The Case Before Christmas: Chapter X

Hugh Hamilton

"Nor," he continued, "are we Austrian."
"That's a pity," said Ben. "I've always been partial to Austrians. So what are you then, Swiss?"
"No."
"Hungarian?"
"No."
"Swiss?"
"We're locals."
"Explains the suddenly familiar accent."
"And the conspiracy thing?" asked a redundant-feeling Hugh.
The bearded man shifted his gaze about the room then leaned in conspiratorially.
"This club," he began, "this club within a club, I should say, is an exclusive club."
Ben nodded, as he had ceased paying attention.
"In fact, in recent years it has become so exclusive that anyone who does not speak German as a first language is denied membership outright, regardless of fluency or cultural affiliation."
"Interesting," lied Hugh.
"Naturally, this didn't sit right with us Europhile/lecher locals."
"Naturally," lied Hugh.
"And thus we formulated a plan."
"Oh yes?" said one of the group, forgetting who he was.
"We pretended German was our first language."
The man searched for eavesdropping first-languagers, then, satisfied, exhaled.
Ben twitched. "And?"
"And what?"
"What about the conspiracy-containing note?"
"Ah, well, truth be told, we can't actually read it. You might say it's more conspiracy-revealing than conspiracy-containing."
"You can't read German?"
"Not exactly. In fact, not even imprecisely. You might even say we can't read German."
"Right," said Fred Ben. "So even though the entire basis of your plan was pretending German was your first language, you can't actually speak German?"
"Oh, no no no," said the man, something unpleasant dripping off his beard. "We can speak German. We have no problem speaking German. It's the understanding part we have trouble with, the whole business of knowing what all the funny words mean."
"And somehow you haven't been found out until now?" said Hugh.
"You'd be surprised what you can do with a handful of stock German phrases. You know, guten tag, es abzunehmen, that sort of thing. No one seems to be the wiser."
"You can't tell us anything about the note?" said Ben, a little pathetically.
"Not unless you'd like to know who wrote it."
"What!?" said Hugh and Ben.
"I'd recognise that handwriting anywhere, light permitting."
"Whose is it?" said Hugh and Ben.
"Why it's old Schmid's."
"Wyatt Auschmitzer?"
"Schmid. Lovely chap. I'll introduce you."
"Great! Where is he?" Ben rubbed his hands and started scoping the room for people who looked like they might be called Schmid.
"Oh, I'm afraid he was expelled from the club some time back. Excessive contact. It's a dreadful shame. He was on his third warning."
"Where is he now?" asked Ben.
"Search me."
"You don't know?"
"No, I mean Search me. He tattooed a forwarding address somewhere on my body — I can't recall where."
"Find it!" screamed Ben, suddenly and rudely.
"We might need to pop into the change room and have a look. They're a little queer about voluntary nudity out here."
"Ben would be delighted to," said Hugh.
"Allow his companion to do the honours," continued Ben. "Off you go, Hugh."
"Shotgun!"
"Oh, are we naming firearms now? Revolver!"
Hugh paused for a moment, then the spirit of the season caught him.
"Merry Christmas, Ben," he said, tenderly, lovingly, and leading the hygieneless man into the change room.
Fourteen minutes later, Hugh emerged, looking as if he had sworn off food and sex for life.
"How'd it go?" asked Ben, grinning.
Silent, Hugh retrieved a scrawled-on receipt from his pocket and handed it to Ben, who read it.
"Shall we?" said Ben.