Allmen and the Dragonflies

by Martin Suter

Werenbusch thought about it. “And Hirt.”

  “He will keep quiet. He is implicated. Whether with one dragonfly or five.”

  Terry took a tissue out and wiped his face. “And what do you get out of it?”

  “Without the evidence I’m no longer a dangerous witness. That’s a huge relief when you live in a glass house.”

  Werenbusch was not convinced. “That would also be true if you went to the police. What’s the advantage to you?”

  Now Allmen actually smiled, he felt so sure of victory. “I would get four hundred thousand from the insurance company. From you I would get five hundred thousand.”

  For the first time in his life Johann Friedrich von Allmen was bargaining. In this case, and in this situation, it didn’t feel so bad at all. He still hoped his opponent didn’t come back with a lower offer.

  But his opponent did no such thing. He pursed his thin lips, rocked his head from side to side and finally asked, “Can I think about it?”

  Allmen looked toward Carlos, who had been sitting immobile the whole time. He caught the hint of a shake and turned back to Terry.

  “No.”

  Werenbusch nodded. “How? Where? When?”

  “How: we will hand over the bowls, you the money, in cash. Where: in the Seeschloss Hotel. When: is two hours enough?”

  “Half a million in cash in two hours? The bank closes in one and a half!”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Tomorrow. Ten-thirty. At the earliest. The absolute earliest!”

  “Let’s say eleven.”

  59

  The Seeschloss Hotel was a sad seventies building in a breathtaking location—if the postcards displayed at the reception desk were to be believed. It was at the far end of a promontory overgrown with reeds, surrounded by water on three sides, with a view of the distant shores of the neighboring country and the brightly flagged ships on Lake Constance.

  Herr Arnold had told his wife he would be away for the night. She was used to all sorts of things. He joined Allmen and Carlos for supper in the almost empty restaurant.

  Dinner—oily whitefish in too much batter—passed with sparse conversation. Allmen and Carlos couldn’t talk about the burning subject of the day’s events in Herr Arnold’s presence, so they were restricted to small talk and predicting what the weather would do next.

  They went to bed early and arranged to meet for breakfast at ten. This was altered to nine-fifteen after consultation with the waitress. Breakfast was only served till nine-thirty at the Seeschloss.

  Once Allmen was alone in his “suite,” a slightly larger room with a sofa, chairs and stained wall-to-wall carpeting, he suddenly felt as worn-out as he had after a rugby game thirty years ago at Charterhouse in Surrey.

  He slept deeply, without dreams or worries, till his travel alarm woke him again. It was eight o’clock. It had stopped snowing and the thick clouds had become lighter, soon to disperse.

  60

  There was a smell of overheated drip coffee, evaporating on the burner. In the dining room three solitary businessmen were finishing their breakfast, each at a separate table. The sliced meats and cheeses on the buffet looked as if they had been there all night.

  Allmen, Carlos and Herr Arnold sat at one of the many free tables by a window, drank coffee, ate dry rolls with butter and jam from tiny sachets and looked out at the water and the sky, becoming bluer by the minute. They did not say much.

  Shortly after ten, Herr Arnold left. They had agreed that he could go for a drive around the area till Allmen called and asked him to return to the Seeschloss. As long as he didn’t go too far away.

  Allmen and Carlos finished their breakfast and arranged to meet, at ten to eleven at the reception. There was a lounge area where Allmen would wait for Terry. Carlos was to stay somewhere within sight, wearing an earpiece just like a bodyguard.

  At a quarter to eleven, Allmen paid the bill for the three rooms, but obtained permission to use his suite a little longer for a short meeting, a request made more emphatic by an ample tip.

  Then he sat down in one of the armchairs and waited. Carlos stood a few feet behind him, alert.

  One of the businessmen checked out but left his luggage. The other checked out and set off. The third handed in his keys and said, “See you later.”

  Terry Werenbusch was delayed.

  A man who looked as if he had a long drive behind him arrived and double-checked that his room was a no-smoking room.

  A couple with a substantial age difference checked in without luggage.

  The participants for an event in one of the two seminar rooms started trickling in.

  Finally Terry Werenbusch arrived. He was pulling a large wheeled suitcase. He saw Allmen immediately.

  Allmen stood up, greeted him from a distance and joined him in the elevator. Carlos followed them.

  61

  Terry Werenbusch made a strange picture as he unpacked the bowls from the Bubble Wrap. Shy, almost reverent, he held the artworks in his hands with a slightly lowered jaw. He took each one to the window, examining it in the bright daylight, absorbed and oblivious, taking no notice of Allmen and Carlos.

  Only as he started to pack the bowls in the tissue and padding he had taken from his suitcase, did Allmen remind him of his presence.

  Terry looked up in surprise, remembered where he was and threw a thick yellow envelope onto the bed. According to Carlos—Allmen didn’t condescend to count them—it contained exactly five hundred one-thousand notes.

  They returned to the lobby like hotel guests who had met for the first time in the elevator, and went their separate ways without a farewell, without turning to look back even once.

  62

  The return journey passed without incident. The sky was clear now, the temperatures safely back above freezing, the roads clear of snow and Herr Arnold no longer dependent on the traffic news. Glenn Miller was playing again.

  Allmen asked Herr Arnold to stop outside the Confédération and wait till he had checked out.

  While Carlos packed his things, Allmen called the St. Gallen police force and gave them some extremely valuable information.

  63

  The sudden warmth had melted most of the snow on the grounds of the Villa Schwarzacker except for a few grayish lumps. After the previous cold weather the leaves had started to drop. The warm foehn wind was ripping them from the branches and creating mischief. Carlos was busy the whole day trying to keep the pathways clear. The manager of the trust company had already reprimanded him repeatedly for choosing to take a day off when it was snowing.

  Allmen was restless. But he could hardly call the police and ask how it was going. He had to wait till they called him, which the officer on the telephone had promised to do. “To clear up any further questions,” as he had put it.

  He would have loved to distract himself with piano playing, and missed his Bechstein. One of the first things he intended to buy was a replacement.

  He tried to steer his thoughts elsewhere with the help of Inspector Maigret, which usually did the trick. But the criminal story line reminded him too much of his own situation.

  He put the book aside, went to the bookcase and took down one of his other aides in fleeing reality: William Somerset Maugham. It was a book of short stories in English and he read “The Back of Beyond.” But even George Moon, the outgoing resident of Timbang Belud, didn’t grip him as usual. He stood at the glass wall facing the rear of the garden and stared into the dark green undergrowth through which Terry Werenbusch had shot him.

  Carlos had repaired the bullet hole with tape. When Allmen stood in front of it, as now, it was exactly at the height of his heart, which was beating in a frenzy at the thought of how close he had come to death, and how calmly he had dealt with the person who had almost murdered him.

  He put a CD on, Neil Young’s Harvest. But the album reminded him of his time at Charterhouse and thus of Terry. He pressed stop.

  Shortly before five he couldn’t tak
e it any longer. He got changed, called Herr Arnold and had him drive him to the Golden Bar. There he drank a margarita and tried not to overhear Kellermann, Kunz and Biondi’s conversation about Tanner’s murder. There were no developments, he gathered. The police still had no clues. But they always said that.

  He went without the second margarita, signed the check as usual, although his pockets were stuffed with cash, and headed to Promenade for an early supper.

  He browsed the menu of game specials idly but put it aside. He’d had enough of hunters for now. He decided on fish. Something light which wouldn’t keep him awake tonight.

  Just before ten he went for a nightcap beer back in the Golden Bar, pleasantly quiet at this time. He was in bed before eleven. He read a few pages, switched off the light and let the foehn lull him to sleep.

  64

  When Allmen woke the pale strip of light on the ceiling above the curtain rod hadn’t yet appeared. His alarm said just after five-thirty, far too early for his early morning tea. But he got up. He had to find out if the media had anything new to report on the case of the dragonfly bowls.

  He put his dressing gown on and left the bedroom. There was a smell of coffee and toast, untypical at this time. Carlos wished him “Muy buenos días, Don John,” and invited him to take a seat in the “salon,” as he called it.

  There the table was set for breakfast. Next to the plate were computer printouts. Carlos had searched the online press and printed out everything of interest. Here it was at last, the certainty Allmen had been waiting so desperately for.

  There had been an unexpected development in an art theft case which had caused a sensation nearly ten years ago; in an exhibition of works by Emile Gallé in St. Gallen, objects valued at several million francs had been stolen, several others destroyed or damaged. A prime suspect had been arrested and the five works, the famous dragonfly bowls, had been secured.

  The five! Terry hadn’t even managed to hide the four others!

  Allmen jumped up, leaped on the bewildered Carlos, who was watching Allmen’s reaction from the door, hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Carlos wiped his face in embarrassment. “Hay más—there’s more.” He pointed to the printouts on the table.

  The other article was an announcement in the business section. A spokesperson for Hirt Holdings yesterday confirmed that their CEO and sole shareholder Klaus Hirt had died of a heart attack. An obituary would follow.

  65

  It was now spring. Every deciduous tree on the grounds of the Villa Schwarzacker was a delicate green. The forsythias were singing their yellow into the pale blue sky, while the lilacs hid their purple quietly among their branches.

  It was Sunday, the shoe-shine ritual. Allmen was sitting on the raised piano stool next to his new Bechstein, one foot on the black shoe-shine box, watching Carlos, still fascinated by his elegance and dexterity after all these years.

  The case of the dragonfly bowls had caused a sensation. More and more details had gradually been made public:

  The Werenbusch family, part of the Swiss upper crust, had been in severe financial straits which they navigated by committing insurance fraud. They owned one of the most internationally significant Gallé collections, including the famous dragonfly bowls valued at several million francs. Terry Werenbusch, one of the sons, stole them while they were on loan to the Langturm Museum. With the insurance payout they got out of their tight squeeze and back on their feet.

  The matter came to light after nearly ten years when a visitor recognized one of the bowls in a vitrine in the living room of the aging head of the family and informed the police.

  A house search at the family seat turned up the four other dragonflies. Forensic evidence gathered in the museum at the time of the robbery now implicated Terry Werenbusch so heavily he had been in custody ever since. Now he would remain in prison until the trial, as a pistol in his possession was identified without doubt as the weapon used in the recent murder of art and antiques dealer Jack Tanner. The police were working on the assumption he was party to information related to the fraud.

  Allmen received the reward. Well earned, he felt, considering the police were also able to solve Tanner’s murder thanks to an informative tip provided by none other than himself.

  A total of nine hundred thousand francs might have seemed a large sum at first. But after handing a hundred thousand to Carlos—this was the agreed fee for his help and for his idea of raising Terry’s private reward from four hundred to five hundred—and the acquisition of a new baby grand, there was only around six hundred and sixty thousand left.

  Allmen hadn’t noticed Carlos’s tap on the tip of his sole, the prompt for him to switch feet. The man who was probably the only practicing Guatemalan shoe polisher with a hundred thousand Swiss francs in the bank repeated his signal with barely concealed impatience. Such inattentiveness on the part of his customers broke his rhythm and cost him valuable seconds.

  Various urgent repairs and improvements to the gardener’s cottage and the library also ate away at the capital. Nor was the repurchase of various rashly sold showpieces from his Art Nouveau furniture collection cheap.

  Alongside that he brought all his debts back to tabula rasa. He cleared all his outstanding payments, even to the creditors who had long since given up. This didn’t just give him a good feeling. It was also a shrewd way of readjusting his image. He was sure the effect would last, even in times—hopefully not to return—when he might need to rely on it.

  In addition, having suffered so long from being tied down, he had undertaken the occasional trip, refreshing his relationships with his Italian and English tailors, and taking the opportunity to have his shoemaker make the repairs to his right upper necessitated by the brutality of the unspeakable Dörig.

  This had all reduced him to a balance of somewhere over a hundred thousand francs, which might have lasted him a good while, if he hadn’t felt homesick for Aspen. As the date of the festival approached, the feeling grew stronger. And one night he had gone for a nightcap in the Blauer Heinrich after the Golden Bar, then at two in the morning—in Colorado it was only six p.m.—he called The Little Nell, where he had spent some great Christmases, and asked to speak to the manager. He still remembered Allmen, and as luck would have it, a suite had just become free after a regular guest had canceled at short notice. It wasn’t one of the very big ones, just a normal executive suite, just right for Allmen and Olivia Goodman (“I absolutely adore European aristocrats”) whom he met on his second day there.

  This trip to Aspen was the only thing since the dragonfly episode that he placed in the category of “escapades.” He had enjoyed it and at no point regretted it, but financially it unfortunately brought him close to the situation he had found himself in before. The only difference was that he had no debts anymore and his creditworthiness was now impeccable. Nevertheless he had recently caught himself dwelling on the subject of potential sources of income. Perhaps even a regular source.

  Carlos had just requested he exchange another pair of glossy, polished shoes for an unpolished pair, when he had the idea. “Carlos?”

  He didn’t look up. “Qué manda, Don John?”

  “I was just thinking that there are various things for whose recovery rewards are offered.”

  “Cómo no, Don John.”

  “Do you think there are people who make a career out of this?”

  “Cómo no, there are bounty hunters, after all, Don John.”

  “True. So what do they call themselves? Reward hunters? Professional advisors? Recoverers?”

  “No tengo idea, Don John.”

  “Rewardeers? Rewarders? Rewardeurs?”

  Allmen pictured his business card. “Johann Friedrich von Allmen.” Times New Roman, 12 point, small caps. Two points smaller, below: “International Enquiries.” Looked good.

  Carlos tapped the tip of his sole. Allmen swapped feet. An experienced team.

  “Carlos?”

  “Qué man
da, Don John?”

  “Do you think that might be a job for us?”

  Now Carlos looked up from his work for the first time. He thought briefly and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Cómo no, Don John.”

  AFTERWORD

  The five Gallé bowls with the dragonfly motifs were indeed stolen from an exhibition in a burglary at Château de Gingins on October 27, 2004. Investigations continue and the Vaud police are not currently releasing information on their progress.

  All other details of this story are invented, and any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. This applies equally to all places, names and persons appearing in the novel.

  Martin Suter

  THE LAST WEYNFELDT

  BY MARTIN SUTER

  Adrian Weynfeldt is an art expert in an international auction house, a bachelor in his mid-fifties living in a grand Zurich apartment filled with costly paintings and antiques. Always correct and well-mannered, he’s given up on love until one night—entirely out of character for him—Weynfeldt decides to take home a ravishing but unaccountable young woman and gets embroiled in an art forgery scheme that threatens his buttoned up existence. This refined page-turner moves behind elegant bourgeois facades into darker recesses of the heart.

  http://newvesselpress.com/books/the-last-weynfeldt/

  THE MADELEINE PROJECT

  BY CLARA BEAUDOUX

  A young woman moves into a Paris apartment and discovers a storage room filled with the belongings of the previous owner, a certain Madeleine who died in her late nineties, and whose treasured possessions nobody seems to want. In an audacious act of journalism driven by personal curiosity and humane tenderness, Clara Beaudoux embarks on The Madeleine Project, documenting what she finds on Twitter with text and photographs, introducing the world to an unsung 20th century figure.