The Tenth Witness (Henri Poincare Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

wanted a new start. So we moved. The best thing I ever did!”
    Schoolchildren know that Germans didn’t resettle in Buenos Aires in 1946 for a change of climate. But I let it go and made the acquaintance of Franz Hofmann, a gray and gaunt man with food stains on his jacket and patches of white stubble he’d missed shaving. I’d seen him shuffle through a waltz with Anselm’s wife. Off the dance floor, he used a cane, and I was shocked at the strength of his grip as we introduced ourselves. He could have pulled me into a grave.
    Uncle Franz, I later learned, had suffered a stroke, and Anselm’s family had provided a room at their home in Munich and here on Terschelling. He had no one else, apparently, and the Krauses were nothing if not loyal. Nagel whispered in my ear, “He’s a shadow of his former self. He was a magnificent man.”
    This was a German-speaking crowd, men and women of distinct generations: snowy-haired contemporaries of Otto in their sixties and seventies, and gray-flecked friends of Anselm in their early to mid-forties. It wasn’t a generous thought, but I wondered how the elders would have reacted had I lobbed a Heil Hitler into the room. They had voted for Hitler, after all; nearly everyone did who wanted to avoid a visit from their local Storm Troopers.
    I don’t remember the dinner, save for the fact that I was pleased not to be eating rabbit. Over coffee, Anselm stood at one end of a very long table and boasted about his sister and how she had founded the Kraus Family Charities.
    “It’s the Kraus one-two punch,” he said. “Take Uganda, for example. When I learned of their iron ore deposits, I struck a deal with President Amin to dig two mines. Liesel met with the ministries of health and education to build schools and hospitals. We have all won in Uganda—the president, Kraus Steel, and the children! So tonight, just for a moment, and without letting it go to our heads, let’s celebrate and feel good about ourselves. Cheers to you all!”
    On cue, a waiter rolled out Anselm’s birthday cake.
    L ATER , AFTER fending off more congratulations with polite thank you’s, Liesel walked me onto the terrace. We were holding hands when I felt the first, painful cramping in my calf—the weather changing, just as Alec promised.
    I glanced at my watch. The dive would begin in eight hours. It would be raining, not that the divers cared. The wind and wave action would be another matter if sand kicked up over the wreck and cut visibility.
    “Let’s walk,” she said.
    She was exhausted from the morning’s hike and all the attention that evening. But given all the talk of Uganda, I had to learn if she’d met Idi Amin. In those days, you couldn’t not know the man’s reputation.
    “Yes, we’ve met. Several times.”
    “And?”
    “He’s charming for a butcher. But what am I going to do? There’s a hundred thousand million tons of high-grade iron ore in the east and southwest of Uganda—and a countryside filled with illiterate children and people dying of dengue fever. Anselm’s in Uganda, like it or not; and I try to do some good wherever he does business. That’s the model, and sometimes I have to hold my nose.”
    She felt me wincing.
    “Oh, please. Would you let children die because Amin’s a pig? It’s better to accommodate the pig and save the farm.”
    We walked along a stone balustrade. The dune grasses were bending before a rising breeze. The moon danced on the water, and I considered every kind of romantic entanglement.
    “I’m glad you almost drowned,” she said. She stopped and straightened my bow tie. “No, that came out wrong. I’m glad that what happened, happened. I’m glad you’re here.”
    “The experiment . . . it’s going well so far?”
    She smiled. “Yes, Herr Poincaré.”
    “And Mr. Bayer . . . he’ll survive? He didn’t look pleased.”
    “I saw him later with one of the servers, an island girl. I suppose he’ll have a guest to his room tonight,