When they had wound down, I said, “If you two have quite finished, I’d like to make a statement. I said I was through, and I am. Through.”
“But the murder of Freddie—” Schmidt began.
“Schmidt, there is no way anybody could suspect I killed Freddie.”
“But the gold—” Tony exclaimed.
“What gold? We’ve built up a fabric of guesswork and surmise. We haven’t the slightest clue, and there is nothing more we can do here.”
“Not true,” said Tony. Schmidt nodded vigorous agreement.
“What can we do?”
“Inspect Hoffman’s papers.”
“Lots of luck, buster. You can be sure Friedl has already been through them with a fine-tooth comb.”
“I don’t know why you are so prejudiced against the poor woman,” Tony said. I rolled my eyes in speechless commentary. Tony reddened. “Even if she is—er—up to no good, which I consider unproven, I may find something she overlooked. I hope you won’t accuse me of vanity if I suggest I am slightly more intelligent than she.”
“No,” I said. “I won’t.”
Tony wasn’t quite sure how to take that, so he decided to let it pass. “We should also interrogate our colleagues.”
“Now, Tony—”
“Look here, Vicky,” Tony said in a kindly voice. “Let me spell it out for you, okay? You and I both got copies of that photograph of Frau Schliemann—”
“It wasn’t Frau Schliemann.”
“Well, Helene Barton of the Classics Department said it was.”
“Helene Barton is a jerk. She doesn’t know her—”
“Please, Vicky. The point is, if you and I got copies of the picture, maybe the others did, too—Dieter and Elise and Jan Perlmutter. My being here is a coincidence; I have to admit I didn’t give that photo a second thought. Maybe Dieter just happened to fix on Garmisch for his holiday. But you can bet Perlmutter wouldn’t be hanging around, and in disguise, at that, if he weren’t up to something sneaky.”
“Tony,” I said desperately, “if your—my—our—theory is correct, one of them is a killer.”
“Precisely. Therefore it behooves us to find out which one.”
“It is Perlmutter who is the killer,” said Schmidt. “He is in disguise. Or perhaps the one we have not seen—D’Addio. It is very suspicious that she has disguised herself so well we have not even seen her.”
The brilliant illogic of this took my breath away for a moment. “There’s another possibility, just as logical,” I said. “Nobody we know is the killer. The photos were sent as a bizarre practical joke, or the delusion of a sick old man. Freddy’s murder is unrelated to the hypothetical gold of Troy.”
“Then why was his body left in your garden?” Schmidt asked.
“I don’t know. Which is precisely why I intend to return to Munich this evening and make a full confession. I’ll tell my friend Karl Feder the whole story and let him laugh himself sick at my girlish delusions of buried treasure, and then the police can get on with their investigation.”
“She is speaking out of despair,” Schmidt explained to Tony. “She is easily discouraged. We will find a clue and then she will change her mind. Vicky, let us go to Garmisch and give Dieter the third degree.”
“Sorry, I didn’t bring my rubber hose. Besides, I have an errand to do this morning.”
“Ah—to find Perlmutter. Perhaps that is better. I will come with you while Tony reads the old gentleman’s mail.”
“You can come if you like. I’m not going to look for Perlmutter.”
“What, then?”
“I’m taking flowers to a dead man.”
We were still arguing in a desultory, unproductive sort of way, and finishing the food the cat hadn’t eaten, when the phone rang. It was Friedl, summoning us to The Presence. I agreed to accompany the delegation, provided I was allowed to get dressed first.
“There, you see, Tony,” Schmidt remarked. “She is recovering. She will not abandon the quest.”
“I’m going along to make sure you two don’t dig yourselves into a deeper hole,” I snapped. “And to keep you from committing me to a project I’ve no intention of pursuing. Now listen, both of you. You may not agree with me about Friedl’s character, or lack thereof, but for God’s sake don’t volunteer any information. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”
“But of course,” said Schmidt. “That is a basic principle of criminal investigation.”
Tony’s only comment was, “Don’t be insulting.”
We called on Friedl in a body, so to speak. She looked a little startled when we marched in, and I couldn’t blame her; there was a decided nursery-rhyme air about the group—Peter, Peter; Peter’s wife; and the pumpkin. She didn’t notice the cat until Clara reared up and began clawing at the sofa. She let out a shriek, which didn’t bother the cat one whit; when she reached for a poker, I intervened.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said untruthfully—actually. I hoped she did. “The cat seems to have attached herself to me. I’ll try to keep her out of your way.”
The cat bothered her, all right. Clara was a living reminder of the old man she had deceived and betrayed, perhaps to his death. The feeling was reciprocated. Though she permitted me to hold her, the animal didn’t relax into a nice furry bundle; her claws were out, her fur bristled. That was exactly the way Friedl affected me.
“It keeps coming back,” she muttered. “I suspect the cook feeds it. I would fire her if I could….”
“But she is an excellent cook,” said Schmidt interestedly. “The Bavarian burger especially, that is a stroke of genius.”
“Schmidt, Schmidt,” I said, more in sorrow than in anger.
“Yes, you are right, Vicky; I am distracting myself. I must allow Frau Hoffman to tell why she asked to see us.”
“I wished to know whether you had learned anything new,” Friedl said.
“No,” I said.
“That’s not quite accurate,” Tony objected. “We have discovered what it was your husband was hiding—”
I dropped the cat onto Tony’s lap. It was a vicious, cruel, spiteful gesture; the information Tony had been about to disclose was information Friedl already knew, and if my assessment was accurate, she knew that we knew. I was furious with Tony for shooting off his mouth and ignoring my sensible suggestions, but I suppose that’s no excuse.
After a while I got up and opened the door to let the cat out. Friedl went on mopping blood off Tony—an unnecessarily prolonged operation, in my opinion. The scratches weren’t all that deep.
“As Tony was about to remark, we have decided that he was right the first time,” I said. “We have found no evidence that your husband possessed anything of value, and if he did, we have found nothing to indicate what he may have done with it.”
“But,” Friedl stuttered. “But—but you—”
“I’m afraid I can’t spend any more time on this, Frau Hoffman. I have my own work to do.”
“I don’t,” said Tony.
She turned eagerly to him. “Then you will stay? You will help me?”
Her fluttering hands and flapping eyelashes had their effect on Tony’s gullible heart. Also, he was moved by the desire to get the better of me. “Sure,” he said. “You said I could go through his papers. Maybe he left a memorandum of some sort.”
She gushed her thanks, then eyed Schmidt. “And you, Herr Direktor?”
“I have certain inquiries of my own to pursue,” Schmidt said, trying to look mysterious.
She thanked him, though not as effusively as she had Tony (he wasn’t as young and cute as Tony) and then asked me when I was leaving. I said I’d give it another day. “I promised—promised myself—that I would visit your husband’s grave, Frau Hoffman. I thought I’d take some flowers or greenery. It’s a custom where I come from.”
I needn’t have bothered inventing excuses. She said indifferently, “It is also a custom here.”
“Would you li
ke to go with me?”
From her reaction, one might have supposed I had suggested a visit to a morgue. “Lieber Gott, nein! That is—it is too painful for me. So soon after…”
She offered Tony free run of her office, but he declined, with thanks, and asked if the papers in question could be brought to his room.
“Whatsa matter?” I hissed, in the accent of the underworld, after we had left Friedl to her own devices. “You don’ wanna be friendly wit’ de little lady?”
“That’s disgusting,” said Tony.
He was right, so I abandoned the accent. “She seems a trifle tense, don’t you think?”
“After murdering her lover she should be relaxed?” Schmidt demanded at the top of his voice.
Tony and I fell on him and carried him away.
“That’s a libelous statement,” Tony muttered, as we propelled Schmidt up the stairs. “Two libelous statements, in fact.”
“Just one,” I said. “She and Freddy were lovers, all right. But she didn’t kill him. She may not even know he’s dead.”
“Shall we tell her?” Tony asked. We shoved Schmidt into the room and closed the door.
“The less anybody tells anybody, the better off we are,” I said sweepingly.
“That is a premise that can be carried too far,” Schmidt grumbled. “You carry it too far.”
“You know everything I know,” I assured him mendaciously. “But for the love of Mike, don’t blab to Friedl. I’ll be damned if I can figure her out. Does she want us to go or stay? She sure didn’t try to change my mind.”
“She doesn’t know her own mind,” Tony said. “She isn’t the one who is making the decisions.”
I smiled approvingly at him. “You aren’t as naïve as you look.”
“I never said Friedl wasn’t a crook; I said we couldn’t be certain.”
“I’m certain. And,” I continued, before Tony could object, “you’re right about her taking orders from someone else. Too bad we can’t listen in on her phone. I’ll bet she is passing on the latest news right now.”
“Ha,” said Schmidt. “You are again interested. You will not abandon—”
“Dammit, there is nothing to abandon! Oh, the hell with it. I’m off to the cemetery.”
A procession of hotel employees carrying cartons of papers arrived, and Schmidt and I left Tony gloomily contemplating the collection. Schmidt went with me to my room while I got my jacket and backpack; then he followed me downstairs and out of the hotel.
“You are really going only to put flowers on the poor old gentleman’s grave?” he inquired.
“I really am.”
“Not that I can believe you. But if you don’t care if I come, then it means you are not going to do anything I want to do. All the same, Vicky, I will come.”
“You’re a suspicious old goat. Come if you like.”
“No, that is not why. You go alone to this place so far from the village. I will come to protect you.”
The idea of danger hadn’t occurred to me until he mentioned it. I didn’t know whether to scold him for scaring me or kiss him for caring. I kissed him on his bald head and arranged his cap to cover his ears. “You’re a sweetie, Schmidt.”
“I thought I was a suspicious old goat. I would not mind the rest so much if you did not always say ‘old.’”
“‘Old’ doesn’t mean ‘old.’ It means—it’s a term of affectionate…of friendly…oh, never mind, Schmidt. I won’t say it again, I promise. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
He remained dubious; I had to pretend to see Perlmutter skulking in the distance before he would leave. “I will pursue,” he exclaimed. “In that shop, you say?”
“No, he went up the street—that one. Hurry, Schmidt, before he gets away.”
Off Schmidt scuttled, approximately as inconspicuous as a carnival balloon.
The clear bright skies were being invaded by herds of elephant-sized clouds. Some squatted on the mountains, hiding the high peaks; others moved sluggishly westward, swelling and multiplying. I had not been looking forward to the expedition and the dismal skies didn’t increase my enthusiasm; but I had promised, and there was no sense postponing the job.
However, the idea of a little company had its appeal. I strolled across the square and made my way to the back of the wood shop. Clara was already there, staring at the closed panel with the ineffable air of concentrated expectation at which cats excel, and which seems to say, louder than speech, “If I wait long enough and hope hard enough, the anticipated miracle will occur—the door will open, herring will rain from the heavens, and I will be welcomed with the enthusiastic noises that are only my due.”
It’s sad to see such religious devotion go for nought. I knocked on the door. The cat didn’t look at me, she was concentrating on expectation. After a while I remarked, “He’s not there.”
Clara didn’t believe it. A piercing Siamese wail berated the cruelty of heaven.
Her howls produced no more result than my knocking. Either John was out or he didn’t want to see either of us. The former conclusion seemed more likely, since, as he was well aware, prolonged complaint from the cat might arouse the curiosity of the neighbors.
So much for John. He was never around when you needed him.
The cat followed me down the garden path and along the alley. She stayed close at my heels while I canvassed the shops for wreaths. When I opened the car door, she flowed in and sat down in the passenger seat.
I have driven with cats before, or tried to; most of them like to get into cars, but they do not like to ride in cars. I reached across and rolled down the window on the passenger side, expecting Clara would hop out as soon as I started the engine. She didn’t budge, even when I backed out of the parking space and turned into the street leading to the highway.
The clouds darkened and sagged lower. The cat started to purr.
Well, I had wanted company. Clara wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but she was better than nothing. I hoped.
The main road into and out of Bad Steinbach wasn’t a four-lane superhighway; but it looked like an autobahn compared to the narrow lane into which Müller’s directions led me. It switched back and forth across the slopes of the Hexenhut, winding steadily upward between tall trees whose shadows turned the cloudy day to twilight dusk. I switched on my lights; the twisting of the road sent shadows darting, like sylvan monsters trying to elude the light. The cat kept purring. My skin started to crawl.
The old man had said, “You can’t miss it,” and he was right. Eventually I emerged from the trees onto a brief stretch of level ground—not the summit of the mountain, but a largish ledge, shaped like a half-moon and less than two acres in extent. The road skirted one side of it and then appeared to end, against the open sky. I cleverly deduced that there was a steep descent beyond.
I turned off the road and stopped the engine. In the silence the cat’s hoarse purring seemed uncannily loud.
Straight ahead the mountainside rose, forming a natural wall around the scattered graves. Tall trees marched up in stately parade; above and beyond, a wide swath of treeless white curved around the mountain’s flank and then swung away, out of sight—the ski slope from the summit of the Hexenhut. I had not realized it came so close to the church. I had never skied that stretch, actually, and even if I had, I would have had no reason to observe the church.
It wasn’t much. Perched uneasily on the edge of the drop, where the crumbled remains of a stone wall marked the far edge of the cemetery, it had neither age nor architectural distinction. Not even the usual onion dome, only a stubby broken tower. The windows were boarded up and snow had drifted against the walls.
I opened the car door. The silence was deafening. From where I was standing, I couldn’t see the ski lift or the ski lodge atop the mountain. It seemed impossible that less than a mile away there were people laughing and talking and drinking beer.
The place was like a black-and-white photograph; there was no color a
nywhere, only shades of gray. Nothing moved except the scudding clouds and the tree branches swaying gently in the wind.
Then I saw that I was not the only one to remember the dead at the season of the Redeemer’s birth. A few graves—a pitiful few—were blanketed and trimmed with boughs. The brave red bows and bright berries were like a snatch of song in a charnel house—or whistling in the dark?
I realized there were tears on my cheeks. Sheer terror, perhaps? I wiped them away with gloved hands, took a firmer grip on my wreaths, and set out across the snow.
The atmosphere was so thick I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the cat unerringly select the grave of her master and fling herself down on the mounded earth like the dog in that morose old Scottish story. (Greyfriars Bobby was the name, I think.) Of course, she did nothing of the sort. While I searched for Hoffman’s grave, she went wandering off in search of prey. But all the little mice and moles were tucked snug in their winter beds; when I finally reached my goal, Clara came to stand beside me.
It should not have taken me so long to find the right stone. It was the newest one in the graveyard, an austere dark granite slab with no epitaph, only the names and the dates. Hoffman must have had it prepared when his wife died. The carved lines giving the date of his death were raw and fresh compared to the other lettering.
The plot was enclosed by a low wrought-iron railing, which I discovered by tripping over it; it was entirely concealed by fallen snow. The other stones in the enclosure belonged to members of the same family—Frau Hoffman’s, according to Müller. The oldest visible date was that of a Georg Meindl, who had been born in 1867. There were probably older stones, now fallen and snow-shrouded.
After I had clumsily propped the wreaths against the tombstone I lingered, feeling as if there were something more I ought to do. I’m not much for praying, so I just stood shivering and wishing there were some truth in the wistful age-old desire for communication with the dead.
The Meindl plot was one of the ones farthest from the entrance to the cemetery. From where I was standing I could see clear out across the neighboring valley; a small settlement below looked like a toy village and, beyond it, another ridge of mountains raised dark, snow-streaked barriers. Apparently the road I had traveled descended from this point. A few of the lower loops were visible, but the section nearest me was hidden by the remains of the wall.
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