The Curse of the Seuso Treasures

By László Lackner

On their way to work, two men discover the body of a young soldier hanging from the beams of an abandoned wine cellar. His feet were touching the ground, his own belt wrapped around his neck. Inspector Lukas, alias Gramps, is called upon to investigate the “suicide”. Although the army quickly halted the investigation ruling it a case of suicide, Gramps determines that this was indeed a murder committed by person or persons unknown. Finding only a discarded cigarette butt, a button and a freshly excavated cavity at the scene, he goes on a wild rollercoaster ride following several very promising leads. But the murderer seems to evade him, in fact mocking him, taunting him. What was the motive for this heinous crime? Was the belt tied around the unfortunate young man’s neck by a jealous husband, an abandoned lover, or does it go deeper than that - all the way to the bowels of an old Roman villa? It is up to Gramps to trap the murderer into making the one and only mistake that would lead to his capture. A spellbinding tale based upon a true story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.Back agency for hungarian literature
• Release date: Oct 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9783943434187

László Lackner

László Lackner was born in 1943 in Lenti (Hungary). He has been publishing for the past thirty years. His novels could be read in the most prestigious journals; he also published five pieces of literature, one of which is this crime novel The Nurse and the Knife His books were especially successful during the fall of the communist regime, and his novels about the exciting events playing out during the revolution in 1956. He appeared in literary anthologies, in the past few years he has been writing theatrical works. He won literary awards in two contests.

Book preview

THE CURSE OF THE SEUSO TREASURES

A crime novel based upon a true story

~~~~~

László Lackner

Original Hungarian title: Az elátkozott Seuso kincsek

English version by Teresa Patterson and Amando Mileto

Discover more ebooks at

and

Smashwords

copyright László Lackner 2012

published by S.Back agency for hungarian literature at Smashwords

Cover design:

S. Back

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Translation sponsored by

Table of Contents

1st Chapter

2nd Chapter

3rd Chapter

4th Chapter

5th Chapter

6th Chapter

7th Chapter

8th Chapter

9th Chapter

10th Chapter

11th Chapter

12th Chapter

Epilog

About the Author

The Curse of the Seuso Treasures

A warrior's cry broke the silence around the lake followed by a tempered lion's yawn. Inspector Lukas, alias Gramps, felt divine at this early morning hour. The wind rested peacefully and the water was as smooth as the surface of a glass table top. True, the fish weren't biting either, but it was still heavenly bliss. He felt at peace sitting there alone on the shores of his favorite lake, doing nothing but relaxing and staring into the blue and deep green lap of nature, while daydreaming in a long sequence of images of the blessed day when he could spend each day like this uninterrupted. After all, the serene years of retirement were already knocking at the door.

A wild duck flew up. Even the rustle of the wings and the splashing of water did not break the easy, hovering silence; in fact, they seemed to accentuate its sweet, soft deepness.

You are gorgeous, he whispered toward the receding bird and stared after it for a long time, until the distance swallowed the shrunken point of the tiny creature.

He calmly stared at the float. Right now he really didn't mind that the carp was not pulling it or that the catfish did not tousle the lines.

A strange feeling disturbed his drowsy state, as if someone stood behind him, as if the rays of someone's eyes pierced the back of his head. He glanced backward.

A dark, wide shouldered silhouette towered above him. He recognized him immediately.

Well, what is it, Conrad? He barked at him. Did my wife send me some fried chicken and some nice pickles?

Nope, answered the other shortly.

You mean? He turned around completely.

Yes, the young man nodded.

What the hell happened again, and why at a time when I am truly enjoying myself?

They found a man hanging in Bartal Township, in the vineyards. Bertalan said you should take a look. It appears to be suicide, but...

A hanging man, the oldster repeated as if he gained some time by doing so. He committed suicide, no? Anyway, I'm on vacation, he replied to Conrad irritably.

I don't know, the young man raised his arms. The boss wants you to run out there while they are still at the crime scene.

The oldster got up reluctantly. He stood there, legs apart, as if he couldn't decide whether to sit back down or get going, but he soon realized he had no choice. So he gathered up his fishing rods, threw the bait boxes and his little three legged stool into his knapsack and said sulkily, Let’s go, orders are orders.

Conrad drove the old, beat-up Lada leisurely, as if he was ambling along to a tiresome class reunion. He let every car on the road pass him by.

Step on it, son, the oldster grunted. Those half-blind investigators might destroy something on the crime scene. I want to see everything in its original position.

As the car turned onto the dusty side road up the hill, he saw the hustle and bustle in front of a decrepit, century old mud cellar. The investigators were full of activity in front of the entrance, but from a respectful distance several onlookers were stretching their necks.

Once they reached the cellar, the oldster popped out of the car like a short distance runner and jumped on his colleagues. Why don't you chase away the nosey parkers?

Mezner, the photographer pointed toward the ditch. Gramps! The two men who found the victim are among them. We thought you might want to talk with them.

The victim was laid out next to the entrance, covered with a black sheet. The medical expert stepped closer to the oldster breaking into a fast dialogue.

He died a minimum of six, but possibly ten hours ago. We found him in full rigor mortis. The neck injury occurred from his uniform belt. In my opinion he committed suicide. I did not find signs of any other injuries at first glance.

Uniform belt? The oldster flinched.

Oh, you don't know? The doctor continued, He was a soldier.

The detective lifted his head. A soldier? What other bombshells do you have for me? Did you notify the military authorities?

I. we, oh no, the doctor spread his arms helplessly.

The oldster turned to Lieutenant Antal, the head of the investigation team. Son! Did you tell Bertalan the victim was a soldier?

No.

Please report it immediately! The military must be notified! Don't touch anything until they arrive. How did the poor bastard hang himself anyway?

With his belt, the lieutenant pointed toward the cellar. It's strange, he linked two belts together.

Two belts? The oldster was dumbfounded. A soldier only has one of those, no?

Ordinarily, agreed the other.

Well, this too must be clarified, he accentuated it by lifting his finger as he stepped over to the victim and lifted the sheet. He leaned close to the man's neck, looking at the red and purple spots on both sides and addressed the doctor, Look here! What are these bloody marks on the skin?

The doctor squatted down and looked again. They were probably made by his belt.

The hell they were, murmured the oldster. His uniform belt is made out of cloth. It could not have caused these deep injuries. These are marks of the killer's fingernails. They strangled him first and then hung him.

It is possible, the doctor muttered ill at ease and embarrassed.

By the look on the oldster face it was obvious that he wanted to put the doctor in his place for doing a superficial job. But the doctor wasn't his subordinate, and he was obligated to respect that. Instead, he hurried into the front of the cellar. Gramps wasn't a tall man, but his hat touched the transom and even the ceiling above it hung rather low.

Lieutenant Antal, he called to the young man slinking behind him. The victim was a tall man measuring at least a hundred and ninety centimeters. How the hell could he have hung himself in there? When someone's foot touches the ground, he usually gets scared, changes his mind and frees himself. Didn't you notice that?

It came up. It came up, Lieutenant Antal answered hesitantly, but we were waiting for you.

Did you find any documents?

Yes, here they are, Antal jumped in front of the oldster eagerly. A military service book, inside it a leave slip, a suicide note and a valet with some change and a handkerchief.

The oldster picked up the service book first and leafed through it. Joseph Baka, born in Bartal, 1959. So he was a local resident, and served in line infantry, he murmured to himself. He was drafted in November 1978, he continued to read the data. Then he stopped. Here, if you please: in a week or so he would have been discharged. Can you imagine that after two hard years in the army, someone would commit suicide just before he was discharged? No sir! This is murder, he turned to Lieutenant Antal. Do you agree with me, colleague?

Absolutely, the other nodded with not too much conviction.

Well, the oldster continued goading him, let's look around the other parts of the cellar. He stepped across the inner door. As he walked inside the windowless, brick walled room with a barreled ceiling he was greeted by a deep, clammy darkness. He called back. Bring me some source of light!

Antal jumped out from behind him with a large, strong flashlight. He scanned the walls and the walkway. Rotted, disintegrated wine barrels lined the walls in parallel beams and at the end of the room a large wine press, at least a hundred years old, stood collapsed.

Well, it looks like the cellar has not been used in a long time, the oldster determined and slowly walked past the barrels, taking in everything as he did so. Behind the last barrel rose a makeshift pile of bricks, which appeared to have been removed from the side wall. A deep cavity yawned where the bricks used to be. It was the size of a medium wine barrel. The oldster leaned closer to the cavity.

Now this is very interesting, he nodded his head. Lieutenant, he said to Antal. We need to find out who owns this cellar and if they demolished this part of the wall and excavated this cavity.

But the young man already had the answers. The two men who discovered the crime told us that the old owners passed away. Their only son went abroad in 1956 and can't come home again. So there is no owner at the present time. They say the township will most likely get the ownership.

All right. Take photos and make a thorough search for residual material.

The oldster hurried out into the open and summoned the two witnesses.

Well, how did you found him? he asked, quickly jumping into the middle of the topic.

I will tell the story because Pisti stutters, said Molnar, a middle aged man who stood in front of the detective erect, in blue work clothes and worn shoes. There is a quarry about two hundred meters from here. Our coworkers were getting ready to blast. As a precautionary measure, we usually walk some distance from the mine. That's how we got to the front of the cellar. It hasn't been locked for a long time, but this time the door was actually ajar and we thought we should look inside.

I... I... to-t-old you n-n-not to l-l-look, the stuttering young man interrupted.

Yes, he said that, Molnar reclaimed the story. We stepped inside, and we immediately saw poor Joska hanging there. I touched his arm and felt that he was stiff. I thought he must have been there for some time. Then I ran down to the pub, called you guys and you know the rest.

What sort of a man was the victim?

The men thought for a moment. Normal, but a bit eccentric. He didn't have real friends, just hung out here and there.

What was his occupation?

He worked with us here in the mine, operating the backhoe.

Did he have any hobbies or interests in anything?

Well, the man looked up to the sky, they say he collected antiques. He traded in them. I never saw them, he did not show them to me, but others have. Gorzium is not too far from here. There used to be a large military camp there during the Roman Empire. They must have had houses in the area, because the plows turn up bits of pottery, human bones and coins. Joska was interested in the last one.

What time did you start working this morning?

Six o'clock.

You didn't see anyone coming this way?

No, he shook his head decisively.

No cars either?

No cars.

All right. The detective ended the quick questioning and he added, Does the deceased have any relatives in the village?

A mother and a sister.

Can you tell me where they live?

Next to the pub in a small three-window house, he pointed his arm toward the village, you'll find it.

All right, thank you, acknowledged the oldster. Did my colleagues take your information?

Yes.

Fine. You can leave. If we need you again we'll let you know. He dismissed the two men, then gotten into the Lada and had Conrad drive him to the village.

It was easy to recognize the small house with its worn plaster and warped roof. The oldster jumped out of the car and hurried into the yard. The house did not have an entrance hall, the kitchen door opened directly into the yard. He stepped through the door. There he found a middle aged woman and a young year old girl sitting at the kitchen table. Their eyes were red from crying.

I am looking for the Baka family.

That's us, the older woman said.

So you already know? he asked.

My godson ran over from the quarry and told us what happened to Joska, she said as she buried her face in the palm of her hands and started sobbing. The younger woman had tears running down her cheeks as well.

I am Inspector Lukas, he introduced himself quietly. I lead the investigation. I know this is very hard for you right now, but it is unavoidable. I must ask you a few questions. Are you his mother?

Yes, and she is our daughter, she pointed her finger to the girl next to her.

Please accept my deepest sympathy. He took a deep breath before asking his next question. What is your opinion, did the boy commit suicide or did someone murder him?

The mother lifted her tear-soaked face to the old detective. Her eyes grew wide as she said, my son loved to live. He couldn't wait to be discharged from the army; he planned to build a house. He bought land about a year ago, not too far from here. He wanted horses. It is out of the question that he did this, he was murdered.

Do you have any idea who could have done this or why?

My son dealt in antiques. He had valuable golden coins and all sorts of artifacts. They looked him up often, strangers, antique dealers, and even rich people. Who knows who owed him money and instead of paying him. she started sobbing again. I feared for him. I always told him, my son, won't this lead to trouble? Won't they put you in jail or rob you? But he pushed my fears aside, 'don't be afraid mom; my mind is in the right place. I know what I'm doing.'

These strangers, can you tell me more about them? Where did they come from, what their names were?

The woman stared at the floor in front of her, deeply in thought. Not really. He didn't bring them home. They met at the pub or somewhere else.

Excuse me, said the girl, "a friend of mine goes to the pub once in a