Collision of Evil (11 page)

Waldbaer took a sip of his warming beer. “Perceptive as always,” he remarked. “More details. The two people I mention are not the same age by a long shot and both are male. The foreigner is fairly young; early forties. The villager is twice that age. They confer for about an hour. So, what would the two people I have just described have to discuss?”

Markus rapped the table lightly with a fist. “My first guess follows the Law of Simplicity—always look for the least torturous explanation. I say they were talking about something touristy. You know—some local point of interest. An old villager would know that stuff and a foreigner, a hiker say, would be interested in those sorts of details.”

Waldbaer shook his head. “It’s too simple. Why wouldn’t the foreigner just go to the tourist bureau or buy a guidebook? The local fellow, by the way, isn’t one of these old mountain goats who can describe every trail and rock between Chiemsee and Kufstein. You’ll have to do better, Markus.”

The school teacher shrugged and looked over at Hans. “Your turn.”

Hans steepled his fingers. “There has to be a reason why this tourist held a long conversation with this
particular
villager. What that connection is might be unknowable at present. But, you want possibilities. What you describe could be a chance meeting—two people find themselves in the same place and just start talking and the conversation sustains itself for a while. Not all that farfetched because a foreigner and a local would each have completely different life experiences to relate. But, if we want to rule out chance encounter, one of the two would have had to initiate the contact. Either the foreigner contacted the villager or the villager contacted the foreigner.”

Waldbaer thought about this and released a slow sigh. “You might be right. But I don’t think the foreigner knows anybody
around here. Which would mean that the villager contacted this visitor. For reasons unknown.”

The school teacher spoke up, one hand idly playing at the sleeve of his sweater. “You know something that you aren’t telling us. Any additional tidbit to cough up, Franz?”

The Kommissar smiled. “Maybe. But telling you anything more would make you accomplices to police work.”

His companions emitted a chorus of protestations. “Well,” said Markus, “we’re this far already, let’s finish it. What do you know, Franz?” The detective knew that he had successfully hooked them, as intended. He had only to keep an eye to police propriety and not reveal privileged information.

“All right, gentlemen. The foreigner is no tourist. He’s here for a reason. He is a close relation to someone murdered here recently; the case is active with no solid leads. He’s lodging in the area and intent on staying until we uncover the murderer.”

The doctor seemed newly energized and his eyes betrayed passion for the first time that evening. “This meeting with a villager has to do with the murder. It’s a lead the visitor turned up, or someone has offered him information. Does this foreigner speak German?”

“Yes. Speaks it well.”

“That clinches it,” the retired doctor continued with assurance, “something to do with information about the murder.”

Waldbaer turned the beer glass slowly around between his palms and wondered. Perhaps it was after all just coincidence that brought Hirter and Sedlmeyer together. But his nature rebelled at this facile explanation. Coincidences occurred in life, but rarely, like miracles. Waldbaer did not feel disposed to base the plinth of his investigation on such uncertain ground. Odd as it might be, his table companions were probably right; the murder was the key. Hirter was focused solely on his brother’s death. The American would not be interested in chatting to some wizened local about the origins of Bavarian wood carving.

But what could Sedlmeyer know that could even vaguely be associated with the murder of Hirter’s brother? There was only one
way to find out. He would have to confront Hirter or Sedlmeyer, or both, and ask directly what they had discussed. This conclusion reached, Waldbaer felt better and permitted himself a long swallow of beer.

“All right,” he said to his two friends. “You’ve convinced me. The meeting must have had to do with the murder. I’ll pursue matters accordingly.”

The two others at table beamed with self-satisfaction bordering on smugness. The detective raised his glass and invoked the Germanic equivalent of “cheers.”
Zum Wohl.

It was a tactic designed to underline his authority. Waldbaer had called Hirter at the hotel and curtly requested that the American meet him at the police station. He had toyed with driving out to meet Hirter at the Hotel Alpenhof, but rejected the notion as overly deferential. After all, he was the Kommissar charged with the investigation and Hirter was merely a next of kin to the victim. Waldbaer intended to do some direct talking to Hirter about Sedlmeyer, and the hotel lobby was hardly the most conducive setting for such a dialogue. Much better the spartan ambience of police offices exuding unalloyed seriousness of purpose.

Waldbaer flipped through the front section of the
Sueddeutsche Zeitung
as he drank his second cup of morning coffee, but found nothing meriting more than a quick glance. He had asked Hirter to meet him at eleven and the clock on the wall informed him that it was now a quarter past that assigned hour. The lack of punctuality annoyed Waldbaer, who had purposely given Hirter a civilized appointment time.

With its usual squeak of protest, the wooden door to Waldbaer’s office groaned and an orange-sweatered girl from the secretarial pool with equally orange hair peeked in.

“There’s a Herr Hirter to see you. If you’re busy, he can wait by the main desk.”

Waldbaer shook his head from side to side, noting that his neck felt slightly stiff.

“No. Have him come in. Any coffee out there?”

“Not anymore. Except from the machine upstairs. Want me to get you a cup of that?”

“Let the motor vehicle boys drink that swill. I’ll get something across the street later.”

With a nod, the orange apparition disappeared, replaced seconds later by the lanky, unsmiling form of Robert Hirter.

“Guten morgen, Herr Hirter,” the Kommissar beckoned his visitor to a chair in front of his desk.

Waldbaer noted with mild annoyance that his guest had dressed for the occasion in a striped polo shirt, blue jeans, and Nikes. In an act of silent sartorial censure, the police officer adjusted his tie. Waldbaer folded the newspaper on his desk with a fastidious motion. He sighed, something he found himself doing often these days.

“Some development in my brother’s case, I hope, is why you asked me to come here?” The American was leaning forward, both hands grasping the overstuffed arms of the chair.

Waldbaer held a hand up in the universal gesture for “stop” and drilled his eyes into Hirter’s.

“Herr Hirter, today you will answer questions, not pose them. But since you’ve asked, the answer is no, there is not a stitch of anything new in your brother’s murder case. But maybe you have something for me.”

The police officer stopped to gauge Hirter’s reaction, but the American just gave him a puzzled look.

“Herr Hirter, I’ve tried to be as open with you as the law permits. I try to make allowances for the pain you feel. But one thing I cannot have is a person like yourself starting his own parallel investigation.”

“I’m doing no such thing. Although I think I have every right —”

The Kommissar reinvoked the “stop” gesture to arrest the comment.

“Herr Hirter, let me get to the point. You held a lengthy conversation with one August Sedlmeyer last night in Zum Alte Post.”

He paused again, letting his eyes hunt across Hirter’s face. It was clear that Hirter was surprised the police were so well informed about his activities. He will suspect he is under surveillance, Waldbaer thought, an illusion which need not be dispelled.

He continued, his voice neutral, the way he wanted it. The voice, he remembered from the Academy, is the interrogator’s paramount tool. “You spent considerable time with Sedlmeyer and paid for his drinks. I’d like to have your version of the conversation, please.”

Right,
your version,
suggesting without explicitly stating that Sedlmeyer had already talked about the episode.

Hirter looked unhappy and brushed a hand through his hair. He looked away from the detective and his eyes rested for a moment on the two topographical maps affixed to one office wall, one of Bavaria, the other of
Bundesrepublik Deutschland.

“I’m over here, Herr Hirter,” the policeman intoned without inflection.

Hirter sighed. “As far as I’m aware, I can talk to whomever I want. The Third Reich is over, I understand.”

Waldbaer decided to ignore the barb and let his silence carry the conversation along.

“The man you mentioned—Sedlmeyer—contacted me. I met at his request. He left a note at the hotel saying he wanted to talk. That he had background that might indirectly have relevance to my brother’s death. So naturally I went to hear him out.”

My two friends were exactly right, Waldbaer noted to himself. He waited to see if Hirter would offer any elaboration without prompting.

“This fellow Sedlmeyer didn’t have any information about the murder. It was an interesting evening, but I can’t believe it was important.”

“Well, Herr Hirter, that’s one possible conclusion. But permit me to make my own judgment. I’d like to hear how the conversation went.”

“Kommissar, I told Sedlmeyer that our conversation would remain private. That’s the way he wanted it and I agreed.”

“What is it you Americans are so fond of saying? ‘That was then, this is now.’ I’m investigating a murder and I will judge whether or not Sedlmeyer’s remarks are relevant. Not you. Not him. Me. I’m waiting.”

Hirter threw Waldbaer a reproachful look. “All right,” he said flatly. “He told me about the end of the war and what he had seen. He told me that he witnessed a murder back then not far from where my brother was killed. An SS officer shot a soldier. Back in 1945, according to Sedlmeyer, a convoy brought secret cargo up through that high meadow and into the woods. I suppose you want details.”

Waldbaer nodded affirmatively. Things were moving somewhere. Relevance to the murder was hardly certain, but Waldbaer had a feeling that here was a trace to be followed.

“Tell me the details, and take your time,” the policeman said.

Ninety minutes later Waldbaer placed his Mont Blanc ballpoint on his desk and pushed aside the sheets of paper on which he had scribed notes in a rippling, jagged script.

Hirter had been right in his initial remark; this was ancient history. It was hard to imagine that the events described could help resolve the murder. Still, Waldbaer knew from long investigative experience, it was best to consider the facts described, to roll them over, rather than dismiss them with undue haste.

“Are you hungry?” he asked his guest.

“I could use a sandwich, I guess,” Hirter replied.

“Or a sandwich and a beer,” Waldbaer mused aloud. He pushed his chair back from the desk, grimacing at the shriek of wooden legs against the tile floor. “There’s a cafe across the street which hasn’t poisoned me yet. Let’s go there. Any further questions I have I can ask while we eat. After that, feel free to head back to the hotel. Or back to the States, though I expect you are still resisting that sensible idea.”

“Right,” Hirter replied.

Waldbaer nodded, buttoned his rumpled forest green loden jacket, and led the way from the police station, feeling unaccountably weary.

The cafe was closed, a cardboard sign hung on the glass door announcing the reason as an unexpected death in the family. The detective turned toward his guest. “How about a Doener kebab?”

“A what?” Hirter replied, puzzled.

“Turkish sandwich in pita bread. More popular in Germany than your cheeseburgers. They’re spicy and hearty. Try one.”

Hirter nodded agreement, and the two men wandered down the street to a shop front with a take-out window. An olive-skinned, black-bearded man was cutting sizzling strips of lamb from a slowly turning rotisserie. Waldbaer walked up to the metal counter and ordered two kebabs and two bottles of pilsner. The Turk nodded, expertly slicing the bread and stuffing the pocket with meat, yoghurt, lettuce, diced tomatoes, and onions. The policeman paid, moved to a bistro table on the sidewalk, and offered a Doener and a bottle of beer to Hirter. The two chewed slowly as they surveyed the street.

“Good?” Waldbaer inquired between gulps.

“Good,” Hirter affirmed.