Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 799 & 800, March/April 2008

Von Harbou settled in the passenger seat, began extolling the virtues of clean air and exercise and bragging about the five miles he walked every day, even at his age, as Clegg pulled away from the Rathaus.

“Here a minute,” Von Harbou called out hardly a minute later. Clegg hit the brakes. “Over there, I would like you to see first.”

Over there was a cemetery on the interior side of the road.

Von Harbou led him inside. “Not so much walking you have to worry,” he said.

He kept up a running commentary, sounding like a museum docent whenever he stopped to remark about one or another of the mausoleums, monuments, tombstones, marble crosses, or grave plaques, many carved with dates going back hundreds of years. Many more festooned with flowers and floral wreaths.

Clegg feigned interest, told the old German to take his time; he asked questions, not wanting to seem disinterested or too anxious to move on — to remotely raise suspicion about what he had in mind.

“Here, see,” Von Harbou said. He stopped in front of the crypt that rose grandly above all the others on the impeccably groomed grounds. “Mine precious mutter, my grandfather, my sisters. All my ancestors. Even here they take care of their own, for all time. Except... Come.”

Von Harbou steered them to a nearby section filled with rows of matching crosses fronted by a mammoth statue of two soldiers in uniform, one from World War I, the other World War II, arms draped across each other’s shoulders, bearing the carved legend Von Harbou translated for him:

“Brave Comrades in Arms Known Only to God.”

“Beneath there, maybe my father or the brothers I lost to the war. I would like to believe so anyway,” Von Harbou said. He drew himself to full height, spine-stiff, and threw back his shoulders. Started to extend his right arm at an angle, but turned it into a forehead salute. Moved the hand to his heart and patted the pocket where he’d deposited the cashier’s check. Gazed off to the horizon, then up to the sky, as if he was searching for something he already knew was there.

Clegg wanted to tell Von Harbou about his own losses, but resisted the temptation.

He had discovered a long time ago that life is full of surprises and death can be one of them.

He wondered if Von Harbou knew that, too, or how close he was now to his last surprise.

They moved off the hiking path over to the observation platform that on clear days like today, even at this hour, provided a perfect unobstructed view of the mountain range across the way and the valley miles below them.

“Until today you thought maybe how Disney World has all the Kodak moments, Herr Clegg? Disney World and Disneyland?”

“Not Kodak anymore, Herr Doktor. It’s been Fuji Film as long as I can remember.”

They stood with their bodies almost touching behind the cobblestone safety wall that rose to his waist and almost to the old man’s chest. He had a good six inches on Von Harbou and at least forty pounds, as well as twenty-five years.

Von Harbou looked up to answer Clegg with a grunt that said he didn’t appreciate being corrected. His crystal blue eyes sent the same message before he turned back to give the exquisite Alpine view an approving sigh.

“A long time since I was in America, how long I don’t remember, but definitely a long, long time. Things change over there as anywhere.”

“Same as the seasons,” Clegg said.

“Same as the seasons,” Von Harbou said, nodding, as if Clegg’s agreeing erased having been corrected.

“Same as things change here, Herr Doktor.”

“ Ja, things change here, but not the things that truly matter.”

Von Harbou passed an index finger over the dueling scar that ran like a fat worm from the hollow beneath his cheek to just below his nicked left earlobe, shocking pink against his eggshell-white skin.

The look he gave Clegg spoke thoughts Clegg could see Von Harbou had no intention of sharing.

Clegg said, “What truly matters grows in value with the passage of time.”

“ Ja . Well put, Herr Clegg. Well put.” He clenched his right fist and punched the cloudless sky. “I sensed from the minute we met, the strength of your handshake, how you were a man with a mind that doesn’t dwell on the obvious only.”

“I didn’t mean to be obvious about that.”

Von Harbou smiled. “Another good one from you,” he said, stepping back from the wall. “I have enjoyed your sense of humor during our brief time together and almost regret what must happen next.”

Clegg turned to Von Harbou and saw they were not alone.

Three punks, standing in a row eight or ten feet away. Young. Bald-headed. Large and muscular. Wearing black T-shirts and denims. Brando jackets and boots. Earrings. Nose rings. Bad-ass expressions. Punks brewing for a beer-hall putsch. One had a Glock leveled at him. The other two were unarmed, mashing their fingers into fists the size of grapefruits.

Von Harbou joined them. “To let you leave with the Van Gogh would mean I was unable to sell it again at some future date and continue to raise the money we need to fulfill our dreams,” he said.

“We both know it’s a painting that’s not easy to sell, Herr Doktor.”

“Harder if I don’t have it, Herr Clegg.”

“People will hear the gunfire and come running.”

“They hear all the time backfire from cars, so think nothing of it, but my plans call for you to have a tragic accident, falling down the mountain when you lean over to have a better look. Jump or my young men will give you a lift over the wall, your choice. Either way, you will be passed out and past pain long before you hit the bottom.”

“Should I say thank you?”

“Goodbye is more appropriate... Walter, Klaus, help Herr Clegg make his decision.”

The unarmed pair moved on Clegg like gorillas after a feast. Clegg shifted quickly so that they shielded him from the Glock. In the same motion, he whipped out the Colt .38 short-barrel special from the snatch holster on his belt and got off two shots that echoed off the mountains.

He caught one punk in the chest, the other a fraction lower. Then hit the ground before either of them, did a roll, and came up on his belly. Put two bullets into the third punk, who dropped the Glock on his way down. The next shot reached Von Harbou before he could reach the Glock. It caught him just below the shoulder blade and sent him sprawling.

Clegg moved on him, dropped to his haunches, and rolled Von Harbou over. Von Harbou was still alive. Struggling for breath. Staring back arrogantly.

Clegg said, “Nice try, Herr Doktor, but never again.”

He pressed the .38 under Von Harbou’s chin and squeezed the trigger.

Clegg dragged the bodies to the Mercedes. He pushed and pulled them inside, one by one, in under half an hour, sweating profusely, propelled by the notion that a hiker could come along at any moment, or people from the village who realized so much noise had to be more than backfire.

He filched the envelope containing the cashier’s check from Von Harbou’s jacket pocket and returned it to his own, got the orange mailing tube from the trunk and settled it on the ground next to his carry-on, then revved up the Mercedes and angled it so that the car faced the platform.

He eased out from behind the wheel with the shift still in drive and released the emergency brake, backed out of the way, and watched the Mercedes roll through the brick safety wall and hover in space before plunging out of sight. It seemed like hours before he heard the faint sound of a crash. He moved to the edge and tossed out the Glock, then the .38 special.

Heading up the mountain trail, Clegg felt no remorse, but instead something closer to exuberance, as if he had just had some sort of purifying experience.