John Brady - Poachers Road

“Double that, gnadige frau,” Speckbauer called out as he crossed the floor. “I’ll pay also.”

Felix waited. Speckbauer was humming. Then he engaged the woman preparing the tray in a short one-sided banter about spring, holidays, and the need to know when it was necessary to simply stop working and enjoy life.

Felix took in the studied breeziness. Speckbauer was quite the performer. As though aware of Felix’s thoughts, Speckbauer turned to him.

“If you’re wondering about Franzi, he is otherwise engaged.

Saturdays he relaxes in his own way.”

“Is this a workday for you?”

Speckbauer seemed to consider the question.

“It is,” he said and made a smile. “I do believe it is.”

Then he stretched, and he turned to the windows. Something seemed to please him: the blossoming trees along by the river, the air of purposive, pleasant shopping and Saturday cafe hopping, perhaps, Felix guessed.

“Ah,” said Speckbauer, and rubbed his hands together briskly.

“To have all of this. Life is good, huh? For those who can live it.”

He paid and left a tip, and carried the tray to a table against the back wall.

“Don’t worry,” he said, tearing up one of the croissants. “So eat up.”

Felix dipped his and watched a couple disentangle themselves from their embrace near the bridge.

“I will talk then, if that’s okay with you?”

Felix looked for any giveaway signs of sarcasm.

“Go ahead.”

Speckbauer took a considered sip of his coffee, and dabbed and wiped his moustache with a napkin.

“Chronologically: your good police work, and the good instincts of our supervisory officer Gebhart, have led to the discovery of a double murder. This is in a remote area, relative to our cities and towns. It is in the forest beside a farm. On a little weg that goes along by the land of the Himmelfarb family. Known locally as Wildererweg. The poacher’s path, or road.”

At this he paused, stared for a moment at the pieces of croissant still uneaten.

“The matter is being investigated,” he went on then. “By expert police and police specialists here in Graz, to determine how, when, and ideally why these men were there. And who they are, naturlich.

So far, by the book, okay?”

An Asian couple passed outside, one holding a bag tightly to her side, the other a high-end digital camera at the ready.

“You, a probationary officer, under the guidance of the experienced Bezirkinspektor Josef Gebhart, are now considered officer ancillary to this investigation.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you are part of a team. It will be noted to your credit how you helped initiate this investigation. It will be a valuable experience for you in particular. When the Gendarmerie and the Bundespolizei are finally amalgamated, well… ”

Speckbauer left the sentence unfinished, but gave Felix a knowing glance to indicate the golden future awaiting. Then he pushed his chair back. He took out a starched, cloth handkerchief and blew his nose.

“Well, may I ask a question?”

“Absolutely,” replied Speckbauer.

“Why are you phoning me at my apartment?”

“Isn’t that your home?”

“Of course it is. But is there something irregular?”

Speckbauer eyed him with a glazed look while he blew his nose again. What housewife had starched her man’s handkerchief, Felix wondered. Did anybody else in the 21st century use a cloth handkerchief?

“Ah. Before I answer this, let me make a guess at something. I think that you wish that you could address me as a person you met on the street, let’s say. As if there were no rank or hierarchy to confuse matters. Is that so?”

“Isn’t that human nature?”

“You perhaps want to say, who knows ‘Pas auf? Get lost?’ Or, something like: ‘Who the hell are you to annoy me like this, Kripo guy, with my week’s leave I’ve been dreaming of since I got out of Gendarmerie school?’ Or at the very least, ‘Do I have to put up with you so as not to jeopardize my employment? My chance to be in the Alpini maybe?’”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Sure about that? That you didn’t wish you could speak more, er, directly?”

“It’s possible, I suppose.”

“Go ahead then.”

Felix gave him a dubious glance, but Speckbauer waved his hands.

“Okay then,” said Felix. “First is, how do you know all these things? My phone number, what I might want to work at? My girlfriend’s name?”

“When you enter the Gendarmerie, you allow information such as this to be open for inspection by certain branches of our service.”

“I don’t understand how anyone could just access those files.”

“I am not just anyone. What were your other observations?”

“Am I suspected of doing something wrong?”

Speckbauer gave a short, sudden guffaw.

“No. But did you wish to volunteer information perhaps?”

Felix shook his head.

“You are too polite to put other questions, perhaps.”

“I am here talking with you. That means something.”

With a slight nod, Speckbauer seemed to flick away a retort unspoken.

“Indeed,” he said instead. “On your first ‘normal’ weekend since you started. Wait until you have a family.”

“Really?”

“Oh sure. You’ll move up the ladder if you have kids. You’ll be awarded the sacred weekend more often. You’ll do great, I’m sure.

Education and all that.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll bear that in mind, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

“‘Herr Oberstleutnant?’ Are we back to that?”

Felix gave Speckbauer a skeptical look.

“I think it might be preferable, under the circumstances.”

“What, are you suspicious of compliments?”

“But how can you make that observation?”

Speckbauer’s eyes narrowed, but not unkindly.

“For example, you held the hand of this unfortunate boy, Himmelfarb, when it was necessary. You won his confidence, didn’t you?”

“I-”

But then Felix stopped. He wouldn’t let Gebhart look bad in front of this cop.

“I know,” said Speckbauer. “You were ‘encouraged to.’ I know.

But look at what happened. He fell for you. He wanted to tell you things, and you only.”

Felix watched an old woman enter the shop.

“Hansi Himmelfarb had found a friend in you. So you have a gift, I say. People trust you, you see.”

Something sagged inside Felix. He thought of Frau Himmelfarb, her leathery face already ruddy from the wind and sun of the spring and her outdoor life, the headscarf she would have put on each morning and left on until going to bed. All the Himmelfarbs had wanted, or expected, was to continue their simple life there on a mountain farm that had probably been in their family for centuries, to carry on the routines, to improve things a little, to hand it on.

Speckbauer’s scrutiny of him was not the cynical survey he had expected.

“You are agitated,” he said. “Don’t be suspicious. It’s to your credit.”

“What?”

“Agitation suggests you have morals. You are not ‘cool.’ All to the good.”

“I don’t know where this is going.”

Speckbauer rested one leg over the other, ankle over knee, and studied the side of his shoe. A woman with deep olive skin and a hijab entered the bakery.

“You drove down here because you believe you need to be involved,” Speckbauer murmured then. “That’s not irrational. Guilt too, perhaps? Were you trying to think of what you might have overlooked on that visit to the Himmelfarbs’, when you had that pedal ground into the floor on the autobahn, putting the Mercs and the Porsches in your rearview mirror?”

“Some of the time, yes.”