"‘The man with the face that looked as if it were carved out of solid mahogany,’" quoted Fitzduane. "Vreni told me about him, and so did Andreas. I'm going to see him while I'm here."
"You can't," said Marta. "Oskar is dead."
"He's dead? But I spoke to him only yesterday!" said Fitzduane, taken aback. "I arranged to meet him this evening in the Simmenfälle, the place beside the waterfall."
"He liked the Simmenfälle," said Marta. "He often went there for a glass of wine and a game of jass. He used to meet clients there. He was a guide, you know."
"I know."
Marta was pensive. She ran a long golden finger around the rim of her glass. She stared out at the skiers on the slopes. "He taught me to ski. He taught us all. He was part of our growing up here. Always while we were here in Lenk, there was Oskar. We skied with him, we climbed with him, in summer we walked with him. It's almost impossible to believe he's gone. Just gone."
Marta was silent, and Fitzduane waited. He remembered Vreni's talking about Oskar in much the same way. What had the man known? Being so close the von Graffenlaub family, what had he seem or surmised — and who might have been aware of his suspicions? Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. There might be nothing irregular about the guide's death.
"How did he die?"
Marta gave a slight start as Fitzduane's question broke into her reverie. "I don't know the details. All I know is that he had gone to meet a client in Simmenfälle. The client didn't show up, and while he was walking home, he was knocked down by a car. It was a hit and run."
"Did anyone see the accident?"
"I don't think so," said Marta, "but you'd have to ask the police."
Fitzduane watched his Glühwein getting cold. The he went inside and called the Bear. There was a pause at the other end before the Bear spoke. "I'll check with the local police," he said. "When are you seeing Felix Krane?"
"Tomorrow if I can," said Fitzduane. "I haven't managed to track him down yet."
"I'll arrange for one of the local cops to go with you," said the Bear. "It may cramp your style, but I don't like what's going on. "Where are you staying? I'll call you later."
"At the Simmenfälle."
There was another silence at the end of the line. Then the Bear sighed. "Don't go for any midnight walks," he said, "and keep your back to the wall."
"And don't talk to strangers," said Fitzduane.
"That's not so funny."
"No, it isn't."
* * * * *
The canton policeman was a good-humored sergeant named Franze, with a tanned round face setting off an impressively red nose. He had the work-roughened hands of a farmer, which, indeed, he was in his off-duty hours. He arrived in a Volkswagen Beetle, a near-twin of the antique that had transported Fitzduane to the Swiss Army base at Sand. It wheezed to a halt in front of the Simmenfälle as Fitzduane was finishing breakfast. The Irishman ordered an extra cup of coffee and, upon further reflection, a schnapps. The gesture was not unappreciated. Franze talked freely. Since Kilmara's visit, Fitzduane had official status, and the sergeant treated him as a policeman.
It transpired that Oskar Schupbach had been related to Sergeant Franze. Talking about Oskar's death visibly depressed the good sergeant, and Fitzduane ordered him another schnapps for purely medicinal reasons. It crossed Fitzduane's mind that breakfasts with Swiss police sergeants were beginning to fall into a pattern.
"Oskar," said Sergeant Franze, his good humor resurrected by the second schnapps, "was a fine man. I wish you could have met him."
"So do I," said Fitzduane. He was annoyed at himself for to having come to Lenk sooner. "But accidents will happen."
"It was no accident," said Franze angrily, "unless you can be accidentally run over twice by the same car."
* * * * *
On the short drive to Lenk and the cheese maker's where Felix Krane was working, they passed the spot where Oskar Schupbach had been killed. Sand had been sprinkled over the bloodstains, and Franze crossed himself as he pointed out the spot where the guide had died. Fitzduane felt cold and grim and had a premonition of worse things to come. Then the mood passed, and he thought about the making of cheese.
Fitzduane was fond of good cheese and regarded the master cheese maker's business with more than passing interest. A compact but expensively equipped shop in front — featuring a lavish array of mostly Swiss cheeses, each one shown off by a miniature banner featuring the coat of arms of the region of origin — led through to a miniature factory in the rear. Stainless steel vats and electronic monitoring equipment contrasted with a young apprentice's portioning butter by hand, using wooden paddles shaped like rectangular Ping Pong paddles. Each cheese was hand-stamped with the master cheese maker's mark.
The master cheese maker was a big, burly man with a luxuriant mustache to set off his smile. He was tieless, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he wore a long, white, crisply starched apron. Fitzduane thought he would do nicely in a barbershop quartet. Sergeant Franze spoke to him briefly, and then he turned to Fitzduane. "His name is Hans Müller," he said. He introduced Fitzduane. Müller beamed when he heard his name mentioned and pumped Fitzduane's arm vigorously. To judge by the size of the cheese maker's muscles, he had served his apprenticeship churning butter by hand.
"I have told him you are a friend of Oskar's," said Franze — Müller's face went solemn — "and that you want to see Felix Krane on a private matter."
"Is Krane here?" asked Fitzduane, looking around.
"No," said Franze, "he no longer works here regularly but does odd jobs. Now he is in the maturing store just outside of town. It's a cave excavated into the mountainside. Without any artificial air-conditioning, it keeps the cheese at exactly the right temperature and humidity. Krane turns the cheeses, among other jobs he does there."
Müller spoke again, gesturing around the building to where half a dozen workers and apprentices were carrying out different tasks. He sounded enthusiastic and beamed at Fitzduane. The sergeant turned toward Fitzduane. "He has noticed your interest in his place, and he wants to know if you would like to look around. He would be happy to explain everything."
Fitzduane nodded. "I would be most interested." Afterward Fitzduane had good reason to recall that informative hour and to speculate on what might have happened if they had left to find Felix Krane earlier. On balance, he decided it had probably saved his own life.
Unfortunately, in view of what he was about to find, he never felt quite the same way about cheese again.
* * * * *
They were on the shaded side of the valley, driving slowly up a side road set in close to the base of the mountains. Out of the sun the air was chill. Across the valley mountain peaks loomed high, causing Fitzduane to feel vaguely claustrophobic and to wonder what it must have been like before railways and mountain tunnels and roadways opened up the country. No wonder there was such a strong sense of local community in Switzerland. The terrain was such that for centuries you had little choice but to work with your neighbors if you were to survive.
Sergeant Franze was driving slowly. "What are you looking for?" asked Fitzduane.