White Death: An Alex Hawke Novella

CHAPTER EIGHT

“You can wake up now, Alex, we’ve arrived in heaven.”

“What?”

“Switzerland. You heard me, time to go check into the hotel and have a dram of the Scottish elixir before I expire.”

They found a cab and soon were headed up a wide boulevard that hugged the lakefront. Their hotel was a treasure called the Bauer au Lac. It occupied a prime bit of real estate directly overlooking Lake Zurich, with views of the snow-covered southern Alps that stretched away to Italy.

Having both showered and changed into fresh shirts, slacks, and jackets, they met in the hotel bar a little before seven. Hawke arrived first and ordered his favorite Bermuda rum, Gosling’s Black Seal.

“You’re right,” Ambrose said upon arrival, taking the stool adjacent to Hawke. He looked around the paneled room. “This is a rather spectacular old inn. Exquisite antique furnishings and art, even in my little room. Very Belle Epoque. But with a touch of the modern.”

“Very what? Very belle … something or other.”

“It’s French.”

“I know what bloody language it is! What does it mean?”

“Oh, never mind. Don’t get so cranky.”

Hawke took another sip of his cocktail and said, “Feel like I’m stepping back in time a century or two every time I stay here. Glad you like it. What are you having?”

Congreve summoned the barman and ordered a tumbler of The Macallan 18, his favorite single malt whisky.

He said, “I was very distressed to hear about your experiences with that cursed mountain, Alex. The White Death. Gives me a shudder just to say it out loud.”

“Well, let’s just say it’s been unkind to my family. But, as I said, if I can find a bit of time after we’ve tidied up all the loose ends here, I fully intend to give that bloody hill another run for its money.”

Ambrose caught a glimpse of Alex’s expression and decided not to reply to that.

“Tell me about this chap of yours here in Zurich,” Congreve said, glancing at his watch. “Herr Schultz should be arriving any moment. What’s the scoop on this fellow, Alex?”

“Our Zurich station chief for the last decade or so, as you already know. Fritz Schultz is an interesting study. Born in Germany and moved to Zurich later in life. Promoted to captain in the German Navy at a very young age. Decorated more than once. C recruited him to join MI6 in the late nineties.

“Blinky has proved himself invaluable in a town that is always chock-full of scoundrels and spies. I’ve dealt with him many times and found him to be scrupulously honest, brave as an oak, and built like a fireplug — here he comes now. “Hullo, Blinky, it’s Hawke, over here!”

The new arrival lit up at the sight of his old friend and hurried toward Hawke with his arms spread wide. He had a very brisk manner and was wearing an old seaman’s cap upon his head.

“Hawkeye, how grand to see you again!” Herr Schultz embraced Hawke, patting him warmly on the back, then took the newly vacated stool beside his friend.

Congreve, with his ex-London copper’s knack for memorizing faces on sight, thought Herr Schultz looked somewhat as Hawke had described. But, upon closer inspection, Ambrose found the fellow’s face to be made up of points and angles and a prominent, bill-like nose, which gave him the look of a woodpecker in a captain’s hat. All of this combined with some neurological quirk that caused him to blink rapidly and incessantly. It was this tic, obviously, that had earned him his ship’s nickname of Blinky. He was a right wise and jolly old elf, with those busy blue eyes and a shock of white hair on his head, and he was built like a bank vault.

“And you as well, Blinky,” Hawke was saying. “Please say hello to my partner in crime, former Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, Ambrose Congreve.”

“Pleasure,” Congreve said, extending his hand.

“Pleasure’s all mine, sir,” Blinky replied.

The three men exchanged more pleasantries and happy chitchat before settling down to the business at hand.

Hawke said, “So, Blinky, let’s get down to cases. Could you please give us a quick update? Sir David only provided us with the bare bones of this astounding case.”

The man smiled, withdrew a brier pipe from inside his jacket, and got it going before he replied.

“Have either of you ever heard of a man living here in Zurich named Baron Wolfgang von Stuka? ‘Stooka,’ like the Nazi dive bomber. You will. He’s suddenly playing a significant role in this money mystery of ours. One of the most powerful and popular financial men in town. A highly respected Swiss Army officer, as well.”

“I have a feeling we’re going to be hearing a lot more about him,” Congreve said.