The Basel Killings

by Hansjörg Schneider

  “Heard anything new about Binaku?” Hunkeler asked.

  “The lad clearly got burnt to death, in his car near Heiligbronn. The old man, Ismail, was seen at the Römerbad Hotel in Badenweiler. That’s a luxury hotel where they know all the tricks. When the police appeared he’d already gone.”

  “Well I never,” Hunkeler said. “In Badenweiler, is he? And I thought he’d be somewhere on the Adriatic.”

  “Why on the Adriatic?”

  “Because that’s where the sun shines. Old Binaku is a man of the world. He doesn’t hang around in the fog if there’s an alternative.”

  “The Römerbad Hotel,” Hasenböhler said, spitting out a hazelnut, probably because it was rancid, “a spa hotel. Just imagine: splashing around in the warm water a bit, then caviar and champagne. Sometimes I wonder whether we aren’t fighting on the wrong side.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s not a matter of money here, it’s about justice.”

  “Justice, what is that?”

  “It’s what we live on. We get our wages by seeing to it that there is justice. In your case, justice means that at the moment you have to spend your time getting fed up here in the fog.”

  “Oh, go on then,” Hasenböhler said sadly, “keep on running me down. Go and have a walk, just go.”

  Hunkeler walked up through the woods to the hill that went across into Alsace. He could feel his heart thumping, he’d smoked too much again the previous day.

  It had been a good night of love, he recalled later, sleeping in each other’s arms. Nothing more, just that. But warmly and with fondness. He went past an old border-stone. It must have come from the time before 1870; a large F was scratched on the west side. Alsace had belonged to France back then; later to Germany, after 1918 to France, during the Second World War to Germany and now to France again. That was presumably why the people here were so open and peaceable – they were sick to death of frontiers.

  He went across empty maize fields, disturbing a flock of crows who were pecking up the last grains, and enjoying the sight of the mistletoe up in the trees. He’d get a clump like that on Christmas Eve and hang it over the door of the house, he did that every Christmas.

  He turned off to the right down the valley in which the Alsatian village of Neuwiller lay. Going into Luc Borer’s inn, he ordered roast goose, in honour of St Martin, and a glass of Côtes du Rhône. He took out the pumpkin seed and examined it. It was still fresh. Clearly some walker had recently been sitting on the bench, nibbling pumpkin seeds. What was remarkable about that? One man would nibble pumpkin seeds, another hazelnuts. He popped the seed in his mouth. It didn’t taste that bad.

  Out on the road, he wondered what he should do. Go back to Basel and sit in the kitchen drinking tea? Or continue the walk to his house? He’d be there in two hours and there was always something to do: chop firewood, prune the hornbeam, get the garden ready for winter.

  He didn’t want to do that, he wanted to have company, talk to someone, and specifically with the old actor. He headed off in a westerly direction, past boggy meadows with black-and-white cows standing around in them, through old mixed woodland with beech, oak, acacias. A rather unkempt area, almost completely undisturbed for centuries and quietly growing rampant, not done up for a quick profit: the tracks full of potholes, the fruit trees unpruned, the fruit rotting on the ground. He recalled the wasp on that apple by Morschwil Pond, the yellow shining in the fog. He thought of Alois Bachmann making the carp dance, gasping for air. He would surely have had to spend several hours in the Waaghof being interrogated by Madörin. Perhaps he’d even had to spend one or two nights in custody. What had he told them? More than Hunkeler knew? That was improbable, he knew that kind of man. They were as tough as old boots, they wouldn’t be very impressed by a detective sergeant.

  He came to the road between Hagenthal-le-Bas and Leymen, crossed it and went on along the woodland track that seemed to continue unending to the west. He’d never followed it right to the end, it looked as if he would end up in the wilderness. You could get lost here in the trackless waste and disappear. And not even the bones left by the wild animals would be found.

  That would have been what the wife of the old actor had felt when she had gone out in the snow on an ice-cold February day to sit down somewhere, to rest and to die. Hunkeler had known her well, they’d liked each other without getting too close. She’d been a creature of the forest, a fairy-tale beast like Master Brock. It was days before her corpse had been found.

  Hunkeler was familiar with that feeling. He knew that, especially in November, it could arise from one hour to the next. That it could spread itself through your head and body, seductively inviting you to pause, sit down, wait for the cold gradually creeping into your heart. He also knew that he wouldn’t succumb to that feeling, he still enjoyed life too much.

  He came to the place where the badger had crossed his path and led him to the burnt-out car. He went over to see if it was still there. It wasn’t. The snake scratched on the tree wasn’t there any more either, someone had cut it off. It was just the burst-open bark on a few trees that bore witness to the intense heat there had been.

  He returned to the track. After a few hundred yards he came to the turn-off that went left down to Heiligbronn. An early holy place with a healing spring, the basin to bathe in, hewn out of the rock, was still there. Beside it was the chapel, through which the place had been Christianized. The old farmhouse from which, in good weather, you had a view out over the whole Leymen valley.

  Hunkeler had often come this way. Thick undergrowth blocking the view. Yellow gravel along which rainwater had found its way. Then, suddenly and still surprising, the projecting roof of the farmhouse. The boules court, the damp foundation walls. The lime tree, the cherry tree, the cackling hens.

  He knocked on the door and went in. Stallinger was sitting as usual at the table, a book in front of him. He looked to see who it was, got up and in his trained voice declaimed the lines he’d just been reflecting on:

  “Sounds of the Night

  Tell me the sounds of the night, O Muse,

  Waves on the sleepless ear, a flood:

  First the wonted barking of the watch-dogs,

  Then the clock duly striking the hour,

  Then two fishermen chatting by the shore,

  Then? Nothing more than the obscure

  Ghostly sound of the unbroken hush,

  Like the sighs from the breast of a youth,

  Like the murmur of a well, deep-hewn,

  Like the dull beat of a muffled oar,

  Then the unheard step of slumber.

  “That’s by C. F. Meyer. Incredibly precise, that mood when you’re lying awake at night listening to the noises that come to your ear. Since my wife died I can’t stand proper music any more. All I can stand now is the music of words.”

  “I like poems,” Hunkeler said. “As far as I’m concerned you can keep on reciting as much as you like.”

  “Yes, earlier on I could keep on reciting poems I knew off by heart for hours on end. But my wife took my memory with her to the grave. Now I can only read aloud from books. Are you going to have a bottle of wine with me?”

  “No, tea, if you don’t mind.”

  “Come on then.”

  They went into the kitchen, which had been built into the slope. Dark marsh plants with big leaves could be seen through the window. Two black cats sitting by the window put up their tails and miaowed. A limestone sink, a dresser, a wooden range with a gas stove on it. A table with two chairs, on one of which was the urn with the ashes of the creature of the forest.

  “Are you actually not going to bury her?” Hunkeler asked.

  “No. It’s my descendants who’re going to do that when I’m dead. Both urns together, on the edge of the woods behind the house.”

  “But I can sit down?”

  “Yes, of course. There you are.”

  He put the urn in one corner and Hunkeler sat down.

  “I just ca
n’t part from her,” Stallinger said. “Perhaps I could if I were to start a new life. But I’m too old for that.”

  He went to the small stove and lit it. Then he shuffled across to the sink, put water into a pan, carried it over to the stove and put it on. He opened the dresser, took out a bottle of wine, uncorked it and poured himself a glass. He filled the tea ball with herbs, hung it in a mug, picked up his wine glass and had a drink. He did all that without saying a word; he couldn’t do something and talk at the same time any more.

  “Let the cats in,” Hunkeler said, “they’re hungry.”

  “Nonsense. They know very well that they only get something when I’m having my dinner.”

  He emptied the hot water into the jug. Hunkeler would very much have liked to ask for some milk, but there probably wasn’t any there.

  The dresser was still open. On one shelf there was a bottle. On the label it said that it was Albo olive oil.

  “That bottle of olive oil,” Hunkeler asked, “where did you get it?”

  “What do you mean? It’s just ordinary olive oil.”

  “No, that’s not ordinary olive oil.”

  Stallinger refilled his glass. It was the finest Burgundy.

  “I do have a problem with you,” he said. “Because you’re not just my friend but you’re a policeman as well. I’ve had a problem with policemen since I came to Switzerland from Berlin in 1939. They very nearly sent me back again.”

  “I’m not in the section dealing with immigrants, I’m a detective inspector. I can’t do anything about what happened back then.”

  “There’s been enough detectives sniffing round here. They didn’t find anything, I didn’t tell them anything.”

  Hunkeler took a sip of tea. It was still too hot and the milk was missing. But if he took it easy, everything would sort itself out.

  “I’ve nothing to do with the Albo firm,” he said. “I’m looking for someone who’s strangled two people. A whore and an old man. He’ll do it again if I don’t find him.”

  Stallinger was still unmoved. “If you’ve nothing to do with it, then why are you asking?”

  Hunkeler thumped the table with his fist, making the wine glass fall over. He just managed to catch it before it fell on the floor. He saw that the cats had disappeared from the window ledge.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I was unfriendly there. I’m being kept away from my work, first of all by the public prosecutor and then by you. I can’t bear it.”

  Stallinger poured himself more wine. He drank slowly, taking small sips.

  “A Monsieur Bardet from Mulhouse was here,” he said, “three or four times, a pleasant chap. He asked a lot of questions. But how can I answer them if I know nothing?”

  “The guy I’m looking for,” Hunkeler said, “seems to be a psychopath. First he strangles his victims, then he cuts open their earlobes.”

  “Why their earlobes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s crazy,” Stallinger said. “That’s terrible.”

  Opening the table drawer, he took out a cheroot and lit it. He watched the bluish smoke drifting up to the ceiling.

  “A man acting under some kind of compulsion, I suppose?”

  Hunkeler shrugged, he really didn’t know.

  “Right then,” Stallinger said, “if you insist. Three weeks ago someone came driving down the forest track. Hardly anyone drives down there. It was a nice young man, very well dressed. Someone from the Balkans, as I immediately realized. But he spoke good Swiss German. He was in a red Punto with Swiss plates. He said he came from Albania and worked in Basel and he had a few bottles of olive oil with him. If he were to import all of them at the same time, he’d have difficulties. One bottle was allowed. Could he leave them here, he’d collect them one by one? I agreed and we hid them in the pigsty. He gave me three bottles, they’re in the dresser. It’s excellent olive oil, by the way.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “The way Albanians look. When you found the wrecked car up there I became suspicious. It was said to have been a red Punto. I took out one of the bottles we’d hidden and compared it with those he’d given me. On the label was a little black bird that wasn’t on the three others.”

  “Where is the bottle?”

  “I threw it away. In the forest up there, where no one will find it. A few days ago, another car came driving down the forest track. It was another Albanian, also very well dressed. He said he was a cousin of the other one. His task was to collect the bottles. I agreed at once, since I felt there was something fishy about the whole business. He counted them and said one was missing. But I knew nothing about it. He gave me a funny look, as if he distrusted me.”

  “Would you be able to find the place where you threw the bottle away?”

  “Of course. But I don’t want to. The bottle stays where it is.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” said Hunkeler. “What are you up to? The guy could have killed you.”

  “Oh come on. Who’s going to send an old man like me to his grave?”

  “At the place where the burnt-out car was someone carved a snake in the bark of a tree. The snake’s not there any more.”

  “I know. It was two days ago, in the evening. I heard a car’s engine, from up there. Then it was quiet. Then the car drove off again. The next morning I went up there. I saw that the snake had been cut out. Somehow or other it reminded me of the falcon. I mean what is that, a falcon and a snake? That’s why I took off the label before I threw the bottle away.”

  He opened the table drawer and took out an Albo label.

  “Is that a falcon or not?”

  Indeed, at the bottom left, scarcely recognizable, was a black falcon.

  “Give it to me,” Hunkeler said.

  “No,” Stallinger said, putting the label in the ashtray and setting it alight. It curled up in the flame. They watched as the fire ate up the paper, leaving ash behind.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, that’s the best way,” Stallinger said. “Now we’ll have something to eat, if that’s all right by you. Then we’ll have a game of boules.”

  They had ham and bread. Then they went out to the boules court and threw the boules by the light of a lamp. Now and then they heard the noise of the owls that lived in the rafters of the barn. It sounded like coughing. They played on doggedly until midnight. Hunkeler didn’t win one single time.

  At around two the next afternoon he went into the Sommereck. Edi was just stirring a white powder into a glass of water. He took a drink and screwed up his face in disgust.

  “That’s my lunch,” he said, “the doctor’s prescribed it for me. It’s supposed to be everything I need to build up my body. But who’s talking about building up bodies? I’m talking about hunger.”

  “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

  “Because the doctor says I have to lose at least ninety pounds if I want to last until retirement age. And I’d certainly like to do that. After all, I’ve been paying my contributions for years.”

  He passed the Basler Zeitung to Hunkeler. “Look, just read that, it’s about where we live. The Wild West was a peaceful place compared with our St Johann.”

  Hunkeler read a short report about a shoot-out that had taken place shortly after nine in the evening on Kannenfeldplatz two days ago. A man, apparently Turkish, had taken refuge in the former Café Entenweid, now a grocer’s, and used it as cover as he shot a pistol across the square. From there someone behind the kiosk had been firing at the store. No one had been injured. The store owner, an Albanian from Kosovo, had informed the police. When they arrived, the Turk had disappeared. There were no clues apart from empty cartridges and bullet holes.

  “So,” said Edi, “on a quite ordinary evening there were bullets flying all over Kannenfeldplatz, just as in New York during Al Capone’s days. And nothing is done about it. For the BaZ the shoot-out’s worth nothing more than a brief note. What’s the point of all this? When are the police finally going
to clear all this up? And why is a Kosovo Albanian actually allowed to turn a lovely old local inn into an Albanian store?”

  “I’m old and stupid,” Hunkeler said, “moreover, I come from the country and don’t understand city life or its outlook at all.”

  “What? Are you kidding?”

  “What makes you say that? I’m just explaining the situation. Anyway, have you got anything to eat?”

  “I’ve got smoked ham from a wild sow, from the landlord of the Angel in Todtnauberg. But I’m not allowed to sell it.”

  “You want the ham to go off? Off you go, slice it up and serve it up.”

  Edi disappeared into the kitchen. Hunkeler took out his phone and dialled Lüdi’s number.

  “You know I can’t give you any information,” Lüdi said. “Why are you embarrassing me like this?”

  “Just a morsel of information. It’s nothing to do with Albo. I’d just like to know whether Turkoğlu and Sermeter have left.”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “Because on Monday evening, the day before yesterday that is, I saw the pair of them going into town on the number 3 at 10 p.m.”

  “Oh, now that is interesting. Are you sure?”

  “Would I have called you otherwise?”

  “OK then. We have made enquiries at the airport. I can tell you for sure that Turkoğlu and Sermeter left from the EuroAirport on Tuesday morning. Anything else?”

  “No. Thank you, my angel.”

  At four that afternoon Hunkeler decided to go to Badenweiler to get some treatment for his lumbago. He crossed the border after Huningue, drove across the old Garnisonsplatz and over the Europa Bridge, then slotted into the northbound traffic going along the autobahn at breakneck speed. They’re all crazy, he thought, these German racing drivers in their BMWs and Mercedes, they all believe it should be a clear run for those who can do it, even in thick fog. He pressed his foot right down in his small car but was still constantly overtaken.

  One hour later he was parking outside the Römerbad Hotel – a magnificently elaborate building more than a hundred years old, in the spa district with a view over the Rhine plain. A roofed interior courtyard surrounded by balustrades, a Steinway concert grand, lots of marble. At the desk was the receptionist dressed in respectable black, his Mediterranean hair slicked back, otherwise there was not a soul to be seen. Just right for a November-weary Hunkeler.