Jordy saw Fremont up to his room, then hovered at the door.
“Goodnight, Jordy,” Fremont said.
Jordy still hovered. “What was all that about?” he finally asked.
Fremont chuckled.
“I don’t know yet, Jordy. Christ, I just arrived. I’m an old man — let me get some sleep.”
“Okay, okay. Goodnight, chief.”
The next morning they visited Andrea Huber. Jordy drove them up to the Glacier Gorge with a man named Hans to translate, since Andrea knew no English. The dirt road twisted wildly though a dark forest, then emerged into another, higher valley, where brownish cows with massive udders grazed on pleasant meadows.
Andrea liked Fremont, even in translation, better than she had the detective who had questioned her before. She felt his interest in her was genuine; he really seemed to be listening and understanding when she told him about the short Italian man who’d gone into the gorge that afternoon but whom she hadn’t seen leave, and the disagreement between the counters; and how she’d felt so frightened going through the gorge that day, and how she fell down on the wet ground and almost had a fit. He even asked to see where she’d heard the noise that scared her when she fell. The police had barely been interested in her story after they’d shown her the picture of that other man and she’d said no, that wasn’t him. And Fremont seemed impressed that she had recognized the dress that the woman was wearing and could name the designer and even knew the price.
They drove back to the valley without saying much, then pulled up at a shabby pink apartment building that looked out of place in Ringgenberg. Berndt Lornhart, the taxi driver, was wearing slippers and a tattered bathrobe when he came to the door. A television blared somewhere inside. He volunteered that it was his day off. He volunteered, next, that he was sick of being bothered by millions of people about what he was sure was just another suicide. The woman in the car had not been happy; he could tell by the way she held herself that something wasn’t right: her head down the whole time, like she was crying. But he’d told that to the police and to the other lawyer and he wanted to know how long he was going to be bothered with something that he had nothing to do with. He couldn’t say much about the dress — it was green, with some kind of pattern. Nice? He shrugged his shoulders. The high, complaining screech of a young child rose louder and louder, competing with the racket from the television. Berndt excused himself. Fremont, Jordy, and Hans got back into the car.
“So?” Jordy asked as they returned to Fremont’s room. “What’s the lowdown?”
“I don’t work miracles, Jordy,” Fremont said.
“But you’re onto something,” Jordy insisted. “I can tell. Something about the dress. But what? So she was wearing an expensive dress. So what?”
“Maybe you’re right,” Fremont said. “Maybe it is so what.”
“But you have an idea.”
“Jordy,” Fremont said, letting just a hint of irritation seep into his voice, “let’s just say this. It’s strange to wear a two thousand dollar dress into a glacier gorge. Okay? You could have figured that yourself. That’s where I’m stuck. I’m going to make a phone call, and we’ll see what comes of it. And now I need to rest.”
“You don’t want to see the body? The PM report? The dress that you’re so interested in? Don’t you want to talk to someone — talk to Victor, for Christ’ sake?”
Fremont sat down on his bed and picked up a tourist brochure from his night table. He held it out for Jordy.
“Take this, Jordy. Go home and study it. If I’m right, the answer to the case is right in here. Got it? Now go — I need to be alone.”
Jordy took the pamphlet, glanced at it, and crumpled it into his back pocket.
“Yeah, sure,” he grumbled. “Gotcha, chief.”
Mumbling to himself, he headed toward the door.
“Just call me when you need me, Max.”
“Will do.”
The door closed. Fremont shrugged off his jacket and lay down on the bed. Then he sat up and reached out for the telephone.
Evening was coming on, casting a pinkish glow on the steep cliffs and mountains that lorded it over the little town of Ringgenberg. Fremont sat at his window, looking down across the street at the boutique, the bank, the sports store opposite. He expected the phone call from New York any minute now, and he was almost certain that he knew what the reply would be. It was an easy little piece of investigation for Lois, since Liza Itzenhagen surely didn’t sell too many of those dresses and an anomaly like the one he was looking for would easily show up. And Lois — who was Lieutenant Heller now, if he remembered right — was clearly happy to lend him a hand after all he’d done for her on the force.
He perked up on seeing Harry Witgold cross the street. He was carrying a white plastic bag in his right hand; he walked briskly, a foppish brown hat on his head, wearing a casual but expensive suit that gave him the air of a rich dude in a Western. He looked left and right, then stepped through the automatic door of the sports store.
Fremont moved his chair so he could see the entrance to the store more easily, then waited, leaning on the windowsill. Five minutes later Witgold left the store, crossed the street, and entered the hotel. His hands were empty.
It was almost six thirty, closing time in Switzerland. Fremont looked ruefully at the telephone, then rose from his post. He threw on his jacket and went out into the hall, locking the door behind him. He walked down the red carpeted stairs, past the empty niche where a statue once had stood, out through the lobby, and across the street. The glass doors of the sports store opened automatically; the clerk’s face sank as she saw him coming in so close to closing time. He asked if she spoke English and saw her displeasure grow even greater, so when she replied in the affirmative he said, “I just have a very quick question. I’m looking for a friend of mine — I think he came in here. Tall, brown suit, wide hat—”
“He left a few minutes ago,” she said curtly.
“Oh damn.”
Fremont pretended to think for a moment.
“He brought something back, no? In a plastic bag? If it’s him, I mean — did he bring back some... uh... what the hell are they called...”
“Barryvox,” the woman said, annoyed. “Is that your friend?” Fremont nodded.
“Then he left a few moments ago. I’m sorry.”
Fremont thanked her and headed immediately out the door. He crossed the street and returned to his room, repeating the word in his head; he flipped quickly through his little dictionary, then closed it and phoned Jordy.
“I need you to find something out for me. There’s a German word I don’t know — it’s something you might buy or rent in a sports store. Barryvox, Barryfox, Darrybox, something like that. I don’t see it in the dictionary. Can you find it out for me?”
“I’ll do my best,” Jordy said.
The phone rang immediately as Fremont hung up. Lois chattered away for a discreet minute and then got down to business.
“The dress was easy,” she said. “It’s exactly like you guessed. You want the number?”
Fremont declined. Someone else could do the dirty work — he was retired, after all.
“The female wasn’t much harder,” Lois went on. “The flight was on the same card as the dresses. Her name’s Maria Fine. Your description fits, more or less.”
Fremont relaxed in the easy chair and nodded to himself.
“Thanks, Lois. I’ll make it up to you someday. You don’t mind if they call you up from here for the details?”