Collision of Evil by John Le Beau Read Free Book Online Page B

inspecting their next residence.
A narrow street passed by the front of the church, lined by linden trees, thick leaves shading the pavement below. Across from thechurch stood a three-hundred-year-old tavern, a painted shingle above the door identifying it as “
Zum Alte Post”
; The Old Post Office. Which it had once been, but that was long ago when Bavaria had been ruled by the whims of kings, both mad and enlightened. In those days, the tavern keeper had tended the mail and it was here that the royal mail wagons delivered packets, bills of lading, notices of births and deaths. Now bored federal postal employees in everyday garb delivered letters and advertising flyers in VW vans. The Old Post no longer kept the mail, but remained a tavern.
A dog yapped in the distance as Robert parked his car under the linden trees and made his way to the restaurant. The village was somnolent with no noise of traffic to mar the gradual descent of a summer’s evening. There was a trace of fertilizer and mown grass in the air, a reminder of the rolling farm meadows flanking the place.
The front double-door was made of rude, battered wooden planks decorated with a carved star at waist level. One of the doors was propped open with a crumbling brick to allow the outside air into thick-walled chambers. The doors faced into a broad hallway with a high-arched ceiling and red tile floor. A heavy oak country chest was placed against one wall; an equally heavy framed mirror hung above it. Robert checked his image briefly in the glass and noted dark rings under his eyes. He ran a hand across his hair to make his appearance a bit more orderly.
The hallway opened onto two large rooms, to the right and left. Robert peeked into the room to his left and found it festively decorated in rural Bavarian style with framed lithographs of alpine scenes, a few pieces of antique furniture bearing heavy vases of fresh mountain flowers. The dozen or so tables were covered with crisp blue and white linen tablecloths, and the places were set with matching napkins, wineglasses, and utensils. But there were no guests to be seen. The carefully prepared room was empty of life, looking a bit like a museum piece.
Animated conversation and muffled laughter drifted across the floor from behind, and Robert knew that the opposite room was occupied. Robert turned and entered the space that was the same sizeas the room he had just vacated. Other than the similarity of size, everything was different.
This chamber was full of people dining and talking. A portly and expressionless waitress of indeterminate age clad in a green and red dirndl circulated among the tables distributing half-liter glasses of foaming beer. The unornamented tables here were bare wood with paper napkins. A large crucifix stared down from one corner, the pained grimace on the visage of Jesus presiding over a universe of gossip, humor, and malice.
No one looked up as Robert entered. The American surveyed the room for someone who might be August Sedlmeyer. The task took only a second. Nearly all of the guests in the room were seated in groups. Only one man sat alone. He was, as Robert had expected, quite old, his general appearance announcing someone in his early eighties. The man’s face and hands were burnished bronze and his hair startlingly white, with just a streak of muted black remaining.
August Sedlmeyer sat ramrod straight in his hard-backed chair, hands spread protectively around a glass of beer on the table before him, looking rather like a priest about to lift his chalice. The old man wore a well-brushed, if threadbare, collarless charcoal Bavarian jacket, the sleeves and pockets trimmed in forest green. He stared straight ahead as if lost in thought.
Robert walked to the old man’s table. “Excuse me sir, are you Herr Sedlmeyer? I’m Robert Hirter.”
The old man nodded an acknowledgment with a quick up-down wag of the chin and gestured to the empty chair opposite him. “Please have a seat