Michael joined the line, speaking softly into the body mike. As he drew nearer he saw that each person paused only an instant before the statute, gazing into its three evenly spaced eyes.
Then it was his turn. He saw the faded face of the iron angel and looked into its three eyes and gazed upon the truth he had expected.
To his left, through the smoke, old Kurzbic appeared holding a Luger pistol. As he raised it to fire, it seemed to Michael’s eyes that everything moved in slow motion. It seemed that Segar would never make it across the room before the Luger fired.
But then he was onto Kurzbic toppling him to the floor as the weapon fired harmlessly toward the ceiling. Lights went on and people scattered in every direction as more police filled the room.
From the floor Segar asked, “What did you see in the angel’s eyes Michael?”
“Today’s number is 525. The iron angel is a gambling device.”
Later, though he was bone-tired, Michael Vlado dictated a statement to complete Captain Segar’s investigation. They were back in Segar’s office.
“Somewhere, while adding to his collection of eighteenth-century clockwork automations, Kurzbic came upon this large figure of an iron angel, fitted with three eyes and spring mechanisms to bring random three-digit numbers into view at the push of a lever. One digit appeared in each eye opening and because they were small a viewer had to step right up to the statute to read them. Kurzbic decided to set up a daily lottery, a sort of numbers game, selling chances on whichever number the buyers wanted to play. He recorded the number in his book and gave the player a slip with the number written on it as a receipt. Those were the slips we found on Jarie and Conrad. In the latter case, Conrad simply played the address of his drug den because he felt it was a lucky number.”
“It wasn’t lucky for him,” Segar said. “What were those fires for?”
“Simply to burn up the losing tickets after betters had checked the day’s number. Kurzbic must have feared a police raid would have turned up numbered slips in everyone’s pockets. He had the master list, of course, to check for payoffs, but he kept that well-hidden. I believe Jarie Miawa must have con-fronted Kurzbic on the night he was killed. Perhaps he discovered that with his clockwork skills Kurzbic was fixing the mechanism to stop only at numbers on which there’d be a few winners, avoiding those that were getting a heavy play. In any event, Miawa was stabbed. He managed to stagger downstairs to the heroin den and died there. Kurzbic could have quickly wiped up any spots of blood on the steps.”
“What about Conrad Rynox?”
“It was his death that identified Kurzbic as the killer. Shortly before the murder I saw him toss his wristwatch aside because it had stopped. Yet when we found his body the battery operated watch was running perfectly. Conrad left the apartment with a watch that wasn’t running and had it fixed within a few minutes. The only possible conclusion was that he visited a watch shop and purchase a new battery. Kurzbic’s shop is across Furtuna Street and just around the corner on Grivitei and Sigmund told me he was an occasional customer there. There’d have been no time for him to go anywhere else according to the autopsy report. During those important minutes I’d taken Sigmund down the street for coffee, and old Kurzbic was alone in the shop.”
“That’s the trouble. He was alone! If he killed Conrad, how did he get his body around the corner to 117 and into the basement?”
“You’re forgetting that the basements in that block all connect. Conrad must have indicated he knew the truth about Jarie’s death. After Kurzbic replaced the battery he stabbed Conrad and pushed his body into the basement, waiting until later to move it over to where I found it.”
“Hundreds of people must have known Kurzbic ran this gambling game.”
“Of course! They bought numbers from him every day, and if they couldn’t wait to hear the winner they went at midnight to watch the angel’s wheels spin. I should have guessed a gambling involvement from the beginning. The first thing Jennifer told me about Jarie Miawa was that he liked to gamble. When I finally made the connection in my mind between those three-digit numbers and the three eyes of this fabled iron angel, I suspected an antique gambling device of some sort. That pointed me towards Kurzbic and his collection of clockwork automatons. When he saw me tonight he knew it was over and drew his gun, probably the one he mentioned keeping behind his counter.”
Captain Segar sighed and signaled that Michael’s statement was at an end. He looked tired himself. “I must thank you again, old friend. I could never have concluded this case without you.”
Michael Vlado shook his hand. Without them, Jennifer Beatty might still be alive, but neither spoke those words. Perhaps it wouldn’t have made any difference. Perhaps her number had simply come up on the face of another iron angel somewhere.
THE PUZZLE GARDEN
It had been many months since Michael Vlado’s old friend Segar had driven up the twisty roads of the Transylvanian foothills to visit him at the Gypsy village where he was a somewhat uncertain leader. “‘King’” only means that I’d be the first to die if the government moved against us,” Michael had remarked to his wife Rosanna only the night before. These were not good days to be a Gypsy in Romania. Some of his people had already moved on to Germany, but they had only found a more immediate hell awaiting them there.
So Michael chose to remain in his village, always watching the road for the unexpected. When he recognized Segar’s government car that warm spring morning he felt a jolt of alarm. Once a captain in the government militia responsible for law enforcement, Segar had assumed a vague position with the transition government. He could be delivering bad news for Michael’s people.
“My old friend!” Segar greeted him with a smile, and Michael immediately relaxed. There was nothing to fear. “It’s been a long time.”
Segar nodded sadly. His gray suit seemed worn and drab compared to the bright militia uniform he’d often worn in those years when they first became friends. “I do not have the freedom I once had. I am chained to a bureaucrat’s desk eight hours a day.”
“At least you managed to escape on this bright May morning.”
Segar’s smile returned. “I came to ask your help. Have you ever heard of the Garden of the Apostles?”
It was vague in Michael’s mind. “On the estate of the Sibiu family wasn’t it? I was only five when the Communist government began the collectivization of agriculture and large estates back in nineteen forty-nine. I remember my mother’s concern for the Gypsy farmland when I was growing up, but in the end farmers were permitted to retain half-acre plots for private use. No one here has ever had more than that.
Segar nodded, but it was obvious his interest was in the present rather than the past. “After the overthrow of the Socialist government in nineteen eighty-nine, the estate was quietly returned to the rightful heirs of the Sibiu family. The Garden of the Apostles is gradually returning to its past beauty and may someday reopen to the public.”
“I am a horse breeder, not a gardener,” Michael reminded his friend. “What help could I give you in this matter?”
“It seems that something of great value was buried in the garden long ago, before the Communists seized power. Even Claus Sibiu and his wife have no idea exactly where it is located. Naturally they want me to find it before the grounds are opened to the public.”
“You want me for a treasure hunt!”
“In a sense. I thought the puzzle might intrigue you.”
“When?”
“Now. Today, if you can get away.”
They walked up to the house while Michael spoke with his wife Rosanna. “I’ll try to be back tonight, or tomorrow certainly.”
She was a long-suffering woman who sought peace among the little wooden animals she skillfully carved. His absences were nothing new. “I will expect you when I see you,” she told him. “Are the horses penned?”
“Everything is fine.”
She glanced over at Segar. “It is good to see you a
gain. How is life in Bucharest?”
“Improving gradually. There have been no antigovernment protests this month.”
“We are thankful for anything these days.”
Michael kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I will be back,” he said, and then they were gone.
The estate of the Sibiu family was at the base of the foothills where the land finally flattened out on the road south to Bucharest. They turned off the highway at a weathered sign that said Sibiu in barely legible lettering. “Does anyone still come here?” Michael asked.
“If the government is ever stabilized,” Claus Sibiu plans to open the grounds to tourists, as in the prewar days. That is why the Garden of the Apostles is being restored.”
“Do you know Sibiu?”
“I met him with his wife at a reception in Bucharest a few months back. Last week he phoned me with their problem. They have new growth starting in the gardens and they hope the public will be able to view them soon. However, Claus Sibiu recently uncovered a letter from his father, who died of a heart attack shortly after being forced from his home by the Communists. The letter gave clues to the whereabouts of a statue that the elder Sibiu had hidden in the garden to keep it safe. Claus wondered if I might be able to help decipher it.”
“A code?”
“Not really. I gather it’s more a puzzle to be solved. They don’t want to dig up the entire garden if they can pinpoint where this thing is buried.”
Michael smiled. “A treasure hunt, as I said earlier.”
“Does it not appeal to you?”
“It might be relaxing after some of the problems I’ve had to face lately.” They’d paused before the big iron gates of the estate, which seemed to show a family crest entwined with vines of metallic ivy. Segar beeped his horn gently and presently a middle-aged woman in khaki pants and a work shirt came to admit them. She was a large-boned and handsome in a rugged way, as if much of her life had been lived out of doors.
Michael assumed she was one of the estate’s gardeners, and was startled when Segar called out, “Good day, Madame Sibiu. I am here to see your husband.”
“Captain Segar!” she greeted him, swinging open the gate for their car.
“Not Captain any longer, I fear. In the new order of things I am only a government bureaucrat. Your husband phoned last week to suggest that I help him in his search for the statue of Cynthia, believed to be hidden in the Garden of the Apostles.”
Her quick eyes went from Segar to Michael. “That would be most kind. And you bring with you an assistant?”
“I am Michael Vlado, a poor Gypsy with some knowledge of puzzles. My friend Segar thought I could help.”
She nodded. “Park your car inside the gate, off the road and we will walk to the garden. It is only a short distance from here.”
They followed her along a path that had been cut through the haphazard growth of decades. Their drive down from Michael’s village had taken much of the afternoon and the shadows of the spring day were already lengthening. Michael tried to remember what he had heard about the Garden of the Apostles. As he remembered it there were twelve sections, one designated for each of the followers of Christ. The flowers and plantings in each were in keeping with the apostle’s life and Christian symbolism.
“You and your husband have done wonders here,” Segar told her as they emerged from the path on to the open lawn at the front of an old stone mansion badly in need of repairs.
The house, with its dull gray façade and gabled roof, was a perfect back-ground for the blaze of spring flowers that burst upon Michael’s eyes. The Garden of the Apostles, at least in this current reincarnation, was a formal planting of twelve raised beds, each about ten feet square and enclosed by a wooden frame. From where they stood there were three rows of four beds each, running across the front of the house.
“Viewed from the house the order is alphabetical,” Mrs. Sibiu explained. “Andrew’s garden is here and Thomas, Doubting Thomas is at the opposite corner.”
They strolled among the flowerbeds, pausing occasionally to comment on a small tree or a particularly lovely planting. “Everything seems to be in blossom at once,” Segar remarked, trying to take it all in.
“Claus and I tried to rebuild the garden using paintings and drawings from medieval monasteries. Most others show spring gardens, so we have a preponderance of spring blossoms. But there will be blossoms of some sort through-out the summer and autumn.” She led them toward the front steps. “Come to the house now. My husband will tell you more about it and explain our particular problem.”
As he was mounting the stone steps Michael caught a glimpse of two men ducking out of sight around the corner of the house. “Are those gardeners?” he asked, thinking it odd that they would hide from view.
“Damned Gypsies!” she exclaimed angrily. “They did some work for us and the one in the red kerchief tried to steal our tools.”
Segar and Michael exchanged glances but said no more. Inside the house Ida Sibiu ran up the wide front staircase calling to her husband. “Claus – Mr. Segar is here with a friend!”
While they waited, Michael had an opportunity to inspect the sparse but elegant furnishing s of the large house. A marble topped table with thick gilt legs stood in the foyer and on it was framed photograph of Claus and Ida Sibiu, on vacation or perhaps in exile, posed at the railing of a cruise ship of some sort. She was almost as tall as he was, and they might have passed for brother and sister. Their smiles in the photograph were virtually identical, as if they were already contemplating the money awaiting them back in a free Romania.
“That was on a cruise to the Greek Islands two years ago,” a voice announced from the stairs. “It was our fifth anniversary.”
Michael turned to see the man with the fringe of beard and thinning hairline descending the steps. He was a bit thinner than in the photo but still immediately recognizable. Segar came forward to shake his hand. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Sibiu. This is my friend Michael Vlado, who has come to assist us.”
Sibiu stepped forward to shake Michael’s hand. “Ida told me she’d given you a brief look at the garden.”
“Very impressive,” Michael told him. “It must take a great deal of work.”
“That is Ida’s province. She often neglects the house to work in the garden, but she says that is what will bring the tourists.” He spoke slowly and carefully, as if unsure of the language. “You can see that our furnishings are sparse.”
This marble-topped table is lovely,” Segar told him. “And this wall plaque of a golden moon –”
“Ida found it in Rome during our travels.” The plaque was nearly two feet across, perfectly round but with the graceful curve of a half-moon etched on its surface. “She thought at first it might be by Picasso because of that odd representation of the moon’s face.”
Michael had moved on to a painting of a Roman galley under full sail. “Is this one old?”
“The last century, but not too valuable. The Communists did not even bother to steal it when they went through the house. I used to love it as a child here.”
“When were you forced to leave?” Michael asked.
“In the summer of forty-nine when they began seizing property. I was just a boy but my father wanted me safely out of here. The Communists became Socialists in nineteen sixty-five, but no less repressive.”
Segar cleared his throat, anxious to get on with the business at hand. “You told me on the telephone that you had found a message left by your father.”
“I have it here.” He was wearing a short maroon dressing gown over dark pants and a white shirt. From the gown’s pocket he drew a folded envelope. “We found this among his papers when they were returned to us by the transition government. Apparently no one had ever opened it over all these years. My father mentions a buried statue which could be very valuable.”
Segar accepted the envelope and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “We had warehouses full of personal papers and po
ssessions seized from the wealthy. You are lucky they could even find this to return it.” He read the message with a deepening frown and then passed it on to Michael, who read it aloud:
My son, you have been gone from me only two weeks and already I yearn for your presence. If you should come back I pray that this message reaches you someday. Among the Apostles I have buried a likeness of Cynthia which is unique and valuable. This is for you, my son, and not for those who would destroy our country. Seek out the garden of the last Apostle and there you will find the treasure.
“This is his signature?” Segar asked.
“I believe so. It seems to match others we found among his papers.”
“When was this written?” Michael wondered.
“There’s a lightly penciled date on the back of the envelope, right here. It says February twenty-four, nineteen forty-nine.”
Segar examined the envelope. “Who is Cynthia? An ancestor?”
“No one I’m aware of. My father’s books were returned along with his papers, and I tried to find the name in an edition of Bulfinch’s Age of Fable. It’s not there.”
“Has any searching been done?” Michael Vlado asked.
“Come into the garden. I will show you.”
They followed him out the front door and down the steps to the twelve sections of the Garden of the Apostles. The rosebushes were not quite in blossom, but there were tulips and lilies and even a small magnolia tree in various stages of bloom. They saw now that one bed of the garden had been dug into recently, and an attempt made to repair the damage.
“Our only clue was mention of the garden of the last Apostle,” Claus Sibiu explained. “The Apostles are listed four times in the New Testament, in Matthew, Mark, Luke and the Acts. Each time Judas is listed last. The indication is that he was the last one chosen, but he may be last only because he later betrayed Christ. In any event, we dug up part of this garden and found nothing. A couple of Gypsies camping on the property helped us, but we were unsuccessful. Ida claimed the Gypsies tried to steal our tools and we stopped using them.”
The Iron Angel Page 19