The Basel Killings

by Hansjörg Schneider

  He ordered a beer from Ismelda behind the bar.

  “Oi, this business,” said Angel, “it wears you out. Barbara la Gitana está muerta. She’s dead. You won’t bring her back to life. What do you say? Grass has grown over it. Buy us some champagne, we’re both parched.”

  “If you like,” he said. “Just a small bottle.”

  He watched Ismelda take a bottle out of the fridge, uncork it, fill the glasses and put the bottle in an ice bucket. A nice image, he thought: two beautiful women and a good bottle in an ice bucket.

  The two men at the end of the bar had stopped talking. They slowly drank up their coffee, eyes on the bar. Then one put some money down.

  Hunkeler poured his beer into the glass, carefully: he wanted it to have a nice head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Casali go over to the two men and talk to them quietly. They nodded, smiled briefly across at Hunkeler and one ordered two beers.

  “Cheers,” said Maria la Guapa, and Hunkeler clinked glasses with the two women.

  Then Casali joined them. “What’s up?” he asked. “Do you want to talk to me?”

  “Yes,” Hunkeler said, “if you’ve got the time.”

  “Of course I’ve got the time. A foggy Monday evening – nothing’s going on.”

  They sat down at one of the little tables in the corner.

  “What were you whispering to those two men just now?” Hunkeler asked.

  “I told them you’re a detective inspector and were looking for my girlfriend’s murderer.”

  “And that calmed them down?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What kind of men are they?”

  “They’re Turks. They work for a Turkish firm.”

  “Protection money, that kind of thing?”

  Casali blew a speck of dust off his left cuff, in which there was a pearl. “How should I know? It’s no concern of mine. At least they both behave decently. I don’t imagine the police can prove anything against them?”

  Hunkeler nodded. He knew that too.

  “Yesterday, shortly before midnight,” he said, “a man was murdered on Burgfelderplatz.”

  “I know,” Casali said.

  “The interesting thing about it,” said Hunkeler, “is that the victim was a sixty-year-old former long-distance truck driver.”

  “That is indeed interesting.”

  “Why?”

  Casali gave his charming smile. “But you know why. Swiss men who can drive long-distance trucks are much sought-after. I’m sure you know the route from Turkey to Switzerland across the Balkans.”

  Again Hunkeler nodded. He knew that as well. “Have you heard anything in particular?”

  Casali thought. He had chiselled features, dark hair, light-blue eyes. All in all an elegant figure. And cold as an ice bucket.

  “Nothing in particular, no.”

  “There’s one other thing about this murder case,” Hunkeler said, “that’s also interesting. The man was strangled. With a cord or a thread. His left earlobe, in which there was a diamond, was cut open. With a pair of scissors apparently.”

  “And the money he had with him?”

  “The money was still there.”

  “So not murder in the course of robbery,” Casali said.

  Something strange was happening to his face. The man stayed the way he was, quietly sitting on the red artificialleather bench, his eyes fixed on the dance floor. Nothing moved in his face, neither a nostril nor a corner of his mouth. And yet it was suddenly a different face. Pale, pallid, snow-white in the beam of the revolving spotlight. He slowly took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit it with a silver lighter and took a drag, his eyes still fixed on the dance floor. He did that mechanically, with precision, without hesitation, but strikingly slowly. When he blew out the smoke the blood returned to his face.

  “That’s certainly striking,” he said, putting the lighter back in his pocket.

  “I’m still assuming,” Hunkeler said, “that it wasn’t you who killed Barbara Amsler.”

  Casali smiled, a delicate smile round his thin lips. “As you know, I’m not a violent man. I’m the manager here in the Singerhaus and across the river in the Klingental. Barbara was my girlfriend. I loved her.”

  Hunkeler smiled back, as sweet a smile as he could manage. “I know. But you should leave the case to the police. You should work together with us.”

  “But I’m happy to do that, very happy. Now you must excuse me. I have business to see to in the Klingental.”

  He stood up, gave a brief bow and went to the bar. There he whispered something briefly in the ear of the beautiful Angel from Seville and went out.

  Hunkeler stayed there watching Ismelda draw the beer for the men from Turkey. One waved to the two whores, but only Maria la Guapa went over. Angel gave Hunkeler a questioning look and he nodded. She came, slowly, she had all the time in the world. She sat down next to him, putting her hand on his knee.

  “If you want,” she said, “you can spend the night with me.”

  “That’s not possible, I don’t pay for love.”

  “Hombre, you have no problems otherwise?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m an old man. And my girlfriend’s away.”

  “But she’s coming back?”

  “Yes, I hope so. At the end of the year.”

  “You see, you need una mujer.”

  They went up to her room, which looked out over Marktplatz. He got undressed, lay down under the red plush blanket and curled up.

  “No,” she said once she’d got undressed too. “Get rid of the blanket. Just stretch out nicely there.”

  He felt her pull off the blanket and lay on his back. She knelt over him, kissing him slowly, almost lethargically, so that he could feel her hair on his face. Then she sat on him and took him inside her. Now he could feel her hair on his chest. In the mirror on the ceiling he could see her moving her beautiful bottom.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked once it was over.

  “Por amor, old man. And because you’ll find Barbara’s murderer.”

  She was still lying on top of him; she pulled the blanket over herself.

  “And because Enrico said you should sleep with me for free.”

  “Hombre, would it bother you if that were true?”

  “No, in fact it wouldn’t. Only a satisfied policeman is a good policeman for Casali. Come on now, let’s get some sleep.”

  He was woken by the clock in the Rathaus tower; it struck six times. He heard Angel, who was in his arms, snoring quietly. He looked at her neck, shimmering in the light from outside. You old goat, he thought proudly, you’ll never forget how to do it. Then it occurred to him that it was bribery of an official. If it should come out, he’d be dismissed on the spot. That cunning Casali, that son of a bitch, now had something he could use against him. He carefully pulled his left arm out from under her neck. He went over to the window and looked down on the square. A little truck rolled up; he saw the rear lights and the yellow Alsace licence plate. Two figures got out, a woman and a man. The man climbed up onto the loading platform and pushed some crates over to the edge. The woman took them down and carried them over to the stall, one after the other. Then the man climbed down, got in and drove off. The woman stood there for a moment and looked across at the stall, then the crates. Clearly she was wondering whether to unpack the vegetables right away and set them out or to have a quick coffee at the Restaurant Hasenburg. She disappeared to the left, in the direction of the Hasenburg.

  He got dressed, as quietly as he could, and went out of the room.

  At nine he was driving out of town heading for the border. The cars were crawling along, the fog was so thick. Once he only just managed to avoid a truck that seemed to be taking building rubble to the gravel pits just outside town, by braking sharply and pulling over into a parking bay on the right. “Bastard!” he shouted, fist clenched. Then he had to grin at his rage, his enjoymen
t of swearing.

  He knew that he had any amount of time. He’d take Suter’s advice next weekend or the one after. He’d get out at the Gare de l’Est, inhale the familiar smell of the Métro. Have a coffee in the Café Buci. Eat oysters with a bottle of Chablis. And then crawl into bed with Hedwig.

  At the border crossing he nodded to the Swiss guard, standing there, miserable in the fog. He could go to hell, and by the fastest route. All these men in uniform, these Suters and Madörins could go to hell, all these honourable men who’d suckled on uprightness with their mother’s milk and never gone off the straight and narrow.

  After Hésingue, while he was going up the road through the rolling fields, which he was aware of despite being unable to see them, he thought of Angel. It occurred to him that she’d said something important. Yes, she had said “por amor” and that he’d find Barbara’s murderer. Where had she got that from? Did she know more than she was letting on? And then she’d said something else that had struck him. He tried to remember what, but couldn’t.

  He took his left hand off the wheel and sniffed it. It smelt of Angel. Por amor, what a great night it had been!

  Up on the plateau at Trois Maisons, the sun forced its way through, a white light that almost tore the fog apart. He hesitated briefly at the turn-off to the village where his house was, but then continued straight ahead. Where was he heading? To Paris maybe? He could have got there by evening.

  After Tagsdorf he turned off right, heading for Morschwil Pond. The fog was so thick that the facades of the houses could hardly be seen.

  He turned off onto a field track, got out and peed on an apple tree that hadn’t been pruned for ages. Up in the fog the white mistletoe berries were gleaming. On the ground were rotting apples, a wasp crouching on one. It had a strangely yellow gleam.

  Then he heard a car approaching. It was coming from the direction of the pond. He saw the light of the headlamps and ducked behind a tree trunk. It was a small red Suzuki van with Basel plates, but he couldn’t read them. In white on the side he could see the first three letters of a name: ALB… At the wheel was a young man with black hair. He only saw the man briefly, but he seemed familiar. Then the van was gone.

  Hunkeler waited until he couldn’t hear the engine any more. He got in his car, opened the window and had a cigarette. He spent quite a long time thinking about it, not really sure what to do. Why shouldn’t a red van with a Basel plate actually drive along here? After all, Morschwil Pond was rented by Basel anglers.

  But what about the man driving it? Did he look like a Basel angler after some Alsatian carp? No, he looked more like a man from the Balkans. And now Hunkeler remembered. The man had been sitting in the Billiards Centre the previous evening.

  Hunkeler decided to be cautious. He got out and locked his car. He waited to see if he could hear anything. Nothing, no birds, not a sound. He went along the track, cautiously, keeping an eye on every bit of gravel. He entered the woods. Here the vehicle tracks were deeply embedded in the clay. There was water in them, and he walked in the middle between the tracks.

  Then he saw the hut. It was a dark shape on the edge of the woods, standing out against the light fog. Beside it, Hunkeler knew, was the pond.

  He waited a good five minutes. Once he heard something drop into the water. Or it could have been a fish jumping out, it was impossible to say.

  When nothing moved, he slowly went out from under the trees to the hut. The door was open; he looked inside. There were two tables there, benches, three bunk beds, a blue bottle of gas with a stove over it. There was no one there.

  He looked across at the side of the pond. There was a man there sitting on a folding chair, a rod in his hand. He was wearing a black coat and a black hat. The man seemed to be asleep.

  Hunkeler went over.

  “Come closer,” the man said. “I’ve been able to hear you for some time now, but it doesn’t bother me.”

  “What doesn’t bother you?” Hunkeler asked.

  “All the people sneaking around here. You hear every sound in the fog. The guy who was here half an hour ago didn’t think I could hear him. I heard his car, which he parked in the woods. I heard him go into the hut and fetch the bag, then go off into the woods again. I heard him start the engine and drive off. You were somewhat quieter, but I still heard you.”

  The man kept staring at the pond. Beside him he had an open tin of red maggots.

  “What kind of man?” Hunkeler asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t recognize him?”

  “I didn’t look. I have to keep my eye on the float out there.” He pointed at the water, where there was a red float.

  “Are you after carp?”

  “Yes.”

  The man had to be around seventy. He hadn’t turned his head one single time.

  “What kind of bag was it? Was it Hardy’s bag?”

  Now the man did turn his head. Bright, watery eyes, stubble.

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “I’m a detective inspector and I’m called Hunkeler. I’m investigating the case of Barbara Amsler, who was strangled in the middle of August.”

  “I heard about it. Alois Bachmann.”

  He looked out over the water again. The rod lay calm in his hands.

  “Both were strangled,” he said. “Hardy and Barbara. And both had something in their earlobe. I wouldn’t mind having Hardy’s diamond, that was quite a dazzler on his ear.”

  He gave a hoarse giggle. Then he spat into the water.

  It was a black travel bag,” he said. “It belonged to Hardy. He brought it back from a trip to Zagreb. He deposited it here in the hut. It was his property. Hardy was my friend.”

  “Do you know what was in the bag?”

  “Underwear, pyjamas, that kind of thing. Probably also some kind of drug that he was going to sell. From his trips to the Balkans. But you’ll know that. Anyway, are you allowed to pursue your investigations on French soil?”

  “I’m not pursuing any investigations. I’m just having a little chat with you.”

  Again Bachmann giggled. Then his body suddenly tensed, his look became fixed. The float out on the pond went down. The man counted out loud to twelve. Then he pulled the rod up, making the line vibrate. He slowly turned the reel and pulled a fish, a silvery gleam under the water, to the bank. He pulled it up onto the sand: it was a carp. The man bent down and tore the hook from its mouth. Then he watched the fish leaping up with powerful thrusts of its tail, trying to save itself. You could see the golden scales on its thick-set body, its wide-open mouth, its dark fins.

  “An eight-pounder,” the man said. “I pull them out and make them dance. Some need up to ten minutes before they’re back in the water.”

  “You don’t eat them?”

  “I haven’t eaten any carp since my wife died. I watch the way they open their mouths wide, as if they were gasping for air. Of course, it’s not air they’re gasping for but water. It only looks like that. My wife died in the middle of August, by the way.”

  He shook his head as if he thought that was funny.

  “Someone strangling a person’s just unacceptable. We all need air.”

  The fish lay there quietly, only its rear fins quivering slightly. Then it shot up, several times, fell into the water and disappeared. The man giggled, picked up the hook, put fresh maggots on it and cast the line.

  “I wouldn’t help you if Hardy wasn’t my friend. But throttling, that’s just unacceptable.”

  They both watched how the float was pulled into position by the weight and stayed there.

  “It could be that you were lucky just now, when the man was here. He could have killed you as well.”

  “That wouldn’t have bothered me. There’s nothing worth living for any longer. I sit here fishing the whole day. It calms me down. I’m not afraid of these Albanians anyway. They’re show-offs, there’s nothing behind it.”

  “Is it your opinion Hardy was killed by an Al
banian?”

  “I know nothing about that,” the man said. “I don’t care about anything any more. You don’t need to come back. If you want, you can have a look round the hut. The bag was under the rear bunk bed. Go now.”

  He leaned forward, resting his lower arms on his knees. He seemed to have fallen asleep in a second.

  Hunkeler went into the hut and looked under the bunk bed. There was no black bag there.

  He drove back down into the valley of the Hundsbach to his village, in second gear, keeping well to the right on the bends: Schwoben, Hausgauen, Hundsbach, Franken, Jettingen. By the side of the road he could see sweetcorn as high as a man, with withered leaves and yellow cobs. At one point the headlights of a corn harvester shone across the road, he saw the red monster in the fog. At St Imber’s Cross, where he ought to have turned off, he continued straight ahead to Knoeringue. Münch’s inn wouldn’t be closed, he knew, it was Tuesday. He parked outside the inn, right beside the church. There were a good dozen vehicles there, cars and vans of suppliers and tradesmen who had come from the surrounding area to have lunch.

  Before he went in he looked at the maxim that had been carved into the lintel of the house opposite:

  Sure is Death, unsure the Day.

  And know the Hour no man may.

  Therefore do Good. This thought hold fast:

  That every Hour may be thy Last.

  A good maxim, he thought. And somehow comforting. For how could you live if you knew the hour of your own death in advance?

  He waited a moment. Again there wasn’t a sound to be heard. The fog seemed to swallow up every noise. And yet Alois Bachmann, waiting for his golden carp, had heard everything.

  The restaurant was almost full. All men, some in overalls by which you could distinguish the carpenter, the plasterer, the chauffeur. The tables were covered with white paper, carafes of Côtes du Rhône and water. Lively chatter, some French, some Alsatian.

  The plat du jour was semolina soup, veal tongue with capers, stewed apples as dessert. “Yes,” Hunkeler said, “with soup and dessert. And a glass of wine.”