Emerald Read Free Page A

carefully out of the garage, stopped, got out and locked the doors behind him.
    The six cylinders purred as he drove through the villages on the north side of the lake. Most of the traffic there was flowing the other way toward the city center.
These Swiss
, he thought,
so punctual, so precise, like a watch, yet always getting in his way
. Staying just below the 120 kilometer limit on the Motorway and obeying every road law, he again marveled at the German efficiency of this machine. He felt a temptation to mash on the gas pedal and turn the power loose under the hood as he entered the autobahn heading for Lausanne.
    The highway cut through terraced vineyards high on the slopes of Lake Geneva. The lake’s wide blue canvas filled his vision on the right. Beyond it, wreathed in cloud, rose the snow-covered tips of the Junta Mountains. As he neared Nyon, on the outskirts of Geneva, he almost fell into a state of picturesque tranquility. Yet he had to keep his guard up. Any accident, any minor mishap, might tie him into the police investigation of the murders and burglaries around Geneva.
    The miles flew by. He entered the outskirts of Lausanne and looked for the turn that led to Berne. A semi-truck in front of him was well below the speed limit. Hans leaned on his horn. The road ahead cleared enough to pass. He maneuvered around the truck. Its driver jabbed his middle finger at Hans and pulled his air horn in a loud blast. Hans saluted him back the same way and pulled in front of the truck.
    “Asshole, why don’t you get that frikin truck off the highway or at least respect for other drivers.”
    The highway to Berne came up. Hans negotiated the turn at a high rate of speed, just to feel the camber of the road, then slowing to within the limit again; he watched the road and thought about what might lay ahead for him in Munich.
    Upon his return to Europe from Argentina, he had settled in Switzerland, well really in France because he felt the French laws would allow him to roam more freely throughout Europe in his search for his emerald. For months he tried to track down his grandparents’ servants and friends to see if they knew anything about the emerald without luck.
    Humming a Spanish love song he learned in Argentina, he noticed the lush landscape around him fly past. He was driving through a wide valley where nestled farm after farm. Beyond the farms were large stands of evergreen trees. Not a bad place to settle down, he thought.
    After entering the outskirts of Berne he stopped at a small café and telephoned his friend again. He learned the only person still alive who might know of the emerald might be Fritz, his grandfather’s chauffer. However, Fritz was in poor health, in fact he wasn’t sure if Fritz was even alive. The only address, and this was several years old, was a rest home near Starnberger Lake, a few miles southwest of Munich - - - no street address, just the name. After writing down the address, Hans said Heil Hitler out of habit, and said he’d send him a reward and hung up.
    Hans checked his petrol gage, saw it contained plenty, and drove back onto the highway north of Berne toward Zurich. A large sign announced the Emmental section of Switzerland. His mouth watered for Emmental Cheese, particularly his favorite, aged Premier Cru, a passion he inherited from his father back home.
    Pulling off the highway at the first Emmental cheese farm he saw, he parked beside the brightly painted chalet. Getting out, he stretched, allowing the scent of the wondrous cheese to fill the air and his memories.
    Inside the dark wood shop a vivacious young woman dressed in a lace-up red, corset dress, blue skirt, white poplin apron and white stockings greeted him. She held a wooden tray of cheese samples. Hans ignored her, walked to the counter where several customers waited. He nudged his way closer to the counter and in a rather loud voice asked for some Emmentaler Premier Cru.
    “Just a minute, sir,” The woman