The Stolen

by T. S. Learner

  Helen stepped forward. ‘I am honoured.’

  Latcos, surprised to hear Helen speak fluent Romanes, smiled. ‘As I am, sister.’ Switching back to German, he turned to Matthias. ‘All women in the family are strong-willed. I apologise if I stepped into your territory, but Keja insisted she was in danger. She told me to go to her; they are connected – the grandmother and the granddaughter.’

  ‘What kind of danger?’

  ‘There’s a man, a Frenchman. I think he wants to use her somehow, and not just for the obvious.’

  ‘Please, come into the house. I have some news.’

  Latcos stood in front of the fire warming himself as Matthias entered from the kitchen holding three shot glasses, followed by Helen carrying a plate of lebkuechi cake.

  ‘Here – schnapps, it thaws out the bones.’

  Latcos gulped it down gratefully.

  ‘It’s been a bad winter.’ Matthias leaned against the mantelpiece, watching the thin young gypsy, the sheepskin jerkin he wore damp along one side as if he’d been lying on the ground. ‘Liliane…’ he began awkwardly but Latcos interjected.

  ‘She is intact, of that you can be sure. I interrupted before anything serious happened,’ he explained solemnly.

  Matthias stared at him. ‘Liliane intact?’ He couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Matthias, your daughter’s virginity is no laughing matter!’ Latcos exclaimed, insulted.

  ‘He has a point there,’ Helen added, trying not to grin herself.

  ‘Please don’t be offended – I’m sure you did your best,’ Matthias reassured the young gypsy. ‘I only wish she was a virgin, but her promiscuity is the least of my problems – it’s the drugs I worry about.’

  ‘Keja could help with that; there are herbs – but you must keep her locked in the house, Matthias, otherwise you will never find a husband for such a wild ride. This is what I would do if she were my daughter. I have two, you know, and both of them are betrothed already.’

  ‘You have children? How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-eight. I was married at fourteen. I have three children – two girls and a boy. It is our custom to marry early. But a daughter needs a mother.’ Latcos glanced over at Helen. ‘Maybe you need a new wife?’ he added cheekily. Helen blushed, while Matthias, a little uncomfortable, turned away.

  It had been an extraordinarily long day. One of those days that seemed to span a year and not twenty-four hours – time had stretched into a whirlwind of psychological revelations that had only served to steel Matthias’s resolve. Reading the physicist’s expression, Latcos took his arm. ‘So, you have some news, we should talk – men’s talk,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘And I should go get some sleep; I have a class in the morning,’ Helen said, taking the hint. ‘I think your daughter has had enough shocks in one night without waking up to me at your breakfast table. You two talk – I’ll go call a cab.’

  After she’d left Matthias stood with Latcos on the back porch as the gypsy had a smoke, their breath white plumes against the freezing air. ‘I went to get a visa to get into East Germany – they refused me,’ he told Latcos softly. The young gypsy looked puzzled. ‘We’ll need visas to go find my father. You can’t just walk across the border into Soviet territory.’

  Latcos grinned. ‘For the right price I can get us both visas. But better than that, I can find a route that will take us across the border and no one would know better. You are serious about finding this Nazi bastard?’

  ‘I made a pledge and I mean to keep it – besides, all men should meet their father, at least once, don’t you think?’ Matthias said, trying to cover his ambivalence with humour. Latcos was not deceived. He reached over and put his hand on Matthias’s shoulder.

  ‘You are a brave man. So maybe we are related after all! We can leave in two days’ time – they say the roads will be cleared of snow by then, and it will take a day to get the visas.’

  Matthias looked up at the mountains, the moon painting the peaks with a white-blue light. It was exactly the same panorama he stared out over every night – except now it wasn’t. He’d changed, changed irrevocably. The rest of his life could wait, suspended, but this new urgency and sense of purpose would not. He couldn’t remember feeling more alive. More present.

  ‘Good, two days it is.’

  The receptionist at the brothel, an ex-security guard who’d been fired from his last job for drinking, hadn’t even looked up from the football game he was watching on a small black-and-white TV set behind the desk when the slim brunette slipped past carrying a duffel bag, her pale face scrubbed clean of make-up and her long black hair scraped tightly into a pony tail. It had been a quiet day, with just a few clients in and most of those were regulars who knew their own way down the narrow battered stairs that led to the basement apartment which doubled as a brothel. It was a good half an hour later, just after Munich scored the winning goal that he had a nagging sensation that something might be wrong – he’d seemed to remember from behind the beer-induced fog that now clouded his mind that one of the regulars – a heavy-set middle-aged man who he’d always thought might be either a retired soldier or a cop – had disappeared down those stairs a good hour earlier and he couldn’t remember him coming back up them.

  He glanced over at the switchboard – a set of lines that led into all the individual rooms – twenty of them in total. There was a discreet panic button the girls could hit if they wanted and this in turn would light up a small red light on the board. None of the red lights were showing – maybe the man had just decided to go in for a double session, the receptionist concluded. Pulling the entry book towards him, he ticked two hours beside the room the regular had booked. Room nineteen. Satisfied, he settled back down into his chair to watch the commentary on the match.

  ‘Gert!’

  He swung round. Kalyna, a pretty Ukrainian dressed in a mini, stilettos and a tight sweater with large shoulder pads that made her look more Amazonian than sexy, leaned against the desk.

  ‘Has Celine’s regular been in yet? I was meant to meet him fifteen minutes ago but the bus was late.’

  Gert got to his feet, levering his heavy body up by his hands.

  ‘Funny, I thought he got in over an hour ago…’ He peered back at the book. Perhaps he’d made a mistake. ‘Room nineteen?’

  Irritated, Kalyna flicked back her long blonde locks with her hand, the glitter nail polish catching the light like glistening flint. ‘Mein Gott, Gert, you really have to get your act together; you’re meant to be security for us.’

  ‘Keep your hair on.’ He scanned the book. ‘Here he is, eight p.m…’

  ‘Gert, that was two hours ago! So what has he been doing for two hours?’

  ‘Isn’t he in with Celine?’

  ‘Celine took the evening off, dumb-dumb, that’s why I’m here!’

  They both looked at each other. Sighing, Gert reached under the desk and pulled out from a box a sawn-off shotgun he always kept there more for appearance than function; the barrel had been jammed over a year ago and it had no cartridges actually packed into it. Still the shotgun made him feel safer and had some sway with the girls, who always seemed to treat him with a little more respect on the few occasions he’d actually brought it out. Nevertheless, as he stepped from behind the desk he wished he’d drunk one less beer.

  The door of room nineteen was slightly ajar, the light spilling out onto the cracked lino floor.

  ‘You go in first – I’ll be right behind you,’ Gert told Kalyna in a low voice. He was squeamish about sexual matters, something he’d managed to conceal from the girls, who had always mistaken his lack of curiosity as professional detachment.

  She pushed the door open.

  ‘Hello?’ she asked in a slightly nervous voice. It was only when she moved towards the bed, and saw the cloudy bulging eyes and the bluish tinge to Klauser’s face that she began screaming.

  Behind her Gert whistled. Jesus, what a mess, he told himself.

 
; After Latcos left Matthias was just about to go up to bed when he remembered the tape recorder was still sitting on his desk. He was about to lock it away when there was a knock on the door. Johanna, in her dressing gown and nightdress, stood in the doorway.

  ‘I forgot to tell you, Herr von Holindt, Inspector Klauser rang this afternoon. He just said to tell you he’d phoned. I would have remembered but what with the drama with Liliane…’

  ‘That’s okay, Johanna, it’s been an exhausting day for all of us.’

  ‘Sir, if you don’t mind me asking… that young… that young man. He isn’t really a relative of yours, is he? It just can’t be possible that a…’

  ‘Gypsy? Is that the word you’re looking for?’

  ‘That such a man can be related to the family.’

  ‘Actually, Johanna, I have strong evidence that he is my half-brother.’

  The housekeeper stared at him, disapproval pursing her lips.

  ‘But your family is one of the great families of Switzerland?’

  He ignored the comment. ‘Johanna, anything you hear within these four walls stays within these four walls. I cannot explain now, but I will. Until then I must ask for your complete discretion – Liliane’s happiness depends on it.’

  It was the best appeal he could have made. Wide-eyed, she nodded. ‘Matthias, you can trust me. Good night, sir.’ It was the first time she’d ever used his Christian name.

  He waited until her footsteps had receded down the corridor then pressed the PLAY button. Christoph’s voice rang out:

  ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Matthias. This is not some equation you can just unravel. And I cannot protect you if you try.’

  There was a tone in Christoph’s voice Matthias had never heard. It was fear, he suddenly realised. Christoph was terrified.

  I don’t scare so easily, Matthias told himself. I may be the result of evil but I refuse to be an instrument of evil. His humanist beliefs, the notion that every individual was redeemable with the right education, the right nurturing – that no one was ever born evil – now seemed hopelessly idealistic. Perhaps he, like his real father, was capable of being seduced by an extreme belief system, of an emotional polarisation that could fatally exclude empathy. It was a horrifying but sobering possibility.

  He switched the tape off then placed the machine in his safe. Outside an owl hooted, the stillness of the night mocking Matthias’s own turbulent emotions. Tomorrow, he decided, he would take the tape in to police headquarters and hand the confession over to Detective Klauser.

  FIFTEEN

  The Kantonspolizei headquarters was not nearly as intimidating as Matthias had imagined. Situated on the Kasernenstrasse with the riverbed in the distance, there was something almost quaint and provincial about the red brick arches over each double window that matched the flat red roof. It looked more like a rural town hall than a city police headquarters. But now that he was inside the building he was more uneasy. The young clerk behind the glass window had glanced at him strangely when he mentioned that he was there to speak with Detective Helmut Klauser, and had asked Matthias to wait while he made a call upstairs to Klauser’s office – or at least that was what Matthias had assumed, but then he overheard the clerk asking to speak to Johann Engels’ assistant.

  What is going on? Why hasn’t he phoned Klauser directly? Matthias thought, contemplating a quick exit. He was just about to turn back towards the rotating doors when a young man in a suit stepped out of the old elevator and came towards him. He wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Herr Matthias von Holindt?’

  Matthias nodded, the detective’s bureaucratic manner an immediate irritation. ‘I’m here to speak to Inspector Klauser directly. I doubt that you could possibly help me,’ he said firmly.

  ‘And I really doubt Inspector Klauser would be able to help you more than I can, knowing where he is now. If you come with me, I will explain.’

  He led Matthias into the lift, its intimate space an unexpected awkward reality.

  ‘How is your father, Herr von Holindt?’ the young bureaucrat asked a little too brightly.

  Matthias glanced over, surprised at the personal question. The detective attempted a smile. ‘I’ve met him on several occasions through Chief Inspector Engels – he is a very forceful old gentleman, but he’s always been kind to me.’

  ‘You are the assistant of the chief inspector?’ Matthias failed to keep the dislike out of his voice – he had the strong sense he was being railroaded and he didn’t appreciate the tactic.

  ‘I am, but I am also a detective in my own right.’

  ‘I see. Herr… ?’

  ‘Voost.’

  ‘Herr Voost, my father’s health has stabilised, you will be glad to hear. But I’m not here to exchange pleasantries. I came specifically to talk to Detective Klauser.’

  The young detective didn’t answer; instead he glanced at his wristwatch nervously. Just then the lift shuddered to a halt and the steel doors slid open.

  ‘Please, Inspector Engels is waiting for you,’ Voost said, ushering him out.

  Chief Inspector Engels studied Matthias with a chillingly vacant gaze.

  Even seated, Matthias was painfully aware that he was almost a foot taller than the inspector. Short men made Matthias wary – he’d learned many had a lot to prove to tall men like himself; he’d also learned that often such motivation had got them into powerful places. He’d never warmed to Engels, one of Christoph’s lackeys. The man’s office was noticeably devoid of personal objects except for a small aquarium on a shelf in which an unhappy-looking goldfish swam round and round a buxom plastic mermaid, and there was nothing on the desk in front of him except an expensive leather writing pad and an equally expensive-looking gold pen.

  ‘Cigarette?’ The inspector held out a packet.

  ‘No thanks, ex-smoker.’ Suddenly Matthias was horribly aware of the tape recorder in his briefcase. Did Engels know why he was there? Had Christoph contacted him?

  ‘My sympathies. You know it’s a great shame we’ve never got to know each other better, Herr Professor, given how close I am to your father. Wonderful birthday party by the way – pity about that unfortunate outburst from your daughter; a real firebrand that one.’

  ‘She’ll settle down.’ Matthias tried to control his anger at Engels’ supercilious tone.

  ‘And how is Herr von Holindt bearing up?’

  ‘Frail. He’s finally handed control over to Wim Jollak. I’m off the board now. But you probably know that,’ Matthias said carefully, wondering why Engels was stalling. Had Inspector Klauser been fired?

  ‘Indeed. There was a short piece about it in Die Welt. You are fortunate, Herr Professor, to come from such a dynasty. Why throw it all away? I wonder.’

  ‘But then, it’s the job of a detective to wonder, isn’t it?’

  ‘So, my assistant tells me you are here to speak to Detective Klauser? Is this a spontaneous visit?’

  ‘Actually it is, but he had indicated there wouldn’t be an issue if I just dropped in without calling first.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like Klauser – a little unconventional. Unfortunately you’ve come a day late. Klauser was murdered last night.’

  Matthias sat back in shock, his mind reeling.

  ‘How?’ he finally managed to say.

  ‘A sordid little event at a brothel – the man really did have some unsavoury habits. Actually we’re not even sure if it was murder, or merely a sex act gone wrong. Klauser was an unhappy individual – he’d gone through an acrimonious divorce a few years earlier and then there was this thing a few days ago with his cat.’

  ‘His cat?’

  ‘Apparently it was the victim of some unfortunate vandalism. Klauser was very fond of the animal, so suicide is not out of the question.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Strangulation during an act of bondage, so it is possible he strangled himself to heighten sensation. We see a lot of that, especially just after Christm
as.’ Engels’ face was rigid, his eyes empty of emotion.

  Incredulous, Matthias studied the man before him; there was not a glint of irony about the delivery of this patently absurd statement, and that in itself was unsettling. Christoph’s words came back into his mind – there was no doubt that Klauser had asked too many questions. Had whoever was implicated in the investigation wanted him silenced? And if they could silence a prominent detective with such impunity they were powerful indeed.

  Chief Inspector Engels stubbed out his cigarette, crushing it down as if grinding Klauser’s very head into the ground.

  ‘But perhaps I can assist you?’ he asked.