by David Stukas
“What? What?” I begged.
“Oh Goddess, it’s too funny,” Monette managed to get out before another flood of laughter unleashed itself in a torrent that ended with me hitting her on the back when something went down her esophagus the wrong way.
Michael, who had tried to bolt the palace when he found out Ludwig was coming over, was cajoled into staying by pleas that it was necessary to help me out of a jam. He stayed only on the condition his mother would not be allowed into the same room or be told what his connection to Ludwig was.
In a moment, Karl knocked on the music room door and announced her highness. Ludwig, ever the drama queen, sauntered into the room, his hands still cuffed. Taucher raised his eyebrows in amusement, but said nothing. After all, he seemed to be letting Monette run the show. Ludwig walked over to Michael and got on his knees in front of him, causing Michael to turn red with embarrassment I think for the first time in his life. After all, when you’re a rich, narcissistic sociopath, you really can’t be embarrassed, because it’s impossible that you could ever do something wrong or foolish.
“Uh, you can get up now, sklave!” Michael said.
I just had to ask. “Sklave? What’s sklave, Michael?”
“Slave.”
Leave it to Michael. He couldn’t speak a word of German, even refused to learn the basics I tried to teach him, but the one word he picks up and uses fluently is “slave.”
Monette, still stifling laughs, began. “Ludwig, thank you so much for coming to talk to us. We are trying to learn more about who may have been involved in Siegfreid’s death. So the more you tell us what you know about Siegfreid and his friends, the easier our job. Do you understand, Ludwig?”
“Oh yes, I understand very much, Motet!”
“Monette.”
“Yah ... Monette.”
“Ludwig?” Monette ventured further. “You can take those handcuffs off if you want to be more comfortable,” she added.
“Oh no, I can not take these off from mine hands unless the meister Stark, he says so.”
“Michael, could you take these off of Ludwig?” she inquired.
“No, I can’t,” was Michael’s reply.
“Michael dear, could I speak to you in private for a second?” she asked, beckoning with her curled index finger.
There was a brief, low-volume conference between Michael and Monette that was difficult to hear, but I did manage to catch the phrases “don’t know the fuck where the key is” and “don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to the big ol’ queen.”
I hoped Ludwig’s command of the English language was, like his propensity to go nude, limited. The terse and agitated conversation continued back and forth for some time, until Monette grabbed Michael by the neck in a lesbian death grip I had once seen her use on an anti-abortion protester. This protester made the mistake of blocking her from entering a family planning clinic where a good friend of hers was in dire medical need. There are two things you don’t fool around with: God, and an angry Irish six-foot-four lesbian whose patience has just about run out.
“Ludwig?” Dominatrix Monette instructed her sklave. “Your meister commands you to tell us everything you know about Siegfreid. And if you don’t, he will take the cuffs off.”
These words had a dramatic effect on Ludwig, who was fidgeting and smoothing the creases on his caftan with the neurotic intensity of a hyperactive child with a caffeine addiction. He immediately stopped moving and looked with humble eyes at Monette.
“Now, Ludwig, tell us about Siegfreid. And you must tell us everything and be truthful.”
Ludwig began. “The count, he and I know each other many years, but we are not best friends. He is strange man, a, how do you say?”
“Aloof?” I suggested. “Sex-crazed?”
“No, he is a bitch!” Ludwig said happily, now that he had come up with the right word. “The men of Berlin do not like him.”
“Why?” Monette asked.
“I tell you just now. He is a bitch. The men, they are like shit to him,” Ludwig said, wiping imaginary dog doo off the bottom of an embroidered slipper for emphasis.
“Michael,” I said, “were you and Siegfreid twins separated at birth?”
“Very funny, Robert.”
“Ludwig?” I asked, interrupting Monette’s proceedings. “Why didn’t you tell me Siegfreid was not a nice man when I asked you about him the first time you came to the house, about a week before your ball?”
“I do not know you well. Plus, you have the stars in your eyes about the count. I do not want to tell bad things about people.”
“Ludwig,” Monette probed further, “do you think anyone hated the count enough to kill him?”
“Well, it is not only men he sleeps with that he treat badly. Workmen, gardeners, cooks, chefs. People tell to me that he dis ... dis ... dismissing his servants just a month ago. He is a strange man, but he has acted much strange lately.”
“Strange? What do you mean strange?”
“No one see him much a few months ago. He comes and goes, but not so much. He does not eat out much, he does not have sex in the bars much, too.”
“Ludwig, who are the count’s closest friends? His best friends.”
“Hmm.” Ludwig collected his thoughts. “Difficult for Ludwig to say, for I do not know him too well. I am good friend, very good, but I never know all of him. He has very little friends. Heino is a friend.”
“Did he have a boyfriend after his last one, Hans Sattler?” Monette asked.
“I do not understand.”
“After the count and Hans were no longer boyfriends, did Siegfreid have a boyfriend before he met Robert in the United States?”
“I am not sure. I have not seen him much. He could have a boyfriend that no person knows about. He was always good at making secrets. But yah, the count, he has no problem showing his boy sex tricks to others. It is the boyfriends he hides.”
“Ludwig, do you remember if Hans Sattler was at your ball?”
“No, Siegfreid would not like it. What is more, I do not know where he live or even what he look like. I think he moved to another city a year ago.”
Monette tried a different tack. “Did you borrow money from Siegfreid for any reason, Ludwig?”
All eyes fell on Ludwig, and what they saw was a man trying to cover something up.
Ludwig screwed up his face to make it look like he was scanning a ledger in his brain, then answered unconvincingly, “No. I do not need money, for I have much of it.”
“Forgive me for saying this, Ludwig, but you do spend a lot of money on clothes, your palace, the grounds, and on parties. This must be very expensive!”
“I have much money. Very much.”
“OK, Ludwig, enough of that. Let me ask a different question. When you entered the bathroom at your masquerade ball and found Siegfreid, what did you see when you first walked in there?”
“I had much to drink that night, so I go into bathroom to pee. I have to lift up my dress to pee, so I do. Then I see in mirror the feet. A man’s feet.”
“Sticking out of the stall,” Monette clarified.
“Yes, they stick out and I think this man, he is sick. I must go see. I open door and see Siegfreid.”
“Did you see anyone else? Either coming out of the bathroom or going in?”
“No, I see no one. Many people go in there after I scream, but I remember no one in there when Ludwig is in there.”
I had no idea what Monette was searching for, but she took a deep breath and let it out slowly, signifying she was done. “Ludwig, I think that will be all. Michael has released you to go. Now go!” she yelled, as Ludwig grabbed his handbag and scampered out of the room.
I was completely baffled. “So, Monette, are we getting any closer? I don’t see how you got anything out of Ludwig at all. He merely told the same story all along. There didn’t seem to be anything new. The main theme seems to be that everyone thinks the count was a prick.”
“That is the answer. It
’s been right in front of us all along. Over and over again. We were just too blind to see it!”
I almost went through the floor. “Monette! You did it again! Spill it!” I implored her.
“Not quite yet. There are a few things we must discuss with Inspector Taucher first,” Monette reported as the Inspector drew nearer—along with Michael. “Michael?”
“Yes, Monette?”
“You can go now. We don’t need your help anymore.”
“But I don’t want to go! It seems like it’s getting real good about now.”
“Go, before I call Ludwig back here and tell him you want him as a twenty-four/seven slave.”
Three pairs of eyes watched as Michael reluctantly left the room and closed the door behind him.
“You can go downstairs now, Michael!” Monette shouted through the closed door. “I can see you through the keyhole.”
As soon as we were certain that Michael had left—a fact he announced by slamming a door downstairs so loudly it briefly shook the house—we began conferring.
“So, Inspector Taucher, what did your people turn up?” Monette said, rubbing her hands together with anticipation. “Oh, before we begin, I want to thank you for doing so much work on this case. I can’t speak the language, so I’m already at a disadvantage.”
“Not at all, Monette. You have a very good head for murder. I wasn’t so sure about revealing all this information to you at first.”
“Well, I did make an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“I think we understand each other very well. I think you would make a very good inspector of homicide. It is a loss to the world you didn’t become a police detective.”
“Thank you, Herr Taucher. OK, show us what marvelous information you’ve gathered!”
“To begin, Ralf Reimann, the customs inspector at the airport, had no known connection to the art world. This was something that concerned me, that Uli Steben and Siegfreid were smuggling works of art in and out of Germany and that Ralf was a part of this operation. I think Ralf may have discovered the count smuggling some art in his luggage and he used this knowledge for purposes of blackmail. Judging from the coroner’s report, Ralf was killed somewhere around the time of the second day the count was in Monte Carlo with Robert here. So there was an accomplice staying in the house who probably killed Ralf. The only live-in servant, Karl, took a short vacation in Cologne, but—you must hear this—we discovered he purchased a return train ticket and returned to Siegfreid’s house early on Thursday, the day we think Ralf was murdered here.”
“He may have returned to Berlin on Wednesday night, but how do you know he came here?” Monette asked for clarification.
“Because he has no other place to live but here in Siegfreid’s house, and a neighbor across the street saw him arrive at the house in a cab.”
“Well, that is very interesting! Especially since he failed to mention this fact to us. I wonder, why is he hiding the fact that he came back to the house and stayed here while Siegfreid and Robert were in Monte Carlo? Why did he end his vacation early when he didn’t have to?”
While we pondered this turn of events, the inspector continued, “Another thing. We discovered Siegfreid’s last lover, Hans Sattler, does have a large apartment here in Berlin, although he lists his home in Dusseldorf as his primary residence. He works for a clothing designer in Düsseldorf and travels all over the world—including Berlin quite often, so his apartment seems appropriate.”
“Did you find information about any financial deals between Ludwig and Count von Schmidt?” Monette asked, jumping ahead.
“No. Not a thing. It does not mean there are none. Ludwig Buxtehude and the count are very smart people with money, so there are ways of disguising ownership and, to some extent, the movement of money.”
Monette had a look on her face that said she was going to spring the big question. And she did. “OK, Herr Taucher. Please tell me you found something about Manfred, the guy who worked as a servant in the count’s house and lived in the room where we found the surveillance videotapes of the count.”
“I have indeed!” the Inspector announced, which actually sent all six-feet-four of Monette jumping into the air with delight. “I have found out he is living here in Berlin, over in the old East German section. As a criminal with a record, he must keep us informed of his whereabouts.”
“And I assume you have checked on him.”
“We had someone visit his apartment, but his landlady said he has not been there much lately. Oh, I have a picture of him ... from his, uh, mug shot as you say in the United States. It was taken at the time of his last arrest, two years ago.” He handed the picture to Monette, who studied it for God knew what.
“What is all this information on the side of the photo?” Monette asked.
“Physical information. Height, weight, eye color, hair color, criminal record,” the Inspector replied.
“Could you translate for me, Herr Taucher?” she asked.
“Height, 183 centimeters; weight, 86 kilograms; eyes, green; hair color, blond.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary there?” I added, finally speaking up.
“Nothing is ordinary about this case,” Monette retorted. “Oh, I have one last question for you, Herr Taucher. Give me the answer to this one question, and I will give you your murderer.”
Both Herr Taucher and I looked at Monette with bulging eyes, wondering at how quickly she had come to this conclusion.
Monette continued. “You can’t seem to find a financial arrangement between Ludwig and Siegfreid, but you must tell me whether Ludwig is in personal financial trouble right now. Does he have a lot of unpaid debts?”
“So you think you know who did it?” I asked, my heart beginning to race inside my chest.
“I don’t think, I know,” she said smugly. “Well, I’m almost sure. The Inspector’s response to my last question will answer everything.”
“Then tell us, for God’s sake,” I commanded her.
“ I can’t, for two reasons.”
“And they are?”
“One, I need to confirm a few things. I need to be sure.”
“And the other?”
“It would ruin the effect. I’ve always wanted to expose the culprit while all the suspects sit around a table and squirm like worms. That’s what we’re going to do. Oh, and I want a storm with lots of thunder and lightning. And guess what? I’ve checked the weather for tomorrow night and it looks like we’re in luck!”
16
Agatha Christie Who?
I spent the rest of the day reading while Monette sat in the music room with dozens of legal pads, covering them with notes and incomprehensible diagrams, presumably representing suspects, motives, and their relationships to each other. Every once in a while, she would call Inspector Taucher to discuss a clue or gauge the progress of her plan for the next night’s “festivities.” Monette didn’t tell me much about her plans, but she did say Taucher had promised everyone who needed to be there would be there.
That night, Monette and I helped ourselves to the local cuisine, Michael helped himself to the local men, and Julia was having dinner with some couple who “shared mutual interests”—which I assumed were antique furniture, decimating social opponents, and murdering without getting caught. After dinner, Monette and I went out for a few beers and laughed ourselves silly.
The next day, I was too nervous to do much of anything, so I tried to read, then gave up. I settled for sitting out in the garden with Monette, drinking beer and helping ourselves to the appetizers and cunning little sandwiches Helmut brought us throughout the day. I suggested we make good use of Helmut’s cooking talents, since after tonight he might be in prison on a murder charge.
“Mightn’t he?”
“Mightn’t he what?” Monette asked with eyes closed, enjoying the sun passing back and forth across her face as the branches shimmered above us in the increasing winds.
“Helmut might be in prison after tonig
ht. Right?”
“Maybe he will, Robert, maybe he won’t,” she replied, making no commitment whatsoever.
“Well, then I’d better have Karl tell me where things are around the house in case the police drag him off tonight.”
No response.
“I said, I’d better have Karl tell me where things are around the house in case the police drag him off tonight!”
Still no response.
“You’re just going to ignore me, aren’t you?” I commented.
“What gave you your first clue?”
“The cold, stony silence and the fact you just grabbed your glass of beer and downed the entire contents without taking a breath.”
“You know, Robert, you’re really developing the mind of a great detective.”
“Well, I’m using my powers of deduction right now and I’m sensing there is heavy sarcasm afoot.”
“Oh really, Robert? And what else do you sense?”
“I sense you’re dying to hear my theory of who killed who and what really happened here.”
“I was about to tell you your senses have deserted you, but your sarcasm antenna would pick up on that. But, as to your theory, I am not dying to hear it. I think the more correct phrase is that you’re dying to tell it.”
“Can I?” I pleaded. “Can I, can I, can I?”
“Fine.”
“Okay, I think Siegfreid was smuggling art or diamonds or something along with Uli What’s-His-Name, the count’s elusive art dealer. When we came through customs, Ralf found whatever it was in Siegfreid’s luggage and used the knowledge of what he found to blackmail Siegfreid. Heino is involved somehow in this whole smuggling thing, and while Siegfreid and I were in Monte Carlo, Heino met Ralf in the deserted house and killed him, putting him in the freezer downstairs. Then, with a murder under his belt and the possibility of inheriting all of Siegfreid’s money, Heino murdered the count at Ludwig’s ball and now he’s set for life. The end.”
“What about the conversation you heard Siegfreid have with Ludwig on the phone—the one about not giving Ludwig another penny?” Monette posed.
“I don’t know. I guess he’s wrapped up in all of this, too. He’s probably running out of money and borrowed from the count so people wouldn’t know he’s almost broke.”