Knights of the Blood (16 page)

After fastening his seat belt, he started the engine, allowing it to warm up while he adjusted the power—operated mirrors on both doors. As the engines revs fell back to a comfortable 800 rpm, he put in the clutch, slipped the shift lever into first gear, and pulled out of the parking lot. Following the signs out of the airport, he was soon on the autobahn and headed east toward Linz and Vienna.

German autobahns, unlike the car—clogged freeways of southern California, have no speed limits. Drivers push their cars along as fast as they can, realizing that to drive faster than is safe is to risk arrest on the spot for dangerous or reckless driving. Surprisingly, the Germans seem to have fewer accidents than the Americans, who are mesmerized by the steady roll of 55—65 miles per hour on an eight—lane super highway.

The transition from the Munich ring—road onto the autobahn heading east toward the Austrian border loomed up, and Drummond shifted down into third gear. Turning the steering wheel to the right, he put his foot down and felt the twin turbochargers cut in, the car squatting down on the pavement as the tachometer raced up toward the 7000 rpm redline. Lifting off slightly, Drummond shifted up into fourth gear at a hundred and ten miles per hour and, as the speedometer nudged 225 kilometers per hour–a hundred and forty miles per hour–he shifted into fifth gear and let the speed fall off to an easy hundred and ten cruising speed.

According to the guide books, Munich was 381 miles from Vienna, and despite the effortless manner in which the Mercedes devoured the miles, Drummond soon could begin to feel jet lag overtaking him faster than he could overtake the other cars on the road. Pulling into a lay—by, he checked his map and decided to call it a day when he reached Braunau, just across the border into Austria.

The frontier post spanned the autobahn, and Drummond slowed as he approached it, getting in line with the other traffic that was crossing’ into Austria. As he pulled up to the booth, the guard gave him a casual glance and waved him through. Braunau was clogged with trucks stopping for customs checks, so consulting his map again, Drummond decided to press on to Ried, some twenty miles farther east.

Following the signs marked
zentrum,
Drummond drove into the center of Ried and parked the white Mercedes in a small parking lot across the square from the local tourist information office. The young man behind the desk spoke flawless English, and in a matter of minutes Drummond was back in his car and headed out of town, looking for a small turning to the left, sign—posted
“Hotel Schloss von Dielstein
.”

THE HOTEL
was an old castle perched on the edge of the river, one of the tributaries that fed into the Saltzach River that formed part of the frontier between Austria and Germany. As Drummond pulled up on the graveled forecourt in front of the castle, a servant came out to take his luggage–a thin, baldheaded little man in dark green trousers and a vest with green and gold horizontal stripes. He was waiting for the trunk key before Drummond switched off the engine, and had it open before Drummond could unfold himself from the driver’s seat, moving stiffly from sitting so long. Indicating with a wave of his hand that Drummond should proceed him, the little man followed along intently with Drummond’s two expensive bags.

The interior of the castle gave Drummond the immediate impression that he was in someone’s home, rather than a hotel. The furnishings, for the most part nineteenth—century copies of medieval furniture, glowed with the patina of expensive antiques lovingly cared for. On the walls, hundreds of small chamois antlers crowded around portraits of aristocratic—looking cavalry officers neatly inset into the darkly carved paneling. At one end of the room, an otherwise cold and forbidding fireplace was filled with a huge arrangement of wild flowers.

Above the carved stone mantelpiece, a magnificent portrait of Emperor Franz—Josef gazed down serenely at Drummond and his leather—edged canvas bags.

At an immense carved desk in one corner of the room, an attractive dark—haired woman in her midthirties was speaking on an old—fashioned telephone. As Drummond approached, she smiled at him but made no attempt to get rid of the caller. After a few minutes, she said good—bye and put down the receiver, giving Drummond her full attention.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said, standing up as she spoke. “That was my grandmother, and you know what they are like, I’m sure. “ She smiled again. “You must be Herr Drummond. “

“Yes, l am,” Drummond said.

“Well, I have your room all ready for you.” Her accent was as soft as her chestnut—colored hair, done up in two braids on the side of her head. Looking past Drummond for a moment, she spoke to the servant in German.

“Joachim, nehmen Sie an der Generalszimmer das Gepäck des Herr Drummond, bitte.”

“Jawohl, Baronin.”
The little man clicked his heels as he spoke, then lifted the bags off the thick carpet and turned and left the room.

“Now,” she said, returning once again to Drummond, “if you will please fill out a registration card?” She handed him a thick black fountain pen and a largish card. “Just your name, occupation, and nationality is all that is necessary.”

Drummond filled in the blanks, and then handed the card back to the baroness. She quickly scanned the card, one elegant eyebrow raising slightly.

“Thank you, Herr Drummond. Dinner will be at eight o’clock. If you would care for a drink, just ask.”

“Oh, not right now, thank you. I’d like to clean up first, change–that sort of thing.” Drummond smiled. “So if someone could show me to my room?”

“Certainly. Please come with me.”

Following the baroness down the elegant hallway, it suddenly occurred to Drummond that dinner
might
be a formal affair.

“Excuse me, but will a jacket and tie be appropriate for dinner?”

“Of course, Herr Drummond. Actually, you are the only guest here at the castle tonight, so you needn’t worry too much about dressing for dinner.” She stopped outside a heavy oak door. “If you don’t mind, I usually have a few friends for drinks before going in to table. Perhaps you’d care to join us, if you’re not too tired after your trip.”

“Thank you, I’d be delighted to meet your friends,” he said, as she handed him the key to his room.

“Good. Then I’ll see you downstairs for drinks at seven—thirty.” Far away, at the other end of the castle the sound of a ringing phone could just be heard.

“Oops, the phone. Excuse me, please.” And with that, the baroness turned and walked briskly down the corridor.

Drummond collapsed into his room, the built—up jet lag hitting him like a flower pot dropped from a fourth—floor window. Sinking onto his bed, he realized that if he put his head down for as much as a minute, it would be sometime tomorrow before he lifted it up again. Struggling against the urge to lie down, he took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the nearest chair, then kicked off his loafers.

Barefoot, he headed into the white—tiled bathroom, pulling off his shirt on the way. Joachim had unpacked his bags and placed his shaving kit next to the basin; Drummond unzipped it and, after rummaging through it for a few seconds, pulled out a bottle of vitamins. He shook two of the pills into his hand and popped them into his mouth, then filled a glass with water and took a long drink.

Soon he was stripped and under the hot shower, enjoying the tingle of the high—pressure nozzle after his long flight from Los Angeles. Ten minutes under the shower convinced him that he might be good for several more hours before he collapsed from lack of sleep, so long as he went easy on the booze. He toweled off, then wiped the steam from the mirror and set about shaving. A few minutes later, he was padding back into the bedroom to pull his navy blazer and gray slacks from the wardrobe. What was it his mother had always called it? The man’s basic uniform, appropriate to wear anywhere except a nudist colony or a black tie dinner.

By the time he finished dressing, it was nearly seven—thirty and time to meet the baroness and her friends before dinner. Heading out the door and down the hall toward the lobby, Drummond found himself idly speculating on what she’d be wearing. She had looked very attractive in the traditional loden of earlier this afternoon, when he arrived, and he wondered what a baroness wore for drinks.

Joachim was seated by the door in a leather—covered porter’s chair, his small frame nearly hidden in the deep semi—domed recess of the chair’s back, and as Drummond approached, he slid out of the chair and stood stiffly to attention. Bowing deeply, he led Drummond across the lobby and through a carved oak door into the library.

The baroness and her friends were standing in a bay window overlooking the terrace as Drummond entered the room, the men dressed much as Drummond was. Immediately, the baroness left them and walked across the deep burgundy carpets to where Joachim had halted just inside the doorway.

“Herr Drummond, how good of you to join us.” She took him by the elbow and led him over to her friends .

“Everyone,” she said as the two of them walked over, “this is Herr Drummond, from Los Angeles.”

Drummond smiled politely. “How do you do.”

One by one, the baroness introduced him to her other guests. “This is Dr. Polinsky, and his wife,” she indicated a short balding gentleman to Drummond’s right, who immediately shook hands with him. “Professor Detweiller,” she continued, “whose wife will be joining us later, and Police Commandant Reidl.” The two policemen shook hands.

“If you two will excuse me a moment,” the baroness smiled at both of them, “I’ll get Herr Drummond a drink.” She turned to Drummond. “What would you like?”

“Scotch, please, with just a little water,” Drummond replied.

“Coming right up,” she said, and then with a smile she turned and walked across the room toward a heavily carved table laden with crystal decanters filled with a variety of spirits. Drummond watched as she fixed his drink. She was elegantly dressed in a pale ivory—colored silk gown that came just below the knee, close—sleeved and closed at the waist with an ostrich hide belt that matched her delicate high—heeled shoes. The chestnut hair now was coiled low at the nape of her neck, apparently held in place only by one strategically—placed tortoise—shell pin. A pale topaz evening ring glittered on the index finger of her right hand, and at her throat a double strand of pearls fell casually across her firm breasts. All in all, she was the perfect expression of casual elegance.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?” Commandant Reidl’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.

Drummond flushed slightly. “I’d say she was something more than that.” He hunted for the right words. “My father was a cinematographer. He would have said she had presence, a natural grace that goes beyond merely being physically attractive.”

“And you? What would you say?” asked Reidt.

“I’d say Dad was right.” Drummond smiled as the baroness returned with his drink. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said handing him a crystal tumbler filled with an aromatic scotch. “Has the commandant been telling you all about the crime of the century?”

“No, he hasn’t.” Drummond was beginning to feel the combined effects of jet lag along with the first sip of his scotch, and was beginning to wonder if bed might not have been a better idea than dinner.

“Well, I’m surprised. I thought two policemen would be eager to talk shop.” She grinned at Reidl. “He’s with the Los Angeles police, Franz. Why don’t you tell him about your body in the woods?”

Reidl looked a little incredulous as he sipped his drink. “Nothing much, really. Just some skinhead punker with his throat cut. Probably a drug deal gone bad. I suppose he was killed elsewhere, and then his body dumped here in the woods.”

“Not much crime in this part of Austria, then?” asked Drummond.

“Oh no, we get a lot. Poaching, smuggling, an occasional burglary. But drug dealing? No, that’s for the boys in Vienna.”

“Then, what makes you think the body was dumped?” Drummond asked.

“Well, for one thing, the boy–somewhere between seventeen and twenty, maybe twenty—two, according to the pathologist–the boy was naked. And for another, there was virtually no blood at the scene. You cut someone’s throat, there’s lots of blood–but not here. So the killing must have taken place somewhere else, the body stripped, and then driven out here and dumped.” Reidl drained his glass. “So much for the ‘crime of the century,’ as Maria calls it.”

“Well, I’d say you’ve probably got it figured pretty close.” Drummond made a mental note of the baroness’s first name, just in case.

“So tell me, Herr Drummond,” Reidl’s voice took on a slightly patronizing tone, “what do you do in the police in Los Angeles?”

Usually laid back, Drummond picked up on the quiet challenge Reidl had laid down. “I’m a captain, in charge of the homicide division at police headquarters in downtown Los Angeles.” He stared levelly back at Reidl, who was looking at him in the same way cops all over the world stare at suspects. Then suddenly Reidl relaxed, a broad smile spreading across his face.

“Please,
Kapitän
Drummond, call me Franz.” He turned and made a pouting face at the baroness. “Maria, darling, why didn’t you tell me your guest was an officer?”

The baroness laughed. “How was I to know? His registration card just said ‘policeman.’ And, since you’re the only policeman I know, I thought I’d invite you up for a drink.”

“Forgive me,
Kapitän,”
Reidl began.

“Please, if you don’t mind, call me John, okay?”

“John. Yes. John, please forgive me, but there is something you should know about Austrians. We are title crazy. If you have a title, use it. Otherwise, you will receive very little respect here.”

The baroness joined in. “It’s true. I’m afraid we are all terrible snobs, unlike you Americans. Even Joachim, my butler, has a title that he uses socially. In the village, he is known as
Jagdmeister–
hunting
master–because he is in charge of the shooting here on the estate. To live in Austria and to not have a title, places one on the very bottom of the social totem pole.” She smiled. “I hope you can forgive us, John.”

Drummond chuckled softly. “Sure. In Los Angeles, we have the same sort of snobbery, only it’s based on the sort of car you drive. If you drive a Ford, then no one wants to know you.”

“But
I
drive a Ford,” said Reidl–then he burst out laughing, as did the baroness.

“Come along,” she said, taking each of the men by an arm. “Dinner is waiting in the private dining room.”

Led by the baroness and her two “escorts,” the seven of them trooped out of the library and into a small dining room.

“This used to be my grandfather’s smoking room, but after he died, and I had to open the castle to the public, I had it turned into a small dining room for my own use.”

The room was painted a deep, rich red, with the windows and mouldings picked out in white. The floor was rosewood–dark, almost black wood with a reddish brown grain that complemented the polished mahogany dining table set in the center of the room under a tented damask ceiling. A Bohemian crystal chandelier hung down above it, with real candles illuminating it, rather than electric ones.

The paintings in this room, unlike the military subjects in the library and great hall, were eighteenth—century landscapes, and to judge by their color and composition were of English rather than continental origin. Heavy white tapers set in solid silver wall sconces cast a pale yellow light into the shadowy corners of the room, while the crested china and silver dinner service glowed with the reflected light of the chandelier overhead.