The Vanished

‘Perhaps existentialist would be a better term.’

‘But she was preoccupied with death?’

‘I suppose you could say she was. Many great artists are, you know.’

Ergo, she was fully capable of suicide, I thought. All right, so that proves what? That she killed herself? You knew that from reading the newspaper story. Don’t make waves on a calm sea, for Christ’s sake.

I studied both paintings again, looking at the style this time rather than the scenes themselves. Even though there seemed to be similarities between these oils and the sketch of Roy Sands-some of the same exaggeration of masculinity, for example-I was not enough of a connoisseur to be able to determine beyond a reasonable doubt that she had created the sketch. Maybe Herr Ackermann could have, but as he had said earlier, he would have to have seen the portrait itself in order to make a judgment.

He said, ‘Do you think Fraulein Emery was acquainted with this man you are seeking- Sands is his name? And that she made this sketch about which you asked me earlier?’

‘There’s a chance of it,’ I told him. ‘Did she ever do any portrait work that you know about?’

He shook his head. ‘She was a true impressionist.’

‘But she might have-as a favor, or as a gesture of some kind, mightn’t she?’

‘Perhaps. She was, as I said, an unpredictable girl.’

‘Okay then. Thanks again for your time, Herr Ackermann.’

‘I hope you succeed in your quest, sir,’ he said, and bowed. ‘Auf Wiedersehen.’

I walked out and got into the Volkswagen. In my mind’s eye I kept seeing that painting called ‘Earthlove’-the pair of hands reaching out of the graves, clasped together, the wedding rings plainly evident. The morning seemed suddenly colder.

And when I drove away from there, it was with the disturbing mental image of a faceless girl hanging dead and motionless in a room filled with the tools, the wonderment, of creation.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Kriminalbeamter Franz Hussner was a big, smiling man with heavy blue jowls and bright, quick blue eyes. He wore gray tweed as well as anyone can wear it, and smoked a short white-bowled clay pipe, and had a nervous habit of scratching behind his right ear with the little finger on his right hand. He spoke English in a voice that would have gone well singing Trink, Trink, Bruderlein, Trink in a German beer garden, and he was not averse to discussing the Diane Emery suicide with me-especially after he learned my profession. He had never met a private detective, he said, his bright eyes dancing, and to have one from America visit him was indeed an honor. I could not tell if he was putting me on or not.

We sat in his small, spartan office in the Kitzingen Polizeirevier and smiled at each other across an old oak desk that was vaguely reminiscent of the one in my own office. Smoke from his clay pipe lay on the air like tule fog in a marsh, and it was aggravating my chest, biting sharply into my lungs with each breath; it smelled as mawkishly sweet as the perfumed joss they burn on Chinese New Year. But Herr Hussner was on my side now, and I did not want to jeopardize that by insulting his brand of tobacco or his smoking habits; I kept my mouth judiciously shut.

‘A sad business, a very sad business,’ he said at length. ‘Such a young girl to take her own life. Ach, a terrible thing.’

‘I understand there was no suicide note,’ I said.

‘That is true.’

‘She was despondent over personal problems?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any particular personal problems?’

‘She was to have a child.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I see.’

‘A sad business, yes?’ He shook his head.

‘Were you able to locate the father?’

‘No, we were not.’

‘Then you have no idea who it was?’

‘None.’

‘There was nothing in her personal effects?’

‘Fraulein Emery did not keep letters or a journal or photographs.’

‘And there were no portraits among her paintings?’

‘We found only two canvases in her flat- both unfinished and both most definitely not portraits. Her drawing pad contained nothing but blank sheets of paper.’

‘Uh-huh. Well, what about her friends?’

‘She had few friends in Kitzingen,’ Herr Hussner said, and went to work behind his ear with the little finger on his right hand. ‘She was-what do you say?-a lonesome person.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Her lover was her private affair, apparently shared with no one.’

I studied the backs of my hands. ‘Were you completely satisfied that her death was suicide?’

Surprisingly, Herr Hussner smiled. ‘You suspect murder perhaps?’ he asked, as if the idea were gentle insanity.

‘No,’ I said, and gave him an apologetic look. ‘I was just curious.’

‘Of course. But no, the death of Fraulein Emery was at her own hands and no others. Frau Mende, who lives in the apartment next door, heard a loud noise from the girl’s studio that Saturday and came quickly to investigate. She found the girl still alive and strangling on the clothesline, a chair overturned beneath her. By the time she could summon help, the poor child was dead. A sad, sad business.’ Herr Hussner shook his head again and dug behind his ear and raised a great pollutant of gray-blue smoke like a withered wreath about his head.

I said, ‘Had the Emery girl been known to keep company with military personnel? Or were you able to determine that?’

‘We learned little of her private life. You were thinking, perhaps, that the man you are looking for-Herr Sands- was her lover?’

‘The idea crossed my mind.’

‘And why is that?’

I told him, and he nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is possible you are right. But if so, what would this have to do with Herr Sands’ disappearance in America?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m still sifting through the haystack.’

‘What does this mean, sifting through the haystack?’

I explained it to him. He smiled and looked pleased. ‘The American idiom is wonderful,’ he said.

‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘Was Diane buried here in Kitzingen?’

‘No. Her family was notified, from a card we discovered in her purse, and arrangements were made for her to be returned to America by plane.’

‘I see.’

‘It was to California,’ Herr Hussner said. ‘You are from San Francisco-that is in California, is it not?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Where does the Emery girl’s family live?’

‘The town of Roxbury.’

‘I don’t think I know it.’

‘It is near-what is it?-ah yes, Eureka. We wished to cable the family of the tragedy and it was necessary to send the cable to this Eureka.’

The air in there was cloying now, and very hot, and I wanted nothing so much than to get up and open the window behind Herr Hussner’s desk; I could see the cold, fresh rain beading and running on the glass outside. I forced myself to sit still, and said, ‘Would you mind telling me the address, Herr Hussner?’

‘Do you plan to see the Emerys when you are again in America?’