The Night of the Krampus: A Mystery Suspense Novel

By Jack Lackman

Set in a small town in Austria in the 1960's, it involves the efforts of Detective Ltnt. Marco Finnand his whodunit-fan wife, Frances, to solve a complicated plot of murder, espionage and intrigue during the Cold War, the central elements of which is a group of ex-Nazis who are striving to re-establish the glory of Third Reich.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452073651

Jack Lackman

Jack Lackman is a former college English instructor who turned to writing when he retired. No Mourners for Victoria is his fourth mystery and, he believes, is closer to a pure whodunit than his previous three. He is currently working on a fifth mystery about the death of a guru who formerly led a cult community on the Olympic Peninsula in the state of Washington. Lackman was born in England, went through World War II there, and is also working on a series of novels about his experiences growing up in wartime Manchester. He has finished two of the series, Green Hill Faraway and Yids, Yoks and Yanks, and is now preparing them for publication in the near future. He came to the U.S. when he was nineteen and has lived here ever since, spending most of these years in California, where he now lives with his wife Joyce, who serves gallantly as his editor.

Book preview

PROLOGUE:

NOVEMBER, 1964

The cable read: URGENT. NAZI SUSPECT NAME HELMUT ZIMMERMANN WILL ARRIVE LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL ON FLIGHT NO. 937 LUFTHANSA FROM FRANKFURT NOV. 30 AT 1530. PLEASE APPREHEND FOR US AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

Captain Maynor of the Los Angeles Police Department read the cable three times before he put it down on his desk. The fact that it had originated with Israeli Intelligence through the Israeli Consulate in Los Angeles made him pick it up and read it again. He glanced at the clock on the wall of his office. It read: 11:35 in the morning. That meant he had almost four hours to do something about it – if he was going to do anything about it.

He lit his pipe and began thinking it over. He had had requests like this before from chiefs of police in several states other than California, but never from a foreign nation as far away as this. He could count on one hand the nations he had dealt with, all of them in North or Central America – Canada, Mexico, El Salvador, Bolivia, Colombia – mostly dealing with transportation of various drugs.

Captain Maynor sucked on his pipe. The newly built L.A. airport was certainly well within his jurisdiction. But should he call in the FBI, maybe the CIA? Nah! Maybe after the collar. Right now this was a police matter.

He reached for the duty roster and studied the names: Marco Finn, a bit young but eager and thorough. Maybe needs a more seasoned officer with him. Cameron Spencer, a cool Scot if ever I’ve met one. And they’ve worked as partners before. They’ll do. He picked up the phone. Within ten minutes, the two Detective Lieutenants were standing before him.

You’ll both need cuffs and guns for this assignment.

Finn and Spencer glanced at each other, raising their eyebrows. Yes, sir, they said in unison.

Captain Maynor scratched his head with his pipe stem. Now this assignment has a certain – shall we say – delicacy to it. He cleared his throat. It’s from Israeli Intelligence, for one thing, and it involves a suspected Nazi criminal. He pointed with his pipe to the cable lying on his desk. Oh, here – you can read it for yourselves. He handed the cable to Detective Lieutenant Finn.

Both he and Spencer pored over it for a minute.

Any suggestions on how we should handle this? said Spencer.

Nothing in particular. Arrest him and bring him here as soon as possible, I suppose.

The two detectives looked at each other. Finn spoke up. But how will we identify him? Any photo?

Captain Maynor shook his head. Nope. Nothing but what you’re reading right there, he said. He thought for a moment. Now since we don’t know what he looks like, we’ll have to I.D. him from his passport. He pondered some more. Look, he’ll have to go through passport control. Either one of you been through it recently?

Like a dutiful student, Detective Finn raised his hand. Several times, he said. My wife and I do quite a bit of international flying out of L.A. He groaned. Coming back, there are two lines for the travelers, one for foreign nationals, the other for U.S. citizens. It’s a pain in the neck. Both of them are long lines, at least in the summer.

So the lines might be a bit shorter at this time of the year? asked Maynor.

Finn nodded. Possibly.

More than one entry point from the line?

Again Finn nodded. Oh maybe five or six. Each one has an official in uniform – I.N.S. maybe, or airport officials.

All right, said Captain Maynor, laying down his pipe. Here’s the plan. You go down there early, talk to the people at passport control. Tell all of them that when this Zimmermann comes along, to make some sort of signal to you. We don’t want to spook this guy. Tell them maybe to raise their right hand – as if to scratch their head, something like that. He held up his hand as if to demonstrate. Then he picked up his pipe and pointed it at them. "Most important, tell them not to turn around to look at you! Understand? He’ll be on his guard."

Spencer and Finn nodded, saluted, and left.

*    *    *

They watched the shining Boeing jet slowly approach the gate from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the observation deck. It locked into the covered ramp, as Cam Spencer looked at his watch.

Another example of German efficiency, eh, Marco? Right on time.

Marco nodded. Yep, there’s something in that old cliché.

From your experience, Marco, about how long will it take the passengers to get off the plane and walk to passport control?

Maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes. We checked. This plane is full. Might take a bit longer.

You think we should be getting down there?

No harm. Might as well give those people at Control a little more prepping on the routine.

*    *    *

Marco and Cam stood under the sign that said: BAGGAGE CLAIM, some twenty feet beyond the foreign nationals passport control stations. They both appeared to be reading newspapers, but their eyes were lifted over the tops of the papers. They could move their eyes slightly to cover all six stations.

The passengers began coming through. Some twenty or so had passed through and were headed to pick up their baggage. Marco and Cam were getting tenser by the minute. Then they both saw the raised hand at the same time. But what was the guy doing? Exactly what he’d been told not to do! He turned around to look at them. They caught a glimpse of the tall man in overcoat and hat in front of the official. Then the man leaned across the desk, grabbed his passport from the hands of the official and bolted through the gate. One uniformed official tried to stop him, but the tall man simply bowled him over in his flight.

Oh shit! yelled Marco, drawing his gun. Let’s get him, Cam!

They both headed for the fleeing figure, who was now tearing down the concourse to the other terminals, zigzagging through the throng of people, batting aside some with glancing blows from the briefcase he was carrying. Screams and shouts filled the air. The gap was widening to some thirty yards between pursued and pursuers.

Then the two policemen lost sight of him in the crowd. By the time they reached the place where they’d last seen him, he was nowhere in sight.

Panting like runners in the hundred-yard dash, Marco and Cam looked at each other. Then Cam pulled out his badge and waved it at the crowd, who had shied away from them and formed a circle around them.

Los Angeles police! Cam shouted. Did anybody see where a tall man in an overcoat went?

No response.

Okay, said Cam, still breathing hard. All you people must clear out of this space. He pointed to the left. All those who were going that way, continue that way. Those of you going the other way, continue on your way. No need to panic. Keep it orderly.

There was a lot of mumbling, but gradually the people made an empty space about sixty feet around the two officers.

Now, said Cam to Marco, he couldn’t have got much farther than this. He looked around, regaining his composure. Then he pointed his gun at the sign to the men’s restroom about thirty feet ahead. Let’s give that place a shot first.

Both now with their guns out, they cautiously approached the entrance of the restroom. Cam pointed his finger at himself. Marco nodded: it was the understood signal that Cam would go in first, and Marco would cover him.

Crouching low, Cam suddenly stepped inside and waited for Marco to follow. This was only the vestibule. Nothing there. Cam peeked around the corner, then gestured to Marco to follow. With their guns raised, they walked side by side past the urinals. Nobody. They approached the cubicles. One of the doors was closed and locked. It was occupied.

I’ll handle this, Cam whispered.

He tapped his gun barrel on the door. This is the Los Angeles police! If your name is Helmut Zimmermann, please come out with your hands raised!

A spluttering roar came from behind the door. What the hell! My name ain’t Helmut anything! And I’m right in the middle of it. So piss off! I’m not coming out ‘til I’m finished.

Marco could hardly suppress a big grin. He glanced at Cam and saw he was smiling too.

I think it’s genuine, said Cam. Let’s get out of here.

Sorry to trouble you, sir, said Marco.

A deep growl was the only response.

When they had retreated, Marco heaved a sigh. Whew! That relieved the tension somewhat, he said. What now, Cam?

Cam looked down the wide corridor. "He has to be nearby – has to be. He pointed at the women’s restroom farther down. Got a hunch he might be in there."

Marco raised his eyebrows. Hope you’re right. I’ve never invaded a women’s restroom with a gun in my hand. But you’re the senior officer, Cam. Let’s go.

Maybe we don’t need the guns, Cam said, shouldering his gun.

Before Marco could shoulder his own a disturbance broke out. A middle-aged woman came running out of the women’s restroom, screaming, her eyes wild. She immediately saw Marco and Cam coming towards her.

Marco flashed his badge and the woman screamed, Oh, thank God! There’s a man in there, and something terrible is happening!

Marco and Cam glanced at each other and charged into the women’s restroom.

The cubicles ran in a line opposite the washbowls. From one of them where the door was closed, they heard a choking, gurgling sound, followed by a thrashing and bumping, as if someone were hammering against the wall of the stall.

Without hesitation, Cam put his shoulder to the door. It swung open, and Cam stopped just before he was about to sprawl over the twisted body of the tall man sitting on toilet. His hat had fallen on the floor. His lean face was contorted and was a bright glowing red. The briefcase hung on a light chain around his wrist.

Marco reached for the other wrist.

Cam shook his head. No use checking his pulse, Marco. You might instead open up that clenched first of his.

Marco struggled but managed finally to open the man’s hand. He brought out a small, yellowish plastic vial. He handed it to Cam, who sniffed it.

As I thought, he said. He’s a goner, and by the color of his face and the banging we heard, it’s the poison of choice at the Nuremberg trials. Field Marshall Herman Goering took it. Cyanide, I believe.

THE NIGHT OF THE KRAMPUS

Austria, December 1964

After one of the fiercest early-winter storms in local memory the evening before, the Austrian town of St. Kristoff lay buried in two feet of snow. A tomb-like stillness and deep chill had now descended on the outskirts of the town, but the main street was alive with people. All day long the townspeople, along with visiting skiers, had pitched in to clear the street. As a result, the sidewalks, stretching from the cathedral at the top of the street to the post office at the bottom, were thronged. Another storm was predicted for later in the evening, but everybody was fervently hoping that it would hold off long enough for one of the most looked-forward-to rituals of the year to take place. For this was December the sixth, the Night of the Krampus.

Frances and Marco Finn stood shuddering in the crowded doorway of the Goldener Kreuz tavern, waiting for Uri Klein to show up. Even in his quilted ski parka and pants, which matched the dark blue color of her own, Frances could hear Marco’s teeth chattering as he mumbled to her.

Listen, Fran, he said. What do you say? If Uri doesn’t show up in five more minutes, let’s get out of here – Krampus or no Krampus! Before we both freeze our butts off.

Marco had been irritable all day, and after helping shovel snow from the street, a gloom had settled upon him that Frances could not understand. It just wasn’t like him. Less than an hour ago, when they had left their lodgings in the Alter Fuchs Gasthaus, he had hinted at what was bothering him. He said he couldn’t find something, but he had left it at that, except to say that he had to tell Uri Klein about it. But Uri Klein had already left, saying he had to visit a friend of his first, but he would meet them later outside the Goldener Kreuz, the best spot in town for viewing the Krampus.

They were having difficulty standing their ground outside the tavern because of the jostling crowd on the sidewalk that was also spilling onto the street. Apparently, Uri Klein wasn’t the only one who knew about the best viewing place. The area was jammed with people, mostly skiers like themselves, all in good spirits from the wineskins that most of them were waving about and offering to anyone around, including Marco and Frances. Marco had refused several offers, but Frances had sipped at least three times – she had forgotten the exact number. All she could remember was one that tasted like spicy wine, another that tasted like peach brandy, and a third that had almost knocked her head off. She suspected it was schnapps. As a result, a warm glow was seeping through her body, limb by limb. She wished Marco would try some. It might help get him out of the foul mood he was in. But he had steadfastly refused, almost as if he were on duty, expecting something to happen.

Frances took Marco’s arm and snuggled up to him; and Marco managed to summon a frosty smile under his bright red woolen ski cap. They stood there, lurching from side to side from the press of the throng, holding each other up.

There’s Uri now! said Frances with relief, as a shortish man in a green ski parka broke through the crowd and stumbled up to them. She had been looking forward to seeing the Krampus more than anything else in Austria, because one of the courses she taught was legends and myths of Europe, and the Krampus was one of the oldest. Uri Klein’s showing up would assure her of it now.

Uri Klein was some three inches shorter than Marco’s six feet, and had the looks of the Sabra, an Israeli type that Frances had never seen before: blond, krinkly hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. He had a wide, toothy grin, and was grinning at them now.

About time you showed up! said Marco, gruffly.

But I told you I was going to visit Esther at the Eden, Uri said in his strongly accented but precise English. I tried to persuade her to come see the Krampus, but — he threw up his gloved hands – as you see, I was unsuccessful. She shies away from anything Germanic.

When he had left the Alter Fuchs earlier, Uri had told them he was going to visit a friend at what he called The Ghastly Gasthof Eden, a new place near the railroad station that, he said, was trying very hard to attract American tourists, with hideous results. He promised to take them there some evening to see for themselves.

Meanwhile, Uri Klein said, I have been following the Krampus down from the cathedral. It should be arriving here any moment. He glanced at the camera that Frances was clutching at her side. Ah! I see you are well prepared, Frances. You look like a typical American tourist.

Frances pressed the flash attachment in a little tighter. I don’t care what I look like. Got to get a picture of the Krampus, she said. Hope he’ll cooperate and stand still long enough.

I don’t know about that, laughed Uri. "It is more a matter of your standing still. Remember what I told you?"

Marco broke in at this point, his irritability showing in his voice. Thought you said he chased only the kids. Marco had been skeptical about the whole thing from the start. It was obvious that he had more to occupy his mind than stalking the Krampus, especially since Uri had told them that if the Krampus approached them, they were to run away screaming – part of the game to impress the children. Marco had snorted something about kids’ stuff. Uri smiled at him now. That depends on how much schnapps he has had before he puts that costume on, he said. Also he likes the pretty girls. At least he does in most villages, where the Krampus is a teen-aged boy, but here in St. Kristoff, for now, it’s the old choirmaster Winkler in that suit because he wants to, and he likes to put on a show for the tourists, especially American tourists. He glanced at Frances. And especially attractive American women like your wife.

The crowd jostled them closer. Marco almost fell into Uri’s arms.

Come on, Marco, said Uri, reaching and putting an arm around his shoulder. It’s only a game, all in fun. Look, I’ll even show you what to do. I’ll make the Krampus chase me first. Forget you are a policeman, just for one night.

Yes, Marc, urged Frances, now beginning to feel warm all over. Don’t be such a grouch! She checked her camera again. Hey, wouldn’t it be great if I could get you and the Krampus in one shot?

Marco finally broke into a grin. Don’t you dare, Fran, he said. I’d never live it down at the department. Bad for the image. He turned to Uri Klein, grabbing his arm. Before I forget, there’s something I’ve got to tell you – something important.

Shall I leave? said Frances, a little irritated herself.

The noise of the crowd around them was rising steadily. Uri had to shout to make himself heard.

Can’t it wait until later? he yelled.

Marco stared at him for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. I suppose so, he said.

Now that’s more like it, Marco, my friend, said Uri warmly, taking him around the shoulders again. Remember what I told you. If it comes near, try to act terrified. You might not find it as difficult as you think. Yell a bit. He probably won’t come any closer. But if he does, run a few paces and fall down. Believe, me, you will come to no harm. And you, Frances, have the camera ready. I’ll try to direct the whole thing, just like Hollywood.

At that moment, one in the crowd thrust a wineskin in Marco’s face. Marco hesitated for a moment only.

Oh, what the hell! he said, taking the wineskin and raising it above his head in the prescribed fashion.

A thin stream of liquid arched into his mouth for almost ten seconds as the crowd chanted the numbers and cheered. He handed the wineskin back. The owner rattled it to his ear and shook his head.

Well, Marco said, grinning, If I’m going to make a fool of myself, I might as well give myself an excuse. Hot damn! he gasped, I think that was scotch!

His last words were interrupted by a piercing scream from the upper end of the street. The crowd, including the three of them, surged over the snow-encrusted sidewalk and spilled into the street. Some children nearby clutched the hands of their parents more tightly. Others hung on to their parents’ coats. One small, bundled-up tot tried to jump inside her mother’s coat, but her mother pushed her out. All the small children were whimpering, trying not to scream. The cold air was charged with tension.

Down the center of the street came a tall, stately figure dressed in the white and gold robes of a bishop. With the tall, pointed hat he was wearing, he looked to be eight feet tall. He carried what looked like a long scepter, and as he strode, he nodded from side to side, sometimes genuflecting with the scepter, blessing the crowd or handing out candy to the small children. Some in the crowd crossed themselves as he passed; others hooted and yelled.

That’s Saint Nicholas! Uri yelled in Marco’s ear. Santa Klaus to you!

Doesn’t look much like Santa Klaus to me, yelled Marco back at him. No red and white suit!

Frances was pleased that Marco was finally getting into the spirit of the thing. The wineskin was no doubt responsible.

The noise around them was ear splitting now in anticipation of what was to follow. And it suddenly appeared. It was dressed from ankle to neck in a black body stocking. Its head and shoulders were covered entirely with what appeared to be a huge ram’s head, but a ram’s head painted gruesomely in red and yellow around the eyes and mouth. The skin and withered legs of the animal hung down the Krampus’s back and below its waist. Tying the flapping skin to its waist was a heavy leather belt, from which bells of various sizes hung. The bells jangled and clanged as it moved, adding an even more gruesome effect to the apparition. There were dark, blood-like glistening red streaks all over the tangled hair of the animal skin.

Frances stared pop-eyed at it. It reminded her of pictures she had seen of African witchdoctors in National Geographic. In one black hand the creature held a bundle of twigs and in the other a long whip with several strings dangling from it, something like a cat o’ nine tails. It didn’t so much move as scamper from one side of the street to the other, sometimes on all fours, other times crouching on two feet, waving and cracking the whip over its head. Frances knew now what Uri had meant when he said you wouldn’t have to pretend to be scared. Her skin prickled at the sight of the Krampus.

Forgetting she had a camera in her hands, Frances simply gaped at it, as it made lightning-like bursts at the crowd, at individuals both young and old. All retreated before it. Occasionally, some young man, trying to impress his girlfriend, no doubt, would run after the beast, tauntingly, but would always retreat when it turned and charged.

Pretty spry for an old man, Frances gasped at Uri.

Never seen old Winkler as lively as this before, shouted Uri back at her. Must have had more schnapps than usual!

The crowd momentarily hushed as the Krampus stopped in front of a small boy on the other side of the street. A circle immediately formed around the child, the Krampus, and the figure of Saint Nicholas, from which there was no escape.

The boy bravely stood his ground; Frances felt like cheering. The boy had relinquished the hand of his mother and stood there, his legs visibly shaking, his eyes almost popping out of his head.

Frances grabbed Marco’s arm and began pushing through the crowd.

Got to get a shot of this, she muttered.

Marco looked around at Uri Klein, who nodded his head, but remained where he was, smiling. Marco took the lead, shouldering through the good-humored crowd until they were both at the inner edge of the circle.

The Krampus was snarling questions at the boy, towering over him, cracking his whip. The boy was whispering "ja and nein" in response while the crowd cheered each time. Frances raised her camera and triggered the flash just as the Krampus was raising his bunch of twigs over the boy’s head. As the flash popped, the Krampus turned quickly around and glared at Frances, who was busily winding the camera to the next frame. The Krampus seemed uncertain for a moment what to do. Then it growled menacingly and began to advance on Frances, totally ignoring the small boy, who, with obvious relief, accepted a small bag of candies from the bishop, Saint Nicholas, as a reward for his ordeal.

The crowd retreated, sensing more fun, leaving Frances and Marco alone with the advancing Krampus in the middle of the street. The crowd began to roar again. By the time the Krampus was within ten feet of her, Frances had managed to wind the camera and put in a fresh flashbulb.

Then the Krampus did a strange thing. It stopped and tilted the animal head back, exposing his face. He was wearing a dark woolen ski mask with holes for eyes and mouth. The creature peered at them as if trying to identify them. It was at this moment that Frances popped the flash button again. At the flash, the Krampus dropped the head back in place quickly and made a lunge at Frances, almost knocking the camera from her hands. Marco had seen enough. He quickly stepped between them and raised his fists.

No call for that, Buster! He spat out into the beast’s face. Just what the hell is going on?

Uri yelled at them from across the street. Run, Marco! Run! He means no harm!

Frances dutifully screamed and retreated, Marco covering her retreat until they stood beside Uri again.

"The hell he didn’t mean any harm! said Marco, furiously. Just let him try that again on Fran! I’ll break his arm, old man or not!"

The crowd around them resumed its roaring, forming a semi-circle behind the three of them. The Krampus lurched after them, grunting and snarling as it faced them. Steam spouted from its nostrils as it stood there panting heavily, a rank smell coming from it at close quarters. Its gleaming eyes behind the mask examined each of them in turn. Its head stopped at Uri Klein, almost as if it were singling him out for special