the millionaire’s tanned face thatbothers me so much. Not something strange but something familiar, maybe it was an imperceptible resemblance to his nephew Lorenz after all.
“Your alibi, the story about Lorenz. You didn’t want us to fall for it in order to protect yourself, no, it was to protect Lorenz.”
Vergolder had a peculiar look about him, like a person who’s just taken their glasses off and can’t see too much now. It seemed to Brenner like those nearsighted eyes of his didn’t fit in somehow with his millionaire’s face. Eyes, though, pure exaggeration. Just slits, that’s what they were, if you tried to guess what color they were, not a chance.
And the whole time he was running his index finger over his eyelids in a way that would’ve made you think, dead tired. He had thousands of very fine wrinkles around his eyes, practically crow’s feet, that’s what it’s called. Maybe you’re familiar with how mountain climbers, as they get older, or old smokers, they don’t mind this kind of upper-lip concertina. And so he was stroking his eyelids non-stop—you would’ve thought he was trying to iron out his concertina’s folds.
“I had them operated on two months ago. A wonderful thing. Since then I don’t need glasses anymore. But out on the slopes, just blinding, terrible.”
“You’ve always known that Lorenz wrote the threat letters. Best wishes from the Heidnische Kirche,” Brenner says.
“Don’t get sore at me, Simon,” Vergolder says. Because, you see, he was used to being able to call everybody by theirfirst names. The Lift Kaiser of Zell, it’d been a long time since he’d asked, may I call you by your first name.
“It’s no secret to anybody, what do you think you’re revealing, Simon,” Vergolder says, “everybody in Zell knew from the start. Only my Lorenz could come up with something like that.”
“And you saw to it that it got swept under the rug,” Brenner says.
“What rug?” Vergolder says. “What was I supposed to do? The tourists get nervous. What with the dam walls right over our heads.”
“So, Lorenz had to back up his threat. With a few dead bodies in the ski lift,” Brenner says.
“That’s exactly how it would’ve been spun. By morons like you, Simon. Except that Lorenz is the absolute last person on this earth who’d kill another person. Sure, he hears the grass screaming when it’s being mowed. But if he ever committed a murder, well, I’d volunteer to be the corpse!”
“Then he wouldn’t have needed your false alibi at all. Which you came up with for him when he had to give an alibi for you. And you wouldn’t have needed to pick him up in such a hurry from the psychiatric clinic, either, just so he wouldn’t go and tell me anything different. And you wouldn’t have needed to intercept the
Pinzgauer Post
, either, so that the newspaper would promptly forget the whole thing. If you were so convinced of his innocence.”
Vergolder placed his half-empty teacup on the silver tray and poured himself a fresh cup. Then he gave Brenner’s still-full cup a look of reproach. And then he looked at Brennerlike maybe the kids’ coach looks at the eight-year-old striker that he’s trying to drum some courage into before a game and says:
“Why won’t you sit down?”
“I prefer to stand,” Brenner says.
“Are you afraid of sitting?” Vergolder says. “Are you afraid you’ll have to move out of your civil service apartment?”
“You know all sorts of things about me,” Brenner says.
“That you want to pin my in-laws’ murder on me, for example. If Nemec hadn’t been there. You probably would’ve put me in prison.”
Needless to say, this was nonsense. Nemec was the one who’d wanted to dunk Vergolder. And it was Nemec, too, who gave Brenner the investigation orders at the time.
And just when it became clear that it wasn’t going anywhere, Nemec nudged it over to Brenner. But it didn’t matter to Brenner. That was just the
“Your alibi, the story about Lorenz. You didn’t want us to fall for it in order to protect yourself, no, it was to protect Lorenz.”
Vergolder had a peculiar look about him, like a person who’s just taken their glasses off and can’t see too much now. It seemed to Brenner like those nearsighted eyes of his didn’t fit in somehow with his millionaire’s face. Eyes, though, pure exaggeration. Just slits, that’s what they were, if you tried to guess what color they were, not a chance.
And the whole time he was running his index finger over his eyelids in a way that would’ve made you think, dead tired. He had thousands of very fine wrinkles around his eyes, practically crow’s feet, that’s what it’s called. Maybe you’re familiar with how mountain climbers, as they get older, or old smokers, they don’t mind this kind of upper-lip concertina. And so he was stroking his eyelids non-stop—you would’ve thought he was trying to iron out his concertina’s folds.
“I had them operated on two months ago. A wonderful thing. Since then I don’t need glasses anymore. But out on the slopes, just blinding, terrible.”
“You’ve always known that Lorenz wrote the threat letters. Best wishes from the Heidnische Kirche,” Brenner says.
“Don’t get sore at me, Simon,” Vergolder says. Because, you see, he was used to being able to call everybody by theirfirst names. The Lift Kaiser of Zell, it’d been a long time since he’d asked, may I call you by your first name.
“It’s no secret to anybody, what do you think you’re revealing, Simon,” Vergolder says, “everybody in Zell knew from the start. Only my Lorenz could come up with something like that.”
“And you saw to it that it got swept under the rug,” Brenner says.
“What rug?” Vergolder says. “What was I supposed to do? The tourists get nervous. What with the dam walls right over our heads.”
“So, Lorenz had to back up his threat. With a few dead bodies in the ski lift,” Brenner says.
“That’s exactly how it would’ve been spun. By morons like you, Simon. Except that Lorenz is the absolute last person on this earth who’d kill another person. Sure, he hears the grass screaming when it’s being mowed. But if he ever committed a murder, well, I’d volunteer to be the corpse!”
“Then he wouldn’t have needed your false alibi at all. Which you came up with for him when he had to give an alibi for you. And you wouldn’t have needed to pick him up in such a hurry from the psychiatric clinic, either, just so he wouldn’t go and tell me anything different. And you wouldn’t have needed to intercept the
Pinzgauer Post
, either, so that the newspaper would promptly forget the whole thing. If you were so convinced of his innocence.”
Vergolder placed his half-empty teacup on the silver tray and poured himself a fresh cup. Then he gave Brenner’s still-full cup a look of reproach. And then he looked at Brennerlike maybe the kids’ coach looks at the eight-year-old striker that he’s trying to drum some courage into before a game and says:
“Why won’t you sit down?”
“I prefer to stand,” Brenner says.
“Are you afraid of sitting?” Vergolder says. “Are you afraid you’ll have to move out of your civil service apartment?”
“You know all sorts of things about me,” Brenner says.
“That you want to pin my in-laws’ murder on me, for example. If Nemec hadn’t been there. You probably would’ve put me in prison.”
Needless to say, this was nonsense. Nemec was the one who’d wanted to dunk Vergolder. And it was Nemec, too, who gave Brenner the investigation orders at the time.
And just when it became clear that it wasn’t going anywhere, Nemec nudged it over to Brenner. But it didn’t matter to Brenner. That was just the
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