Collision of Evil Read online

  Sedlmeyer leaned forward on his elbows, clasped hands forming an arch above his beer glass, perching like an old bird of prey. “Just this. The place where Fehlmann was killed is close to where your brother was found. Our convoy drove right through the high meadow where your brother died. So, two acts of violence in nearly the same location over the course of half a century. Coincidence? Maybe. But I wonder. Our mysterious cargo is probably still up there somewhere, forgotten. Or maybe someone spirited it off after we left. But for what it’s worth, I have a feeling it’s still hidden up there. Ruined by the years and the elements perhaps, but up there still.”

  Robert Hirter nodded slowly. “You’re saying that my brother’s death could be connected to that Nazi gold or whatever it was. You think that maybe he found it?”

  Sedlmeyer shook his head. “I did not say that. I have no idea what your brother did or didn’t do, what he did or did not find. I only provide you something to consider. Maybe it means nothing, maybe it means everything. That is for you to explore, not me. But I wonder why some tourist would be murdered up there for no apparent reason.”

  “Herr Sedlmeyer, why are you telling me this? You might be right; this history could be relevant to Charles’s murder. But why did you seek me out? And why haven’t you gone to the police?”

  The veteran’s eyes narrowed, which gave him an almost reptilian appearance. “The police? No. It’s unwise for a former SS man to go to the police and relate tales of violence, no matter how ancient. You say in English ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ That is a sensible phrase. Why did I relate my story to you? For closure, I suppose. I read about the murder, and it got me wondering about those events from long ago. It was an impulse. I feel now that I have settled an account. If I had said nothing to you, it would have seemed like unfinished business. At my age, I don’t much care for unfinished business; I want to wrap up loose ends. The violence from the war was sufficient for a lifetime. But I sometimes think that Fehlmann’s ghost wanders around up there. For a soldier to die just before a war ends is a wretched fate. Does your brother’s spirit now roam those meadows and woods as well? You decide.” The old man paused and lowered his voice to a sibilant whisper. “There is one other reason that I’m here.”

  “Which is?”

  “Because you, Herr Hirter, are buying the beer. Auf wiedersehen.” And with that he rose and slipped away, moving with the careful grace of a hunter and so silently that Hirter wondered for a moment whether the old man had really been there at all.

  Chapter 8

  Hirter departed the Alte Post without ever having noted that Waldbaer had been sitting in the establishment the entire time, obscured from view by a broad stone column. Waldbaer, sitting with his usual cluster of companions, had been surprised to see the American enter the place. He had been more surprised to watch him share a table with old Sedlmeyer and engage in a long conversation with the octogenarian. On the surface of it, the convergence of these two very different men made little sense. Was this incident relevant to the murder of Hirter’s brother?

  Waldbaer could not imagine how Sedlmeyer, a long-retired villager, could have any connection to the murder. But if not, why was Hirter so earnestly conversing with him?

  “Franz, what’s on your mind? Not drifting back to police work tonight are we?” It was the voice of Markus, once a school chum of the Kommissar and, for the last twenty years, a teacher at the local high school. Markus had his usual cynical smile affixed to his features, small, dark eyes rendered obscure behind thick granny glasses. His gray hair was long in the back, touching the collar of a worn, burgundy wool sweater.

  “Not police work exactly. Just connecting some thoughts.”

  Markus feigned a grimace. “Sounds like we’re getting very close to breaking the rules, Franz. You need to guard against that tendency, you know.”

  The third party at the table snickered into a half-full glass of Spaten. Hans Lechner, who had just eased into his seventies, was a retired general practitioner who now spent his leisure time painting alpine landscapes.

  As a riposte to the older man’s snicker and the teacher’s chastisement, Waldbaer raised both hands as if to ward off a blow. “I know the rules. I won’t violate them. Not tonight anyway.”

  The Kommissar’s reference was to the rules governing the stammtisch, the little social circle that met with weekly regularity at the same table at Zum Alte Post. When the group of friends had decided to form a stammtisch a decade ago, it had been made a condition that members would not carry their work into the establishment, but would pursue enlightenment through exploring other themes. Politics, economics, the arts, all were accepted fare. But the details of daily employ were to be left at the door.

  “I pose a question,” Waldbaer said portentously.

  His two companions nodded acceptance.

  “It is in the way of a puzzle. We live in a small, self-contained village.”

  More nods.

  “Sometimes there are visitors. Usually friends or relatives of someone who lives here. But sometimes there are other visitors—tourists or foreigners who don’t have connections here, who don’t know anyone locally. Maybe they’re here for the scenery and the isolation. Bearing that in mind, here’s the question: Why would a visitor with no ties here hold a long conversation with a villager? What would be the purpose? Responses from this august audience are eagerly awaited.”

  Markus, the teacher, rubbed his chin, as if to determine whether there was any stubble there. “This has to do with something real, doesn’t it, not something theoretical?”

  Hans, the doctor, raised a finger in the air as if to test wind direction inside the room. “Not just that, Markus. Our detective friend is trying to move us into his professional domain through the back door. Not as cleverly as he thinks. This question is connected to vile police affairs, rely on it. But let’s permit him his conceit. What we need are more details. For example, are we talking about a brief conversation between two people, a few minutes? Are they male and female, same age? A few more scraps of information, please, Herr Kommissar.”

  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.

  Chapter 9

  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.