be permitted a bit of self-promotion.’
Aliette had no objections. She saw nothing but excellent work. ‘Is that it?’
‘I’d prefer to give him another touch of lacquer…tone him down a tad more, add the shine of age. Give him back that lost and forgotten look. You’ll see it. You’ll be glad.’
‘How long?’
‘A week to settle. If circumstances were different, I’d say give him a month. But…’ Huet shrugged. He was working for the police, not le Musée National.
She made a call, then asked Huet, ‘But he’ll manage in three weeks?’
‘So long as no one starts pawing him.’
‘Don’t worry, monsieur, he’ll have better security than Klaus Barbie.’
‘Do you still love him?’ Gregory Huet asked quietly.
‘Yes.’ This one thing still held fast and true.
Mended, clean of river mud, seductively golden in the contemplation of his tea. In every other aspect, Aliette’s love was scattered, the reserves in her heart depleting fast. But her love for this lonely old shoemaker pouring tea forever was holding steady. No trite analogies. Just the image. The meaning of it. The non-meaning of it. The meaning that would never be known.
***
But J-P Blismes asked, ‘Has anything good happened since you went down to Basel?’ J-P’s queries opened broad avenues of introspection. That was his job. Then it was up to her.
Anything good since she’d gone down to Basel? No (apart from momentary pleasures of the carnal kind — and J-P was not allowing those), nothing good had happened since she’d gone down to Basel. Au contraire. It was why she wa
s sitting here. Fine. So then, why had she gone down to Basel? She was tempted to say, ‘Claude.’ She could have cited Martin Bettelman — French citizen, profligate in love, dishonest in marriage, art thief, murder victim. But, and at this juncture honesty was crucial, it was the shoemaker. Broken, unclaimed, a beauty deserving her attention. The painting had been her reason, not the sleazy man found beside him. The shoemaker was a project worth pursuing. Finding the mysterious Robert was a job, the purpose was to know the what and why of Martin Bettelman, found murdered by a painting no one knew or cared about. Her purpose. ‘I went because I love this painting we found with our victim. Now it’s time to go again, to tell them the shoemaker’s ready; it’s time to get him home.’
J-P smiled. ‘Good. Go.’
34
Riverside Bench
Lost! Unknown Masterpiece seeks home…
Do you know this man? A beautiful shoemaker, provenance unknown.
Believed to be post-Romantic, pre-Early Modern. Likely French, maybe Flemish, also shows strong hints of Dutch roots descending straight from Rembrandt, clear signs of English influence via Turner. The painting was recovered from the Rhine canal on 25 September last and may have vital links to another outstanding matter currently under police investigation. Repaired and refurbished, this work will be presented at 10:00hrs, Friday, 10 December, in the Media Centre, Hôtel de Police, rue des Bons Enfants.
Contact Monique Sparr at 34.77.70.44.
Refreshments will be served.
Nothing good had happened since she’d gone down to Basel, but here she was again, sitting on a bench on the Rhine promenade, chewing a sandwich from a kiosk and contemplating Helvetia — who was studiously ignoring a French cop, as she ignores everyone while she sits forever on a stone piling, watching the river, wondering where to head to next.
Like the Marianne in France, or Germania, Italia, Britannia…Columbia lighting the way to American freedom, Helvetia is the feminine avatar of the Swiss state. Like her international sisters, Helvetia is usually posed heroically, symbolizing strength. But not the Helvetia set in bronze on the riverbank in Basel. Not in the least. Helvetia’s skirt is up at her knees, her tired feet are dangling, a weary traveller. Her suitcase, time-bound, ironic and mundane, is an integral part of the tableau. A shabby, well-travelled suitcase waiting with her sword and shield while Helvetia rests. Inspector Nouvelle was fascinated by Helvetia’s suitcase. It spoke to her.
The Marianne was perpetually unreal — a heroine who would never dare to be ironic.
The inspector had spent the morning making her slow way through a web of downtown streets, stopping at galleries, promoting the shoemaker. Everyone was sympathetic to a limping cop. Most seemed genuinely intrigued to receive her personal invitation to come and view an ‘unknown masterpiece.’ Those were Gérard Richand’s words. As was the suggestion of French provenance. Gregory Huet had laughed. But, from the coffee and cookies to secure transport from Kembs, Gérard was arranging the event, so he controlled the message.
Aliette had popped into Basel City police headquarters, left an invitation for Commander Heinrich Boehler and popped back out; she did not wait to exchange pleasantries. At the Kunstmuseum she gave out a dozen copies, receiving varied reactions and promises from staff. VigiTec agent Della Kypreosus, hard at work in front of her monitors, was thrilled and would love to come if she could trade shifts. Della promised to pass the page along to her boss. Merci, Della, it would save her a few steps. At the ultra-cool Mettler, a chic woman said she would pass the page along to Rutger but she could not promise he’d be there. A wide, slow circle brought Aliette to Clarastrasse and down to the Middle Bridge, heading straight for the FedPol offices on Freie. Before confronting Rudi Bucholtz, she needed to rest and regroup.
The previous day had brought light snow turning to rain. Wet leaves lay strewn along the promenade waiting for a Basel cleaning squad. The noon sky was cloudless, the wind negligible, and the city felt more open, clearly etched. The chicken salad in her sandwich was excellent, and there was a freshly baked leckerli cookie waiting in her bag.
She sipped water, watched the large man move haltingly toward her along the promenade.
‘Inspector Nouvelle?’ Dieter Taub extended a gloved hand. ‘Bonjour.’ She shook it. He held up a brown bag. ‘Mind if I join you?’ Adding, ‘Seeing you’ve stolen my spot.’
‘Your spot?’
Taub smiled at the sunshine. ‘Days like this, I come all the way from Messeplatz. One small pleasure, eh? And not easy with this gimpy leg.’
‘No. What happened?’
‘Nothing to speak of. Fell from a ladder rearranging the garage. Winter’s almost upon us, yes? Have to get our house in order.’ She commiserated with a weary smile. Of course, Dieter Taub noticed the cane resting by her briefcase. ‘And yourself?’
A polite shrug. ‘Line of duty.’ He didn’t pry. Aliette gestured: have a seat.
He opened his package and settled in with a roast pork sandwich, a dill and coffee.
She knew Dieter Taub would not talk about his work in any meaningful way. Perhaps she could talk about hers. She allowed, ‘I saw your associate this morning. Della. Nice woman.’
‘Della Kypreosus. Yes, Della is sharp. Works hard. She’ll do well with us. If she stays.’
‘I hope so.’ Laying her sandwich aside, carefully cleaning her fingers, she pulled a copy of the press notice-cum-invitation from her case and proffered it. ‘I gave one to Della for you, but seeing you’re here…We’ve decided it’s time to go public with our shoemaker.’
Taub accepted the page. ‘Ah, your shoemaker. Looking a lifetime better than the last time I saw him, I must say. Someone’s done a good job for you.’
‘Yes, very talented. We’re very pleased.’
‘Sent him up to Paris, I suppose.’
‘No. Local man.’ She would not reveal his name. A Swiss executive would not expect her to.
Taub smiled, sadly it seemed, contemplating a shoemaker at his table with his tools and a boot, pouring himself a bowl of tea. ‘He looks alone, this man.’
‘You can relate?’ she ventured. A mistake. Herr Taub only nodded coolly, instantly and instinctively retreating to more formal ground. Leaning a miniscule feminine degree closer to his end of their shared bench, she nudged the notion ahead regardless. ‘I feel the painter, whoever he was, is telling us something about the spiritual aspect of work. It’s a mystery. Love it or hate it, your work becomes the centre of who are. I love this shoemaker. But he needs to go home.’
Which brought a quiet nod from Dieter Taub.
She eased back into her own space, smiled at the bronzed woman sitting opposite them and added lightly, ‘And I think I love that suitcase too.’
‘We all do,’ Taub volunteered. In his ponderous way he explained that this Helvetia was a modern take on the allegorical character created with the founding of the Swiss state in the mid-nineteenth century. ‘People think we take ourselves too seriously — that would be the fault of our banking industry. I believe our art shows otherwise. At least here in Basel.’
‘It never seems to end,’ Aliette rejoined. The man was a proud citizen.
‘It is like a communal addiction, our art.’ Laying the police announcement aside, he tasted his pickle, tentative, not sure he liked it. ‘But better art than… what? Portraits of our glorious leader? Slogans about God? The revolution? Ours is an environment of beauty. Yes?’
‘That’s well put, Herr.’ She wiped mayonnaise from her lips. ‘I confess I don’t really know much about art.’
‘Nor do I.’ A dark grunt that may have been a laugh. ‘More of a cuckoo clock man, myself.’
Her smile was spontaneous. ‘With a man and a lady who come out to dance?’
‘Oh, yes. I adore them. If I were the collector type, it would be clocks, not paintings.’
She pushed — politely. ‘But does he ring any bells, now that he’s all patched up and shining?’
‘Hmm.’ Chew
ing, a large man, hungry after a morning providing security logistics, smiling sideways at her through soft blue eyes. Doleful. She discerned an abiding melancholy. He looked at the shoemaker sitting between them. ‘Sorry. I see so many. Are you making progress?’
‘À peine, à peine.’ Little by little. ‘Horrible what happened to the Basel Lands inspector and that lawyer. Think it was related?’
‘Hard to say. The lawyer was certainly involved in the art trade, I mean by virtue of his connection to his client. Beyond that?’ A slow shake of his polished head.
‘Any suggestions as to other clients?’
Dieter Taub gazed at the river. ‘You know, Inspector, I have to stop this conversation.’
‘Why? …Dieter?’ But she knew it was futile trying to con him with her gentle voice.
He offered a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s not personal.’
‘I know, I know. Nothing’s personal, it’s just business.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’ Again that sidelong look: slightly cold now, a wary dog. She saw it plainly.
But she wouldn’t push. Aliette went back to her sandwich, sipped water, cleaned her fingers, bit into her cookie, listening politely as Dieter Taub spent the rest of their lunch on the bench explaining the DNA of Swiss neutrality, and the logical outflow of tact and secrecy that was bound to grow from this hard-won seed. Very speculative, but she’d never heard it put that way, and all in perfect French. When he stood to leave, she brushed crumbs from her lap and extended her hand. ‘It was nice to see you again. I hope to see you next week.’
Cordial but distant, Dieter Taub dodged a personal commitment by promising to inform his clients of the police media event, Friday next in the French city down the river. Then he hobbled away, turned the corner into Clarastrasse and disappeared. He was another man entrenched in the none-of-your-damn-business approach to the world. But so far he’d kept his promises.
