Bigot List by J. Sydney Jones

Author:J. Sydney Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Werthen Press
Published: 2024-05-18T05:35:04+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The bus parks in the main square of the small village of Kragossen. Getting off, Jake is struck by the chill purity of the air, fresh off the Styrian Alps that surround the village. Sun is out turning the peaks white. Jake’s professorial mode takes over for a moment, recalling the origin of the name Alps, from the Latin, albus, or white. Pure.

“Damned mountains,” Vosenko mutters as they hump their packs on. “Reni loved them. Nothing better than a weekend hiking, sleeping rough in mountain huts. Makes me cold looking at them.”

Which destroys any attempt on Jake’s part for Alpine romanticizing.

Like Vosenko, he was cajoled by his field agent, Reni, to make the occasional return to her birthplace. Though happily he’d avoided the overnights in mountain huts. The Gasthof zur Post is still there, he sees, smack in the heart of the village square.

Entering, Jake quickly recognizes that this inn, like all else in Austria, has been upgraded since he was last here. Gone are the nicotine-stained walls and ceilings at the inn, the racks of elk and chamois horns on the walls, the rough-hewn tables and chairs. All replaced with modern upscale Austrian rustic.

The Wirt, or owner of the inn, however, is little changed, still in lederhosen. But a quick tally of the years since last here, Jake figures no way. This must be the son of the original owner. Same pugnacious, upturned nose and stocky frame that fills his knee-length lederhosen.

“Tag, mein Herr,” the Wirt says.

“Tag,” Jake says. “Wir suchen jemand,” he says showing him the old picture of Huber and then asking if he remembers seeing the man.

The Wirt visibly stiffens, lets out a blast of wind between tightened lips. “Remember?” he says in English, and then laughs. “We try to forget him. A strange one, nothing like his mother. This one cuts his eyes at you, will not give even a Grüss Gott.”

“Does he live around here?”

“Not in the village, Gott sei dank. Up the old Russian Road a couple kilometers or so. A cabin I would not house my dogs in.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

The man shakes his head. “I attempt not to.”

Jake thanks the Wirt. Daniel Huber’s reputation most definitely follows him.

The Russian Road. Jake remembers the story of that, constructed by Russian POWs during World War I, who carved a narrow road up and around the Perlgipfel.

Out in the square again, Vosenko clucks his tongue. “Perhaps it is time to pay Herr Huber a visit.”

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