Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 633 & 634, October 1994

“Yes, that’s right. The eleven A.M. flight from London. I’d appreciate it if you could pick me up at the airport. The name’s Lyle Hamilton. Thank you.” He allowed himself to smile.

Debarking from the plane in Zurich, he noticed a uniformed chauffeur standing at the foot of the escalator, holding a carefully lettered slate. MR. HAMILTON, it read. He nodded at the chauffeur. “I’m Hamilton,” he said.

“First name?” the chauffeur asked, professionally suspicious.

“Lyle.”

The chauffeur smiled slightly and nodded back. “This way, Mr. Hamilton,” he said, leading the way to an elegant 1928 Pierce-Arrow limousine. Complete with enclosed passenger compartment.

Hamilton sank into the glove-soft leather and relaxed, smiling at the proffered bottle of Dom Perignon and permitting the chauffeur to fill his cut-crystal champagne flute. Sipping the magical nectar as the limo silently surged along, he gazed at the scenery flowing past the window. To the south, beyond the Zuricher See, the Swiss Pre-Alps stood in timeless elegance against an impossibly blue sky.

He wished Joyce could see him in this setting, whisking along in champagne-splashed elegance across the incomparable Swiss countryside. But of course Joyce could never see him. Not anywhere. Never had seen him. Because Joyce knew him only from his letters. And the phony photograph he’d sent in response to her ad in the lonely hearts section of the classifieds. She was his latest of many. None of whom had ever met Hamilton. Except, of course, the first one. Her disappointment on meeting him had been so humiliating that he’d resolved never again to meet any of his mail-order conquests in the flesh. It was too likely to be as painful as that first and only time. Besides, through the mail, he could pretend to be anything he chose; play any role he might dream up. And he could dream. Oh yes, he could dream.

In the role he played for Joyce, he was an international wine consultant. It was almost too perfect, now that he had this courier job. He’d been able to post letters to her from all over the world. Rome. Athens. Paris. Berlin. And now Zurich, where he was in the midst of playing out another little fantasy.

He refilled his glass with champagne and chuckled smugly, confident that his host would not see through his guise of affluence, since his job required that he dress well at all times. And the locked briefcase he carried would lend authenticity to his pretension. When the time came to decline the purchase, he would pull it off in grand style. “Sorry, old stick, these aren’t quite what I’d had in mind. They looked much better in the photographs. If your man will just see me back to the airport, I’ve got to be in Linz on the morrow. Thanks awfully. Cheerio!”

The limo was approaching a grotesque wrought-iron gate, having turned from the main road some way back; Hamilton hadn’t noticed just when. He straightened his necktie and assumed his air of haughty particularity. As the gate swung smoothly open to admit the limo, he covertly scanned the surroundings. Imposing gray stone walls stretched away on either side of the gate and out of sight into deep woods carpeting the rolling hills. The gate must have been radio controlled, for as the limo passed through, it swung closed at once, though no gatekeeper was to be seen. Around a sweeping curve a mile or so beyond the gate, the road plunged into a tunnel and Hamilton found himself suddenly in darkness, his self-assurance eroding somewhat. He fumbled for the intercom, wondering vaguely what he might say to the driver. Before he could locate it, the tunnel was behind them and the road snaked on through dense woods of hemlock and fir, random shafts of sunlight bursting through the green canopy of leaves and turning the tarmac into a crazy quilt of light and dark. Hamilton cleared his throat self-consciously.

Breaking out of the dense woods, the road straightened and sliced through a lakeside meadow dappled with blue and yellow wild-flowers. It seemed the limousine was finally approaching his destination; an impressive stone manor house situated on a hill amid manicured lawns and hedges, commanding a view of the mirrorlike tarn. As the limo crunched along the graveled circular drive before the house, a pair of huge black and tan rottweilers appeared and loped at an easy gait alongside. Hamilton’s bowels turned to ice water. He was terrified of dogs. Always had been. And these brutes looked as if they’d been bred in hell. Squarish, heavily muscled bodies, seemingly chiseled from glossy black stone; short muzzles with open jaws from which lolled tongues that looked to weigh at least four pounds each. And the teeth. Good God, the teeth! Each mouth contained a veritable butcher shop of specialized instruments for the rending of flesh and crushing of bone. Watching the powerful muscles bunching and gliding beneath the animals’ sleek coats, Hamilton shuddered as he imagined those savage fangs in action. He was rapidly becoming convinced that he had no business in this place.

The driver stopped at the foot of a flagstone walkway leading to the porch and set the parking brake. He slid from behind the steering wheel and stepped down to be greeted by the panting dogs, though, in truth, the greeting seemed to be more an inspection of the chauffeur than a joyful reunion. Evidently they approved, their stumpy tails wagging slightly. The two of them accompanied the driver as he strode to the rear of the limo and opened the door for Hamilton.

Hamilton tried to swallow his fear. He’d heard that dogs can sense apprehension and it makes them more aggressive. Although he couldn’t see how these monsters could be any more aggressive than they already were; they seemed to be in charge of the present situation, as if he and the driver were subordinate to them, rather than the other way around.

Quaking, Hamilton stepped from the limo and the dogs converged instantly upon him. He stood rigid in terror as they prodded and snuffled at him, the coarse fur rippling along the napes of their massive necks. Holding his breath, Hamilton prayed silently that they would not detect his rising panic.

A tall man leaning on a cane appeared in the doorway of the house and after a moment’s observation spoke commandingly.

“Loki! Fenris! Setz dich!”

The dogs obeyed instantly, sitting erect and motionless as statues, though never taking their eyes from Hamilton. The man strode from the porch, the ferrule of his blackthorn cane rapping against the flagstones with every other step. He reached Hamilton and extended his right hand.

“Herr Hamilton? I am Lothar Achermann. A pleasure to meet you. Please forgive my dogs. They are very protective.” Achermann’s accent was thickly Teutonic, as was his appearance. About forty, over six feet tall, and powerfully built, his close-cropped black hair showed the merest trace of gray at the temples. His icy blue eyes offered little cordiality, though a smile occupied his craggy face.

Hamilton took the hand and tried not to wince as Achermann clasped his and gave one short, brutal squeeze before dropping it.

“So,” Achermann said, looking Hamilton up and down appraisingly, “you have come to see the 904’s, yes?” His eyes came to rest on the briefcase.

This was it. Hamilton discovered he was trembling and cleared his throat raspingly. “Well, yes, of course,” he muttered, for some reason unable to meet Achermann’s eyes.

Achermann raised his voice to the chauffeur. “Heinrich! We will go to the track now.” He urged Hamilton back to the limousine. Heinrich held the door, standing stiffly at attention as the two of them entered. To Hamilton’s great relief, the dogs stayed behind.

Once inside the limo and rolling, Achermann wasted no time in getting to the point. “You have brought the money?” He nodded toward the briefcase. Hamilton cleared his throat again; things were moving rather more rapidly than he’d bargained for. In the presence of this aggressive man, his composure was melting away like a child’s sandcastle under the rising tide.