Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

Lang went back inside and called the professor's name again, with the same result. Afraid of what he was likely to find, Lang started up the stairs.

The staircase bisected a short hallway. Lang moved silently toward the larger of two rooms, one at each end. The bedroom was as neat as the living room and as unremarkable. A partially open closet door showed an array of outdated but pressed suits. Along the floor, shoes marched in precise ranks.

The total quiet of the house was unnerving. No floorboards creaked, no utilities hummed. In fact, he hadn't even heard the ticking of a clock. It was as if the building existed in some sort of universe of its own.

Lang turned and went down the hall, passing the bath, also neat and sparkling clean.

The other room was used as an office, from what Lang could see from the hallway. One wall was completely lined with books. As he gently pushed the door open, he saw a table used as a desk. A computer screen, papers, and open books covered its surface. It was the closest thing to disorder he had seen so far. He pushed the door wide. Papers covered the floor, blanketing a hooked rug. File folders spilled their guts across shelves, two chairs, and every other available space.

Lang pushed the door completely open and found the professor.

Sprawled into a corner behind the door, Blucher stared at the ceiling with lifeless eyes, his spectacles still in his hand. His face was twisted into an expression of abject horror, as though he had been fully aware of what was about to happen.

Although certain the man was dead, Lang stepped over the outstretched legs, crouched, and put his hand on the head, moving it forward. If there was any question as to survival of the victim, it was answered by the small red hole just at the juncture of skull and spine. The faint odor of cordite and burned hair, as well as the bluish marks around the wound, told Lang the gun's muzzle had been only inches from its target. An execution-style killing with a small caliber that would easily take a silencer.

The same thing with Don Huff.

And for the same reason.

From the coagulation of the small amount of blood and the lack of warmth of the body, Lang guessed Blucher had been dead for some time, perhaps since last night. He wished he could remember the lecture at The Farm. How long does it take for rigor mortis to set in? How long to disappear?

What did it matter? he told himself. Dead is dead.

The important thing was whatever the deceased had intended to show him. Was it still here? Lang looked around the devastation in the room. Someone had certainly been looking for something.

He stood, uncertain where to begin.

"Herr Doktor Blucher?"

The call came from downstairs.

A glance from the window showed a police car parked behind his. No doubt some well-meaning neighbor had noticed the open door and summoned the authorities.

With his picture in the paper as a fugitive, his presence at a murder scene would cause the police to draw unfortunate inferences, no matter that the forensics would show the man had been dead hours before Lang's arrival. If necessary, he would explain later. Right now, he needed to disappear.

A quick look confirmed his initial impression: There was only the one staircase, the one that would take him into the living room, where he could hear the investigating cops walking about.

Suppressing the urgency he felt, he walked slowly to the window away from the street, careful to make no sound. It took a second or two to figure out how the window latch worked before he slid it open. Ten or twelve feet below was the compost pile.

Lang was thankful he was not on a farm, where such a pile would contain things a great deal more rank than rotting grass clippings and the remains of last year's vegetable plants. Climbing through the screenless window, he held on to the sill with one hand while pulling the window as close to shut as he could. Not perfect, but at least the police's attention would not immediately be called to a gaping open window in the murder room. If he was lucky, they wouldn't notice it at all.

They would find his prints if they thought to dust a second-story window. It couldn't be helped.

He let go, and the pile of mounded vegetation broke his short fall. Dusting himself off, he looked up into a face staring openmouthed from a neighboring second floor window. Shrieks of alarm followed him as he dashed for the fence's gate.

The police were coming but of the front door as Lang rounded the corner. He pointed to his right. "Schnell! Er hat da gelaufen!" Quick! He ran that way!

Lang was relying on the theory that any command, if shouted with sufficient authority, would be obeyed by Germans. He was only partially correct. One cop dashed off in the direction Lang had indicated. The other blocked Lang from the street and his car, his eyes narrowing. Lang was certain he was comparing the man in front of him to the picture he had seen in the morning paper.

Reaching for his weapon, the police officer asked in English, "Who are you and what were you doing in the Herr Professor's house?"

Lang had been made as an American. He apparently growled when he should have spit.

Forgetting his linguistic shortcomings, Lang had the Glock in his hand and pointed at the German's head before the officer could open the flap of his holster. "Hold it right there. Reach your left hand across your body, take the gun by its butt, and let's see how far you can throw it.".

Evidently not liking what he saw In the American's eyes, the cop did as he was told.

"Smart man! Now, the same with your radio."

The radio followed the gun in an arc over the fence behind Lang.

Giving quick glances in the direction in which the other officer had-gone, Lang marched his prisoner to the police car, disabling the unit's radio before using the unfortunate man's handcuffs to secure him firmly to the steering wheel. A short search revealed the hood latch, enabling Lang to reach into the engine compartment and remove the distributor cap, which he tossed after the radio and gun.

Lang then departed in the opposite direction than that in which the other cop had gone.

On his way back to the hotel, he stopped at an apothecary, designated by a sign bearing a mortar and pestle.

Inside, he purchased hair dye, cotton balls, an orthopedic corset, and a pair of premade eyeglasses. A few doors down the street, he finished replacing the clothes in his abandoned suitcase with ill-fitting, German-made jeans designed for no cowboy he had ever seen and Italian knit shirts. He was careful in his selection of sandals and the black socks European men insist on wearing with them.

Anyone looking for Langford Reilly, American, would see a blond man with jowls, slightly obese, wearing normal European leisure clothes. He would no longer resemble the picture on his passport, but that would not be a problem until he departed Europe. The Common Market had essentially abolished borders between its members. On the way back to the car, three police vehicles wailed past, headed in the general direction of Blucher's house. Lang guessed a very embarrassed cop was trying to explain things to his superiors.

He was in the bathroom, applying the hair coloring, when Gurt got back to the hotel.

Noting his purchases spread out on the bed, she said, "Things did not go well at the Herr Professor's?"

Lang was looking at her reflection behind his in the mirror. "Keep your day job; you have no future as a comic."

Her puzzled expression drew an explanation. "Blucher's dead, killed the same way Don was. The police showed up while I was in the house. I left one of them handcuffed to the steering wheel of his cruiser."

Gurt did not seem particularly surprised. Getting in trouble with the police was becoming a habit of Lang's.