Basic Law

by J Sydney Jones

  “Goddamn stupid drivers these days,” the man says. He is one of the old Bad Lunsburg crowd. Kramer thinks he recognizes him from the time he lived here. A small-time farmer he was then. Now he wears a business suit with the collar unbuttoned and tie loosened. A thick-set, short man with a red nose and a hand like a vise. He lets go of Kramer’s arm.

  “Sons of bitches use the roads like their private race track.” He looks more closely at Kramer. “Do I know you?”

  Kramer’s heart is pounding; he tries to smile to show how little the near-accident affects him. “I think so. I once lived here. You farmed next door.”

  The guy opens his mouth in an ah-ha of recognition. “Renata Müller’s friend. That’s it, isn’t it? But you had a beard then.”

  Kramer nods. This is like a benediction, being recognized.

  “In town for the funeral, I’ll warrant. Too bad about that. Too damn bad.”

  Kramer agrees; his mind begins to wonder about that car. About how much it was an accident.

  “She was a funny sort, but a good woman. I don’t care what they say here, she was good at heart.”

  “What do they say here?” Kramer asks.

  The man looks uncomfortable. “Oh, you know how people are. Jealous and spiteful. Anybody got more than them, they just can’t wait to bring them down. I can’t believe it’s true, anyway.”

  Kramer waits, not wanting to push the man into silence. Then as a prompt, “Reni had some odd ways. It was what made her interesting.”

  This seems to help, for the man smiles broadly. “Exactly. Peculiarities, I call them. But warm at heart she was. That’s why I don’t credit any of those stories about the skinheads and neo-Nazis.”

  Kramer tries not to show too much interest. “What stories might those be?” he says.

  “Old Frau Gruber who lives across the road. Remember her?”

  Kramer does, and immediately. The name calls up a sour-faced, mean-spirited woman who was forever complaining to Reni about their chickens ranging free and getting into her lettuces.

  “Well, Frau Gruber’s the one likes to tell about the visit. In the dead of night, a carload of them comes and stays a few hours, then leaves before dawn.”

  “How did she know they were neo-Nazis?”

  The man snorts to himself. “You know how nosey the lady is. And this car parked on her side of the road. She goes out to it brazen like and looks in the front seat, shining her flashlight all over the place. There are swastika decals and copies of Mein Kampf in the front seat. That’s enough for Frau Gruber.”

  Kramer suddenly remembers the man’s name. “Herr Spalcke. Right?”

  He beams. “Quite a memory there, lad.” He puts out a hand. “Sorry to say mine’s not up to the same level.”

  “Kramer. Sam Kramer.” The name does not seem to register with Herr Spalcke, but he cracks a couple of Kramer’s knuckles as they shake just to show how well he remembers him.

  “Still farming?” Kramer says as they are about to take leave of each other.

  Spalcke shakes his head, spits into the gutter. “Sold off the acreage five years ago. A housing development.” He waves his hand around them, and only now does Kramer realize that he is in the midst of what used to be Spalcke’s grain fields. Small brick houses fronted by blue-green lawns now occupy the land.

  “I’m a man of means,” Spalcke says ironically. “Which means I collect rents and interest instead of working honestly.”

  Daydreaming, Kramer has let his feet lead him; he is only a few hundred yards from Inheritance.

  “Between you and me,” Spalcke says, drawing so close that Kramer can smell the yeasty sweetness of wine on the man’s breath, “I think I made a mistake. Should have kept farming until I died. But the wife wanted an easier life. Wanted to be respectable and wear furs. Look at these cracker jack houses.”

  Then a bright smile. “But people got to live somewhere, I guess. No looking back, is there?”

  Kramer does not answer, only smiles. Looking back is what he is best at.

  They part and Kramer heads toward Inheritance, thinking about that near miss by the car, about the rumor of neo-Nazis visiting Reni in the deep of night. The air is filled with damp smoke, he suddenly notices, as if someone is burning leaves. Bit late in the year for that, he thinks as he rounds the curve and Reni’s farmhouse comes into view. He sees a bulky removal van parked outside. Drawing near, he notices a hand truck leaning against the back left wheel. The double rear doors are open; pink sponge, protective coverings, and thick blankets hang out. Down the drive, he sees a purple Porsche parked by the front door, and suddenly remembers the lawyer Schnelling’s car. As he passes by the car, he places his hand on the hood: it is warm.

  There is activity inside, and he knocks on the partly open front door. No one responds and he enters, bumping directly into a tall, thin, stooped man with a hawk nose. There is a large mole next to the man’s nose and, as Kramer excuses himself, he cannot take his eyes off the mole. The man notices where Kramer’s eyes are focused and this seems to erase any civility he might have had.

  “Who are you?” he says brusquely, pulling on the lapels of his gray suit.

  Before Kramer has a chance to respond, a high voice comes from in back of the thin man, “Ah, Herr Kramer.”

  Kramer sees Schnelling approach.

  “What brings you here again?” Schnelling says as he approaches the door.

  The thin man continues to glare at Kramer; then a sudden thought changes his expression.

  “Kramer?” the man says. “Right. I spoke with you on the phone last week.”

  “This is my partner, Herr Walther,” Schnelling says, joining them in the doorway. Two workers in blue jumpsuits are busy in the living room taking all the photos off the walls and sticking them into cardboard cartons.

  “Clearing her things out?” Kramer says. “Sort of quick, isn’t it?”

  Walther becomes fulsome, ingratiating. Kramer liked him better gruff. “Our client is anxious to clear matters up here. Such a painful time. I am sure he wants to put it behind him, to get on with his life.”

  “Your client?” Kramer says. “I thought Reni was your client­.”

  “We are family solicitors, Herr Kramer.” Walther smiles indulgently at him. Kramer has a great desire to put a fist into that smile.

  “Was there something you were looking for, Herr Kramer?” Schnelling speaks this time, wearing the same gormless smile as his partner. Mutt and Jeff. “Any luck tracking down the elusive memoirs?”

  Kramer shakes his head. “No. No luck. I was just visiting again, wandering around town.”

  The firm of Walther and Schnelling did not need to know of his discoveries or of his new belief that Reni was murdered. “Thought I’d look at the old place one more time.”

  “Oh, it’s not going away,” Walther says. His voice is low and sonorous; as distinctive from Schnelling’s as is his appearance. “In fact, we have managed to lease it. We’ll use it as a home and office. After some improvements of course. I do think these old farmhouses have character. I hope it reassures you to know that the house will stay in the family, so to speak.”

  Reassuring like an enema, Kramer thinks. “You been here long?” he says. “I mean, there must be a lot to do overseeing the move.”

  Schnelling rises to the bait, “Enormous quantities. Well, we know that from last week, don’t we, Herr Kramer? We simply closed down the office for the half day. We and the boys here have been at it since eight this morning.”

  Kramer looks quickly to the two men packing the crates; they return his look, smiling as if finding Schnelling a ripe joke. But there is nothing in their look to disavow the man’s statement.

  “Herr Walther was just on his way to get us a midmorning snack. Would you care to stay and share it with us?”

  “Nice of you to ask,
” Kramer says. “But I should be getting back to the hotel.”

  Walther stands at the door as if to show him out. “Don’t worry about the old place, Herr Kramer. We’ll take good care of it.”

  Kramer smiles wanly. “I’m sure you will.” A sudden thought comes to mind; Schnelling’s mention of their searches has triggered it. “Have your men cleaned out the study yet?”

  “That’s where we began this morning,” Schnelling says happily. “Quite a mess in there, I assure you.”

  “I suppose it’s all packed away?” Kramer can remember the litter of papers on the desk in there; the proposed article on skinhead violence among them.

  “The books, yes,” Schnelling says. “But Herr Müller told us to burn the rest. No time to sort through all those papers.”

  Kramer remembers the smell of smoke upon approaching Inheritance—so much for the article. Coincidental that Reni would be planning to write an article on neo-Nazis when there is the rumor around town of her being visited by them in the middle of the night.

  “Herr Kramer? Is there anything else we can do for you?” Herr Walther stands like a bent willow waiting for him to leave. “Could I give you a lift into town?”

  “Sorry. Just thinking. I’ll walk, thanks.”

  “Ah,” Schnelling says. “Exercise does one good.”

  Kramer takes his time going back out to the road; Walther delicately revs up the Porsche and grinds gears into second going past him, driving the car like a retired schoolteacher. Kramer glances across the street and sees the flutter of a curtain from Frau Gruber’s. Looking back at Inheritance, it seems no one is watching his movements. He crosses the street, goes up to Frau Gruber’s front door, rings the bell, and waits.

  She’ll have to play like she was out back, he figures, and not snooping on her neighbors. It takes time to get to the front door. And all the while she’s probably standing right next to it.

  Kramer listens closely to see if he can hear her breathing, then rings the bell again and smiles to himself. Finally, she answers the door, small and pinched and as mean-looking­ as ever. She feigns breathlessness, her clawlike right hand held dramatically to her chest as if to still her pounding heart. Some people look and seem old at forty and thus, when they approach some greater chronological age, they appear to have not aged one whit. This was so with Frau Gruber.

  “Good day, Frau Gruber,” Kramer says brightly. “Do you remember me?”

  She squints at him through the screen door. Her face is long and narrow, sitting on tiny shoulders like an obelisk. She is about five feet tall and the long head does not fit. She wears a housecoat, and her hair is wrapped in a yellow turban.

  “You’re that American, aren’t you? The special friend of the Müller woman.” She says it as if it is current gossip, not twenty years old.

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “I know, Frau Gruber. That’s why I came back.”

  “You’re too late. They buried her last week. I always said no good would come of her living here.”

  Kramer resists the temptation to slap the old biddy up the side of the head.

  “I’m not here for the funeral,” he says. “There are some questions I have.”

  Her face pinches up even more; a contorted mask of suspicion. “What questions?”

  Kramer smiles at her reassuringly. “I’ve heard around town that Frau Müller might have had some connection with neo-Nazis. I know it sounds bizarre, but I was wondering if you might know anything about that?”

  Her face relaxes; cunning comes into the eyes. She won’t be blamed for the rumor, and will be free to elaborate on it. The perfect situation for the loose-mouthed.

  She suddenly holds the screen door open, almost knocking Kramer off her narrow front porch.

  “Won’t you come in?”

  Kramer feels like a spider beckoned by the fly, but goes into the stuffy old house, keeping his dislike for Frau Gruber at bay.

  If Bad Lunsburg has gone upscale, Frau Gruber’s home stubbornly resists any such modernizations. It could be a movie set for a postwar home, with paint-on wallpaper in a floral design, faded now to light brown on dirty white, a chipped deal table, embroidered homilies on the walls, even a picture of Adenauer over the gas heater. Kramer guesses that this honored spot once held a photo of Hitler instead.

  She sits him in a rickety straight-back chair at the deal table and proceeds to bend his ear about how that “Müller woman” was bound to a bad end. It’s only after twenty-five minutes of the harangue that Kramer is able to get the conversation around to the visit by the supposed neo-Nazis. But she is sure about it, she swears. They even had a couple of baseball bats, the weapon of choice for skinheads, in the front seat.

  “You saw no one?” he asks.

  She shakes her head as if this is one of the great disappointments of her life. “But I did write this down.” She pulls out a filthy white notepad from the side pocket of her housecoat. “I like to keep track of things, you know. Who is coming and who is going. One cannot be too sure of people these days. There are bad ones out there, you know.”

  Kramer nods in agreement and takes the proffered sheet from the note pad. On it is an eight-digit number. A car license and, from the initial letters, one apparently registered in Bavaria.

  “May I copy this?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Why not? You’re interested in who’s coming and going, too, aren’t you? I can tell a kindred spirit.”

  Kramer copies the number and returns the grimy slip of paper.

  She beams at him, a fellow conspirator. “Want to know something else?”

  “Sure.”

  “The local police didn’t care, but I bet you will. It was parked out there the night she died.”

  Kramer does not show his emotion, instead goes into the journalistic role of doubter. “But how could you know which night? I mean she was dead over a week before anybody discovered her.”

  “Before I discovered her, you mean. I was the one to sound the alarm, finally. Not seeing her for all that time, and then when I went to the house, I could smell. You know? It was obvious.”

  Kramer shudders; he does not want to think of that part.

  “So you kept track of Frau Müller’s comings and goings?”

  She looks proud of herself. “In a way, yes. And I distinctly remember the last time I saw her, she was tying back the fuchsias at the front of her house. I waved, but she pretended not to notice me. Always haughty.” Anger shows at her face; a green line to each side of her nose. “Well, we all see what comes of being haughty.”

  “Yes,” Kramer says, steering her back on course. “She was tying back fuchsias?”

  “That’s the very night I saw the car. It must have been two, three in the morning. I hadn’t heard it arrive, fast asleep I was. But I had need to get up in the middle of the night.”

  Suddenly, she is all primness, not wanting to mention a late-night visit to the toilet.

  “And that was when I noticed it. Parked right in front of my house like it owned the place.”

  “How long was it there?” Kramer says.

  She shrugs. “How should I know? But I double-locked all my doors after seeing what was in that car, I can tell you. Finally, I went back to sleep. It was gone in the morning.”

  They sit in silence for a long moment.

  “What do you think they would want with the Müller woman?” she finally says.

  Finally, Kramer manages to take his leave of Frau Gruber, thankful for the lungful of fresh air he sucks in once out on the road. He heads back for the center of town; the day is still bright, but no warmer. Walking, he thinks of something Frau Gruber has said: Reni was tying back the fuchsias on the day she died. Is someone planning suicide that very night going to worry about the fuchsias? One more piece of evidence tha
t she was murdered, he thinks.

  Once back in the center, Kramer does two things. First, he drops off the license plate number he got from Frau Gruber to Kommissar Boehm, who fumes but agrees to run a trace on it in the end—the Kommissar seems even less interested in the near miss Kramer had, merely admonishing him for daydreaming on the streets. Secondly, at the post office, he sends a short fax to Paris:

  Marty, gone fishing for a few days. I have vacation due.

  Kate will hold down fort. Love and kisses. Kramer.

  Back at the hotel, Randall is sitting on the small terrace off their room sipping on a cup of coffee. Crumbs of a lately deceased breakfast roll are scattered on a white plate with a Hotel Bad logo.

  “The prodigal returns,” he says when he sees Kramer.

  “Just up?” Kramer says, joining him. There are two cups, but the coffee is gone.

  “Sorry,” Randall says. “Didn’t know when you were coming back, and I hate to waste food.”

  Kramer tells him of his discoveries that morning, of the near miss by the purple car, and his visit to Frau Gruber. Randall appears not to be listening, gazing instead into the main square where a young and well-endowed girl is setting up a roasted chestnut stand. But when Kramer finishes, he looks up.

  “I don’t like that bit about the car. Reminiscent of Herr Gorik in Berlin.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Kramer says. “But maybe it’s just paranoia.”

  They smile at each other; this is their new code word. Paranoia in an evil world is a normal condition.

  “And the neo-Nazis?” Randall asks.

  Kramer shrugs. “It might be important. But there’s no telling if the occupants of the car were at Reni’s or not.”

  Randall considers this for a moment. “You’ve had a busy morning,” he finally says. “Not to be outdone, I’ve been poking through German phone books while you were gone. There was no sign of Rick …”

  “If he’s got any sense, he’ll be back in the States. The new Germany is no place for him.”

  “I don’t know,” Randall says. “I remember hearing he’d settled here. Years ago, though.”