Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Nick said, “Burki was a portfolio manager, right? You were a trader?”

Bauer shifted his attention to Nick. “Cappy was on the client side of the firm. What about it?”

Sprecher touched Bauer’s arm and inclined his head toward Nick. “My pal’s father knew Burki, too. We wanted to find him, you know, say hello, shoot the shit, catch up on old times.” He slid the schnapps across the table.

Yogi Bauer grimaced, not liking what he heard. He picked up the schnapps and polished it off in one messy gulp.

“He is still alive, isn’t he?” asked Nick.

“Hell yes,” gasped Bauer, eyes watering at the burn of the peppermint liqueur. “Cappy’s still kicking.”

“And what does he do these days? Enjoying his retirement like you?”

Bauer shot Nick a dirty glance. “Yes, he’s enjoying himself fine. Just like me. We’re making the most of our golden years. Sitting in front of roaring fires with grandkids on our knees. Vacations to the South of France. Wonderful existence.” He lifted an empty stein. “Cheers. What did you say your name was again?”

“Neumann. My father was Alex Neumann. Worked out of the L.A. branch office.”

“I knew him,” said Bauer. “Piece of bad luck, that. Condolences.”

“It’s been a long time,” said Nick.

Bauer eyed him warily, then asked in a newly sympathetic voice, “So you’re looking for Caspar Burki? Not a good idea. Listen to Yogi. Forget about him. Anyway, I haven’t seen him in months. Don’t know where to set eyes on the man.”

“But he still lives in Zurich?” Nick asked.

Bauer laughed, sounding like a horse whinnying. “Where else would he go? Has to stay near the source, doesn’t he?”

Nick sagged. The Source? Was that the name of a bar? Was Burki another geriatric alky? “Know where we can find him?” he pressed. “He doesn’t live at the address he had given to the bank.”

“He moved a while back. I don’t know where to reach him, so don’t ask me. It’s not a good idea, anyway. He’s down on his luck. A pension’s not what it used to be.”

Nick looked at Bauer’s exhausted suit and the grimy ring circling his collar. Not if you spend it all on booze, it isn’t. He placed his hand on Yogi’s arm. “It would mean a lot to me if you could tell me where I could see him. Sure you don’t know where he is?”

Bauer shook his arm loose. “Calling me a liar, are you? Caspar Burki is gone. Doesn’t exist anymore. At least not the man your father might have known. He’s vanished. Leave him alone. And while you’re at it, leave me alone.” He shifted his unsteady gaze between Nick and Peter as if by sheer brunt of his will he could force them to leave the table. But like most drunks, he grew tired of his efforts in a hurry and instead, belched loudly.

Nick walked round the table and kneeling, spoke in Bauer’s ear. “We’re leaving now. Don’t want to wear out our welcome. When you see Burki, tell him I’m looking for him. And that I won’t quit until I find him. Tell him it’s about Allen Soufi. He’ll know who I mean.”

Nick and Peter returned to the bar and struggled to clear a hole in the crowd to ask for a beer. A pair of stools opened up next to them, and Sprecher hopped aboard one with a cheerfulness Nick could not fathom.

“He was lying,” said Sprecher, once Nick had taken his seat. “He knows where Burki is. They’re probably drinking pals. Just didn’t fancy telling us.”

“Why?” asked Nick. “Why try to discourage us from finding him? And what the hell did he mean by ‘the source’?”

“Only the guilty have something to hide. Seems we ruffled his feathers. I’d call it a success.”

Nick wasn’t so sure. So what if they knew that Burki was alive? So what if Bauer was a friend of his? They possessed neither the time nor the resources to keep an eye on Bauer with the hopes that one day he might lead them to Burki. As far as Nick was concerned, it was a failure. Allen Soufi was as far away as ever.

Sprecher nudged him in the ribs. “Over yon shoulder, chum. Like I said, we ruffled his feathers. Now let’s see where he flies.”

Not three stools down from where they sat, Yogi Bauer poked his head through the wall of patrons and yelled at the bartender for change of a ten-franc note that he waved in his right hand. The bartender flicked the note from his hand and poured a few coins into his palm. Bauer looked to his right, then to his left. Oblivious of Nick’s inquisitive regard, he retreated.

Nick told Sprecher to wait at the bar and hold on to the briefcase, then eased himself off the stool and followed Bauer toward the bathroom. The older man weaved his way through the crowd, careering into unsuspecting parties. He left two spilled beers in his wake and for his troubles received a deftly administered cigarette burn in the seat of his trousers. Finally, he made it to the rear of the Keller Stubli, disappearing down a flight of stairs that led to the rest rooms. Nick peeked his head round the corner before descending. Bauer was halfway down the staircase, both hands wrapped around the wooden banister. He took the stairs one at a time and when he reached the bottom, paused to root in his pocket for a piece of change, then stepped to his left out of sight. Nick flew down the stairs. He stopped at their base and leaned forward to see around the wall. Bauer was on the telephone. He stood with his head lowered and the receiver pressed against his face.

Nick waited for what seemed like an eternity but was probably no more than fifteen seconds. Suddenly, Bauer lifted his head. “Hoi. Bisch-du daheim? Hey, you at home? I’m coming over in fifteen minutes. Too bad. Then get your ass out of bed. They’ve finally come for you.”

Nick and Peter stood hidden in a dark corner across the street from the Keller Stubli waiting for Yogi Bauer to come out. The usual Saturday-night parade of unfortunates rambled along the Niederdorf, vocally denouncing the status quo while swilling every imaginable brand of beer and wine. Ten minutes passed. And then another ten. So much for Yogi keeping to his schedule, thought Nick.

Sprecher huddled in his trench coat, guarding the briefcase under one arm. “If you want to play your hunch that Yogi Bauer is going to walk out of the Keller Stubli and lead you right to Caspar Burki, that’s fine,” he said. “He may have said he was leaving right away, but my money says he stays in there until closing, then goes home to his dirty little bed and passes out. It’s past eleven. I’m tapped out.”

“Go home,” said Nick. “No reason for both of us to wait. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, say Sprungli, nine o’clock? If you get up early, check those numbers. And bring the briefcase. I’ve got some ideas to run by you.”

“I’ll be there at nine,” said Sprecher. “But about those ideas, Nick? Leave them at home.”

Yogi Bauer emerged from the Keller Stubli a few minutes after Peter Sprecher had left. He walked pretty well for a man who’d been drinking since noon that day. Occasionally, he teetered this way and lurched that, but his determined posture and forward motion combined to right his listing. Nick followed at a prudent distance, praying that Bauer was going directly to Caspar Burki’s.

Bauer scuttled down the Niederdorf hugging the buildings that ran to his right. He turned left at the Brungasse and disappeared from view. Nick hurried to catch up and when he turned the corner, nearly stumbled onto him. The Brungasse was a steep alley paved with slick cobblestones. Even the soberest pedestrian would have trouble walking up it. Bauer kept one hand on the building to his left, the other flailing the air, and managed to climb the hill, step by painful step. Nick waited until he had disappeared over the crest, then entered the alley and walked briskly up the incline. He paused at the top of the hill and tucked his head around the corner. He was rewarded with a perfect view of Yogi Bauer jamming his finger into the doorbell of a building a little ways down the left-hand side of the street.