by Graham Brack
‘I hope he can keep them in sight until a car gets there,’ Slonský said.
The local police officer smirked. ‘The way Marek rides that bike, there’s no car on earth could get away from him,’ he said.
Traffic control rang back with a couple of names and addresses.
‘Any chance of a lift to Vsetín?’ Slonský asked. ‘It seems there’s a van fitting that description registered to a young man there.’
The occupants of the van had tried hard to lose Marek, but to no avail, and when they pulled up in Vsetín he was right behind them. They fled the scene, allowing Marek to confirm that the load area was filled with cups and shields. He shut the door and sat by the van to wait. Around twenty minutes later Slonský and Officer Limberský arrived.
Slonský introduced himself to Marek and showed him the address he had written down. ‘Know where this is?’
Marek pointed through the trees to a couple of white buildings. ‘It’s one of those,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Slonský. ‘Let’s go for a little walk.’
Marek rapped on the door. After a few moments it was opened by a young man who yawned and stretched as if he had just woken up.
‘Pavel Baránek?’ asked Slonský.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Lieutenant Slonský, criminal department, Prague, and Officer Marek.’
‘Yeah, I’m Baránek.’
‘Where’s your van?’
‘Isn’t it outside? Oh, my God, it’s been stolen!’
‘Just as well we’re here, then. I’ll be happy to look into it for you. Mind if we come inside?’
‘Well...’
‘Thanks,’ said Slonský as he pushed past. ‘In bed, were you?’
‘No, asleep in the chair.’
‘All afternoon?’
‘I must have been.’
Slonský nodded. ‘That figures. You’re asleep over there, so you don’t hear your van starting up outside.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Baránek.
Slonský walked over and felt the seat cushion. ‘Are you a reptile, sir?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Reptiles are cold-blooded. They take in heat from their surroundings. That would explain why this seat you’ve been in all afternoon is stone cold. By the way, one of our colleagues is getting your van fingerprinted.’
Baránek did not flinch. ‘Of course it’ll have my fingerprints on it. It’s my van. And I bet the thieves wore gloves.’
‘Thieves, sir? So you know it was more than one?’
‘Just guessing.’
‘Good guess, then. Perhaps you’d like to tell me who the other two were. After all, there’ll be prints all over the metal trophies, won’t there? At least one of you wasn’t wearing gloves.’
Baránek flopped in a chair, crestfallen and defeated. He offered a couple of names.
‘Abduction, theft, driving without due care and attention, and coming between me and the sausage experience of a lifetime. I should think that might well earn you around two and a half life sentences. Officer Marek will book you now, then we’ll haul you off to clink and I’ll return to the contest. The length of your sentence may well depend on how many sausages I’ve missed.’
Slonský need not have worried. When he arrived with the trophies, he was the hero of the hour and was feted in the village that evening. He finally crawled into bed around 2 a.m. with his wallet unopened all night, his stomach filled with sausages of all conceivable kinds, and the makings of the mother of all hangovers.
Chapter 2
Sunday was a painful day. Slonský was reduced to drinking water until he found some Polish beer which, he thought, was pretty much the same thing and should rehydrate him adequately. He spent the morning writing his report on the previous day’s events, then took a walk before lunch to work up an appetite. A rather slower walk after lunch filled in the time until his train to Prague departed in the late afternoon.
Peiperová and Navrátil were both disgustingly bright and cheerful on Monday morning. In any other young couple, Slonský would have suspected that this was a prolonged bout of post-coital merriment, but it was clear that Navrátil had views on that kind of thing. Whether Peiperová shared them was a matter of debate, but Slonský was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt on that matter — or indeed any other.
Slonský recounted the events of his trip, playing down the detection element but majoring on the defects in parts of the artisan sausage industry, particularly of the semi-Hungarian variety, while making it plain that this had been a thoughtful and acceptable present that he would be happy to receive again. He asked politely about their weekend, and Peiperová recounted tennis matches, walks, dinner in a riverside restaurant and a considerable amount of laundry. Navrátil was quick to point out that he attended to his own laundry, and that after church he had engaged in vigorous shoe-polishing. Slonský glanced downwards, and observed that Navrátil’s shoes were highly buffed. This was not a description that anyone would have applied to his own, which had quickly acquired a matt finish and were scuffed in a number of places.
‘What would you like us to do today, sir?’ asked Peiperová.
‘I think a division of labour is called for,’ Slonský opined. ‘One of you can fetch coffee, while the other can help me with my groundbreaking report into the criminal activities of expatriate Bosnians in Prague.’
‘Are there any criminal Bosnians in Prague?’ asked Navrátil.
Slonský adopted his most pitying tone. ‘We won’t know until I’ve written my report, will we? So far as I can make out, this has arisen because the police there have lost track of a bunch of desperados and are hoping that if they ask enough people someone will tell them where they’ve gone. I haven’t seen any sign of them in Prague but in an hour or so we’ll venture into these mean streets to find one of our informers who’ll tell us what he knows.’
‘Why not go now, sir?’
‘Because, Navrátil, he’ll still be in his pit. We won’t see him much this side of lunchtime, especially in November when there are fewer tourists to rip off. So we have time for a leisurely coffee and then we’ll wander down to the corner by Kafka’s birthplace and keep our eyes peeled for Václav the Storyteller.’
‘He sounds like a character from a fairy tale.’
‘Obviously it isn’t his real name, Navrátil. We have to observe confidentiality when it comes to informers. The key thing is that Václav is a nosey so-and-so who seems to know what is going on.’
‘Why don’t we use him more often then, sir?’
‘Think about it, lad. If he tells us too much, everyone will know he’s the squealer. Even meeting us is taking a chance for him, so there’s a certain etiquette to be observed. Try hard not to look like a policeman. Make it as short as possible, and when he decides it’s over, we let him go and head in the opposite direction, even if he goes the way we were going to go. Now, we need a newspaper and then we’re ready.’
‘A newspaper, sir?’
‘Yes, one of those things they print every morning with news in it. We tuck a small monetary token of appreciation between the front page and page three, fold the paper and negligently leave it on the table in front of us. If we leave first, he picks up the abandoned paper. If he legs it, he takes the paper with him.’
‘But how do we know how much his information is worth?’
‘We don’t, so we keep tight hold of the paper until we’ve ascertained that. If it’s really juicy we may have to leave a note on the table, but that’s risky if anyone is watching.’
‘How will we find him, sir?’
‘If he’s around, he’ll find us. Believe me, once he sees me standing by Kafka’s birthplace with a folded newspaper in my hand he’ll make himself known.’
Peiperová looked less than happy. ‘Do I take it this means I’m fetching the coffee?’ she asked.
‘Ah, I have an alternative task for you,’ said Slonský.
‘Yes
, sir — which is?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get back with the coffee.’
Peiperová set off on her quest. As soon as the door closed behind her Slonský whispered urgently to Navrátil, ‘Quick, lad! Think of something she can do, or our lives are going to be hell for a day or two.’
Peiperová had been taken aback. No sooner had she placed a coffee in front of each of her colleagues than Slonský had lent forward as if about to impart a great secret.
‘I don’t think we take Christmas seriously enough here,’ he said.
‘No, sir?’
‘Oh, no. It’s been bugging me for a while and I’ve come to the conclusion that no-one else in this department is going to do anything about it, so we’d better take the bull by the horns and organise Christmas ourselves. Oh, I suppose Mucha will put a few streamers up downstairs and there might be a small tree, but I’m more concerned about the social aspects.’
‘Social aspects, sir?’
‘Yes, Peiperová. Are you going to repeat the last couple of words of everything I say? Navrátil does that, and it’s one of his most irritating habits.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘You usually tell me it makes me sound stupid,’ Navrátil interjected helpfully.
‘Yes, but Peiperová is bright enough to realise for herself that it makes her sound stupid, Navrátil. She doesn’t need me to tell her. Now, where was I?’
‘Social aspects, sir. I’m not quite clear what social aspects are, sir.’
Slonský looked aghast. ‘Navrátil, explain to Peiperová about social aspects.’
‘I’m not entirely clear...’
‘Just tell her what we were talking about while she was fetching coffee, lad.’
‘Oh! I asked what we were doing about the staff Christmas party.’
‘And I said...?’
‘You said we don’t have a staff Christmas party but you’ve always thought we should and maybe Peiperová and I could introduce some Christmas spirit into the miserable bunch of killjoys that inhabit these offices.’
‘Exactly! Social aspects. I’m sure Captain Lukas will agree.’
Slonský had not asked Captain Lukas, because the idea had only just come to him, and was banking on the probability that Lukas would not want to dampen the enthusiasm of two young officers, and the fact that it was only six weeks until Christmas which would not allow Lukas to conduct his usual degree of in-depth dithering.
‘I’m not sure we’ll get any money from the department, but perhaps a nice lunch together, or an hour of cocktails? I leave it in your hands to organise. But there isn’t a lot of time, so while Navrátil and I do this tedious interview with the informer, why don’t you pass a couple of hours scouting out the possibilities in the restaurants and pubs nearby?’
‘Shouldn’t I do it in my own time, sir?’ asked Peiperová.
Slonský had not anticipated that objection. He knew of very few police officers who offered to do anything in their own time. Lieutenant Dvorník had once offered to question a suspect when everyone else had gone home, but somehow he did not think it was quite the same thing.
‘The main organisation, perhaps, but these places will be busy when you finish at the end of the day. No, much better to visit them in a quiet time.’
‘Very good, sir. And it’s all right for me to do this without Navrátil, although he is organising it with me?’
‘Certainly. If it’s left to Navrátil we’ll probably wind up in some lap-dancing club.’
Navrátil spluttered a protest.
‘Joke, lad, joke.’
Slonský and Navrátil sauntered across Old Town Square and paused for a few moments in the corner nearest to Kafka’s house before continuing their walk in the general direction of the old Jewish quarter along Maiselova. There was a café on the left hand side that seemed quite empty, into which Slonský turned. They took their seats against the wall, and Slonský ordered three coffees.
‘Three?’ asked the waitress.
‘Yes, three,’ said Slonský. ‘Our friend will join us in a minute.’
As the coffee arrived a man in several layers of ragged clothing pushed open the door and took the seat opposite Slonský.
‘Something to keep the cold out?’ asked the detective.
‘Civil of you. Wouldn’t mind.’
‘Navrátil, you’ll have gathered this is the man we’ve come to meet. I told you he’d see us.’
‘But you must have seen him too, sir, or you wouldn’t have ordered three coffees.’
‘I did. But I knew where to look, didn’t I, Václav?’
‘A warm doorway is a blessing in this weather. What do you want to know?’
‘We’re looking for Bosnians.’
‘You’ll have no trouble finding them. But I guess you’re after some particular Bosnians.’
Slonský unfolded the fax. ‘This lot.’
Václav peered closely at the pictures. He obviously needed spectacles, but presumably could not afford them. ‘No, no, no, yes and no.’
‘Which one is yes?’
‘That one. Eldin whatever it says.’
‘Savović.’
‘If that’s what it says.’
‘Where have you seen him?’
Václav sneaked a peak over his shoulder. ‘There’s a red brick building not far from this side of the Charles Bridge. Head up towards the Art School and look across the road and you’ll see the windows in the end wall. He goes in there with a bunch of fellows you’ll know. They don’t stay, but it seems to be his base.’
‘Been there long?’
Václav shrugged. ‘Three months maybe.’
‘Any idea what he’s into?’
‘Bosnians usually have arms to trade. Small stuff mostly. They rent out big guys if you want scores settled. I don’t think they’re pimping or gambling types.’
‘Anything else you want to tell me?’
‘There’s one time you’ll catch him alone. He’s got a sweet tooth, so he goes to the sweet stall in the nearby market. Likes to make his own choices, you see?’
‘No protection?’
‘Two big guys with black leather jackets won’t be far away, but they switch off once he’s at the stall. I’ve seen them go and get a hot wine at the kiosk. They can still see him, but an enemy could take him down then.’
‘Does he have enemies?’
Václav stood up and finished his coffee. ‘He’s a Bosnian,’ he said. ‘Of course he has enemies.’
No wonder my digestion is troubled, thought Captain Josef Lukas. He took out his calculator and tried to decipher Slonský’s expenses claim. Never one to provide excessive detail, Slonský favoured a terse approach to narrative.
‘1 train journey — Kč.140.’
‘A train journey? To where?’ Lukas asked himself. ‘Why?’
As if that were not enough, the page bore the unmistakable stamp of a wet beer glass in the top corner. It also seemed to have been written by someone using a stick of spaghetti dipped in ink and the numbers were abominably indistinct. Was that one hundred and sixty crowns, or one hundred and sixty-nine? Or possibly even one hundred and eighty-nine?
Latterly Slonský had discovered a new way to sow confusion. Possibly in order to safeguard Navrátil’s pocket, he had taken to paying for both of them and claiming both sets of expenses on his form, while cunningly failing to make clear whether the costs were for one person or two. Thus his bill for lunch during a stakeout was quite reasonable if it was for both of them, but extortionate if he alone consumed it; yet the description did not make that clear, and Lukas was beginning to suspect that this was another of Slonský’s irritating little schemes to win a small triumph over bureaucracy.
Finally Lukas gave up and signed the sheet, turning it face down on the pile to his left and shifting his attention to the requisition form in his in-tray.
‘This is too much!’ he exploded, marching down the corridor to see if Slonský could explain himself.
‘Good morning, Peiperová. No, don’t get up.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Slonský not back yet?’
‘He’s seeing an informer, sir.’
‘Goodness knows what that will cost us.’
‘Sir?’
‘Oh, nothing. You don’t happen to know why Slonský wants some new uniform shoes when he doesn’t wear a uniform, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘He hasn’t mentioned it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He’s not planning on applying for a uniformed job? Mine, for example?’
‘I didn’t know there was a vacancy, sir.’
‘There isn’t, and you might remind Slonský of that when he reappears. Please ask him to see me when he returns so I can get to the bottom of this. What are you looking at, Peiperová?’
‘Menus, sir. Lieutenant Slonský asked me to investigate a Christmas lunch for the department.’
‘Did he? He hasn’t mentioned it to me. Though I approve, of course. It can only serve to foster team spirit. Have you chosen a venue?’
‘I wondered if this one might be suitable, sir.’
Peiperová offered Lukas a menu. It took him no time at all to find six dishes that he could not possibly eat, given the emphasis on cream and the frequent use of the word ‘fried’.
‘Splendid!’ he said. ‘Keep me informed. It’s probably best if we keep this to staff only, rather than families. Dvorník’s eight children are ... charming, but you can have too much of a good thing.’
‘What now, sir?’ asked Navrátil.
‘I’m not sure. My head says have another coffee, but my heart tells me that a small beer would slip down nicely.’