Cemetery of the Nameless

by Rick Blechta

  Roderick said, “What the bloody hell do we do now?”

  “Rocky?” Elen asked when she noticed how silent I’d become.

  I got off the corner of the bed where I’d been sitting and walked over to the window. Looking out at the street ten stories below, I said, “We’re getting pushed here. Has that occurred to either of you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Things keep occurring, and we don’t know why. We really aren’t any closer to finding out what happened to Tory—or us, for that matter. I don’t remember if I told you or not, Elen, but somebody trashed our rooms yesterday. It’s like we’re walking along in the dark bumping into things. We only realize they’re there because we bang our shins on them.” I turned around and looked at my two companions. “It’s time we got ourselves a nice, bright flashlight.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Roderick inquired.

  “Starting tonight, we go on the offensive.”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  I took a business card out of my wallet. “I’m calling Ertmann, for starters. I hope to God he’s willing to help.”

  ***

  When Ertmann called back shortly before six, I was brooding alone. In the light of all Elen had gone through to help Tory, and with her continued willingness to help, I felt obliged to pay for a room for her, since she now had nowhere to stay. But knowing that one sniff of impropriety from the sensation-seeking press would set them a-flutter, I made sure she got a room as far away from mine as possible. She was off getting the rest of her personal belongings.

  Roderick had already informed me that he would be moving in with his friend that evening. “I can only afford to stay another two weeks, old bean, and if I’m going to be any good to that awful tenor I’ll be on tour with, I’m going to have to get some hours in at the keyboard. My hands feel like two bloody blocks of wood, and Hugo has a very fine Bösendorfer.”

  So I was in a black mood when I reached for the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Herr Lukesh,” a welcome voice said, “Johann Ertmann. I was told you wish to speak with me. I assume it is about the violin of your wife.”

  “You know about that?”

  “But of course. I have it. Were you not told? I told Oberstleutnant Müller that I had taken it for safe keeping.”

  I raised my eyes to the heavens in a show of thanks, but predictably, my words didn’t reflect my gratitude. “No, goddamnit! No one told me a thing. I’ve been sitting here thinking it was stolen due to my carelessness.”

  “My dear Herr Lukesh! This is most unfortunate! I, of course, heard about your wife’s, ah, apprehension last night and rushed over to offer my assistance. You had already...left, but I noticed the violin. I took the precaution of bringing it home with me to keep it safe.”

  “When can I come and get it?”

  Ertmann paused awkwardly before answering, “I can of course bring it to you tonight. It is my duty. Please excuse me for a minute or two.” He was off the line for barely a minute. “Would nine be convenient?”

  “If it means getting Tory’s violin back, you can make it three a.m. for all I care.” A thought trickled into my brain—at the right time for a change—and realizing that I’d just been handed a golden opportunity, I added a little zinger. “I trust your daughter has enjoyed playing it.”

  After two attempts to say something through his shock, he finally managed to croak out, “How... How did you know?”

  “The music business is surprisingly incestuous, my friend. When someone told me about an up-and-coming violinist named Stefanie Ertmann, it wasn’t hard to figure out the rest.” I didn’t add that I’d actually been fed all the information from my friend at Interpol. Now it was my chance to capitalize on it. “Would you have the time to speak with me about something this evening?”

  He collected his wits with admirable speed. “Ja... Most certainly, but I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to come to your hotel room. It might cause... unnecessary talk in certain quarters. We could speak in my car. Is this all right with you?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “Good. I will call you when I am five minutes away. Be ready at the side entrance to the hotel. The car is a black Mercedes. It will flash its lights twice as it pulls to a stop.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  ***

  Ertmann’s car had barely slowed to a halt when I sprang from my lurking place in the doorway of one of the lobby’s shops and was outside, leaping into the car before anyone noticed—I hoped.

  Ertmann eyed me phlegmatically as he eased the car away. “You seem to have acquired admirable skill at avoiding the media.”

  I shrugged. “It’s more a matter of honing my skills to razor sharpness. I have been married to Tory for almost nine years now. I’ve been forced to duck into and out of a lot of cars and buildings in that time.”

  “Yes. I suppose you would have.” He indicated Tory’s violin lying on the back seat. “It is a very odd case for so fine an instrument.”

  Elen was correct when she said the case that Tory had picked up was appalling. Fortunately, a new case would be easy to acquire, and the insurance company need never know where their baby had been hanging out. Everything seemed to be in tiptop shape.

  Ertmann cleared his throat. “I regret having caused you and your wife so much worry.”

  Closing the latches on the case, I quietly asked, “Why did you tell only Müller you had the violin?”

  “You are right. It was not an idea well thought out.”

  “No. I just find it curious that it was him you told, knowing how he feels about Tory and me, that’s all.”

  “I only took it away with me to keep it safe.”

  I nodded. “And is that why you trusted the most unreliable person with your message?”

  “Really, Herr Lukesh! I must pro—”

  “Relax. I understand. An instrument of the quality of my wife’s can be a pretty intoxicating thing.”

  The Austrian sounded totally nonplussed. “You are not angry?”

  I laughed. “Why? Did Stefanie damage it?”

  “No. It is fine. I have been rehearsing what to say to you since this morning,” Ertmann continued. “I should have contacted you personally, of course. It is unforgivable. Never have I done such a thing!”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I was unable to sleep last night.” He looked at me. “You do not have children?”

  “I’ll bet you already know I don’t.”

  He hurried by my pointed remark. “If you did, you would understand—although until last night, I myself did not. Now I know much better how these things can happen.”

  I hope you’ll remember that, I said to myself. “So your daughter enjoyed herself?”

  In the quick flash of a passing streetlight, I clearly saw the smile of a proud papa. “I do not exaggerate when I say that the short time she played your wife’s wonderful violin has transformed Stefanie’s life. She knows now of what she is capable. It has given her new direction. I only wish that I could provide for her an instrument of such quality.”

  “That’s always the problem with fine string instruments. They don’t come cheap.”

  After a moment of silence, Ertmann said, “I am very sorry about the way things have happened for you and your wife. It could have been handled more...sensitively.”

  “I don’t think ‘sensitive’ is in Müller’s vocabulary.”

  With the debt acknowledged and the small talk out of the way, Ertmann knew that it was my move. “Now, what is it you wanted to speak with me about?”

  “Perhaps you can do something to help me,” I answered.

  Even so, Ertmann waffled a bit, saying, “You have been very understanding,” making it clear that he would help if he could but was not happy about having pressure applied to his weak spot.

  Getting a feel for how this whole diplomacy thing worked, I was silent for a moment, then asked, “Can you tell me exact
ly who was present at von Heislinger’s castle the night he died?”

  The Austrian sounded happier. “Not from the top of my head, no. But it would not be difficult to get that information.”

  “And the apartment where I found the maid’s body. Whose is it?”

  “That I already know. It belongs to the dead woman’s Grosstante, her great aunt I think you would say in your language.”

  “Her name?”

  “I could get it for you. I suppose you wish to speak with her?” he added in such a way that I knew he was hoping I would say no.

  “You also told me about some women who were, um, involved with von Heislinger. I want to find out about them, at least the musicians. Can you help me with that?”

  “You are asking for a lot, my friend. May I ask what you are going to do with this information?”

  “It’s become clear that it’s pretty well up to me and my friends to find evidence to help Tory—if any still exists.”

  ***

  Ertmann’s information arrived via courier early the next morning. With typical Austrian efficiency, it included absolutely everyone who had been on the von Heislinger property in the twenty-four hours prior to his murder. Luigi Terradella’s name showed up. Now it was clear why he had been trying to get in touch with me.

  I felt pretty confident that the baron’s staff did not have anything to do with the events, so that left the guests. Terradella had come alone. Schatzader and his wife I knew all about. The guest list provided no surprises, except that I didn’t know Montenegro, the producer, had brought a lackey and a young lady. A note said there was something interesting about the girl. The note was in English, and I assumed in Ertmann’s hand. Had he added them before or after I’d spoken to him?

  Interesting...

  As soon as I decently could, I called Marty at home in New York.

  I knew from past experience that the man hardly slept, but his wife did, and I liked her too much to drag her from a good night’s sleep before six a.m. Tory’s manager tried to pretend that I’d woken him up, that he didn’t care any more about handling my wife’s career, that he had no wish to talk to me, but in the end it didn’t wash. We both knew what Tory meant to his business. She had been his first big client and remained the financial bedrock of his agency.

  We struck a bargain. I would immediately convey to him anything and everything which happened and whatever might impinge on Tory’s career. Marty would faithfully and expeditiously perform two tasks that only he (with his multifarious connections) could, and furthermore ask no questions as to what I was up to, a stipulation I considered necessary since I had no idea how legal one of them was.

  I set several things in motion that morning without a clear idea where they would ultimately lead. While I wanted to get to the truth, I didn’t know by what route I would arrive there, nor what damage I might do as I stumbled my way forward.

  TORY

  I don’t remember anything I dreamed that first night in the mental hospital, although I certainly felt rather groggy in the morning. It was already quite light when I opened my eyes. Stretching, I didn’t actually remember where I was for a moment.

  Then, reality hit and the weight of my situation came crashing in again. Feeling defeated and desperate, I huddled back down into the covers, resisting only at the last moment the urge to pull them over my head.

  About five minutes later, I heard a key turn in the lock, and a man about Rocky’s height wearing a lab coat and carrying a clipboard entered the room. The similarity in their looks ended there, however, since where Rocky is dark, this man was light, his complexion and close-cropped hair approaching those of an albino. He looked to be well over fifty. Everything about the man screamed “psychiatrist” with a capital P.

  “Ah, Fräulein Morgan!” he said heartily in the milder German accent you hear in Vienna. “It is good to see you finally awake. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Herr Doktor Anton Seidelmann. I will be attending you.” He made a small bow, more an inclination of his head. “How did you sleep?” The way Seidelmann asked this question was loaded with meaning.

  I answered with one of my own. “How did you know I was awake?”

  The doctor’s gaze shifted to somewhere above my head. I turned and saw a small camera mounted discreetly in a corner of the room. A quick scan revealed another in the corner diagonally opposite.

  “So you’re spying on me all the time?” I asked.

  “Monitoring you, my dear, is the way we prefer to think of it,” Seidelmann corrected. “After all, you were sent here, Fräulein Morgan, for observation and examination.”

  “Even when I go to the bathroom?” I asked, indicating the toilet in the corner, hidden behind a waist-high screening wall.

  He didn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. “Ja. Would you like something to eat this morning?”

  “Are you a waiter or a doctor?”

  Seidelmann smiled—and it actually reached all the way to his eyes. “I assure you that I am a psychiatrist. As a matter of fact, I am in charge of...” He stopped, searching for the right phrase. “I believe you would call it ‘an assessment unit’. Is this the correct term? I wanted to see you at the first opportunity this morning, so I asked to be informed when you awoke.” He smiled again. “Although, my family does own a Heurigen—you know what this is?—near Heiligenstadt. I spent many summers waiting on tables, and it is perhaps that experience which you also perceive in me.”

  “Perhaps. And in answer to your question, no, I’m not hungry. What I would really like is a shower. Is that possible?”

  “But of course! As a matter of fact, we need to perform a complete physical examination, and it would be an easy matter to do both things at the same time. I will inform the nurse on duty of this thing, and one of my colleagues will do the examination. I will see you when it is complete.”

  The nurse turned out to have two strapping friends. I got the distinct impression that Müller felt I would hit someone on the head and disappear into the night again if he didn’t keep a tight rein on me. Judging by the guards’ size, he also thought I could punch through concrete walls with my bare hands and leap tall buildings in a single bound.

  About an hour later, after the same sort of poking and prodding I’d gotten at the police station (minus the fingerprinting and photography) and finally a chance to shower, the nurse called in my “escorts”, who led me to a large, bright office which looked more like a comfortable study than the lair of a shrink, but then, that’s probably just the effect Seidelmann was trying for.

  The good doktor was sitting at his desk by a large window, looking at a television screen and busily scribbling in a notebook. When he saw me, he turned it off, frowned at the two guards as they were leaving with the nurse and rose to his feet. “Ah! Fräulein Morgan—”

  “I guess we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other. Why don’t you just call me Tory?”

  He nodded. “Whatever you wish. I was about to have coffee. Would you care to join me?”

  “That would be fine. What happens now?” I don’t think Seidelmann heard my question, because he was scanning the contents of the clipboard the nurse had handed him before leaving. I repeated it.

  “What? Oh, I am sorry. Yes, what are we up to! I would like you to sit down over here and we will have a nice little chat. You will answer some questions for me. Is this all right?”

  He indicated an area on the far side of the room with a sofa, a coffee table and two comfortable-looking stuffed chairs.

  “Am I supposed to lie on the sofa?”

  “Only if you want to. Most of my patients prefer to sit.” As I took one of the chairs, an orderly arrived with coffee and a plate of croissants and jam. The buttery smell rising from the warm rolls made me decide that it was stupid not to eat, and I dug in with gusto, finishing three before I realized it. Looking up guiltily, I found Seidelmann the Shrink watching me intently.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “Do you often starve
yourself and then ‘binge’ on food?”

  “Do you mean, ‘Am I bulemic?’ Then the answer is no. It’s just that I haven’t felt like eating lately. These croissants smelled so good, I just couldn’t resist.” I stopped and grinned. “And that’s why you brought them in heated up, isn’t it? The irresistible smell. You wanted to see if I’d eat.”

  “I noticed from the police report that I was given and from this morning’s examination that you are rather far below your expected weight. I thought it best to find out if there might be a reason other than the obvious one.” Seidelmann pulled a small tape recorder from a pocket of his lab coat and put it on the low table between us. “Would you mind if I taped our sessions? It would be very helpful to me.”

  “If I say no, will you go ahead and tape them anyway with a hidden recorder?”

  Seidelmann continued to gaze at me steadily.

  I shrugged. “Go ahead. It’s no skin off my nose.”

  Bad choice of phrase. The doc immediately wanted me to explain what my words meant, since he obviously hadn’t heard the term before. I’d have to watch myself. It was clear that the humourless shrink would analyze every utterance I made, and even though his English was quite good, there would be a lot of slang he’d be unfamiliar with. I didn’t want to be here the rest of my life, explaining what I’d actually meant to say.

  “Do you know why you are here, Fräulein...I mean, Tory?”

  I nodded. “Yes. The cops think I killed two people, and my lawyer thinks that he can get me off if I’m nuts. Maybe I am.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  “Because I’ve lost my ability to play the goddamn violin!” I blurted out with more anger than I’d intended.

  “Really...” Seidelmann answered, sounding as if his thoughts had already skipped ahead to his next question. “And why do you think that has happened?”

  My heart rate shot through the roof, and I felt the room begin to spin. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Because...because...” I had the overwhelming sensation of water closing over my head, and I couldn’t catch my breath.