by Moss, John
He sat down again and his mind slowly filled with bright colours by Klimt, flat patterns, sensual lines. Copper red hair, full lips, piercing green eyes.
And a killer smile!
He smiled.
You like her, don’t you?
Oddly enough, I do.
And maybe her boyfriend deserved his untimely demise.
Brutality doesn’t become you.
Well, maybe she didn’t do it.
That’s a possibility.
But, Harry, just because she’s sultry, smart, and deliciously mysterious, that doesn’t mean she’s innocent.
Nor at fault, just because she wants to be.
That’s right out of Citizen Kane, Harry.
If I listen carefully, I can hear The Third Man theme in my head.
A composer from Vienna called Anton Karas did the music, you know, not Orson Welles. And Welles didn’t write the script. Graham Greene did.
That’s why it’s set in purgatory.
And filled with Catholic guilt and dread.
Esoteric conversations with Karen were often a welcome distraction, but sometimes they were simply depleting. He decided to return to his room for a nap before dining late to accommodate his jet-lagged system. On the elevator, he felt oppressed, as if the boy and his parents had died in his room and not on the street below. Morbidly disoriented, he unlocked his door and stepped into the darkness, sweeping the wall for the switch. Even before the room burst into light, he caught a whiff of cigarette smoke and he knew the fat man was waiting.
2 THE DEVIL EATS STRUDEL
When the lights of the chandelier flashed on, the iridescent nightscape of Vienna through the open drapes was instantly erased. The fat man sat in a plush chair, framed by the room’s reflection. He motioned at Harry to sit down on the ornate settee and, unable to think of an alternative course of action, Harry complied.
“You wonder why I am here,” said the fat man.
“It did cross my mind,” said Harry.
“You are famous detective, Mr. Lindstrom.”
Vanity vied with humility and Harry said nothing.
“Perhaps after you are dead you will be more famous.”
“All in good time,” said Harry.
The fat man sat low in his chair, suggesting he would be a cumbersome assailant. He did not appear to be armed, or if he was, his weapon could not likely be drawn before Harry disarmed him. He was undoubtedly strong, in the way very big men often are, but strength wouldn’t be of much use if he could not lay hands on his prey. Harry felt irritated, his privacy violated, but he did not feel vulnerable.
“The boy,” the man began solemnly, as if placing a topic on the table for discussion. He paused to wipe a thin veneer of sweat from his brow. He took a deep drag on his hand-rolled cigarette. The tip of it glistened and faded. “Ah,” he said, after holding a quantity of smoke deep in his lungs, then of necessity exhaling in order to resume breathing. “Is good. You are not smoker? That is too bad. I put cannabis into tobacco. It is medicinal, yes. Makes you forget about cancer.”
“The boy?” said Harry.
“He is Albanian. I am Russian. Those people, they travel on Canada passports.”
“His parents?”
“Are not his parents. You are Canadian, yes? Once you were teacher of philosophies. Is difficult to understand how you stop thinking as professor.”
“For me too,” said Harry. He felt Karen wordlessly concur.
“You are in Vienna on business without license.”
“I don’t need a license.”
“Everyone in Vienna need license.”
“No one is paying me.”
“Not yet, but if you are successful, then you are paid.”
This guy makes me nervous, Harry.
“The boy?” said Harry. “Was he kidnapped?”
“It is complicated.”
The fat man rose awkwardly from the depths of his chair. It took him some time to gather his equilibrium once standing, but when he did he looked as solid as furniture. He turned and gazed out the window. “You see Stephansdom cathedral from here. You see Ferris wheel. Is very famous. You know movie, Third Man? Was 1949, when city was occupied international zone.” As he turned back to face Harry, a grimace of pleasure betrayed his nostalgia for times when the world was black and white and espionage was a virulent blood sport.
It still is, for God’s sake.
“Orson Welles makes being despicable interesting.” Harry paused for effect. “Is Harry Lime a role model?”
“Welles was good actor, yes. Very big man like me. Maybe not so big but good actor. Harry Lime, yes, very sinister. He rides on Ferris wheel.”
Harry, why are you talking about films?
Harry rose from the settee and stood beside the Russian. The building opposite, so close in the flaming sunset, loomed far away in the night. Floodlights on the mosaic roof tiles of St. Stephen’s reduced more contemporary edifices to bleak curiosities.
“I’m very sorry about the boy,” said Harry, looking straight ahead.
Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it, Harry.
“Yes,” said the fat man. “Is terrible. You must help, please.”
“Doing what?”
“Many children die unless you and me, we save them.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, but you are witness through glass, Mister Harry.”
“I thought they fell from the roof.” He glanced at the reflection of the room next to his. It was in complete darkness and he could hardly make out the balcony where they had jumped.
“Revisionist history make facts to fit truth. You understand, yes? You see through the glass darkly.” The fat man gestured toward the window. “But you and me, we see face to face.”
“Saint Paul or Bergman?” said Harry.
“Is from Book of Corinthians.” The fat man winked conspiratorially.
The same allusion came up on the island of Fårö the previous winter, where Ingmar Bergman had filmed Through a Glass Darkly. There are only so many Biblical allusions to go around. “I’m an atheist,” said Harry.
“You will be useful.”
“To you? I don’t even know who you are.”
“I am not policeman.”
Harry waited.
“My name is Legion. “Nomen mihi Legio est, quia multi sumus.”
“You speak Latin. Correction: you quote Latin.”
“I speak dead language. I speak language of dead people, yes.”
Harry wondered, did he himself speak the language of dead people? How much of his relationship with Karen was through old conversations that still echoed in his mind?
Harry! Not now.
“You speak for a legion of demons,” said Harry.
“Yes, is in Bible. Many demons.”
“Is that meant to set me at ease?”
“Is joke. But I speak for many. You and me, we have same interests, so I ask you to help. Is important we have good talk.”
“Perhaps you could speak quickly. I’m hungry and it’s getting late.”
The fat man took a last deep drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt onto the Persian carpet. For a moment Harry stared at the smoldering detritus, until the smell of burning wool triggered a response. He stooped to retrieve the butt and with the heel of his shoe crushed the dark spot into the carpet’s design.
“We will have supper together,” said the Russian when Harry returned from flushing the remains of the cigarette. “Come, we go.”
With astonishing agility the big man negotiated his way to the door and held it open for Harry.
They progressed rapidly along the Kartner Strasse walkway, around Stephansdom, and down a cobbled alley to a tiny restaurant of the Russian’s choosing. Harry had been forced into a limp by the stress on his injured toes, souvenirs of an incident the previous winter when he had nearly frozen to death. They hardly spoke as they each drank a beer and settled into thin golden slabs o
f wiener schnitzel so vast the meat over-reached the edges of their plates. Boiled potatoes with parsley in a mild vinaigrette were necessarily served on a side dish.
“So,” the fat man said when the course was finished. “My name, yes? Is Yuri Gagarin.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“You may call me Yuri.” The big man dipped a moist finger into schnitzel crumbs on his plate and slipped them into his mouth. “Is another joke, yes. Our Yuri is hero of Soviet Union when Soviet Union exist. He die before you were born. Is history, yes.”
“A lot happened before I was born.”
Harry gazed across the table at his strangely compelling and unattractive dinner companion. The Russian knew too much about Harry, while Harry knew nothing about him. In spite of being expensively dressed, the man was slovenly and vulgar. He had offered no credentials beyond a patently false name but carried himself with enough sinister authority to have made his invitation to dine more like a summons. Not that Harry felt threatened. He had been morbidly curious. And hungry.
“Now we talk,” said the Russian, looking sadly down at his empty plate. “Another beer, perhaps?”
“Please,” said Harry.
“That woman I see you with in hotel, you know she is bad.”
Damn it, Harry, she knew who he was!
He knows her, she may not know him.
“Very, very dangerous,” he repeated. “She kill lover, eat his eyeballs.”
She didn’t mention that part!
“Really, Mister Harry. Is no joke. His corpse had no eyes, no testicles. Your Miss Strauss, I believe she cook them in stew.” The big man shifted in his chair, trying to find support for his large bottom. “Or perhaps she eat them raw. Was better that way. If you wish, we not talk until after dessert.”
“Yes,” said Harry, feeling queasy.
The world suddenly seemed too small for Harry. The unlikely convergence of an Albanian toddler’s death, the fat Russian himself, the dead ex-fiancé, the possibility of his various balls being devoured, a killer who looked like she’d stepped from a painting by Klimt, vague allusions to other children dying, and Harry himself, all here in the city of Vienna—how, he wondered, did it all come together?
“Everything connects, Mister Harry,” said his unpleasant companion, anticipating the unspoken question. “Your friend, she was not arrested for murder. You are curious why?”
“Perhaps because she didn’t do it.”
“Or perhaps she did but is best for now she is not made criminal.”
“Best for whom? The legion you work for?”
“You think I work for? I am independent man.”
“Of course you work for someone,” said Harry. “Everyone does, one way or another.”
“Ah, you are cynical philosopher, yes. I am idealist, myself. I work only for me. And you, you work for Fräulein Madalena Strauss.”
“That depends,” said Harry.
“She is, as you say, boss.”
“No.” Harry was irritated. “If I work for her, it is my choice.”
“Is good. Then you may choose also to work for us.”
“Really,” he said defiantly. “And if I don’t?”
“We kill you, yes.”
Harry gulped.
“Is also joke. It would be very nice if you work for us. She is treacherous lady, that is no joke. My friends are concerned about what she might do.”
“Your friends you don’t work for.”
“My friends are very shy. Is good word, shy. She upsets them. She will destroy many lives if she is not stopped. You will stop her, please.”
“Stop her from what, for God’s sake?”
“God from atheist. You are angry. Is good.”
Harry glowered. “Please get to the point.”
“These people, she will expose them for bad scandal.”
“That’s only a problem if they’re innocent.”
“Ah, you are philosopher again. Who is innocent in this world, Mister Harry?”
“What exactly are their crimes?”
“She think they do bad things for children. But she also is bad for children; she is worst. And more children suffer if she not stopped by myself and by you.”
Harry could not envision the copper-haired woman engaged in the exploitation of children, despite her insistence that she was a killer—
—with an unsavoury appetite for spherical objects.
Harry drew in a deep breath.
A waiter cleared their dishes. Harry’s companion ordered strudel with custard. Harry ordered an espresso.
“Mister Harry, you think she bring you all this way to Vienna to prove some crime no one care about? Maybe because you are famous, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
“She wants to use you and then she will destroy you.”
“At least she’s clear about what she wants.”
“No, she is not. She hides behind murder of lover.”
A strange place to seek refuge, you’ve got to admit.
“I’m listening,” said Harry.
The man waggled his finger like the finger of doom and pointed in the direction of the Kressler Hotel.
“She already destroy the nice people from Canada and their little Albanian boy. She is ruthless, yes.”
“You’re trying to tell me she knew about the jumpers? I don’t believe it.”
“Believe, Mister Harry. Is no coincidence they die at your hotel. Is no coincidence that she meet you at same hotel.”
“And is it a coincidence that you were also there when they died? Is it a coincidence that they are reported having jumped from the roof—after you threatened me, insisting I saw nothing to suggest they had not?”
The other man shrugged. His attention strayed as his strudel was set down in front of him.
“The Viennese, they know how to eat,” he observed.
“They know how to cook,” said Harry.
Don’t be a pedant, Karen whispered.
“Ah yes,” said the Russian. “I eat, is good.” He cut off a big forkful of pastry and stuffed it into his mouth. “We do not care if she murder Dietmar Henning in lover’s quarrel.” Flakes of pastry drifted from his lips. “If she make him into stew and serve it to orphans, is okay.”
“Come on, Mr. Big, let’s get to the bloody point.”
Harry, that’s an allusion to Sex and the City.
I’ve never seen it.
Trust me, a man that fat is no Mr. Big.
“We know everything you know,” said the Russian. “Is not enough.” “And you want to know what I don’t know.”
“Is very good, yes.”
“I take it you’ve been monitoring my email.”
“Your email, Miss Strauss’ email. Is not difficult for Russian hacker.”
“Then you know as much as I do.”
“Yes, Mister Harry. But you are seeker of truth. Like Greek with lantern at noon.”
“Diogenes.”
“Yes, very good. And when you find truth, you tell us.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you are proud man but dead like Plato.”
“Like Socrates.”
“Plato, he is also dead. If you don’t tell us, we kill you, yes. Is no longer joke.”
Harry, let’s get the hell out of here!
Harry offered what he hoped was a wry smile and tried not to watch the pastry crumbs slipping from the big man’s lips as he chewed.
The Russian continued to speak without swallowing. His eyes had grown dull, his face showed strain, saliva glistened at the corners of his mouth. Hostility he had kept sequestered as affable menace seemed suddenly real.
“We would everyone kill if right circumstance make necessary, yes. Do not make necessary.”
He would kill everyone? Or everyone would kill?
Harry had no doubt he would have died to save his kids; he would have embraced his own death or murdered battalions to spare them. He nodded assent.
&nbs
p; Harry, please.
Karen didn’t, couldn’t, try to reason with him, since she was inseparable from the rest of his mind. But he couldn’t keep her from feeling, from loving and trying to protect him.
He leaned back and looked at the man opposite. Harry didn’t believe in God, so how could he believe in Satan? But here he was, watching the devil eat strudel, wiping flakes from his stubble with nicotine-stained fingers.
“Why would you think I’d betray her?” he asked. In the unreality of the present moment, offensive assumptions about his integrity seemed the most pressing issue.
Why are you having this conversation, Harry?
Harry looked at the fat man’s bloodshot eyes, which were focused on a second pastry the waiter had set down in front of him. Harry had not even noticed him order it. Like most gluttons, the Russian took no real pleasure in food. Looking up, he flashed Harry a repulsive smile. And then he began devouring the strudel like it was an adversary.
“You want me to spy on my client. And the rationale is that you’ll kill me if I don’t and endangered kids will be spared if I do.”
“See, you are good detective. Now you think about what I tell you. You must get her to trust you. Betrayal is impossible without trust. Is very important you remember that. But she is suspicious woman. Perhaps you become lovers. That way is best to penetrate defences.”
So to speak.
“And how did her last lover fare?”
“Is true. Very dead, no balls.”
Asked and answered.
Harry cringed at the absurdity of becoming her lover because it suited the Russian’s purpose. Then suddenly he made a macabre and frightening connection.
“Dietmar Henning worked for you, didn’t he?”
The man who called himself Yuri shrugged enigmatically, wiped his face with his soiled napkin, and in a great display of bulk rose to his feet.
“You will pay, please. Your boss with repay you. I will be in touch, as you say.”
Once moving, the big man edged between tables with surprising agility and with a hand-rolled cigarette already in his mouth disappeared out the door into the cobbled laneway, where a fine rain filled the air.
Harry could hear Karen’s words. Your friend is one very unpleasant character. Why don’t we have a nightcap on our way back to the Kressler and think this through?