“Baron von Stuka,” Blinky said, puffing away on his pipe like a steam locomotive, his eyes rapidly fluttering, “is a divisionnaire in the Swiss Army. Friends call him ‘Wolfie.’ I do. A captain, basically, when he’s called to active duty in the mountain passes. He’s the one man who might help us get to the bottom of this. Not only help to unravel this financial sneak hack attack but to find those responsible for it, take them off the board. So far so good, right? And then a game changer happened.
“He rang me up a week or so ago and said one of his grenadiers, a Lieutenant Hartz, had a very odd thing happen while on search-and-rescue duty that morning. He took a near fatal fall. And then found a decapitated head on the snowy ledge that had broken his fall. Saved his life.”
“A what?” Congreve exclaimed.
“A head. Hartz thought it was just a head, lying frozen on the snow. That’s what it looked like anyway. He took a squad of grenadiers back up to the site next morning. They dug away all the ice beneath the head for over an hour. And, voila, le corpse! Dressed quite oddly. Baron von Stuka has a strong feeling that, based on its appearance, that body is related to our mystery.”
“How?” Hawke asked.
“Wolfie intends to investigate it. There were certain things about the corpse that . . . never mind, I’ll let him tell you about it. He’s not saying anything for public consumption, but privately he thinks he may well have found the Bat Cave.”
“Bat Cave?” Congreve said.
“Hmm. Bat Cave, yes. I’m sure Sir David mentioned someone known as ‘the Sorcerer’? When he briefed you?”
Congreve said, “He did. Very mysterious chap, apparently. Disappeared a decade or more ago.”
“Wolfie believes Sorcerer may be involved in this computer crime wave. And that the corpse may lead us to the Sorcerer’s lair. Where he’s been hiding all these years.”
“Batman is our new villain? How marvelous!” Congreve said, smiling amiably at Blinky.
“Batman? No, not exactly. No cape, no Robin, no Batmobile. But a cave? Maybe, maybe not. It’s something we must talk about after you both know a bit more about the case. Yes?”
Blinky was indeed a delight, Congreve thought. He had an infectious smile, lightning-quick mind, and a very direct approach to things. He wore a lovely Austrian jacket, grey wool with forest-green trim and reindeer-antler buttons. Blinky seemed to epitomize all of Congreve’s most cherished romantic notions about the eccentric Swiss character come down from the mountains. And he wanted that grey wool jacket.
Blinky said, “Let me tell you a little about Wolfie, Chief Inspector: Baron Wolfgang von Stuka. Patriarch of one of our country’s wealthiest, oldest, and most noble families. A citizen soldier and a businessman. That is our baron. No matter where this trail leads us, Wolfie will be a vital asset to us, as you’ll soon discover.”
“Sir David told us only about von Stuka’s sense of duty and sterling reputation for bravery,” said Hawke. “Now tell us the truth about this fellow who’s too good to be true.”
Blinky smiled. “Of course, of course! We grew up together, and my children and Herr Baron’s children are still great friends. Well. Where to start? It’s a little-known fact that Europe’s twelve ruling families remain deeply competitive about who has the swankiest palaces, the biggest yacht, the shiniest diamonds, and the biggest bank balances. It’s always been an expensive business, being a Royal. Wars to fight, castles to build, daughters to marry off, pageants to perform, and all that.
“Then there is our poor Wolfie. Poverty stricken by the standards of the original Twelve Families. He keeps the von Stuka family dynasty going by selling off land and art. He also invested in a wildly successful business in Texas that develops not oil fields but hybrid rice for developing nations. He has devoted his life to charitable work, much like your friend Prince Charles, Alex.
“These exalted people are expected to look shiny and regal and good on a postcard. But you’ll never see a picture of Wolfie published anywhere. He’s too modest and too humble. No Rolls in his garage—he drives around Zurich in an old blue Lexus.”
“I find this chap rather likable already,” Hawke said.
“Hmm. I suspect you two will get along, Alex. Wolfie was recently asked by a newspaper reporter about his legendary humility. His answer? ‘I would rather not talk about humility, as to do so would not be humble.’ That’s Wolfie in a nutshell.”
“So when do we finally meet this saint in human form?” said Hawke. A modest man himself, he hated exorbitant praise on anyone.
“Tomorrow morning. He’s on maneuvers with his Tenth Mountain Division high up in the mountains south of Lucerne, but he knows you’re both coming to talk. I’ll provide you with transportation, of course. We’ll be driving down there at first light, a little under an hour. And then military transport to his classified location high in the southern Alps.
“Hope you don’t mind driving in a fifty-year-old Mercedes 200 with studded tires for the first leg of our journey. Heavy snow tomorrow. Anything else? If not, I’ll have a schnapps and then on to a lovely fondue!”
“Splendid!” Ambrose said. “I could eat a horse.”
“We have that, too, Chief Inspector. A great delicacy here at the hotel Bauer au Lac!”
Hawke laughed out loud.
“You’ll get to see the famous Eiger tomorrow—you know, the one they filmed that spy movie about. Clint Eastwood, I think, yes.”
“I’ve seen that mountain from a distance but never climbed it,” Hawke said. “Looked down on the Eiger from near the summit of Der Nadel. Quite a spectacular sight.”
“Quite the view from up there, Alex,” Blinky said.
“Not really. I was hanging upside down by my heels at the time.”