Author's Note: I'd like to express my endless gratitude to everyone who left reviews on the first chapter. Your words supported and inspired me a lot.
But, as usual, my biggest thanks I send to my Russian beta-reader Mary-Eglantine, to my translator Yana, to Arthemis Day for her kindest help and to my absolutely priceless beta-reader DeboraKLA, a real Author amongst fic-writers, whom I can proudly call a good friend of mine
I hope you'll like this one. The third chapter is coming soon, I promise! Reviews and con-crit will be appreciated.
Chapter II: Dr. Newman and Mr. Caspar Lang.
"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.
"How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."
Arthur Conan Doyle. A Study in Scarlet.
Every morning, former SS Standartenführer Hans Landa turned into Caspar Lang – a modest European, one of the many that had arrived in Argentina over the last few years.
The morning was in full swing when Landa returned home from the poker game, which made the quiet solitude of his house even more pleasing than it usually was.
He lived alone and never had any guests. His housemaid preferred to come only when he was out. Frankly speaking, Landa was glad—he didn't like the locals. He considered them inferiors. The housemaid—a small, swarthy woman of indefinite age—seemed to know this instinctively and did her work with due caution, but always quite well.
Landa switched off the lamp in the hallway, which he had deliberately turned on when he'd left the night before, and went upstairs to his bedroom.
The drapes were drawn, yet narrow beams of sunlight glimmered here and there and streamed onto the carpet. Landa threw his coat on the bed and went into the bathroom.
He took his time washing his hands, as if he was trying to wash off dirt only he could see, and finally splashed cool water on his face. Though he felt a bit freshened up, he was still utterly exhausted. This sense of fatigue had haunted him for some time now, and it bothered him immensely.
Landa looked in the mirror. Each sleepless night made him look ten years older. There were dark shadows under his eyes; his sarcastic expression was more distinct, his cheeks more sunken in; the grey mixed with his ash-blond hair seemed brighter and more abundant. Even the scar that crossed his forehead like a monstrous spider looked darker and bigger.
There was a brown glass vial of sleeping pills in his medicine cabinet. Landa shook out a couple of pills, but on second thought put them back.
He didn't have to look for sleep – it was already looking for him.
///
He woke up at about noon—at once fully alert, with no drowsiness, the way a predatory animal might. A dazzling sunbeam cut through the yellowish dusk of the room like a guillotine and was now at his bed.
Landa remembered that the chief of police—one of the few who knew his telephone number—had called him the day before and asked him to come to the police station. It was likely they would ask him for help with a series of crimes, he thought. Four banks in Buenos Aires had been robbed within the last month.
Landa had himself been called an unscrupulous bastard at least fifty-odd times to his face and countless other times behind his back. Since he had arrived in Argentina he had observed the unprincipled behavior of many, many others. The Argentinean authorities covered their eyes and only peeked through their fingers at the inrush of Western European immigrants, mostly German, of course. They were former NSDAP bigwigs, military and "sympathizers"—everyone with trials and jail time awaiting them overseas, that is. The runaways brought money, knowledge and many talents—why should the local authorities let it all slip through their fingers?
Landa was once one of the best detectives in Europe, and now he'd earned a quiet life in exchange for a little help to the local police. But he wasn't very happy about going to the police station—he always had to arrive without attracting the attention of those who knew nothing about him. Fortunately, the local police didn't ask for his help too often.
///
The police chief, Angel Duarte, met Landa with the polite restraint of a man who—if it was in his power—wouldn't ever deal with a former SS Standartenführer, even if he was the best detective in the world. However, he had to obey orders, which were to give Landa as much assistance as possible.
He took Landa into his office and was just about to tell him of the robberies when the sound of a most determined footfall was heard in the waiting room outside, followed by the avid protests of the deputy on duty. Suddenly the door flung open and a stranger strode in. The confused deputy peered out from behind his back, but Duarte motioned him away and he disappeared. The stranger shot a look at Landa and before Landa could think of anything to say, asked him:
"Are you German or Austrian?"
Landa was a little taken aback, but he immediately suppressed his anxiety. He was sure that his hat concealed his scar—in these situations he preferred to ignore etiquette and always left his hat on indoors—and that the stranger couldn't have heard his voice. So he ventured a surprised smile and replied:
"I can't imagine what betrayed me…"
"Again your tricks, Doctor!" Duarte banged his fist on the table. "Don't you think that at the very least it is impolite to burst into my office like this and bombard my guest with your stupid questions?!"
"Come now, Duarte," Landa played the part of a condescending guest amused by what was going on. "Let the Doctor share his secret in detecting my heritage." He turned to the stranger and gave him an inquiring look. The doctor, as Duarte called him, smiled faintly.
"There is no secret. Your facial structure, the form of your cheekbones and especially of your chin" —Landa raised his eyebrows, pretending to be astonished—"indicates that there is German blood in your veins. However, now that I've heard your voice I'll daresay you were born in Vienna."
Landa bowed theatrically: "Bravo, Doctor, that was impressive!"
He turned towards Duarte as though inviting him to share in his enthusiasm, but the police chief was far from happy. "Please, meet Doctor Newman" he said with a frown, "our forensic pathologist."
Landa wasn't used to being surprised, but he was now – this Newman didn't look at all like a medical examiner, much less a physician. Landa turned round to face him and was immediately struck by the sharp look in his dark eyes.
Wavy dark hair, a protruding nose, full lower and thin upper lips, big earlobes…Newman or Neumann? – Landa sneered to himself while smiling heartily at his new acquaintance and holding out his hand: "Caspar Lang."
"Nice to meet you," The doctor answered with a firm handshake.
"What could have induced you to leave London for Buenos Aires?" Landa said in English. The entire situation amused him so much that he seemed to have forgotten that he was in the police chief's office.
When London was mentioned, Newman's eyes glittered slyly. He accepted the challenge: "Let's call it a thirst for adventure," he replied.
"Good God, are Argentinean corpses more interesting to dissect than British ones? " Landa didn't even try to conceal the sarcasm in his voice.
Duarte brought their game to a quick halt. "Gentlemen, I must interrupt this Sherlock-Holmes-versus-Professor-Higgins match to remind the good doctor that you wanted to tell me something."
"That's right," Newman paused for a moment before going on. "I'd like to ask you to turn over the Garcia case to a competent detective."
Duarte shook his head with impatience. "Come now, Doctor! There were no bloodthirsty maniacs this time. Garcia was smothered with a pillow. It's likely that some jealous mistress of his decided to do away with him once and for all. I assure you, it will only take a few days to solve that murder. Anyone can handle it. Are you not aware of the series of bank robberies? All my best detectives are involved in that investigation!"
Duarte fell silent now that the subject was exhausted. Newman didn't say a word. Apparently, he was used to such outbursts.
"If you don't mind, Chief Duarte," Landa broke the silence, "I could help the doctor. An outsider's viewpoint wouldn't do any harm, right?"
Doctor Newman looked at him with interest, considering his offer. "Are you at all familiar with police practices?"
"Well, actually, I am," Landa said nonchalantly, his face absolutely serious.
"I'd prefer Señor Lang help us with the bank robberies," said Duarte, but he caught Landa's warning eye and quickly understood that he had little choice in the matter. Landa would decide how and with whom he'd help the police. "But I won't insist. Do as you wish. I warn you, though—this case isn't worth a tinker's damn."
Newman's face expressed neither joy nor disappointment, but Landa was rather glad. "If you don't mind, I'll show you the body," said Newman.
Landa thought it all rather amusing, so he willingly agreed. "Certainly, Doctor! Be my Virgil and take me to the very cold center of your hell."
///
They had just left Duarte's office when Newman remarked, "You know, you don't quite look like a detective."
Landa gave him a broad smile and answered heartily, "Trust me; my qualifications are more than adequate for this case. By the way, you don't look like a forensic pathologist, either. I mean, not at all." His tone was breezy and cheerful.
He was right. Doctor Newman looked like a classic English gentleman—three-piece grey suit fit to a T, watch chain crossing his vest, cream-colored carnation in his buttonhole, a small ring with a seal on the little finger of his left hand—he looked quite the picture from a book rather than your typical corpse-ripper. The only things missing that would complete that picture were a derby and a walking stick.
"You're not the first to say that," Newman replied, smiling slightly. His tone made it clear that he had no interest in exploring the subject, further so Landa reverted to the case at hand. "So what's the story with this Garcia case?"
"You'll see. Be prepared—our morgue is indeed as cold as Cocytus."
The route to the morgue appeared much like the route to hell. They walked down long hallways and descended endless staircases, meeting all manner of people along the way, before finally arriving in a basement corridor with a glass door at the end.
The corridor was dark and damp, which only made the atmosphere more grim. , M.D., read the black doorplate.
What was a London dandy looking for here, at the back of beyond? Newman was smart and no doubt considered a good specialist. Why did the corpse of this particular autopsy intrigue him so much?
"Welcome," Newman's voice was filled with sarcasm as he flung open the door. The morgue was rather spacious. In the middle stood an old dissection table; three gurneys with corpses covered with sheets were against the walls and the Doctor's "office" was hidden by a large, white folding screen, the type usually used by patients to disrobe in examining rooms. Only the two lamps looked out of place, their matte yellow lampshades better suited for a lively café.
"Well, they do give warm light," Newman had caught Landa's puzzled eye. "I've asked Chief Duarte to buy me a simple operating lamp—a used one would do—but he preferred these…well, these 'luminaries'."
Landa grinned. His eyes were still wandering around the room—the screened-off corner interested him most of all.
"It seems the 'luminaries' are not the only thing subject to Duarte's thriftiness," he nodded towards the "office."
An ironic smile passed over Newman's face—he understood completely that Landa would judge him by his workspace. He moved the screen willingly. Even if Landa was disappointed, he gave no sign of it. There was nothing in Newman's "office" that would give away anything in the least about its inhabitant's personality or habits—just a simple writing table, a chair, a desk set and a coat rack.
But Landa also knew that if these simple things didn't tell him anything about their daily inhabitant, then that person must have something to hide.
Newman put on his white coat and surgical gloves and rolled one of the gurneys into the middle of the room. "This is Señor Garcia."
Landa's face lit with interest as he approached the gurney. Newman threw the sheet back. Garcia had been a tall, very thin man of about 70. The colors of death—parchment-like skin, yellow in the light of the lamps, and a livid face—made him resemble a monstrous wax doll. His mouth was half-open; it appeared that rigor mortis had begun long before the body was found.
"Cause of death?" asked Landa. He suddenly remembered something he thought he had forgotten long ago; how he used to start all his murder investigations with the Vienna police in the morgue.
Doctor Newman was pleased by the familiar professional phrasing in this simple question and answered willingly. "Asphyxia," he said, pointing to the loose skin on Garcia's throat. "There are no constriction marks, no hand marks or bruises on the neck, the lingual bone is not broken, and the larynx and esophagus are intact. There are, however, subconjunctival hemorrhages in both eyeballs and cyanosis of the face and mucous membranes. His mouth was covered with foam when they brought him here, and according to the crime scene report there were saliva marks on his pillow."
"Duarte may be right," drawled Landa. "This poor fellow might be the victim of a jealous wife or mistress. Or perhaps some relatives grew impatient waiting to inherit his fortune."
"You're the investigator," Newman said with a smile. "You figure it out. Judging from the case report Garcia was a single, elderly man, an assistant accountant who worked at a tobacco store. The reason for my particular interest in this case is this—"
Newman removed the sheet entirely to reveal huge bruises on the abdomen and both sides of the body.
"He got these bruises either right before the death or perhaps during it," explained Newman, "That's why they appeared only a few hours after his death. Considering the cause of death, someone had to have been straddling him—someone tall and strong. I think it was a man at least six feet—he must have been squeezing Garcia tightly between his legs, to keep him from escaping."
This is quite interesting, thought Landa. He went round the gurney, examining the body carefully.
"As we know," he suddenly began, "there are three possible motives for a murder: passion, profit or hatred. Sometimes vengeance is singled out, but I consider vengeance as one form of hatred," he said in the tone of a lecturer. "The method of this crime is clear – it's hard to imagine that this could have been an accident. We cannot rule out any of the possibilities until they are all investigated. We should consider, however, whether anyone might have killed the man out of greed or jealousy."
He took the case folder from Newman's table and looked through it. "The report says that nothing in the flat was missing, not even the wallet."
He raised his eyes and met Newman's intent gaze. The doctor seemed to be waiting for a revelation of some sort, like an audience that has seen the same film many times anticipates an actor's most famous lines.
"You were right, doctor," Landa inclined his head in a respectful bow. "This case appears to be very interesting indeed."
Newman covered the body carefully, demonstrating his respect for the deceased, and replied, "Although my opinion has little weight in this matter, I will insist that you take this case, Mister Lang, even if Duarte assigns one of his own men to it."
They looked at each other. There was a hint of astonishment in Landa's eyes. His sense of exhilaration and triumph felt much like that of a hunter who sees his prey directly in the line of fire, just as it's crossing his path. Newman appeared to be observing his reaction and trying to decipher it.
Landa crooked a smile, the way a naughty boy about to pull a prank might. "Then, with your permission, doctor, I'll check in with you throughout this investigation."
"I'll be honored." The phrase seemed rather overdramatic, but Newman's face appeared absolutely detached, so Landa went with it. Newman looked serious. He frowned suddenly—as though he'd just remembered something. "I'm sorry," he said apologetically, "but I must run. I have to give a lecture at the university—"
"Ah, so you are a university professor, then?" —That profession better suits you, thought Landa.
Newman took off his white coat, smoothed out the wrinkles and hung it on the coat rack. "Yes, I am. I lecture on comparative anatomy."
"Then I won't detain you any longer. May I borrow this?" Landa raised the case folder he was still holding.
"Certainly. And if you need my help, you can always find me here in the afternoon."
Landa said goodbye to Newman—as cordially as the rules of etiquette and his mood permitted—and went out into the dark corridor. He had only taken a few steps when he turned round and went back.
"Doctor?" He stuck his head through the open door like a student late for the lecture.
"Yes?" Newman was a bit puzzled by his return.
"I forgot to ask," Landa said in his most innocent voice. "What does the letter 'E' stand for?" He pointed to the doorplate. "Edward?"
"No", Newman's voice was slightly puzzled, "'E' stands for Eli".
Landa smiled broadly, revealing a set of sharp, wolfish teeth, then nodded goodbye and dissolved into the darkness of the corridor.