“Buck Stigmuller is a peripheral part of the big picture,” Major Staub said. “He accepted my report and interpretation on those four murdered GIs and passed the information on, presumably, to General Weir. Neither had further questions.”
“And Chicago, what do you hear from Clarence McDade?”
“I’m in touch with the superintendent at least once a day. The city gave Mark Weir a hero’s sendoff and McDade accepts the fact that the lieutenant’s death, in a sense, also happened to one of ours. He shares our stance of antianarchism and prokinship. The murder of a police officer in any city is a grave insult to the entire populace. McDade’s people are turning Chicago upside down. So far it’s been a dead end, so to speak.”
Benton pressed his lingers against his temples and tried to focus his thoughts. His concentration was splintered because, ridiculously, his rich and handsome wife had been refusing root canal surgery for three months. She thought it would be boring and unnecessary. Benton realized his wife had both a terror of pain and a dread of losing her teeth and he had tried everything he could to get her into a dentist’s office. Now she faced the prospect of losing a pair of front molars and the possible extraction of her upper front incisors. Translated from dental jargon, that meant Ginny Benton would need false teeth.
She had reacted to the news by extending the daily cocktail hour, Pine Valleys over cracked ice, and yesterday had called the farm in Virginia to cancel the spring yearling sale without consulting the colonel. Last night she had spent several hours crying on her side of the bed.
Christ, Benton thought, looking at the pad on which he’d been doodling. Without realizing it, he had scrawled a margin to margin mosaic of one name: Tarbert Weir.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get to our final problem — Weir.”
“Of course, Captain Jetter has been in touch with you directly about that,” Staub said. “He’s checked in with me several times.”
“Yes,” Benton said, “but I wish he wouldn’t be so goddamned pussyfoot about everything. He signed into the guest house right next door, you know.”
Staub nodded. “Froggie is very aware. He wanted the perfect vantage point. He reports that General Weir is playing golf, riding, wining and dining in seclusion with his lady friend. Greenbrier registration says they expect the general to be their guest for some time. Jetter’s paid off the garage to let him know if the general or his lady calls for the car. On top of that Froggie says he’s aware of heavy boozing, a lot of noise and cursing from the general’s quarters. In short, Scotty Weir is on a jag.”
“Or he’d like the world to believe that,” Colonel Benton said dryly. “I think it would be a mistake to jump to the conclusion that Weir is just one more bereaved parent with normal, sentimental compulsions. He’s complex but he’s always had the personal drive of a Mack truck. Nothing in his dossier points to evasions, blackouts or buck-passing. Mark Weir was murdered. That’s a fact, and I’m concerned about exactly how Scotty Weir is facing that fact.”
“As you say, colonel,” Major Staub said, “but at the moment, the subject seems immobile. And there were reports he was deep into the booze even back in Springfield. Anyone who drinks Tequila Gold is a lush in my book, or a supermasochist at least. I’ll get in touch with Jackson and give him your thinking.”
“I’ll call myself,” Benton said. “I want to be sure there’s no break in our surveillance, none whatsoever. Right now I feel I’m sitting on a pailful of live cats.”
After Staub left, Colonel Benton talked for five minutes to Captain Hays Jetter in guest house E on Carolina Row at the Greenbrier. When he hung up he put his luncheon things on the tray, aligned the files and memos on his desk, then tore off the scribbled sheet from his notepad and threw it into the wastebasket. On second thought, he fished the piece of paper out again and ripped it into a dozen small pieces.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Twin taillights on the Porsche 911-SC blinked as Pytor Vayetch, with Herr Rauch in the passenger seat beside him, braked at the crosswalk, then made a sharp left and turned on a narrow, bricked street.
Lasari and Strasser stood in front of the Atelier, the flashing neon sign above the doorway, a homed devil with trident, coating their faces scarlet.
Greta pushed open the door and joined them. “A big man at the bar stopped me. He asked my name,” she said primly. “He thought I was an American girl he knew from Princeton, but it was someone else.” She smiled. “I think he just thought I was pretty, but he’s too old for me.” Strasser ignored her.
“That’s a lot of shit, what you just said, Jackson,” he said to Lasari. “Get in my car. You’re comin’ with me and Greta right now.”
“No, I’ll take a cab later.”
“You’re not a fucking civilian, Jackson. I thought you understood the ground rules.”
“I want to be alone. I want to drink some beer and not listen to anybody,” Lasari said.
“If it’s me,” Greta said, “I won’t talk at all. There’s beer in the refrigerator and we can all watch television. There’s ‘Dallas’ tonight and that’s a good one.” She pronounced the name with the stress on the second syllable.
“Goddamn it, Greta, shut up!” Strasser said.
“You’re just mad because you had to dance and that makes you sweat,” she said. “Mr. Vayetch has no respect for us. I was glad to dance. I would rather watch pigs eat than Herr Rauch. I’m surprised he bothers with a knife and fork. I’m surprised he doesn’t sweat when he eats.”
“All right, Lasari, go have a beer,” Strasser said, his voice tight with rage. “Or take a walk, or do what the fuck you want. But I’ll be sitting up till you walk in that door and don’t you forget it.”
Lasari walked up the slanted street to the bridge and stood on the crest of the old stone arch, hearing the flow of water beneath. He studied as much of the sprawling city as he could see in the thin moonlight, the antique street lights and glowing windows of the old buildings in this part of town.
Heidelberg lies along the Neckar River, a dozen miles from its confluence with the Rhine. One street, the Hauptstrasse, dominates the town, running its length on a parallel course with the river. It is an ancient city of bridges and churches and a picturesque castle on the wooded outskirts of the town. On the other side of the river Lasari could see the outlines of the Bismarck monument, a landmark he had passed in the cab on the way to Strasser’s apartment, and that gave him his bearings.
Lasari walked along the Hauptstrasse, listening to the echo of his footsteps on the pavement. He passed several cafés with brightly lit windows, the bar and tables inside crowded with tanned faces and short haircuts. Country western or disco music sounded out into the street.
He stopped at a bierstube with stained glass windows facing the street and was surprised to find it crowded inside, damply cool with the smell of beer, and sawdust on the floor.
Lasari sat at the bar and ordered a glass of dark beer. He was near a university, he realized, because several tables were occupied by students, drinking beer and poring over books. Other areas were crowded with older working men, a few playing a game with oblong slates on special wooden tables. In one corner a family of six, four pudgy daughters and their middle-aged parents, were eating brat-wurst and watching a game show on the TV at the end of the bar.