The Iron Angel

by Edward D. Hoch

  Presently Lieutenant Lyrik returned. He resumed his seat behind the desk and smiled. “I have been given permission to take you to the Gypsy quarter and show you the fence.”

  “Very good. That’s what I wanted.”

  Michael followed along to the officer’s car where the man who’d been inspecting his vehicle joined them. “This is Sergeant Cista. He will accompany us,” the lieutenant said. Cista was grim sort who shook hands and then rested his palm on the holster flap of his pistol. Michael was given the front passenger seat and he was well aware that Cista was seated directly behind him with the weapon.

  The small city’s commercial and shopping district covered only a half-dozen blocks and within minutes they’d reached an area of decrepit apartment buildings, two stories in height. He saw at once that a solid concrete wall had been erected down the center of the wide street, effectively separating the apartment block from the two-family homes on the other side. As Lyrik started down the better side of the avenue, Michael said, “I’d like to visit the Roma side first.”

  “Very well.” The lieutenant backed out, made a sharp turn, and then proceeded past the Gypsy apartments. Behind him Michael heard the snap as Sergeant Cista opened the flap on his holster.

  Some of the Gypsy women were on the sidewalk clustered in small groups. One older woman in a colorful skirt spit at the police car as it went by. Further along there were a few men and boys, too shouting their defiance at the wall. “Can you stop?” Michael asked. “I wish to speak with them.”

  “That’s not allowed,” was the answer.

  “What about that woman?” He indicated a fair-skinned redhead in her thirties. “Surely she’s not a Roma.”

  “Mrs. Autumn,” Cista muttered from behind him.

  “Is that her name?”

  Lyrik snorted, “She is sent by an Irish relief agency to work with the Gypsies. We call her that because she comes every autumn.”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  Lyrik dismissed the suggestion. “She’s an agitator.” They pulled around the end of the wall and started down the other side. “As you can see this is no Berlin wall. Your Gypsies need merely to walk around it. But it does offer the neighbors some respite from their noise and rubbish.”

  He stopped the car and they got out. The wall rose higher than Michael’s head, probably seven feet. As they approached it, Lyrik explained that it was constructed of cinder blocks with cement facing. Michael wondered how long it would be before graffiti began to appear on it.

  Sergeant Cista had remained behind them near the car while Lyrik and Michael walked up to the wall. “Perhaps the noise and garbage you fear so much would be less if the children were not denied a proper education,” Michael told the lieutenant, reaching out to touch the rough concrete of the wall.

  Lyrik opened his mouth as if to reply when a sudden sound like the crack of a rifle reached them from the distance. Lieutenant Lyrik gasped and his right hand flew to his face. He sank to his knees and toppled forward into the wall. Michael could see blood on the pavement even before Sergeant Cista ran up and turned him over.

  There was a bloody wound over Lyrik’s right eye. Michael had no doubt that the shot had killed him instantly.

  Cista’s hand came up from his holster holding the pistol he’d been so anxious to draw. “Back up,” he ordered Michael.

  “I didn’t kill him. I have no weapon.” Not knowing how well the sergeant understood him, he raised his hands above his head.

  Cista unhooked the cell phone from Lyrik’s belt and called for help. Already a few neighbors had ventured forth from the two-family homes that lined the street on this side of the wall. “I heard the shot,” one man said. “The Gypsies killed him!”

  Michael was kept well away from the body as an ambulance and police car arrived on the scene. The body was quickly removed as the gathering crowd increased in size and Cista escorted a police officer over to where Michael waited. “I am Captain Mulheim,” the officer said briskly. “Do you wish to make a statement?” He was older and stouter than Lyrik had been, perhaps reflecting his higher rank.

  “I have no statement to make. I’m sure you are aware that I came at the request of the European Roma Rights Center. Lieutenant Lyrik was showing me your wall when he was shot.”

  “By a bullet from the Gypsy side of the wall.”

  “We don’t know that.” Michael insisted. “I heard the shot but couldn’t tell its direction.”

  The police captain glowered. “You will accompany me to headquarters while we check your story,” he said, making it clear there was no room for negotiation.

  Michael Vlado sat on a hard wooden bench for two hours outside Captain Mulheim’s office. Finally, at five o’clock, he was summoned inside. “Your story checks out,” the captain told him. “I also have the medical examiner’s report. The fatal bullet passed through Lieutenant Lyrik’s head and was not recovered, but it came from a high-powered rifle some distance away, probably equipped with a telescopic sight. An hour from now, at six o’clock, I am going on television to issue an ultimatum. If the killer of Lieutenant Lyrik does not surrender within twenty-four hours, the police and militia will clear all Gypsies from the apartments on Masarak Street. The message will also be broadcast by loudspeakers on the street.”

  “You can’t do that,” Michael said, trying to keep his voice under control.

  “Can’t?” The Captain smiled. “You seem to forget that I am the law in this city. I have full authority in all criminal matters.”

  “Let me speak to the Rom. Let me get to the bottom of this.”

  “Certainly,” Captain Mulheim said, getting to his feet. “You have twenty- four hours to deliver the murderer.”

  Michael left police headquarters and walked back several blocks through the decrepit city. To his eye, the area being protected from a Rom incursion was little better than the Gypsy section itself. The wall was not a matter of economics but rather of fear. As he passed the wall itself he could still see the stain of Lyrik’s blood on the pavement where he’d fallen. Michael rounded the end of the wall and walked up to the first house. It was a two-story apartment like the others, although a broken front window on the second floor told him that apartment was probably unoccupied. From downstairs came the sound of off-key music, perhaps played on an accordion.

  A young woman wearing a full red skirt came to the door, frowning at him. She had the dark features of a Gypsy though her manner almost suggested a Western upbringing. “Are you police?” she asked immediately. “They have already questioned us about the shooting.”

  “My name is Michael Vlado,” he told her. “I have been sent by the European Roma Rights Center in Budapest. It’s about the wall.”

  “You are Rom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come in,” she said reluctantly, stepping aside. The outlines of her long legs were visible against the thin fabric of the skirt.

  The music grew louder as he entered a small, neat living room. He saw at once that it was coming from two boys about nine or ten years old. The younger was playing a small violin while the other had an accordion. It was little more than a toy but he was coaxing passable music from it.

  “These are your sons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your husband?”

  “He is at work.” She brushed the dark hair back from her face, then added, “I am Rosetta. My sons are Erik and Josef.” She signaled to the boys. “Go practice in your room.”

  They disappeared through the kitchen. Michael sat down on the nearest chair. “They play well for children.”

  “Gypsies love music, but you must know that. They say a violin in the hands of a Gypsy produces purer and more passionate sounds than for anyone else.”

  “That is true,” Michael agreed. Then, “I have disturbing news. The police captain, Mulheim, is threatening to clear this entire block if the killer of Lieutenant Lyrik does not surrender within twenty-four hours.”

  “Of course!
” She showed a flash of anger. “We are easy people to blame for any crime. He sent you to tell us this?”

  “No. You will learn it soon enough.” Already far in the distance, he could hear the blare of an approaching sound truck, its message not yet clear. He glanced toward the ceiling, where the sound of the children’s music had resumed. “Does someone live upstairs?”

  Rosetta shook her head. “It’s empty. The children play there and practice their music.”

  “Josef shows great promise for his age. Is he around ten?”

  “He is twelve. I know he looks younger. Sometimes we cannot afford the food a growing boy needs. His father beats him if he catches him begging in the streets with the other Rom children. He wants to support us through his own work, but that is not always possible.”

  “Do the police bother you?”

  “All the time,” she acknowledged. “But we are used to it. My husband says it is the price we must pay for living in the city.”

  “How many of you are living here?”

  “About seventy. There were more, but the police harassment has driven many away. That is their goal, of course.”

  The sound truck was on the street now, blaring its message for all to hear.

  Captain Mulheim had seen to it that the announcement was read in Czech, followed by a translation into Rom. Michael lifted the curtain on the front window and looked down the street. A few men and some women had come out of the apartments and were gathering in small groups. “I’d better go out there,” he told her. “I may see you again later.”

  The Irish woman that Lyrik had pointed out to him had emerged from one of the houses and was pleading with the Rom to remain calm. One man, taller and bulkier than the rest, already held a slender dagger in his hand. “I am calm until they drive me from my home,” he told anyone who would listen. “Then I am angry.”

  Others clustered around and when there was an opportunity Michael spoke to the Irish woman and introduced herself. “I’m glad they’ve sent someone,” she told him. “I can’t handle this alone.” Up close he judged her age to be around forty, but the long red hair had given her a younger appearance when he saw her from the patrol car.

  “The police call you Mrs. Autumn,” he said.

  “They usually call me worse than that. My name is Mary Baxter. Come inside where we can talk.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “I stay in one of the empty apartments when I come each year.”

  “Is this a fairly stable Rom community?” Michael asked, following her up the steps to one of the apartments. The inside walls were greasy from years of cooking. Peeling paint hung from the ceiling.

  She shrugged. “Some Gypsies were meant to wander. I do believe it is in their blood.”

  “My wife and I have lived in the same Romanian town for more than fifteen years. We have a farm where we raise horses.”

  “Ah, but you’re here now, aren’t you?” Mary Baxter said. “I imagine this position with the Roma Rights Center keeps you away from home much of the time. It is your own form of wandering.”

  “It is a new thing for me. But I admit to being away frequently. Perhaps you are right. But I’m interested in this particular community. Is there anyone you know who resents the wall enough to shoot a police officer over it?”

  “Many.”

  He gestured out the window toward the man with the dagger. “That one?”

  “His name is Mathias. He is their protector and he takes the job seriously.”

  “Might he have killed the lieutenant?”

  Mary Baxter shook her head. “That dagger is his weapon. I have never seen anyone on the block with a firearm.”

  He motioned toward the peeling paint. “This place needs work. The house at the end of the block is in much better shape.”

  “Rosetta Lacko. She has a husband and two fine children. They’re not all that lucky. But I hope to find time to paint these walls while I’m here.”

  “Who lives upstairs?”

  “Mathias.”

  ” The one with the knife?”

  “He doesn’t worry me. Next year it’ll be someone else.”

  “Why do you keep coming back?” Michael asked.

  “Because the job is never finished, is it?”

  “No,” he agreed.

  Mary Baxter prepared something for them to eat, and they talked into the evening hours. “Michael is an unusual name for a Rom,” She observed.

  “Not in Romania. I was named for their last king, deposed by the Communists after the war and still living in exile. We were ruled with an iron fist until recently.”

  “Sometimes I wish for a strong president here to keep the local police under control.”

  “I thought Vaclav Havel was a strong leader. He’s highly regarded in other countries. Can’t he control them?”

  She shook her head. “Havel has lost much of his popularity with the Czech people. He seems to do nothing toward helping the Gypsies.”

  The conversation shifted to the murder of Lieutenant Lyrik, and who might have fired the fatal shot. “There aren’t a great many men on the street,” Michael observed. “Is there a tribal king?”

  “The last one moved away. Rosetta’s husband Bruno will probably replace him.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “He has a booth at the fun fair on the outskirts of the city, one of those where you hit the target and win trinkets or stuffed animals. He should be home soon.”

  Michael glanced at his watch. “I must be going. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

  “Where will you stay?”

  He smiled. “The Roma Rights Center arranged for a hotel room. I have two beds if you’d care to sleep in comfort for one night.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “It’s a kind offer, but my place is here.”

  “When does Mathias return with his dagger?”

  “When he’s so drunk I have to help him upstairs to his bed.”

  “Before I leave, could you show me the upstairs apartment? The side facing the wall?”

  “Follow me.”

  She snapped on the stairway light and led him up to Mathias’s place. The door was unlocked and as they entered Michael could smell the odor of beer and stale tobacco smoke. He stood at the window for a moment, trying to gauge the angle down to the wall in the center of Masarak Street. “I need more light,” he decided. “Could I return in the morning?”

  “Certainly. It may be our last day here if the police drive us out.”

  “You don’t think Lyrik’s killer will confess?”

  “Whoever did it, he is not a Gypsy. He is not here.”

  Michael looked again at his watch. “I really must leave. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  She saw him to the door and he headed down the street the way he had come, nodding to some of the Gypsy families lounging in front of their apartments. Though it was after nine o’clock, Rosetta’s children were still practicing on their instruments and she was seated on the front steps. As he stopped to say hello, a well-built man with glasses and a moustache loomed up beside her. “Bruno,” she said, “this is the man from the Roma Rights Center that I told you about.”

  “Bruno Lacko,” he said, extending his hand to Michael. “Rosetta tells me you’ve come to help.”

  “If I can. Mary – Mrs. Autumn – tells me you’re in charge here.”

  “When I can be. I work long hours for my family.”

  ”What is the feeling among your people? Might one of them have killed Lieutenant Lyrik?”

  “In a fair fight certainly. No one on this block would have fired a rifle at him. No one owns a rifle that I am aware of.”

  Michael nodded. “I’d like to return tomorrow and take some measurements from your upstairs window to the wall. Would that be all right?”

  “Certainly, so long as you make it before the police deadline. We don’t know what will happen then.”

  Michael slept well in the strange bed and ate
breakfast at the hotel. As he retraced his route to Masarak Street he was aware of the police cars slowly circling the blocks. One of them came to a stop at a corner, blocking his route across a street. The window rolled down and Captain Mulheim peered out.

  “I did not expect you to be here still, Gypsy. At six this evening Masarak Street will not be a safe place.”

  “I’m hoping I can help settle this matter before your deadline. Would it be possible for me to examine the lieutenant’s body?”

  Mulheim shoot his head. “It was cremated this morning. He had no wife or close relatives.”

  “Captain, I ask that you consult with me before moving against those Gypsies.”

  “I can make no promises,” he said, and the car window slid silently shut.

  Michael continued on his way, aware that he was never out of sight of at least one patrol car. He entered Masarak Street from the other end, but the street showed little difference when approached from that direction. The first adult he saw was Mary Baxter, directing children into a small van that he guessed must function as a school bus.

  “You’ve come back,” she said.

  “Of course. Are these children schooled by the state?”

  “Not so they learn anything. I’ve managed to enroll them in a private school for half days. We have to provide our own transportation, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Once the van pulled away from the curb, crowded to overflowing, she relaxed with a sigh. “I don’t want them here this evening, in case there is violence. No one knows how serious the police are about evicting us.”

  “They’re serious,” he said following her into the apartment. “If they are driven out, will you return to Ireland?”

  “Not until Christmas, whatever happens. My husband –”

  “Then there is a Mr. Autumn?”

  She laughed. “Yes, there is. He teaches the autumn semester each year at Trinity College.”

  Michael stood by the front window, staring at the wall again. “Would you happen to have a ball of string or twine?”