Death On Duty

by Graham Brack

  Peiperová was leaning over her desk with the map of Opava unfolded and another, more detailed one alongside.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Slonský demanded.

  ‘Hrdlička had this map in his room. His wife says they don’t have any links with Opava so she doesn’t know why he had it. That made me think I ought to look into it a bit further. If you look over here, sir, you’ll see a red cross and an area around it. I was trying to see if I could match that to something on this one.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t know. It looks like a park or something similar. Lots of greenery, and maybe the cross marks this building here. A farmhouse, maybe?’

  ‘Good work, young lady. I think while Navrátil drives west with Valentin, you and I might drive east to have a look around.’

  Peiperová’s eyes were bright with the excitement of the chase. ‘We’d better get going, sir. It’s three hundred and seventy kilometres to Opava. It’ll take about five hours.’

  Slonský reflected on this. ‘Five hours there, five hours back, a couple of hours snooping around, that makes twelve hours. There’s time for a good breakfast before we go.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There’s always time for a good breakfast.’

  The drive to Opava was quite enjoyable. The best car they could get was a liveried one, which suited Slonský anyway since it reduced the chance that the traffic police would make him stop. However, he did stop a couple of times to answer a call of nature and stock up with pastries. Peiperová declined any, which only meant that he had the whole lot to himself, and was still chewing contentedly when they arrived at the end of the main road, the last clear marker on the map.

  ‘Now, take the road to Šumperk. Then there’ll be a right turn towards Opava and we follow the road through Bruntál and out towards Velké Heraltice. Somewhere on the left there’s a lane into the forest. Once we’re there we’ll have to scale off the map and just see if we can work out what the cross shows.’

  Peiperová continued to drive, but rather slower, glancing to each side in turn as if she did not trust Slonský’s powers of observation.

  ‘It’s just kilometres and kilometres of damn trees,’ Slonský complained.

  ‘That’s what forests are, sir.’

  ‘Is it something buried in the woods then?’

  ‘Sir, should we stop and ask somebody?’

  ‘Actually, that may be a good idea. Let’s go into Opava and find the police station. Maybe they’ll know.’

  The criminal police office at Hrnčířská 22 did not take much finding, and after introducing themselves at the desk they were taken to the office of Captain Herfort. They laid out their map and invited him to offer a suggestion. The Captain looked at it for some time, rubbing his chin reflectively, and then sent for the desk sergeant.

  ‘Any ideas, Sergeant?’

  ‘Isn’t that the old baron’s house, sir?’

  ‘The old baron’s house?’ Slonský echoed.

  ‘Well, it’s not easy to be exact. But the estate had a big house and a lodge. The big house has fallen into disrepair and nowadays the owners live in the lodge, but that’s nearer to the road than the cross here.’

  ‘There’s your answer,’ said Herfort. ‘I should have realised that was what you were asking about, what with the trouble this spring.’

  ‘Trouble? What trouble?’

  Herfort looked bemused. ‘I thought that was what you’d finally come about. There was an arson attack on the lodge this spring. Fortunately it’s well built and the arsonists were inept, but we reported it to Prague and nothing happened.’

  ‘Why did you report it?’

  ‘The attackers were overheard speaking. They were foreigners. The old couple weren’t sure what language they spoke, but they understood a few words so it must have been a Slav language, I suppose. Anyway, since it was down to foreigners we thought we’d better tell Prague. Then a month or so later someone mischievously dammed the stream so it diverted into the grounds and flooded the lawn. I reported that too. We didn’t have any evidence that it was the same men but it was pretty suspicious, I thought.’

  ‘I’d have thought it too,’ mused Slonský. ‘So why didn’t Prague?’

  He was still pondering the question as they left.

  ‘What now, sir?’ asked Peiperová.

  ‘When in doubt, eat. Let’s find somewhere for lunch. We can think at the same time. But not here. Let’s get nearer to the site of interest.’

  They drove back the way they had come and stopped at the nearest village to the forest turning. Peiperová parked in the main street and they surveyed the options.

  ‘Aha!’ Slonský cried. ‘Exactly what we need — a couple of old codgers.’ He marched over and introduced himself. ‘We’re investigating the nuisances up at the old baron’s house. Know the one I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ said one of the old men, who gave his name as Jan. ‘I worked there when I was a boy, on the estate.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Slonský, squeezing onto the bench alongside them and motioning Peiperová to sit down without indicating where that would be possible given the lack of seats.

  ‘That was before the war, of course, when the baron was still there. He was a gent. Of course, the estate was much bigger then. A lot more going on, what with the farm and the shooting.’

  ‘It’s all forest,’ said Slonský. ‘What sort of farming could you do there?’

  ‘It wasn’t so overgrown then,’ the second old man, who introduced himself as Jakub, explained. ‘It was surrounded by forest, but there were clearings and paddocks, and a few pens. They farmed pigs and deer mainly. But the big money came from the shoots. They ran boar hunts every year, wild in summer and driven in autumn. Us boys used to earn some pocket money driving the boar.’

  ‘Wasn’t that dangerous?’

  ‘Life was dangerous then,’ Jakub said. ‘We didn’t think about it. If there were a few of you in a row, and you kept your wits about you, the boar would retreat rather than take you on. Unless a sow had young there, of course. And you had to be careful at this time of year, because the boars have bad eyesight, and if they thought you were after their sows in rutting season they’d have you. But we’d get twenty of us and we’d drive the boars back with the men. It was good money. The baron paid a fair wage, but if they had a good day’s shooting you could get a fortune in tips.’

  Jan agreed. ‘I once took home more silver from a day than my dad got for a week.’ He chuckled in a mad old man sort of way, then continued. ‘One of the hunters was pretty useless. I think he was a city boy out to impress the baron’s daughter, but he had no sense about where the boar would be and he could barely get a shot off. I’d spotted a big old tusker limping because he’d got his legs tangled in some fence wire, so I told the young gentleman to drift off to his left and watch at the fringe of the wood, and I’d drive the tusker his way. Which I did, and somehow he went down. I don’t know whether the young man shot him or he just died of old age waiting. Anyhow, the young feller slipped me a handful of silver for that one, about as much as I got in a month in the fields.’

  ‘Ah, they were good days,’ agreed Jakub.

  Slonský wanted them to keep talking but his stomach was providing a bass continuo to the discussion. ‘Where’s the best place to get a beer and a sausage here?’

  Jakub jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Over there. But they won’t serve your daughter. Men only, that place. You could try the café with the green door on that side of the street.’

  ‘That would be good. Would you care to join us, and we can chat a bit more about the old baron?’

  The old men were quite happy to toddle over and, gently pressed by Slonský, conceded that a sausage and some potatoes would go down very nicely. And perhaps a few fried onions and some red cabbage, with a slab of fresh bread and a large beer.

  When they were all supplied with a glass and some cutlery, Slonský resumed the questioning. ‘
So what happened to the baron?’

  ‘The war,’ said Jakub. ‘He was German, you see. Well, over three-quarters of the people were. They all spoke German, the street signs were in German. They called Opava “Troppau” then. Us Czechs were a minority, and didn’t we know it? They even wanted us taught in German in school. As far as they were concerned, this should never have been Czechoslovakia, so when Hitler came along they got the swastika flags out and welcomed him. In no time at all they’d burned the synagogue down. Mind, I don’t hold with Christ-murderers, but it was a fine building.’

  ‘The bit that got me,’ Jan chipped in, ‘was that some of them doing the burning were Jews themselves, rightfully speaking, but they saw which way the wind was blowing. Anyway, the baron went off to fight for Germany on the Russian front and never came back.’

  ‘Any heirs?’

  ‘He had an older brother in Austria somewhere, and his daughter. She would be about twenty when the war ended. Then all the Germans were kicked out of this country when the war ended and their property was confiscated.’

  ‘The Beneš decrees,’ murmured Slonský.

  ‘That’s right. The plan was to sell it all off, although who could afford to buy an estate like that I don’t know, seeing as nobody I knew had a copper to scratch their … had two coppers to rub together, I mean, miss.’

  Jakub was nodding vigorously. ‘It was a crying shame. The communists came along and that put paid to selling it off, but they didn’t know what to do with it. In the end they carved some bits off to make smallholdings and rented out the lodge. I can’t remember who got it first, but the folks who are there now came in the seventies. They’d been farmers in Slovakia, near the Polish border, so they knew a bit about boars and stags. They stopped the rot, but they’ve never had the cash to get it back on its feet like it should be.’

  ‘And now some evil devil goes and tries to burn them out,’ Jan growled.

  ‘I’ve heard there were some foreigners in the district around then,’ said Slonský.

  ‘I heard that too,’ agreed Jakub. ‘But there always are.’

  ‘These might have been Bosnians,’ Slonský hinted.

  ‘If they stayed somewhere here wouldn’t you lot know from the pensions and guest houses?’ asked Jan. ‘I thought they had to report foreign guests to you.’

  ‘I doubt they stayed anywhere nearby. I think they just came for the day and then left. Any idea what happened to the baron’s daughter?’

  The old men stared into their glasses, which were almost empty. Slonský called the waiter over and ordered refills for them.

  ‘That’s very civil of you, thanks,’ Jan said with a toothless smile. ‘Well, now, I don’t know for sure, but I heard that she’d married a soldier. Not her own class, of course, because there weren’t any of them left, but at least she was safe from being molested. A lot of the women were, you know. It was shameful. And Czech hands weren’t exactly clean in all that.’

  ‘The Slovaks were worse,’ protested Jakub.

  ‘Goes without saying,’ Jan agreed. ‘They always are.’

  Slonský unfolded his map. ‘So if this cross is the old baron’s house, what’s that dotted line?’

  The old men pored over it.

  ‘See, Jakub, this little bit that sticks out, that’ll be the old mill at the bend of the stream.’

  ‘Yes, then this line here must follow the ridge or the path. And that’s the big barn.’

  They traced the line a bit further, than Jakub sat back in his seat.

  ‘I reckon that’s the old boundary, before they started selling bits off. That’s what it was before the war.’

  Navrátil’s call was brief and to the point. The women in the camp did not recognise the old baron’s house and denied stopping anywhere near a forest, except for a brief toilet stop.

  ‘So where does that leave us, sir?’ asked Peiperová. ‘I don’t get why Hrdlička would have a map of Opava showing a pre-war estate and not tell anyone about it. Maybe it has nothing to do with the case.’

  ‘Maybe. But his wife hasn’t got a clue either, and that argues for police work. Men talk about their hobbies to their wives, even if the women aren’t interested, but it’s hammered into us not to talk about cases.’

  ‘But he didn’t tell his bosses either.’

  ‘We don’t know that. We’re deducing it because they’ve said nothing about it. If the notes we saw are all that exist, he didn’t mention it, but they could be holding something back.’

  ‘Would they do that to us, sir?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. I would. And now that I know that Grigar was having Navrátil followed, they’ll have to pull my teeth out to get anything out of me.’

  ‘You don’t think they’d follow Navrátil to the camp, sir?’

  ‘No, for three reasons. Navrátil’s driving would make them give up through boredom. He’s too bright not to spot he’s being followed and if he did, he’s good enough to shake them off. And even if they get to the camp gates, the army won’t let them in without my say-so. Soldiers may not be too clever but they can follow a nice simple order.’

  ‘Why do you say they’re not clever?’

  ‘If they were clever they wouldn’t join an organisation that exists to get them shot at. Let’s find out what happened to the report from Opava about the arson attack.’

  ‘I got a photocopy of their file copy, sir.’

  ‘Good girl. We can get Sergeant Mucha onto that. He’s a wizard with filing systems and bureaucracy.’

  ‘The sergeant at Opava told me they had a phone call from someone in Prague thanking them for the report and telling them it was being followed up, but he didn’t see how it could have been when nobody went out there to have a look around.’

  ‘Well, that stands to reason. If nobody said anything, Opava might think it hadn’t arrived and get back in touch. If you want to kill it, you tell them it’s here and being dealt with. Then you do nothing about it and with luck they’ll forget they ever sent it.’

  ‘Will that work, sir?’

  ‘It always has for me. But that just makes this more of a puzzle. If Hrdlička doesn’t want his bosses to know about Opava, why is that? Let’s assume it’s connected with the person he’s listening in on. Grigar doesn’t seem to know who that is, judging by the efforts he’s going to to find out. But if it was Bosnians who burned the lodge — and I grant we don’t know that for sure, before you butt in — then it’s logical that he’d be listening in to Savović.’

  ‘And if he isn’t using a police-issue earpiece, that suggests that he thought someone would stop him doing it if they found out.’

  ‘But why not just call him off? Why leave him watching the place but not give him the tools to do a proper job? It makes no sense.’

  ‘Maybe he was acting on his own initiative, sir.’

  ‘Come on, girl, use your brain. I’m as generous and understanding a boss as you could wish to have, but if you swan off all day every day I’m going to want to know where you are.’

  ‘But you don’t watch us that closely, sir.’

  ‘I know you went to the ladies’ three times on Friday.’

  Peiperová’s mouth dropped open. ‘How can you possibly know that, sir?’

  ‘I know everything. And what I don’t know I make up convincingly, as I just demonstrated. You see, if you’d known you’d gone twice, or four times, you’d have known I was bluffing, but in the absence of any information, you swallowed my story. There’s a lesson there, my girl.’

  He then clammed up without elucidating what exactly the lesson was, and remained silent all the way back to Prague, except to remind Peiperová that she could put the flashing lights on and drive at a hundred and forty if she felt like it, given that they were in a car with POLICIE displayed prominently on each side.

  Chapter 11

  Valentin’s paper had gone to town in its Monday edition. The story of the Balkan women was spread over six pages and was liberally illustrate
d. Slonský could not help noticing that the women were all dressed either in white or in embroidered peasant blouses.

  ‘Whose idea was that?’ he asked Navrátil.

  ‘Mr Valentin’s, sir. He said it emphasised their innocence. He made a couple of them take out nose studs and cover tattoos too, to increase public sympathy for their plight.’

  ‘A typical journalist’s disregard for the truth,’ scowled Slonský, ‘and I’m only jealous because it’s a good idea. It’s a bit rich of that brunette to claim that she fought tooth and nail to preserve her honour when you saw the eyes she was making at the lieutenant when they arrived.’

  ‘Sir!’ protested Peiperová. ‘An invitation to be friendly doesn’t mean that more is on offer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ sighed Slonský. ‘I haven’t even had an invitation to be friendly for years.’

  ‘I think this may help us, sir,’ Navrátil said. ‘I wondered what made Hrdlička turn his attention to Opava, because if the report from the station there was intercepted, I don’t see how he could have seen it. Now, the copy that Peiperová brought back says the arson attack took place in early May. I went through Hrdlička’s credit card and bank statements to see if he spent any money in that area, but he didn’t. However, on Wednesday, 7th June, Hrdlička used his bank card in a book shop here in Prague. I went over there and they went through their till records, and that’s when he bought the map.’

  ‘7th June? Good work, Navrátil. Very enterprising. Remind me again, how does this help?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure. But something must have happened just before then to spur him to buy the map. And he didn’t just requisition a police map, so he was already suspicious about a colleague then. Isn’t the logical reason that he knew the Opava report had been suppressed?’

  ‘Yes, but how did he discover that?’

  ‘Maybe he overheard something.’

  ‘He wasn’t eavesdropping then. Remember the goddess said he’d only been there for a month or so.’