“Some are friends of mine,” Segar admitted. “I speak the Romany tongue quite well.”
“You know their leader?”
“I know Michael Vlado. The hill Gypsies are not nomadic. For the most part they live in settlements or villages under separate Gypsy kings. In Gravita, the village I know best, the king is ill and elderly. For practical purposes, authority has passed to a younger man, Michael Vlado. One day he will be king.”
“What is their feeling about the Socialist state?”
Segar shrugged. “They live their own lives, by Gypsy law. For minor offenses, they hold court among themselves. On the few occasions when violence has occurred, we have been summoned.”
“We need a Gypsy leader to represent his people at a state function in Bucharest next month. Do you think Michael Vlado might be the man?”
“He is very independent, as are all Gypsies. I would have to ask him.”
Inspector Krisana nodded. “Drive up to Gravita tomorrow and speak with him. I’ll give you the details of the event we wish him to attend.”
“I was preparing my reports for the inspector-general’s visit –”
“This takes precedence. I have been ordered to choose a Gypsy representative.”
“Very well,” Segar agreed. “I will drive up there in the morning.”
The journey up to the village took more than two hours, but Segar enjoyed the opportunity to get away from the office. Paperwork had never been one of his favorite activities and the drive through the October landscape, filled with unexpected bursts of color, was a welcome relief from his desk.
Michael Vlado, a tall, dark eyed man with a weathered Gypsy face, was in the field with his horses, as Segar had expected he would be. The crops had been harvested for another year and the Gypsy leader could devote time to his true love.
Seeing Segar emerge from his car, Vlado galloped over on a fine bay colt to greet him. “It is an honor to see you again, Captain. Is your visit one of duty or pleasure?”
“Both, I suppose,” Segar said, quickly outlining the reason for his call. As he spoke, Michael merely smiled, then finally said, “This sort of event is not for me, old friend. The Socialist state tolerates us, but the less we are seen the better.”
“Is there anyone else who could go as a representative? The inspector needs a Gypsy.” He paused and added, “We must all look after one another in this life, you know. I do you a favor, you do me one in return.” Segar knew that Michael would understand the reference to their Moscow trip earlier that year, when the captain had arranged for Michael’s horse to race at the Hippodrome.
“I understand that,” Michael Vlado answered seriously. “But who would I send?”
“How is King Carranza these days?”
“Still confined to his wheelchair. He could not make the journey.” Suddenly Michael spotted a red tractor lumbering along the dirt road. “Let me speak with Arges Gallipeau.”
Captain Segar knew most of the village’s Gypsy families, at least by sight, and he’d met Gallipeau once or twice. He was a slim man with a wisp of beard clinging to his chin. Like Michael, he was in his early forties, but there all resemblance ceased. His manner was almost timid at times, and he lacked the driving force with which Michael shepherded his people.
“Arges!” Michael called to him. “Wait there so we can talk!” He ran over to the tractor and asked, “Is your brother at his house?”
“He is there,” Arges answered somewhat disagreeably. “Probably with Krista.”
“Are you headed there now?”
Arges shook his head. “I want to get the tractor into the shed. They say we might get a little snow later.”
Segar glanced up at the gathering clouds. With the temperature well into the forties, snow in late October seemed unlikely, though he knew they sometimes had traces in the higher elevations.
Michael allowed the tractor to continue on its way and said to Segar, “We could drive over to see Nicolae. He might be the man you need.”
“If you won’t do it, I suppose he would be a possibility.” Nicolae Gallipeau was a respected member of the Gypsy community, a learned man who had even attended school in Bucharest. Following the death of his wife, he had taken a young Gypsy girl named Krista as a lover, and she was at his house much of the time. This had caused some comment in the community, and even his own brother Arges had turned against him on the matter. To Captain Segar it seemed an affair of little consequence but he knew that Krista’s parents had petitioned Michael to bring the matter before the Gypsy court, or kris. Though an informal tribunal, all kris rulings carried great weight in the community.
Nicolae’s house was one of the village’s better homes, a two story structure with an attached woodshed and a wellhouse. The man himself met them at the door, welcoming Michael with a hug and shaking hands with Captain Segar. Though he did not look that much different from his brother, there was a world of difference in their personalities. Nicolae was clean shaven and smiling, perhaps a bit heavier than Arges, and he wore a gold ring in his right ear. He remembered Segar from their prior meetings and immediately began questioning him about recent events in the city. When they finally sat down, Segar quickly brought up the subject of his visit. “What?” Nicolae asked with a chuckle. “You want me to represent the Gypsies? At what – a firing squad?”
“A Socialist anniversary,” Segar said, filling in the details.
“The Romanian Gypsy is rarely so honored,” Nicolae observed. “Did you ever read Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Captain?”
“I expect every literate citizen has,” Segar answered stiffly.
“At the end of the novel, Count Dracula’s coffin is being transported through a snowstorm on the back of a Gypsy wagon. Jonathan Harker and the others overtake it, fight off the Gypsy knives and drive a knife through Dracula’s heart. I think that is still the image some Romanians have of the Transylvanian Gypsy – the knife-wielding cohort of vampires.”
“I doubt it’s as bad as all that.”
“At the very least they view us as flouting their stupid tax laws.”
“We are guilty of that,” Michael agreed. Romania imposed a tax on unmarried people over the age of twenty-five, and on childless couples, in an effort to spur the country’s sagging population. Gypsies believed their traditional tribal laws took precedence over such government interference.
Nicolae took a pipe from the pocket of his fringed leather coat. “Then why do they want us represented at their anniversary?”
“They want better relations,” Segar told him with a sigh. “Is that so difficult to understand?”
“It is for me,” Nicolae retorted but his reply was cut short by the entrance of Krista into the room. She was dark-eyed and lovely, the sort of awesome Gypsy beauty famed in song and story but rarely encountered in real life. Segar knew she’d been listening to their conversation even before she spoke.
“Nicolae, I think you should go,” she announced, sweeping across the room in a colorful skirt that almost touched the floor. Her low cut blouse did little to hide her voluptuous figure and her raven black hair glistened in the light. “You will be representing all of us.”
The sight of her coming to the aid of his argument spurred Segar to renewed efforts. Michael joined in, too, urging with greater vigor than before. Finally, Nicolae threw up his hands with a rueful smile. “All right, I’ll consider it. At least give me an hour or so to get used to the idea. Come back after lunch and I’ll give you my decision.”
Krista was going down to the main street of the village to shop for fresh vegetables and Vlado and Segar accompanied her. “Do you think we convinced him?” Michael asked.
“After all these years, you know him better than I do,” she replied. “But I think so.”
While she shopped, Michael suggested a bit of lunch. Captain Segar followed him into a little café next to the vegetable stalls. The wind had turned sharply colder and he was beginning to believe the warnings of snow. The café con
sisted of a few table and a bare wooden counter, behind which the food and drinks were prepared. It was nothing like the wine shops and restaurants one found the in the city, and for a moment it seemed like a foreign country to Segar. Michael Vlado spoke to the young man behind the counter in the Romany tongue and ordered a light lunch for them both. When the man disappeared into the back, Michael said in a low voice, “That’s Trey Zuday. He used to be Krista’s lover. I didn’t realize he was working here.”
Presently the young man returned with their food and Captain Segar studied him with more than passing interest. He was certainly younger than Nicolae Gallipeau and handsomer, but apparently Krista had chosen the security of an older, successful man. From what Michael had said earlier, even the opposition of her parents had failed to sway her.
It was at this point that Krista herself entered the café with a bag of vegetables ready to join them as planned. It was immediately apparent that her former lover’s presence in the place was as much a surprise to her as it had been to Michael.
“Krista!” Trey Zuday exclaimed, his face a mixture of emotions. “What brings you in here?”
“I was shopping. I came to join Michael and the Captain.”
He gave her a sardonic smile. “I hoped you might have come to see me.”
“I thought you still worked on the farm.”
“The harvest is finished for the year. I needed work.”
“Oh.” Her face was flushed and she looked away, not knowing whether to sit down or run out the door.
“How are your parents?”
“They are well, thank you.”
“And Nicolae?”
“I –” The words caught in her throat and she was unable to answer.
“More vigorous than ever, I imagine, with a fine bedmate like you!”
“Trey, don’t –”
He used some Romany phrase that Segar couldn’t catch, and she burst into tears. Michael got to his feet. “She doesn’t deserve obscenities,” he told Trey quietly.
“Are you taking care of her now?”
Michael barked a few words in Romany and the young man fell grudgingly silent. “Let’s get out of here,” Krista said.
They followed her out, the food uneaten. “I thought I knew the language,” Segar told Michael, “but I still have a few words to learn.”
“Better you don’t know those. They could bring you a Gypsy knife in the gut under the wrong circumstances.” He called out, “Krista! Wait up!”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and turned a tear-streaked face to them. “I shouldn’t involve you. Go back and finish your lunch.”
“When my people are involved, I am involved,” Michael Vlado said. “Let us walk back to the house with you.”
“There are a few flurries,” Segar pointed out. “The snow is starting.”
It was a ten minute walk back to Nicolae’s house, but it was still warm enough to melt the snowflakes as they fell. Nicolae saw them approaching and came out to take the bag of vegetables from Krista. Behind him they saw his brother Arges, scratching his wispy beard. “I must be going now,” Arges said. “Good to see you Krista.”
“Can you not stay a bit?” she asked.
“No, no – Nicolae has agreed to what you asked Michael. He will tell you.”
They turned toward Nicolae and he nodded. “I will represent the Gypsy community. My brother agrees that I should do it.”
“That is good news,” Captain Segar said, shaking his hand.
Arges gave a wave and headed across the field to his waiting tractor. Segar watched him for a moment, but his attention was distracted by the sudden appearance of Trey Zuday, running up the road from the center of the village. “What does he want?” Nicolae asked. “I thought you were finished with him, Krista.”
“I am! We ran into him at the café. Be careful, Nicolae.”
“I came to settle this, Nicolae!” the young man shouted, still twenty feet away. His hand moved quickly to the back of his belt and appeared holding a hunting knife.
“Trey!” Krista shouted, “Don’t be crazy!”
Segar stepped quickly between the two men, holding out his hand with a gesture of authority. Perhaps it was the sight of his uniform that made Zuday hesitate. “Let him come!” Nicolae shouted. “I’m still man enough to beat him with my bare hands!”
“No, no!” Krista ran from one to the other, first pushing the older man back toward his house and then urging the young one to turn away from his foolhardy mission.
“You’d better go in,” Michael told Nicolae. “We’ll talk later about the Bucharest trip.”
Krista had finally persuaded Trey to return the knife to his belt. This was the moment for which Nicolae had been waiting. He broke free of Michael’s halfhearted grasp and ran at the younger man, striking him a glancing blow off the jaw. Trey staggered but did not go down. Instead his hand went back to the knife and it took both Segar and Michael to keep the two men apart.
Even Krista seemed disgusted by the action. “Nicolae – my God, you’re worse than he is!”
The snow was falling harder now, and Kirsta led Trey away. Segar watched them part a little way down the road. The young man said some-thing that made her throw up her hands and go off in the opposite direction. He continued back the way he had come.
“Go inside now,” Michael commanded. “We’re all getting wet.”
Nicolae spat on the ground. “That young bull thinks he can win her back, but I can best him any day – with a knife or in the bed!”
“Go inside!” Michael repeated. “We all need to cool off.”
Nicolae reentered the house, closing the door behind him. Now the grass was beginning to trap the wet flakes and Segar saw the trail his footprints had made.
“They’ll calm down,” Michael told him with perhaps more hope than assurance. “Gypsy blood is hot, and passion is always near the surface.”
Segar’s car was parked a little way down the road and they turned toward it. “You’re sure Nicolae won’t change his mind about going to Bucharest?”
“If he gives his word, he keeps it,” Michael assured him.
Suddenly there was a muffled shout from the direction of the house and both men turned. Through the falling snow they saw the front door begin to open. They had a glimpse of Nicolae Gallipeau, his face and chest covered with blood.
“Come on!” Michael shouted running toward the house through the light dusting of snow. Segar turned to summon Krista, but neither she nor Trey was in sight.
The door had swung shut by the time they reached it, but it hadn’t latched. Michael pushed it open and went at once to Nicolae, who had staggered back and collapsed face down near the big wood stove. Michael started to turn him over and then took his hands away, staring up at Segar in disbelief. “He’s dead. His throat’s been cut!”
Segar knelt by the body and confirmed the fact that Nicolae Gallipeau was indeed dead. The blood had come from a terrible gash across his throat. The sight almost sickened him. “After his throat was cut, he managed to stagger from the parlor to the front door. See the trail of blood?”
“Where is the killer?” Michael asked, looking carefully about the room.
Segar drew a 9 mm pistol from his holster and stepped into the kitchen. Like most houses in Gravita, the place was equipped with telephone and electricity but no running water. A pump brought water to the kitchen sink, and an open well beyond the woodshed was available for hauling it up by the bucket. Segar moved carefully through the kitchen and woodshed to the wellhouse, checking cupboards and wood piles without success. A heavy door leading to the basement was bolted on the kitchen side, and though the back door of the wellhouse was unlatched the snow outside was unmarked. A small anvil stood near the door, apparently to hold it open when need be.
Segar returned to the front room where Michael had remained with the body. “He must be hiding upstairs.” He started up more cautious than before, his pistol extended in front of him. He checked the
bedrooms one at a time, looking in closets, under beds, and even in some of the larger drawers. At one end of the second floor he checked the storeroom, which served as a sort of attic. A large trunk yielded nothing but blankets and shawls. He tried the windows, seeking access to the roof, but they were all latched tight from the inside. There was no place even a child could have hidden.
Back downstairs, Michael Vlado stared at him as he returned. “Nothing?”
“Nothing. It makes one believe in Gypsy curses.”
“The snow is unmarked at the back of the house?”
Segar nodded. “Stay here while I walk around the outside. Only a few flurries were drifting down, but the light coating on the ground provided an effective shield for the house. No one had entered or left since the snow fell, except by the front door. Segar even checked the outhouse, though the unmarked snow told him it would be empty.
He returned to the front of the house and told Michael. “The killer is still inside, if there ever was a killer.”
“What other possibility is there?”
“He might have committed suicide.”
“Cutting his own throat?” Michael Vlado shook his head. “Then where is the weapon? It’s nowhere in the room.”
“He might have thrown it as he opened the front door.”
“We would have seen it. The snow’s not deep enough to hide anything.”
Nevertheless, Segar inspected the ground near the front door. Not even a razor blade could have escaped his scrutiny. There was nothing in the snow. “You’re right,” he finally agreed, straightening up.
“I must tell his brother,” Michael said, “and Krista, if I can find her. Will you stay here with the body?”
Captain Segar nodded. “I’ll phone my office and have them send a team of investigators up here. And an ambulance for the body.”
Michael Vlado frowned. “He must be buried here, on Gypsy land.”
”Not until we do an autopsy. I want a full report on that wound. We might get some idea as to what caused it. Perhaps a booby trap of some sort that did not require the murderer’s presence –”
The Iron Angel Page 5