It was just after 11:30 a.m. when he got through to his man in Istanbul; he knew his way around there, must know the city by heart, had been concerned for years with hashish and hippies there, with a whole staff of experienced people, including women who might occasionally go looking for expensive shoes of a certain make and know where to find them. They must know every haunt and hiding place, from the smartest and most expensive hotel to the most miserable hovel; then, too, they had all the pertinent photos and data, for every contingency, although so far Turkey had made no significant entry onto the scene. He had some difficulty in explaining to their man in Istanbul the problem of “knows a lot about women’s feet”: the latter found it “a bit farfetched,” didn’t expect anything in the way of results from keeping the five shoe stores under observation. The possibility of catching a big fish, perhaps one of the biggest, seemed in the end to convince the man, but even so he had not only to threaten with Dollmer but to involve him directly and fight his lack of imagination. Dollmer was finally persuaded—and he too only by the mention of the big fish—to reinforce the Istanbul man’s motivation and to request official assistance. After all, there wasn’t much involved in checking out five shoe stores, later perhaps in Ankara or Iskenderun, where European footwear of that make appeared to be popular too. The returning of the boy was without question an alarming indication. And as to “involvement”—that really made him laugh! After having involved all those men over so many months, all they had caught was that fellow Schubler, Mrs. Breuer’s lover, with a pistol of 1912 vintage. Of course official assistance was required: shoe stores were under no obligation to supply information, and he was pretty sure their quarry was no longer in Istanbul, now that the boy had left a trail leading there.
The Turkish engineer hadn’t positively identified Veronica Tolm, and the boy’s statement: “That was my mother” could
have been rehearsed, the tears staged, it was quite possible that they had sent some female accomplice from Lebanon across the border. He didn’t want to risk giving the boy a thorough grilling, he really did seem to be a cool and collected little fellow.
There would be no elbow room in Hubreichen, almost impossible to hide the boy, difficult to conceal his origin: he had such a startling resemblance to his father, and the people in the village would begin to wonder, draw their own conclusions, expect to be enlightened, and it wouldn’t be long before the press seized upon the cool young customer: the idyll in Hubreichen must be brought to an end, dissolved, particularly since there was trouble with Fischer in the offing—he was afraid of “environmental damage” and was claiming custody.
He had to bring up the massive threat represented by the Zummerling people to persuade Dollmer to make an urgent request for official assistance in the shoe affair. It didn’t involve that much: altogether fourteen shoe stores in three cities to be questioned about size-38 women customers, the stores to be kept under observation, photographs to be shown. The Turkish police were always cooperative, Turkish-German relations could stand a minor extra load of that kind, especially as there was glory to be reaped.
On the Madonna front, as he called it to himself, all was quiet, things were running smoothly, quietly, from room to room, and Miss Klensch seemed even to be basking a little in all the attention, while her fiancé sat in the cafeteria reading the newspaper, and good old umbrella-trusting Käthe listened to the explanations of her husband, who for once seemed to have waxed enthusiastic, possibly owing to the rapt attention of Eva Klensch, who seemed to be hanging not only on his lips but on his sleeve, a fact which in turn—as reported in detail by Grobmöhler and his crew, specialists in museums, galleries, concerts, openings, etc.—appeared to amuse nice old Mrs. Tolm. Apparently the swarm of spectators following “in clusters”—as Grobmöhler put it—took pretty Miss Klensch for a daughter or daughter-in-law. At any rate “Cherry Lips”—that
was the code name for Miss Klensch—behaved “with deference.” All quiet on the Madonna front, and as for the private room at Café Getzloser—that was almost a routine matter, requiring only the usual four men, two in the kitchen, one at the entrance, one in the little courtyard.
In Hubreichen, too: activity but nothing disquieting. Young Papa Tolm, first name Rolf, had talked on the phone with his young son, had thrown down his paintbrush, asked for time off, and unobtrusively collected the little boy in Tolmshoven; surprisingly enough, tears on both sides, tears also from Katharina Schröter and Sabine Fischer, who questioned the boy about Veronica, evidently to no avail. “But you must know where your mother is, you must know how she is, how she looks. And where does she get her shoes down there? Always walking in desert sand or on sharp rocks—that’s terribly hard on them.…” The boy—although with more warmth than when replying to the officers—remained cool, saying merely: “She’s fine, and she still has shoes. At least I’ve never seen her with bare feet. Bev is very nice to her.”
“Who?”
“Bev.” The subject of “Bev” was dropped, the shock must have gone very deep. And of his own accord, unasked, the boy would obviously say nothing. Not even at table. Soup, stew, salad, and bread—when, in answer to questions, he got on the subject of differences in food, he merely said that he had always had enough to eat, and when asked whether he had always liked the food he said no, but added that he hadn’t always liked it here either. To questions about games and playmates, as to all other questions, he gave noncommittal answers, until finally his father said firmly, although not angrily: “Don’t bother him for a bit, it’s quite an adjustment.” At table they also discussed and planned for the meeting with the Zelger and Tolm grandparents. He, Holzpuke, didn’t want to interfere, that was their private affair. It was first thought that the boy should sleep in the kitchen, since the bishop’s room was felt to be rather much for him; but then, after an inspection of the same, the young
master graciously consented to take up quarters there, for the time being, “till everything’s straightened out,” said his father, who around three-thirty calmly went back to his work at the Halster farm. It remained to be seen whether, in the presence of the women and children, the boy wouldn’t start talking after all. By five-thirty nothing of the kind was recorded, nor was “Bev” mentioned again; so a call was put through to the grandparents in Hetzigrath and Tolmshoven: great delight on the part of all four old people, somewhat marred by the meager news of Veronica. Yes, the ducks on the moat and the blackberry jam from Hetzigrath—and of course the owl—yes, yes, he remembered and was looking forward to seeing them—and yes, they were fine; urgings from both grandmothers not to come today, it would be too much for the boy, and of course they couldn’t call old Mr. Beverloh, he didn’t have a phone, never had. Silence. The sound of knitting, playing on the floor, chestnuts being roasted, later some singing, or rather humming, the words indistinguishable but it sounded religious.
The lunch at Café Getzloser passed off uneventfully. A discussion of Christianity, Catholic variety, with Miss Klensch and young Herbert Tolm doing most of the talking, controversial, with agreement only on the uniqueness of Jesus, everything else defended by “Cherry Lips,” challenged by Herbert: sacraments and divine service, celibacy and the priesthood as such, not a single word of criminalistic relevance, no reference to the canceled Anti-Auto Action. An interesting group indeed: the converted and friendly “Cherry Lips,” her fiancé, a quiet one but known to have a fondness for folk dancing, also for songs that he sang to the guitar—folk songs, no pop—and then that Herbert, quite a nice boy actually, a bit too inclined to philosophize, a believer in Jesus but not in Jesus-people, and it was really quite interesting, the way he argued with the Klensch woman, but nothing, nothing, of criminalistic interest.
The analysis of the letter paper had produced nothing new:
needless to say, Beverloh’s fingerprints were pure cheek, but no surprise since his handwriting was recognizable anyway. The paper itself gave no hints, sold by the thousand, available in every hotel, at every stationer’s, in Turkey, in the Near, Middle, and Far East.…
His choice for the inner circle around the grave in Horrnauken would have been Grobmohler and his cultural crew: they were men trained to be discreet, men who had never yet been conspicuous at any opening, and after all it was quite in order to classify a funeral as a cultural scene. The terrain there was difficult: woodland paths, drainage ditches, bicycle paths, camping, playground, and cooking areas, much favored for outings by their Dutch neighbors. Another two or three days, and the “bucket” might already be on its way. Fortunately there was that very comfortable inn in Horrnauken, venison, quiet rooms, and he might even squeeze out a few hours of relaxation, or even half a day, while he was scrutinizing maps, details of which had to be checked on the ground, and arranging for the placing of the various security cordons. Scarcely anyone of rank and reputation would fail to be there; fortunately Kortschede had been a Protestant, so there would be no Catholic dignitaries. But one never knew, perhaps protocol allowed for the presence of cardinals, too. They grasped every opportunity, accepted any risk, at times one was tempted to suspect that they positively lusted after publicity and danger. Too bad he had to do without Zurmack, Lühler, and Hendler. Of course he wouldn’t have sent them on a training course if he had known what he would be up against. But surely to recall them now would be senseless. No doubt they were all packed, and after all Horrnauken was in the jurisdiction of a different
Land
of the Federal Republic.
Apparently Mrs. Breuer and her lover were now looking around Hubreichen for a place to stay and for jobs; otherwise quiet reigned there as well. Apparently the runaway priest had returned too, and intended to face his church council, the community as a whole. That was a good thing, that distracted
attention from the cool young customer, who seemed to be accepting his restriction to cottage and garden; presumably was used to that.
When he phoned Dollmer to report his move to Horrnauken, he detected traces of geniality in his voice that should have made him suspicious. Dollmer was really almost nice, said with a laugh: “Turkish honey action is under way,” was satisfied with the smooth course of events on the Madonna front, once again strongly advised against grilling the boy, and at the mention of the expected crush in Hubreichen said: “We’ll end up having to find a monastery for the whole gang. Then Fischer won’t be able to claim environmental damage. So, have a good trip, and rest up a bit, if you can.”
All quiet in Blorr. Deathly silence.
As the day wore on, the boy seemed to her more and more weird, as if wound up, embalmed, mummified: at table, walking in the park, on the balcony, in the corridors, in the courtyard. She called him her “frozen grandson”; he told her nothing, allowed nothing to be wormed out of him: Where had he spent those two and a half years? How? Nothing. He had grown handsomer than ever, those eyes, gray-blue, reminded her of the surface of volcanic lakes; cold (“He gets his eyes from you,” Tolm claimed). The ducks drew a laugh from him, he said they looked stuffed. But when she asked him whether he had ever eaten stuffed duck, he just laughed and spoke of Grandma Paula’s jam and the helicopter flight, reeled off the names of the tributaries of the Rhine, monuments, churches, cathedrals, bridges; a cold, frozen map. And amused himself by ramming his head against Tolm’s stomach, over and over again. No, not against his heart, not yet, though he did resemble a vigorous ram. And all the time that wretched telephoning: Dollmer obviously refusing to accept the call, Stabski claiming ignorance,
Dollmer’s deputy disclaiming any authority, Holzpuke said to have left to organize the security measures for Kortschede’s funeral, and both Kulgreve and Amplanger “regretting” that they couldn’t get hold of anyone. Tolm became impatient, then angry, finally shouted at Amplanger: “I want my letter, I want the letter!” She had never seen him so furious, not once in thirty-five years: Tolm in a rage, genuinely furious, that was something new. He skipped his bath, refused to phone Grebnitzer, smoked, suggested to Blurtmehl that he occupy himself with the boy: apparently he too was afraid of his own grandson, whom he had so sorely missed. This child, this stranger, coolly grabbed ëclairs, refused tea, insisted on lemonade, dashed about the corridors, and made the officers jittery by aiming at them with imaginary machine pistols, imitating their rat-a-tat with startling realism.
There were now eight of them, three in the corridor, two on the stairs, three in the courtyard: she knew only one—he had been at the museum with them that morning, a quiet fellow who, in the face of Holger I’s cold restlessness, had difficulty in remaining quiet and polite. He stood there shaking his head as he watched Miss Klensch take bow, arrows, and target from the trunk of her car and suggest some archery practice with the boy in the orangery. She was a member of an archery club, she said, always kept everything in the car, and made use of every opportunity to practice, even when she was traveling; the boy had turned down all “conventional games” but had jumped at the idea of archery.
Holzpuke’s deputy examined the bow, which seemed remarkably powerful, examined the metal-reinforced tips of the arrows, seemed put out that Miss Klensch should have “slipped through” the controls with this equipment, would only permit the game subject to the approval of his superior, took the sheaf of arrows with him when he stepped aside to obtain instructions over his transceiver. Who was he talking to? Was Holzpuke somewhere around after all, was there something going on? What? The officers were all so serious, so close-mouthed,
Miss Klensch was embarrassed, almost offended, that gay, enigmatic little person who had been of such help to her in the kitchen, making the éclairs, whipping the cream. Miss Klensch protested that this was a kind of shooting that made no noise at all, she praised the almost soundless whirring of the arrow, the quivering in the target, the “spiritual dimension” of archery, and she had a hard time restraining her impatience when the officer declared that he was sorry but he must “temporarily take charge of the equipment, one never knows what children might get up to—after all, it is a weapon.” Miss Klensch insisted with some asperity on its being called “sporting equipment.” The officer confirmed her definition but added that some sporting equipment happened also to be a weapon, or capable of being used as a weapon: spear, hammer, hockey stick, even balls of hard material. “This area is regarded as an extremely high security risk—I am sorry. When you leave—of course …” There was barely a trace of irony, only extreme tension in her voice when she asked whether they needed to know her date of birth, address, occupation. The officer answered almost gently: “That won’t be necessary, that information is all known, to me too.” For a fraction of a second it looked as if Miss Klensch were going to fly into a rage—then she burst into tears, threw herself on Käthe’s breast, and sobbed: “What kind of life is this? … Oh, Mrs. Tolm—I wish we could dissolve into thin air.” Throughout all this, Blurtmehl had shown no sign of personal emotion, even now remained calm, smiled, and said: “Then I had better take the young master back to Hubreichen, especially since, if I may remind you, you are expecting a guest.”