The Stolen by T. S. Learner Page B

have low expectations of detectives. I did however find a strand of yellow cloth caught on an old nail near the counter.’
    â€˜The kind of material a man’s kerchief might be made of?’
    â€˜Exactly.’
    The gypsy Yojo,
Klauser thought; the kerchief he was wearing at the time of his murder. He must have tracked the book down somehow, tied it to Christoph von Holindt – but why? Frau Neumann continued, ‘The book is Eberhard’s all right, but what it means I can’t tell you – there was always so much stuff going through the gallery. And Eberhard never told me much about the business. I had my hands full, you see, looking after our son.’
    â€˜Do you know whether any evidence was taken from the scene of the murder?’
    â€˜No, but surely it’s all in the file.’
    â€˜Well, that’s the strange thing, Frau Neumann; when I checked on your husband I discovered that he had been murdered, but the investigation file was missing from the archives.’
    â€˜Missing? That’s appalling. My husband just wiped out like that? Like he never existed?’
    â€˜Which is exactly why it’s important to get all the facts down now.’
    She sighed. ‘My husband was killed in the gallery at around four in the afternoon; my son was with him – he was only ten at the time. Eberhard had seemed agitated that morning, but I’d just assumed he was worried about some business deal.’
    â€˜Your son was a witness?’
    â€˜Not exactly. He was in shock by the time the police arrived. All he could tell me and the detective who interviewed him afterwards was that there had been a ring at the door, and my husband had told him to wait in the back and not come in until the visitor was gone. Fritz saw nothing but he heard everything. He was out of his mind with fear when they found him.’
    â€˜Was that usual? For your husband not to allow him to be there when there were visitors to the gallery?’
    Frau Neumann looked down. ‘Yes, Eberhard was ashamed of him. He was old-fashioned that way.’ She looked up, a plea in her eyes Klauser couldn’t quite interpret. ‘You have to understand my husband was a lot older than me.’
    Klauser studied her. She seemed to be telling the truth, yet he sensed she was holding back information. He thought about the bloodstain in the book, possibly the record of a murder captured in fatal ink.
    â€˜Do you know whether your husband had business partners?’
    She leaned forward. ‘A man used to come from Germany.’ She was whispering now, clearly frightened of being overheard. ‘He stopped coming before Eberhard was murdered. His last visit was in 1961, I think – I never met him, but I had a feeling he was coming from Berlin, from the East side, just little things Eberhard would say.’
    â€˜The wall went up in sixty-one.’
    â€˜Exactly. I always knew when he was going to arrive because Eberhard would get nervous the day before. He once said to me if anything should happen I should look for Wilhelm Gustloff. After his death I tried the directory once but there is no Wilhelm Gustloff.’
    Klauser looked at her incredulously. ‘You don’t know who Gustloff was?’
    â€˜Eberhard was a whole different generation…’
    â€˜Wilhelm Gustloff was the German leader of the Nazi Party in Switzerland. In 1936 he was assassinated in Davos by a young Jewish student, after which Hitler made him an icon, a martyr for the Nazi cause.’
    â€˜Detective Klauser, my husband was a Jew. Nobody knew, but he was a Jew nevertheless. Perhaps Gustloff was a metaphor for something… There is something else, just before Eberhard was murdered there seemed to be a lot more money around, as if he’d made some big sales. He never talked directly to me about it.’
    â€˜Was it possible he was selling stolen art objects?’
    The woman immediately closed up.