He locked the trunk, stood up and tossed a couple of leaf bags on the trunk to hide it. After locking the shed again he walked back to the house as a slight breeze rustled the leaves in the Birch trees overhead. That wind is a good sign, he thought. It will blow away any feelings I had for that woman.
He needed to find his emerald. Where was it? Who had it? Who might know where it was? Perhaps someone in the Klement Kompound in Buenos Aires where he grew up would know the where-bouts of one of his grandfather’s servants, someone who would know what his grandfather did with the Wittelsbach Emerald, NO — his emerald. If any are still living they would be in their late 70’s or 80’s — yet still there was a chance they might know about the emerald. He had tried the Residenz Museum, the reconstructed Wittelsbach palace where other Wittelsbach jewels were still kept, but no one had a clue about his emerald. It was worth a try to see if any of his grandfather’s servants were still living, and besides it gave him a chance to use that new Motorola digital GSM phone he bought last week in Geneva. It certainly cost him enough. The smart-ass salesman assured him that conversations on the phone could be encrypted using a temporary and randomly generated ciphering key, and for added security, Hans would be identified by a temporary identity, which he could change periodically. Well let’s see if this expensive phone works.
After reaching the Klement Kompound in Buenos Aires, he let them know about the message being encrypted and the codes to unscramble it. He told them what he needed and he would call them back in one hour to see what they found out.
The chalet was too big for him, he knew it, yet it had been available to rent and he was able to get it for a year at a very reasonable price. A typical large Swiss chalet nestled in the foothills of the Jura Mountains, with a wide vista of Lake Geneva in the Southern distance. The real estate woman said it was over a hundred years old, but had been remolded only two years ago. It was held in estate after the owner passed away, but the bank was willing to rent it on a long term basis. As the real estate woman drove him in the drive the first time he fell in love with the house, or was it the dozens of red Geraniums cascading from each window box. He liked living by himself and over the months there grew a comfortable feeling as the house began to speak to him. Usually around midnight, he would hear the radiator click off. The wooden walls began to shudder, surrendering its stored heat in groans and cracks and faint, pinging voices that seemed to wail forever. It reminded him of the big house where he had visited his grandfather in Munich as a boy.
He paced the floor waiting for a response from Argentina and when an hour and ten minutes passed and no phone call Hans angrily threw a chair against the fireplace, turning probably an antique into firewood. Just as he was about to give up his cell phone rang. He grabbed it and shouted, “It’s about time. What did you find out for me?” Listening carefully as he walked over to the desk, took out a pen, and began writing. “So that’s it? That’s all you could find out? Well keep hunting for me. There has to be someone who still knows where my emerald is,” And angrily hung up without even a thank you or a good bye, but with this bit of information from his friends in Buenos Aires he learned his grandfather’s chauffer might still be alive somewhere around Munich.
Now traveling on a German passport he called the German Embassy in Berne, but they would not give information to him unless he applied in person. He didn’t think that would be smart since the Swiss newspapers were running stories of the Jewish murders with the Nazi slash marks. He called a man now living in Berne that he had done business with in Buenos Aires. He persuaded him, with the promise of a nice payment, to go to the Embassy and find out any information on any of the servants, especially the old chauffer.
As he left the chalet he turned on the burglar alarm. Isn’t that ironic, he laughed to himself as the alarm turned red and he was on his way to Berne.
Hans opened the garage doors and standing the doorway admired the shiny green Mercedes 250 SE that glistened in the shadowed light. He loved the lines of this automobile and he felt special when he drove it. It was one of several cars he owned in Argentina and he was pleased he had also found one for sale in Geneva. As he settled in the soft tan leather seats he got out the small piece of lambs wool from the glove box and wiped any bits of lint or dust from the dash, as he had done so many times before. He drove carefully out of the garage, stopped, got out and locked the doors behind him.
The six cylinders purred as he drove through the villages on the north side of the lake. Most of the traffic there was flowing the other way toward the city center. These Swiss, he thought, so punctual, so precise, like a watch, yet always getting in his way. Staying just below the 120 kilometer limit on the Motorway and obeying every road law, he again marveled at the German efficiency of this machine. He felt a temptation to mash on the gas pedal and turn the power loose under the hood as he entered the autobahn heading for Lausanne.
The highway cut through terraced vineyards high on the slopes of Lake Geneva. The lake’s wide blue canvas filled his vision on the right. Beyond it, wreathed in cloud, rose the snow-covered tips of the Junta Mountains. As he neared Nyon, on the outskirts of Geneva, he almost fell into a state of picturesque tranquility. Yet he had to keep his guard up. Any accident, any minor mishap, might tie him into the police investigation of the murders and burglaries around Geneva.
The miles flew by. He entered the outskirts of Lausanne and looked for the turn that led to Berne. A semi-truck in front of him was well below the speed limit. Hans leaned on his horn. The road ahead cleared enough to pass. He maneuvered around the truck. Its driver jabbed his middle finger at Hans and pulled his air horn in a loud blast. Hans saluted him back the same way and pulled in front of the truck.
“Asshole, why don’t you get that frikin truck off the highway or at least respect for other drivers.”
The highway to Berne came up. Hans negotiated the turn at a high rate of speed, just to feel the camber of the road, then slowing to within the limit again; he watched the road and thought about what might lay ahead for him in Munich.
Upon his return to Europe from Argentina, he had settled in Switzerland, well really in France because he felt the French laws would allow him to roam more freely throughout Europe in his search for his emerald. For months he tried to track down his grandparents’ servants and friends to see if they knew anything about the emerald without luck.
Humming a Spanish love song he learned in Argentina, he noticed the lush landscape around him fly past. He was driving through a wide valley where nestled farm after farm. Beyond the farms were large stands of evergreen trees. Not a bad place to settle down, he thought.
After entering the outskirts of Berne he stopped at a small café and telephoned his friend again. He learned the only person still alive who might know of the emerald might be Fritz, his grandfather’s chauffer. However, Fritz was in poor health, in fact he wasn’t sure if Fritz was even alive. The only address, and this was several years old, was a rest home near Starnberger Lake, a few miles southwest of Munich — no street address, just the name. After writing down the address, Hans said Heil Hitler out of habit, and said he’d send him a reward and hung up.