Allmen and the Dragonflies

by Martin Suter

“Still at the family home on Lake Constance. The little hunting lodge his father bought during the war. He also still lives there by the way, old Werenbusch. Blind and deaf and cantankerous.”

  Allmen shook the sick man’s bony hand. “Thank you.”

  In the corridor he was met by Boris. Klaus Hirt must have informed him electronically his guest was ready to leave.

  Snow had settled outside. The black Fleetwood had turned white. Now the wipers began to sweep semicircles across the windshield and the car drove off.

  As Allmen sank onto the backseat, he saw Herr Arnold’s look of concern in the mirror. “Everything okay?”

  “Everything.”

  54

  On the way back they got caught up in the rush hour traffic, which had come to a standstill in a few places thanks to the early snowfall. Many of the motorists were still using summer tires and the traffic slowed down around abandoned cars and minor accidents.

  Herr Arnold’s favorite cassette was starting to get on Allmen’s nerves. But it was a long-held understanding between them that they both liked Glenn Miller. Allmen didn’t want to undermine it, and sat in the back in silence, watching the gray-white chaos on the streets and letting his thoughts drift.

  Terry Werenbusch! Was it possible he was guilty of Jack Tanner’s murder? Guilt? If this was true, guilt was clearly not something Terry Werenbusch felt.

  Allmen hadn’t met him since Charterhouse. He had once seen him in a photo in People magazine. But he had recognized him only from the caption. As an adult, Terry had grown a Van Dyke beard to disguise his thin lips and weak chin. He had also once seen him playing in a Medium Goal Polo Tournament, a daring but inelegant player with a plus one handicap.

  Now he remembered why Terry had been expelled from school. One cold winter evening he had locked another boy in the equipment storeroom next to the rugby pitch. The whole school, the police and half the neighboring village had searched for him, and Terry had joined in the search zealously. The missing boy was found only in the early hours of the morning, nearly frozen to death. Terry, who had been equipment monitor that day, denied fiercely that this was deliberate. But his victim was able to persuade the headmaster the opposite. Stupidly, Terry had written him a letter a few days earlier in which he threatened, “I’ll kill you, you dirty pig!”

  It was nearly seven when Herr Arnold accompanied his passenger with his umbrella through the snowstorm toward the hotel entrance, handing him over to the doorman, who met them with his own umbrella.

  55

  That evening Carlos was wearing one of Don John’s barely worn, discarded suits. Allmen passed them on to him sometimes, although Carlos was somewhat shorter. Carlos knew a Columbian asylum seeker, a trained tailor now working as an office cleaner but boosting his income with alterations and repairs. He took Allmen’s suits apart and sewed them back together as if they had been tailor-made for Carlos.

  Allmen had called Carlos and invited him to dinner at the Confédération. This was a first, and Carlos had reacted with appropriate surprise, trying every possible excuse to get out of it. But Allmen insisted. It was important, he explained. It was about the fight of which they’d spoken.

  You could see by looking at Carlos that he didn’t feel comfortable when the maître d’hôtel led him to Allmen’s table.

  The restaurant at the Confédération was called Helvétique and specialized in classic Swiss cuisine from every region of the country. It was in an elegant dining room, paneled on all four sides, full of niches and screens, decorated with engravings of people in traditional Swiss dress. The linen tablecloths were starched and every table was laid extravagantly with porcelain, silver and crystal. Even people with more restaurant experience than Carlos might have been intimidated by these surroundings.

  He sat down opposite Allmen and began to study the menu. Soon afterward he placed it aside.

  “Decided already?” Allmen asked.

  “I’ll have what you’re having, Don John.”

  However when the waiter tried to fill his glass too—from the bottle of Dézaley standing in the ice bucket on the side table—Carlos declined. He never drank alcohol. His father had died of it, when Carlos was five and the youngest of his six siblings was two. Drowned in a ditch by the side of the road, having fallen asleep drunk, unaware of the heavy rain. One of the few personal details he had confided to Allmen.

  Given the early onset of winter, Allmen ordered Emmental potato soup, Berner Platte and for dessert, crème au raisiné de Vaud.

  Allmen retold the entire story of the dragonfly bowls, disclosing everything. Then they discussed their plan of attack.

  They had long been the only guests left, and it was very late as Allmen took his new accomplice to the exit.

  It had gotten colder and was still snowing. A snow plow with a flashing hazard light came past loudly.

  As they said goodbye, Allmen added, “The moment has come when I need the dragonfly bowls, Carlos.”

  “Cómo no, Don John. Then I will fetch them.”

  56

  Allmen had the wine-red leather seat to himself as ever. Carlos had insisted on sitting in the front next to Herr Arnold. This time there was no Glenn Miller. They were listening to a radio station with a bland mix of oldies, pop, Volksmusik and popular classical. Herr Arnold apologized for it. “It’s for the traffic news,” he said.

  The situation on the roads was indeed tricky. It hadn’t stopped snowing, and the further they got out of the city, there was more and more snow left uncleared.

  At the moment they were on a detour to avoid a jam on the highway which Herr Arnold was informed of thanks to the Volksmusik and traffic news. They were driving slowly down a narrow local road through the white landscape. The fruit trees, still in leaf at this time of the year, were weighed down with the snow. It was hard to see ahead. The headlights from the approaching cars made halos in the mixture of snow and fog. The three men spoke little and stared intently out into the winter landscape, as if they were each at the wheel.

  In the night, Carlos had found the address of the Werenbusch family seat, and printed it out along with a map. He had also searched the name Terry Werenbusch online and discovered he was managing partner of a firm called Wereninvest.

  Allmen had called there first thing in the morning and asked for Herr Werenbusch.

  He was not in the office yet, he was told. What was it about?

  A personal call, Allmen explained. They had been at Charterhouse together, he happened to be in the area and had something with him which would undoubtedly interest Herr Werenbusch.

  He left his name and cell phone number. In less than ten minutes, Werenbusch called back.

  “Vonallmen?” He pronounced the name with the stress on “von,” as if it consisted mainly of the first syllable. “Vonallmen? To what do I owe the pleasure? After all these years.” The cheerful tone sounded forced. Allmen sensed deep suspicion behind it.

  “I don’t know if it will be a pleasure. But interesting, certainly.”

  They arranged to meet at the office in the early afternoon.

  57

  The road to the hunting lodge had not been cleared. Herr Arnold attempted to keep the lurching Fleetwood on the tracks left by other cars. They passed a couple of farms, otherwise the area seemed desolate.

  The tiny road led to some woods. A couple of forest workers paused to gaze at this spectacular vehicle.

  At the edge of the woods there was a turn. All the tire tracks went left. The road ahead vanished into indistinct white. There, somewhere, must be the banks of the lake.

  Herr Arnold also drove left and soon the lodge could be seen, a large timber framed house with a couple of turrets. They headed for it.

  It was a while before anyone reacted to Allmen’s ringing. It was a young woman in the white pants and blouse worn by nursing staff in hospitals. She opened the door with the words, “There’s no one here.”

  “Good afternoon, I have an appointment with Herr Werenbusch.”<
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  “Herr Werenbusch Jr. is in the office. And the housekeeper is out shopping.”

  “Then I’m sure he will be here any moment. Could we just wait till he arrives?”

  The nurse hesitated.

  “I’m an old school friend of Terry Werenbusch,” Allmen said reassuringly.

  Allmen’s appearance, and the Cadillac with its chauffeur, waiting inside, seemed to inspire confidence. She opened the door wide and let them in.

  They entered a hall full of hunting trophies. On either side were staircases leading to the upper floors.

  The nurse took their coats and Allmen introduced Carlos. “Herr de Leon, my assistant.”

  Carlos put the pilot’s case down and shook her hand.

  “Erika Hadorn. I look after Herr Werenbusch Sr.”

  She led them to a small salon with a large slate table in the middle. A selection of magazines was placed on it. It was clearly here that one waited before being received.

  “Is he that bad?” Allmen asked with concern.

  “Well, for a few years now he’s been blind. You’re more dependent on care than if you still have your sight.”

  “Do you think it would cheer him up if I said hello?”

  She hesitated.

  “Just briefly. Perhaps it will remind him of the old days.”

  “To be honest, I haven’t been here long. So far he hasn’t had any visitors at all. I don’t know if it would cheer him up.”

  “Worth a try, perhaps?”

  She considered briefly. “Okay, come this way.”

  They followed her up one of the staircases, along a corridor to a door. Behind it was a cozy living room with a view of the lake, still veiled with falling snow. There were two vitrines in the room, full of glassware. Vases, bowls, sculptures, all Art Nouveau. Mostly by Gallé.

  “Please take a seat for a moment,” the nurse said, and went into the next room. Through the closed door they could hear her talking loudly. “Visitor” they heard, “school friend,” and “just quickly.” She put her head around the door. “Herr Werenbusch will talk to you briefly, but he needs a moment.”

  Allmen and Carlos looked around the room. Both rested their eyes briefly on the vitrines. They nodded to each other.

  The ringtone from Allmen’s cell made them jump. It was Terry Werenbusch. “Where are you then?”

  “I wanted to ask you the same question. I’m here, at your house.”

  “My house?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m waiting for you here, in my office.” He sounded indignant.

  “Didn’t we say we’d meet at your house?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Do excuse me, I must have gotten confused. I’ll drive over now. Could you tell me the way?”

  “You take the … You know what, I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”

  They had to wait nearly ten of these, before Werenbusch Sr. was ready to receive. The nurse opened the door and ushered them in.

  Allmen got up. “It’ll just be me. Herr de Leon will wait here.”

  Werenbusch was sitting in a wing-back chair. He wore a suit with a handkerchief in the top pocket, a pale blue shirt with a tie, and smelled of freshly applied eau de toilette. His white hair was thick, freshly parted. His eyes gazed straight ahead, and seemed not to be focused on anything.

  “Who are you?” he asked, with the excessive volume of the hard of hearing.

  “Allmen,” the latter shouted back. “Johann Friedrich von. I was with Terry at Charterhouse. Johnny, I was called then.”

  “I had an orderly once called Vonallmen. In those days officers were still given an orderly.”

  “That can’t have been me. A little before my time.” He said this in an amused tone, but it annoyed him.

  “Your father perhaps?”

  Allmen’s father had indeed been an officers’ orderly during the war, before he became a private. “I hardly think so. My father was a colonel. In the cavalry.”

  “I see,” Werenbusch muttered. “Cavalry colonel. Vonallmen …”

  In the room stood a hospital bed, a wardrobe and a table where a game of solitaire had been started. On the walls hung oil paintings, landscapes and still lives. And between the two windows, through which the lake would be visible in better weather, was memorabilia from Werenbusch’s time in the military. Photos, from recruits to colonels. Group photos from his first platoon to his final battalion. And embarrassing, homemade, farewell presents from his underlings.

  “And? What do you want?”

  The nurse gave Allmen an apologetic look.

  “To say hello. I happened to be in the area and I have an appointment with Terry. I thought I’d pop in and see you too.”

  Werenbusch said nothing.

  “So much snow, and it’s only late October.”

  “I can’t see how much snow there is. I’m blind.”

  “At least eight inches. And it’s still snowing.”

  “I don’t care how deep the snow is. I don’t go out any more.”

  “Very wise,” Allmen said cheerily.

  “It’s got nothing to do with wisdom. I don’t have the choice. I would prefer to go out, believe me. I would prefer not to be blind, if you can get your head around that.”

  “Of course.” Allmen looked at the nurse and shrugged. She nodded.

  “It wasn’t actually a decision I took, let’s go blind. And certainly not a wise one!”

  “Well, Herr von Allmen had better be going now, he does have an appointment with your son after all.” The nurse stood up.

  As did Allmen. “I just wanted to quickly …” He held his hand out to the blind man, and the nurse took her patient’s upper arm to help him find it.

  Allmen was surprised by a very strong handshake.

  “Goodbye and all the best,” Allmen wished him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Werenbusch said.

  As he was leaving, Allmen heard him mutter, “Pity.”

  58

  Carlos was sitting on his chair just as before, the pilot’s case on his knee. Now he stood up, and as the nurse left he gave Allmen a slight nod.

  They were led back to the reception room.

  “Terry has called. There was a misunderstanding. He was expecting us in his office. But he will be here shortly, Frau Hadorn.”

  And at that moment they heard footsteps on the polished wooden floor. Soon afterward Terry entered the room.

  Allmen would have disliked him even if he hadn’t known he had tried to shoot him dead two days ago. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up, like a dog about to defend its territory.

  Terry still had the Van Dyke beard, but now it was threaded with gray. His gaunt face had acquired wrinkles, the eyes retreated into their sockets.

  He approached Allmen with an outstretched hand and wide steps, stopped short as he saw Carlos, then continued and took Allmen’s hand.

  Werenbusch’s hand was clammy.

  “Long time no see,” he said. Then, glancing at the table, “Has no one offered you anything to drink?”

  “Frau Gerber has gone shopping,” the nurse explained.

  “Of course,” Terry realized. “Frau, erm …”

  “Hadorn.” The nurse helped him out.

  “Frau Hadorn is my father’s nurse. Not her job to offer guests anything.”

  Only once she had left the three of them alone did Terry hurriedly offer Carlos his hand.

  “Carlos de Leon, my assistant.”

  Terry closed the door and sat down at the slate table. “Please.” He gestured to two chairs opposite him. They sat and for a moment there was an awkward silence.

  If the number of times someone blinks is a measure of their nervousness, Terry Werenbusch was extremely nervous. Tiny beads of sweat had gathered on the bridge of his nose. Both signs made Allmen a little more determined than he already was.

  He gave Carlos a sign. Carlos opened the pilot’s case and took out a reddish-pink folder and slid it across the table.


  Allmen put his hand on it. “I have to say one thing first. Copies of these photographs are also with my lawyer, along with a detailed account of your role in the robbery and the measures you have taken to silence the people who recently became party to information. Along with a signed statement detailing my role in the affair. He knows where we are and has instructions to hand everything to the press and the police if I don’t report back to him tomorrow, in person and in one piece.”

  Now he released the folder.

  “Does he have to be here?” Terry asked.

  “Carlos is my personal assistant,” Allmen answered simply.

  Werenbusch opened the folder. It contained the photographs Carlos had taken of the dragonfly bowls. He looked slowly through them, looking several times from the photos to Allmen, then back to the photos. The pieces of paper shook slightly in his hand.

  “One of them is missing,” he said finally.

  “Klaus Hirt bought it back.”

  Terry nodded and looked at Allmen. He said nothing. Waited.

  “I could go to the police and claim the reward.”

  Werenbusch raised his eyebrows. “To the police? With things you have stolen?”

  “I didn’t steal them. I discovered them by chance at Hirt’s house, recognized them and took them into safe keeping.”

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  “I may still. I mean, if we can’t come to an agreement about my proposal.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Terry leaned back. It was supposed to look relaxed, but did not.

  “Very simple. I give you the bowls back, and you give me the reward I would otherwise receive.”

  Allmen could see how intensely Werenbusch was thinking through the proposal.

  “And what’s in it for me?”

  “You can hide the evidence or destroy it.” Allmen paused for effect. “And that will wipe out the connection between you and us.” He paused. “You and Tanner and me.”

  “I have nothing to do with Tanner,” Terry blurted out. Allmen didn’t try to contradict him. He let his proposal sink in.