Allmen and the Dragonflies

by Martin Suter

  As you opened your eyes the images of the room were still like the fragments of a kaleidoscope just before they coalesce into an image and the puzzle is solved.

  This time the solution was a disappointment. He was in the city he had been in the whole time recently. And the new, unfamiliar aspect facing him brought him more fear than joy.

  To retain a slight illusion of being far away, he ordered an early morning tea from room service, as if he were in England, New Zealand or India.

  But as he heard the knock on the door he was dragged back to brute reality. Instead of having the steaming cup brought to him in bed, he had to get up and cautiously ask “Who is it?” in English through the closed door.

  “Your tea,” a voice said, in English, but with an accent which left him no doubt as to his geographical location.

  He put the tray down on the table, but took it straight to the bed as soon as the room waiter was gone. On it was a newspaper. In the local news section he found an item on Tanner.

  The well-known shopkeeper J. T. had been found dead yesterday in his store, an established arts and antiques emporium. The police did not believe it was suicide.

  A few details followed. A neighbor had notified the police after seeing various customers throughout the morning and afternoon, ringing the bell with no answer although they had appointments. This had never happened. When Herr T. was absent, he had always hung a sign on the door.

  There were no clues yet as to the background and motive for the murder. Possibilities included armed robbery or a personal dispute.

  51

  “Buongiorno, Signor Conte,” Gianfranco said, placing a café au lait and two croissants on the table in front of Allmen. “Have you heard about povero Signor Tanner?”

  “I’m afraid I have, Gianfranco.”

  “Bestiale! Tremendo! Nowhere are we safe in this world. Straziante!”

  After what by Gianfranco’s standards constituted a lengthy tirade, he retreated from the table.

  Soon after this Tanner’s breakfast club came in. The three men talked to one another with the earnestness of the bereaved and the euphoria of survivors.

  Allmen got up, walked over to the table and expressed his condolences.

  Shot, he was told. From behind. In the head. Executed. A silencer. Otherwise someone would have heard. Just now he was sitting on this chair. Like us. Not even sixty.

  Allmen heard all this standing. The only free chair was Tanner’s. And no one wanted to offer him that.

  He returned to his table, drank his second coffee, ate his second croissant, signed the check, handed Gianfranco a tip and was helped into his coat then accompanied to the door by him. All as if there was no chance this might be the last time in his life.

  52

  The heating in the Fleetwood smelled slightly of the engine. But it was warm and cozy on the wine-red leather backseat. Dark clouds left trails hanging low over the lake. “It’s going to snow,” the laconic Herr Arnold had predicted.

  He had also agreed to wait outside the villa for Allmen. And he had taken down the taxi sign, as he always did for Allmen.

  Glenn Miller was coming through the speakers, Herr Arnold’s favorite music. Before he inserted the cassette each time—the Fleetwood did not have a CD player—he asked Allmen if he minded. And each time Allmen assured him that for him too, Glenn Miller was one of the greats.

  “I knew the man who was shot in his shop,” Allmen observed.

  “Crazy business,” Herr Arnold replied. “And people say taxi driving is dangerous. You’re not safe anywhere these days.”

  “Not anywhere,” Allmen confirmed.

  Herr Arnold’s weather forecast was proved right. All of a sudden fine snowflakes began swirling in front of the windshield, forcing him to switch on the wipers, one of which still shuddered. By the time they arrived outside the lakeside villa the flakes had grown large and heavy.

  Arnold got out and rang the bell. The gate soon started to open inward. When Herr Arnold got back in there was snow on his thinning hair and rounded shoulders.

  He drove the Cadillac sedately into the drive, and took the opportunity to open the door for Allmen and accompany him to the door of the house with his umbrella.

  They waited, in silence, till they could hear movement inside and a figure opened the porch door. It was Boris, the chauffeur.

  Before he entered the house, Allmen gave Herr Arnold an imploring look.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said.

  53

  Boris greeted him coolly and led him through the foyer to the elevator. He was a whole head taller than Allmen and stared down mutely at him throughout the short ride.

  Allmen followed him down the corridor, past Jojo’s bedroom to a door with a chip reader affixed to it. Boris took a card from his pocket and scanned it in.

  The door didn’t open, but a voice from a speaker hidden in the ceiling asked, “Boris?”

  “Herr von Allmen is here.”

  Only now did the door open, with a soft hum. They entered, and found themselves in the room with the vitrines.

  “Thank you Boris,” came Klaus Hirt’s gravelly voice. Boris gave Allmen one last condescending look and left the room.

  “Come on in, you know your way around.”

  Allmen walked in past the vitrines, which were blocking his view into the center of the room.

  The blinds were closed. Hirt was sitting in the modest light of the vitrines on the leather chair behind the glass table. A fine column of smoke ascended from the cigar in the ashtray and joined the fog which could be seen here and there in the light of the vitrines.

  The old man wore a stretched, pilled cardigan and slippers. At his chest hung glasses on a string. He had thrust another pair up above his forehead to his distant hairline.

  He gestured to the chair opposite, placed there for the occasion. Allmen sat down.

  On the table was a small humidor, a bottle of Armagnac and two brandy glasses, one almost empty and one clean. Hirt shifted forward in his chair, groaning, and filled both glasses. He pushed the fresh glass over toward Allmen.

  Then he flipped the lid of the humidor open and held it out to his guest. Allmen declined.

  Klaus Hirt sank back in his chair. “So?”

  “I would like to say something first.”

  “Anything you wish.”

  “My personal assistant …” Hirt’s amusement at this description of Carlos briefly made Allmen lose the thread. But he continued, firmly. “My personal assistant knows where I am and the purpose of my visit. He has instructions to inform the police if he hears nothing from me by four-thirty p.m.”

  Hirt nodded in ironic acknowledgement. “Quite right. One can never be careful enough.”

  Allmen refused to get annoyed. “I have come here to make you an offer.”

  “Fire away.”

  Allmen paused for effect.

  “I return the dragonfly bowls to you, and you recall your hit man.”

  Hirt tipped his brandy glass and took a sip. “Which hit man?”

  “The one who shot me yesterday.”

  “And how come you’re still alive?”

  “The clasp on my suspenders saved me.”

  This sentence provoked such an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and then such an alarming fit of coughing, Allmen was worried Hirt might choke.

  It was some time before he could speak again. “So your suspenders saved your life. How does that feel, may I ask? Have you framed them?” He was shaken by laughter and coughing once more.

  When he recovered, he became sober. “Excuse me. At the end of one’s life it is sometimes difficult to be serious. So someone shot you. Do you have any idea why?”

  “Because I stole your Gallé bowls.”

  “And how would I have known it was you?”

  “You have been observing me. You found out who I was through your daughter. Or through your Boris.”

  The old man took a drag on his cigar and watched the smoke
as he blew it toward the ceiling. “Have someone shot for five Gallé bowls,” he said thoughtfully.

  Now he noticed Allmen’s glass was still untouched. “You haven’t drunk a thing. Please drink. It’s a good year. 1931. It’s also my year.”

  “Thanks. I prefer to keep a clear head.”

  “That is not the easiest way to handle life.” Hirt sniffed the Armagnac, took a small sip and placed the glass cautiously back on the table. “I would like to explain something to you.”

  “As long as it doesn’t take too long. As I said, four-thirty.”

  Hirt waved dismissively with a tired gesture. He looked Allmen in the eye, opposite him, and began: “You are right. There was a time I might perhaps have had someone shot for these bowls. If I could have found someone who wouldn’t just hit the suspenders.” This time the thought provoked a mere smirk.

  “There was a time—not so long ago—when I was addicted to these five bowls. For me they are the finest thing created by human hands. Believe me, there have been days when I would shut myself in this room for four or five hours and do nothing except worship my dragonflies. I would place them on this table, one after the other, then all together, then two together, then another two together. For hours.”

  He reached down between his thigh and the arm of the chair, retrieved a remote control unit, as used for televisions, and pressed a button.

  Now the glass table was bathed in bright light. It came from tiny spotlights mounted all over the room. Hirt could dim, swivel and turn every one of them with his remote, and alter the lighting in the vitrines.

  He played with it for a while, illuminating the things on the table, then plunging them into darkness, altering their shadows and emphasizing their forms.

  “This was how I brought them alive, lit them up, made them glow and dance. I was in love. Yes. In love with five glass bowls.”

  He took another drag and another sip. “And do you know what? I couldn’t share this pleasure with any other person. It was a lonely passion. But I didn’t mind. Quite the opposite. That was the thrill of it. It was something which belonged to me, and me only. Herr von Allmen, you have one of those people before you, who hoard artworks which are unsellable—because they are stolen—solely for their private, personal, solitary pleasure. This is what they look like, if you had ever wondered.”

  Allmen had barely seen the old collector during this whole monologue. All the lights in the room were directed at the glass table between them. Only the occasional reflection from something on the table sent flashes of light onto Hirt’s face.

  “Love,” Allmen observed, “surely love is a classic motive for murder.”

  “You are quite right. But only as long as the flame still burns. Mine has gone out.”

  “Why?”

  Hirt shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the thing about love. It comes and it goes. You must be aware of that. As one of the ever growing army of my daughter’s exes.”

  He reached for the cigar, changed his mind and withdrew his hand. “Bad luck: I’m not interested in your hostages any more. You can keep them. And worse luck: I can’t recall the hit man. I didn’t send him.”

  Now Allmen did drink some Armagnac. It had the aroma of eighty long, tranquil years and tasted rounded and smooth.

  “Who was it then?”

  Hirt looked at his watch. “We still have enough time before your personal assistant springs into action.” He refilled the glasses and leaned back.

  “This summer it will be ten years since the dragonfly bowls vanished. They were in a Gallé exhibition at the Langturm Museum on Lake Constance, on loan from the Werenbusch family.”

  “The Werenbusch family?”

  “Indeed. It was an act of barbarism. Do you know the museum?”

  Allmen did not.

  “It’s a little remote, in an old mill outside town. The thieves rammed the door with an all-terrain vehicle—the investigation determined that at least—and destroyed eight irreplaceable objects in the process. They took a little more care opening the glass cubes over the five showpieces. The whole thing was over in eleven minutes. That was the time between the alarm going off and the security people arriving. The thieves have not been caught to this day. The bowls were insured for the exhibition of course. For a sum of nearly four million francs.”

  Klaus Hirt had a sense of timing. He took a sip from his glass and tapped the ash from his cigar. Only then did he add: “Nearly double what I paid.” He watched the sentence take effect on Allmen.

  “You weren’t behind the robbery?”

  “I would never have allowed works by Gallé to be destroyed simply to leave the impression the robbers were novices.”

  “But you bought the loot nonetheless.”

  “It was a win-win situation, as they say. For me the fulfillment of a dream. For the seller an incredible deal.”

  “Two million for less than eleven minutes work. Not bad.”

  “Six,” Klaus Hirt corrected him.

  “Six minutes? Even better.”

  “Million.” Hirt looked knowingly at Allmen.

  “Six million? Why six all of a sudden?”

  “Two from me and four from the insurance.”

  Allmen could see in the dim light that the storyteller was smiling. Now he clicked. “You mean it was the owners …?”

  Hirt nodded.

  “But you said the Werenbusch family …”

  “They were in a highly precarious situation at the time. If anyone had found out, it would have become much more precarious. One of the sons, a very practical and unscrupulous person, had an idea how they could get out of this tight squeeze, and agreed to execute the plan. It was also him who contacted me afterward. Gallé collectors know each other.”

  “What’s his first name? I was with a Werenbusch at Charterhouse.”

  “Terry.”

  “Terry Werenbusch!” Allmen pictured an imperious, thin-lipped boy with a receding chin, three years below him. He was expelled in the second year. He couldn’t remember why right now.

  “You know him?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘know.’ You think he carried out the robbery himself?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s a daredevil. Grenadier officer, base jumper, hunter.”

  Allmen took a large gulp of Armagnac. Hirt was watching, and tried to refill the glass. His guest put his hand over it.

  “Come now. You might need it.”

  Allmen let him refill it.

  Hirt continued. “Do you have an explanation for why the bowl you stole the first time was back in place the second time?”

  “Gallé made several of them. Or it was a copy.”

  Hirt smiled and shook his head. “Two days after you made off with the bowl, I had a call from Jack Tanner, someone you also know. Knew, I should say, sadly. He said he had something sensational for me and I invited him to come by. It was my dragonfly bowl. Tanner knew it was from the Langturm robbery and not sellable. Except to fanatical collectors such as me.”

  So it was Jack Tanner. Why hadn’t it occurred to him earlier? “But why did you buy the piece back? Now your love had gone cold.”

  “If I hadn’t, Tanner would have gone knocking on a few other doors, and woken a few sleeping dogs. It was worth spending the ninety thousand.”

  Something in Allmen’s facial expression made Hirt add, “What did he pay you? Forty?”

  “Fifty.”

  “Very reasonable. Anyway I bought the piece off him. But on one condition. He had to tell me where he had got it from. Your name was mentioned.”

  Allmen felt the blood shoot into his cheeks. He tried to distract from it by taking a swig out of the brandy glass. “That means, on my second visit you knew …”

  “Sure. And I was here in the night, and realized that this time all five were missing.”

  “And yet you let me go in peace?”

  “I was happy to be rid of the things. Cheers.”

  He raised his glass toward Allme
n, but Allmen confined himself to a nod, and asked, “And who is trying to kill me?”

  “This is the unpleasant part of the story.” He took the cigar from the ashtray, found it had gone out, chose a new one from the humidor and lit it with practiced ease.

  “After Tanner had sold me your loot, I called Werenbusch and told him the story. I wanted him to be aware there were now two people in the know. Two people who knew that at least one of the pieces was with me. I thought it was only fair. Now I realize it was a mistake.”

  A shiver went down Allmen’s spine. “You think Terry …”

  “Who else? Terry needs to prevent anyone finding out the Werenbusch family themselves were behind the robbery of their loans. It would ruin them. No doubt about it: Terry is behind the murder of poor old Tanner and the attempt to murder you.”

  Allmen reached for his glass, realized his hand was shaking, and retracted it. “And why are you telling me all this?”

  “I am, or rather was,” Hirt corrected himself, “a fanatical art collector, who would sometimes go further for my passion than the law permits. But I will not have anything to do with murder.”

  The spotlights which had been lighting up the table between them went out and the lighting in the vitrines went on. The two men could see each other better now.

  “Do what you wish with this information. Don’t worry about me, I’m a dead man.”

  “How am I supposed to take that?”

  “I’ll spare you the technical details of the diagnosis. But I will say this much. If I have anything to do with it, I will not see beyond the next week. And I do have something to do with it. I have taken measures. No suspenders will save me.”

  The old man laughed, and his laughter gave way to a fit of coughing. Allmen waited till it was over.

  “I know you prefer to exit via the bathroom, but I’ve had it screwed shut. My daughter is too careless about such matters.” Hirt pressed the remote and the door Allmen had entered through opened with a hum.

  Allmen walked toward it, stopped and turned back to the old man. “Where does Terry live today?”