Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 799 & 800, March/April 2008

An Appointment Up the Mountain by Robert S. Levinson

Back with an offbeat piece in a semi-thriller mode is California’s Robert S. Levinson. The story stars Clegg, the sympathetic bad guy from his celebrated novel Hot Paint, who, this time out, is invited to a dangerous meeting with a Nazi sympathizer at the top of a Bavarian mountain. Mr. Levinson’s latest novel is Where the Lies Begin (Five Star Press), a book the Baltimore Sun hailed as “(An) ever-surprising, character-rich thriller.”

Clegg stopped at Dachau before heading up the mountain.

The camp was a place he had spent years avoiding, never anxious to confront the horrors it represented to him.

Why today was different he wasn’t sure.

Maybe because he had to be close on business and seeing Dachau would salve his conscience by showing him the reality of death beyond any he had caused after taking up killing as a way of life.

He stayed there longer than he meant to and, consequently, didn’t reach the village in the Bavarian Alps until midafternoon.

The village was small, as quaint and clean as a stage set in one of those operettas like The Student Prince, or something newer, like The Sound of Music. He pictured Julie Andrews in the movie version, in a place like this, leading the precocious von Trapp kids and their overbearing father to first place in the annual talent contest, then over the Alps to escape from the Nazis, and was stumbling through the lyrics of “So Long, Farewell” when he arrived at Von Harbou Hall.

The hall was easy to find, the only two-story building on the broad road, exactly as advertised by Dr. Von Harbou, who had to be the man pacing out front, checking the watch attached by a heavy gold chain to the vest pocket of his conservative three-piece black suit.

Von Harbou was in his mid to late sixties and small of stature, with a full head of white hair worn in a tight crew cut. His irritated expression converted to a questionable smile as Clegg pulled up in front and cut the engine, and he snapped the watch shut and returned it to his vest, double-checking the pocket with a couple of pats on his way to the rented cocoa-colored Mercedes.

“Herr Clegg?”

Clegg nodded as he stepped from the car and took Von Harbou’s outstretched hand.

“Sorry to be late,” Clegg said, not sorry at all, but aware an apology would appeal to a German’s passion for promptness. “An honor, Herr Doktor,” Clegg said, meaning it less than his apology.

“Mine, indeed,” Von Harbou said, exposing more of his tiny, tobacco-stained teeth, the smile still too rich to be sincere. “I was expecting you by now and was getting worried. Sometimes, the road, it can be tricky-dangerous for someone who doesn’t know it well.” The German’s English accent was clipped, but otherwise almost faultless.

“I stopped briefly in Munich, to see the Frauenkircheand the Theatinerkirche, then along the way to admire the views. The beauty of your countryside got the best of me.”

“Yes, especially this time of the year. The higher you get, the more beautiful. The unspoiled beauty of nature. Her palette on full display, past even a landscape by Rubens, a Degas, a—”

“Van Gogh.”

“But of course,” Von Harbou said, allowing a slender smile. “Good one there, Herr Clegg. Good one. The sights are breathtaking and unlike the city, they give us opportunity to contemplate what life is truly all about.”

“I was able to do that, yes.”

“Shall we move indoors?” He stepped aside and gestured for Clegg to go first. “Maybe later, after we have conducted our business, you will allow me to take you on a tour of the beauty God has invested in our corner of the world going all the way back to the fifteenth century. I can promise you you won’t be disappointed.”

“With pleasure, thank you,” Clegg said, glad he didn’t have to suggest it himself.

Von Harbou had him wait in a wood-paneled room the size of a small auditorium that reeked of the centuries, three of the walls almost hidden by rows of neatly hung oils, photos, and documents, all ornately framed to emphasize importance. The paintings indiscriminately mixed portraits, landscapes, mythical and religious themes, some works better than others and none of value evident to Clegg, except as an historical scrapbook.

The east wall was fronted by a stage on which sat an elaborate mahogany desk at least fifteen feet across and a matching podium, a table microphone and speakers on either side the only modern touches.

The opposite wall was dominated by the largest heating stove Clegg had ever seen, made of cast iron and faced with tiles of white and a delicate blue. Piping ran into the wall at all angles.

“One of our village’s prized possessions,” Von Harbou said, joining him. “As old as the building itself. Made by hand in a time when craftsmanship meant everything and my countrymen were already considered among the world’s best. Years before the building came into possession of my family, it was our Rathaus, our city hall. The pipes, you see? They heat all the rooms, originally with wood from our golden forests, but now also oil can do the trick. This was our assembly room. Soon I’ll show you the library with books not to be believed. Also the mayor’s office, where I have proudly conducted business since the passing of my dear father.”

Von Harbou crossed himself.

He tugged at Clegg’s shoulder and crossed the room to a section of wall that had mostly latter-day portraits, several of the men striking show-off poses in military uniforms from the two World Wars, the most belligerent looks worn by those wearing Nazi uniforms, one of them an S.S. colonel.

Von Harbou pointed him out. “My late, beloved father,” he said, crossing himself again. He studied Clegg’s face for a reaction.

Clegg said, “I can see the family resemblance, a strong face,” but he showed Von Harbou nothing.

“Strong, yes,” Von Harbou said. “Her also.” He motioned Clegg’s attention to a woman as imposing as the frame around her photograph. “You recognize her?”

Clegg stepped in and studied the photograph at closer range. “No, but she’s quite attractive.”

“I supposed not. My great-aunt. Also a great actress, but her work was here in our homeland, so that’s why. Movies like Das Wandernde Bild, her first one with the husband who was her director, and you might know him from America. Fritz Lang?”

Clegg shook his head, shrugged. “Movies, not my thing.”

“A hack, really, especially after he left his homeland and my great-aunt behind. No loss. What good movies he made were always because of her. Vier um die Frau, Dr. Mabuse der Spieler, Die Nibelungen. Frau im Mond. Silent movies that I never got to see myself, but my grandfather, he told me how any of her movies never needed words when she was standing in front of the camera.”

“They had faces then.”

“Ja. Well spoken, Herr Clegg, but come. I don’t mean to bore you with my family history.”

“Not in the least, Herr Doktor.”

Von Harbou did a sharp about-face and led him out and down the main hall to the library, where books were embalmed in fine leather, their titles on the spines embossed in gold, behind glass-fronted cabinets.

The library was less than half the size of the assembly room and seemed less worn by use. Spotlessly clean, a smell of disinfectant lingering in the air. Comfortable stuffed chairs covered in fine fabrics, and reading lamps artfully placed, as well as four antique desks from one or another of the Louis periods.

Von Harbou turned the door lock behind them and said, “I had to be sure first no one was here to disturb us. Now, we also have our privacy.”

Clegg surveyed the room.

No sign of what he was looking for.

He gave Von Harbou a questioning glance.

Von Harbou answered with a tight grin that inflated his cherry-pink cheeks and arched his thick eyebrows to show off the twinkle in his crystal blue eyes. He said, “You brought it?”

“Of course.”

Von Harbou tilted up his chin and cocked his head. “You don’t mind showing me first?”

Clegg reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved an envelope, offered it to Von Harbou, who snatched it from him, studied the blank front for a moment, then carefully worked the flap loose. Lifted out the cashier’s check as if it might self-destruct if he held it too tightly. Swallowed the room. Pursed his lips and blew out a silent whistle.

“Seeing is believing, Herr Doktor.”

“Ja. Ja, ja.”

“As agreed upon and exactly as you wished. Four million in U.S. dollars made out to you.”

“But untraceable to me.”

“To anyone. What you do with it from here on out is up to you.”

“It will serve a good cause, I guarantee you.”

Von Harbou crossed over to one of the chairs, dropped into it. He nursed the check back into the envelope, tucked in the flap, and put the envelope in a jacket pocket. Looked like he was already spending the four million in his mind.

Clegg’s cough brought him back.

Von Harbou understood. He pointed out an orange-colored mailing tube to the left of the door, leaning against a planter stand on which magazines had been stacked.

“You won’t be disappointed,” Von Harbou said.

Clegg had missed noticing it.

He got the tube and settled on the floor, on his knees.

Removed and unrolled the canvas inside, which had been wrapped in French-language newspapers dating back almost seventy years.

It measured about twenty-six inches by thirty inches.

Clegg inhaled audibly.

Von Harbou cackled. “Vincent contemplating the landscape at sunset. The colors, almost like brand-new, vibrant, alive, as on the day Vincent first put them there.”

“Yes,” Clegg said, “magnificent.”

“One like it, only smaller and not so good, went three years ago at auction in New York for more than twice what I agreed on, so you’ve bought yourself a genuine bargain.”

Clegg felt no need to remind Von Harbou that this Van Gogh couldn’t be sold that way—

Or to just any collector.

He rolled up the canvas tightly and slid it back into the tube, pressed down hard on the lid, and made sure it was secure.

Checked his watch.

Rising, he said, “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Herr Doktor.”

Von Harbou used the armrests to push himself up from his chair and said, “But, wait. The tour that I mentioned. You still have time, it’s included in the price, you know? No additional charge.”

Clegg had counted on Von Harbou remembering. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble, there’s nothing I’d like more,” he said.

Clegg pleaded his aching-hip excuse, the old patter about a need for replacement surgery as the reason for his driving, when Von Harbou proposed walking to what he said was the best observation point, about a half-mile up the hill. He stowed the orange tube in the trunk of the Mercedes.

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.

By nightfall Clegg was in Salzburg. A room was on reserve for him at the Hotel Bristol on Makart Platz, under one of the assumed names he had used in Hong Kong, but never in Europe. The fax awaiting his arrival said: “Phone any hour. Another masterpiece has surfaced.”

He stretched out on the narrow bed, shut his eyes against the harsh overhead light, thought again about the kids in The Sound of Music, and began whistling that tune, that happy tune that Julie Andrews sang to them.

So, another masterpiece to retrieve, maybe a few more murders to charge against his conscience, then maybe he could reunite with his son once and for all time.

His son.

The only masterpiece that mattered to him.

That precious jewel of a child.

His son.

Clegg reach blindly for the phone on the nightstand and gave the number to the hotel operator.

© 2008 by Robert S. Levinson