In the back of the store, a thick black curtain barred the way to ‘The Magician’s Cave – Amazing Tricks and Illusions!’
Off to the right of the ‘cave’, a Punch and Judy stall. But this was nothing like the one he’d returned to Otto Brendl’s house.
This one was decked out like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, and instead of the old familiar characters, two superheroes were propped up, slugging it out. Neon lights flickered inside it and a soundtrack of looped explosions and guitars made the little theatre vibrate.
A placard next to the theatre said – ‘Punch is dead – long live Robot-man!’
So this was what Otto Brendl was up against. The Puppet King.
Jack shook his head in sad acceptance: change comes — dealing with it is hard …
He looked around.
As far as he could tell, he was the only customer. He went to the checkout. A plump girl dressed as a fairy sat texting on a stool.
“Hi. I'm here to meet Mr Krause.”
The girl looked up and stared. Then, with a sigh, she put down her phone, picked up a microphone on a stand and bellowed into it:
“Mr Krause – to the tills! Mr Krause to the tills!”
The words boomed out over the PA.
Jack smiled at her. Least she didn't have to dress up as a vegetable. She put the microphone down and without looking at him again, picked up her phone and continued her zombie-like texting.
Jack waited.
Then Mr Krause appeared from an office at the side of the store, eyes wide as if he had been suddenly awakened.
And the way he looked was a surprise to Jack.
From Sarah’s account of her little chat with Jayne, anything short of horns, a tail and matching goat’s feet would have been a let-down. In fact, Mr Krause was a cheery middle-aged man with an open face. He greeted Jack with a big handshake, acting more like a Texan mayor campaigning for re-election.
“Mr Brennan! Pleasure to meet you!”
“Mr Krause —”
“Max, please … to all my friends!”
Suddenly we’re friends …
“Jack.”
Jack watched as Krause reached across and grasped the side of the Robot-man theatre.
“Seen this? Pretty cool huh?” he said with a big grin. “I do all the shows myself.”
“Schools, parties – summer fêtes huh?”
“Everywhere and anywhere!” said the puppeteer. “The kids love it. We run the sound and lighting effects off a laptop. Big lights. Full surround sound. Very modern.”
He leaned close to Jack, grin widening. Maybe some horns were now beginning to appear … “Scares the shit out of the mums, I can tell you!”
“I bet.”
“Who wants truncheons and sausages? Thank God we don’t live in that silly world any more.”
Jack looked at Max Krause’s beaming face: right or wrong, the guy was certainly passionate about what he was selling.
“You want to look round the store, pick up some party treats? We got an adult section – sexy, sexy – don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul!”
“Maybe not this time, Max, I’m kinda pressed for time – you know?”
“No problem! Summer days like this don’t come here often. No doubt we won’t see many people in the store today.” The smile faded a bit. “Shall we go into the office …?”
Jack followed him to the office and stopped just feet into the room.
Another surprise …
“Quite a sight, huh?” said Max. “My real life’s work.”
Jack scanned the room. There were special racks on every wall, and on each rack hung puppets. But not the cheap puppets he’d just seen in the shop.
No, these were old, weathered antiques, in rich silk costumes, oriental fabrics: old men, children, witches, kings, emperors, queens, mythical characters, nymphs, tigers, exotic birds.
A museum-worthy collection.
“Wow,” said Jack. “But what you said out there …”
“Out there – I’m a salesman, Jack. And that stuff is my living.”
“And this?”
“Oh this – this is different. This is my love.”
Jack nodded, realising that nothing in this case was going to be as clear cut as it had seemed.
Krause sat down in a leather chair behind his desk and signalled to Jack to sit opposite him.
“So Max—” said Jack, leaning forward. “You know why I’m here?”
“Sure,” said Max. “Somebody stole Otto Brendl’s puppets and you think that somebody … is me.”
“No, I don’t think that – yet. But it has been suggested to me that you are a likely suspect.”
“You know something?” said Max. “I’d be disappointed if I wasn’t the most likely suspect!”
Jack laughed. He couldn’t help it.
He’d met guys like this before in New York. They played the game – and it was a game he knew well. One he enjoyed – a kind of ‘catch me if you can’.
“Go on,” he said.
“Let’s face it – there’s me, Otto and about two other guys in the whole damn country who know the value of those puppets. And the other two are idiots who probably haven’t been out of their holes in the ground for weeks.”
“So you don’t deny you wanted them?”
“Deny? Why use that word? Deny! That’s a terrible word. Let’s say ‘admit’ – okay? I admit I wanted Otto’s puppets. They’re amazing. So rare. Baroque Czech puppets, eighteenth-century Kasperles from Germany, Gretels – beautiful Gretels – he had Guignols – you know he even had Romanian Magi – three of them, untouched, original …”
Jack watched as Max seemed to lose himself in the visions of Otto’s collection.
“So yes, I wanted them,” he said, coming down. “But did I steal them? No.”
“So who did?” said Jack. “I mean – you’re in the business – you’d know, wouldn’t you?”
“Whoever stole them knew that Otto had just died – knew that a break-in was possible.”
“That hardly narrows it down.”
“It does a little,” said Max, growing more serious. “The bastard didn’t have any friends.”
“Oh really? From what I hear he was very popular,” said Jack.
“Not the same thing though, is it? Sure, the kids liked him. Not as much as they like me and my show, of course. But generally, they liked him. But he was a loner, wouldn’t even talk to me about selling any of his collection!”
“Wouldn’t that come with the territory?” said Jack.
“How do you mean?” said Max, clearly confused.
“You know – growing up in an orphanage. Living alone in East Germany, coming here on his own.”
Max laughed.
“You’ve got something wrong there, Jack. Sorry! Otto Brendl wasn’t German.”
Jack felt the sands shifting in this investigation …
“According to the one person who knew him well, he grew up in Erfurt.”
“That’s what he said, huh? Funny. You know, I never understood why he bad-mouthed me so much. But now – of course – it’s obvious.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m German, Jack. My family comes from Weimar. Erfurt is just a few miles away. I have been there many, many times. A beautiful city by the way – you must visit. And I can tell you categorically Otto Brendl did not come from Erfurt. In fact, I doubt very much he was even born in Germany.”
“So where …?”
“From his accent – to the East, Jack. To the East, for sure.”
And Jack sat back in his office chair, thinking fast.
“Romania …?” he said softly, as much to himself as to Max Krause.
“Those countries. All of them under the boot of Mother Russia. Could be Romania. Could be any of them. But German? ‘Herr’ Brendl was a man who surely told many lies, and that was one.”
Jack looked at the puppets, hanging from the wall like a medieval rogues’
gallery, eyes wide, as if they were hanging on every word.
Creepy.
“Other secrets?”
“How did he get those puppets? Some of them priceless. Not cheap at all. Never gave me a straight answer.”
Jack looked right at Krause. A suspicious man, someone who clearly wanted those puppets too.
And someone who didn’t like old Brendl at all.
For now those were just suspicions.
“Max, I need to go. This has been … quite illuminating.”
The ghost of a smile returned to Krause’s face. “Sure you don’t want to look around, pick up a gag, check out our ‘adult’ wing?”
“You are too kind.” Jack started to turn.
Then – a little trick he stole from a great, albeit fictional, detective on TV.
“One thing – I may have more questions. So, I might be back.”
Max’s smile faded.
Just the effect I'm looking for, Jack thought.
Krause nodded. Then: “Sure.”
And Jack smiled back, walking out of the office, knowing that the proprietor of FunLand – for some still unknown reason – wasn’t happy at the thought of a return visit.
11. The Tattoo
Before he got onto the road, and left Chipping Norton, Jack called Sarah and arranged to meet at Huffington’s to compare notes.
Though still warm enough with the top down, off to the east the English weather was acting true to form, with grey clouds gathering, ready for an assault on the Cotswolds.
In a way, he liked that changeability. Mood-wise, Jack realised that it suited him.
He had BBC Radio Gloucestershire on as he drove – and that was another thing he had grown used to, becoming interested in the local political stories.
The accents, the tone of the reporting, all starting to seem normal now that he had left behind NYC’s in-your-face twenty-four/seven newscasts and sports stations.
Sports. An obsession everywhere, even though the games change.
Though when he went back to New York, he did want to be sure to catch a game in CitiField before the Mets were once again – most likely – banished from any World Series hopes.
Get a hot dog with everything. Chill, sautéed onions, mustard, relish. An icy, cold beer.
Yeah …
There were definitely some things he missed.
He hit the dual carriageway that led south, weaving its way back to Cherringham, when his phone – sitting on the seat beside him – chirped.
He picked it up, answered. Might be hard to hear with the wind whipping, so he held it close.
“Hello?”
“Jack – Eddie Morgan. How you doing, you old bastard?”
And Jack laughed, hearing the voice of his old friend and fellow detective, still working the desks at One Police Plaza. For a few minutes they shared news and talked about their families.
Jack left out anything about his amateur detective work. Eddie was a by-the-book detective, a lifer who wouldn’t find anything like that at all appropriate.
He learned news of Eddie’s eldest child, who taught Middle School and whose wife was expecting their first child in November.
Eddie’s pride was immense.
Then, more quickly, just a few words about Eddie’s youngest, a troubled boy who Eddie always struggled to know how to deal with.
Life is never a clean and clear ride for anyone.
Jack told Eddie about Cherringham – his boat, the fishing, the martinis.
Then: “Thought you’d be back in a flash. Jack Brennan, living in a quiet English village, away from the crime and grime of the city? No way.”
Not exactly away from crime, Jack thought.
“So Jack, that thing you sent me. That tattoo? You’re right – we did see that pop up when working the mobs in Brighton.”
Back in the nineties, Brighton had become an outpost for thousands of Russian and East European émigrés. Flashy clubs sprung up, vodka on ice, caviar that you could get nowhere else.
And as mobs are wont to do, there were shakedowns. Rackets. And people who suddenly disappeared. Took a while to get that under control …
“Some of the guys who showed up dead had the same tattoo. We had thought maybe it was gang-related. So I did some research for you.”
A sign ahead indicated the narrow road that would lead to the north end of Cherringham. Even more twisty, Jack would need to slow down.
“Go on, Eddie.”
“Sure, but Jack —”
Eddie was a savvy cop.
“What’s this about, hmm? Where did you see this tattoo? And -”a small laugh,“ — what the hell is it doing in England?”
“Eddie – would you believe me if I told you it has to do with a kindly old puppet master having a fatal heart attack? Just – colour me curious.”
For a moment, Eddie said nothing.
“This puppet master. This kindly old dead guy. I’m guessing he’s Romanian?”
Jack’s turn to pause. Eddie had turned serious, the voice less ‘old-friends’ now, more professional, more … concerned.
“It appears that way.”
“Right. Makes sense. Okay, so here’s what we know about vulture tattoos, Jack.”
And for the next few minutes taking those hedge-lined curves slowly, Jack just listened.
Sarah sat at a back table at Huffington’s nursing a cup of tea.
Jack was due any minute, and the café was quiet in the gap between lunch and the gaggle that showed up for teatime.
“Anything else, Sarah?” Doris, a Huffington’s institution, asked her. She had to be well into her sixties, yet she wore the black-and-white uniform of a Huffington member of staff like it was couture, and her mane of silver hair added to the overall effect of gran gone glam.
“No thanks,” Sarah said, smiling. “Waiting for someone.”
A big smile from Doris.
What’s it like to spend your life working in a place like this? Sarah wondered.
The routine the same, the people the same – God, even the menu probably unchanged.
On one hand, it has to be reassuring; the constancy, watching kids grow up, seeing some move from the village, sharing the joys of offspring wed and the sadness of an old timer whose teatimes were done.
There are worse places to be.
The bell over the door trilled, and she looked up to see Jack, who quickly scanned the near-empty café and hurried over.
“Sorry. I didn’t forget the time but that road back there? Suddenly a work crew had it down to one lane.”
“They do that. You’re lucky you didn’t get diverted.”
Jack smiled. “Would have tested my not in-depth knowledge of the roads around here.”
“You could get a navigation system.”
“Right. Not sure I’m ready for someone with an English accent telling me how and where to turn.”
And Sarah grinned at that.
Doris appeared at Jack’s shoulder, probably intrigued by an older gentleman meeting a younger single mum. But then, Doris would have heard the stories. Of who Jack was and what they had been up to.
“Anything for you, Jack?”
Jack looked up and smiled. “Why Doris, I believe so. How about a cup of English Breakfast, and a few of those shortbread cook – um, biscuits?”
Jack’s mid-course correction to his order brought a smile to Doris. Sarah made a note to herself – should have known Jack would be on first-name terms in here …
“Coming right up.”
Then Jack turned back to Sarah. “So – you want to hear about my little outing this morning?”
She could tell from the tone in Jack’s voice that he was taking this rooting around Otto Brendl’s life seriously – and perhaps he’d learned something in his visit with Max Krause.
The tea appeared.
“Thanks.” Then: “Do tell.”
And Jack described his visit to FunLand.
Sarah started laughing.
“Yes, ‘sexy, sexy’ as he described it to me.”
Another laugh. “If you like rubber products.”
And Jack laughed at that.
“I don’t suppose you actually went in —”
“Oh, I was tempted. Who could resist? Plus he had a nice selection of plastic vomit and other items perfect for your next lawn party.”
Sarah shook her head. “Unbelievable …”
Then Jack – as was his way … held the smile a bit, as he shifted gears.
And told her that Otto Brendl had a secret: that he wasn’t German, at least according to Krause.
“Eastern Europe? You’re kidding, ”said Sarah.“ But he told Jayne all about his childhood in Erfurt …”
“Krause was pretty insistent,” said Jack. “Plus – on the way back my friend Eddie called from New York.”
Jack took a bite of one of the shortbreads, and gestured at the batch towards Sarah. She took one, dipped it into her cooling tea, and bit off the soggy end.
“He recognised the tattoo?”
Jack nodded, face set. He looked around, their table off by itself. Still he lowered his voice.
“Sure did,” said Jack. “Brighton beach. In the early nineties – just like I thought. So he did a bit of asking around – and he came up with a country. Romania …”
“Romania?” said Sarah, coming to terms with the fact that Otto Brendl was not the man he had pretended to be.
“Yep,” said Jack. “But here’s the weird thing. Eddie tried to find out more – but nobody wanted to know. Mentioned the tattoo in a couple of Romanian cafés and people clammed up. He says it’s not a drugs thing. He thinks it’s politics.”
Jack leaned in a bit closer.
“So here’s the real question, Sarah. If Otto Brendl was really Romanian, why did he pretend to be German? Why did he come here, with a false identity, on his own? Why all by himself?”
Sarah looked away.
Thinking: there were things she could do. Anything was searchable, and with this information, she could do some digging.
“I can do some hunting, Jack. We’ll know when he came here. I can search databanks, check Interpol for missing persons … I’ll get Grace onto it – we’re pretty quiet in the office. Records like that, they have to be somewhere online.”
Cherringham--Last Train to London Page 5