“Entschuldigen Sie bitte, Fraulein. Welche Richtung ist das Haus von Herr Beckerman?”
“Ja.” She pointed down the road. “An der Kirche rechts.”
“Danke.”
Robert turned right at the church and drove up to a modest two-storey stone house with a ceramic tiled roof. He got out of the car and walked up to the door. He could see no bell, and knocked.
A heavyset woman with a faint moustache answered the door. “Ja?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. Is Mr Beckerman in?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want with him?”
Robert gave her a winning smile. “You must be Mrs Beckerman.” He pulled out his reporter’s identification card. “I’m doing a magazine article on Swiss bus drivers, and your husband was recommended to my magazine as having one of the finest safety records in the country.”
She brightened and said proudly, “My Hans is an excellent driver.”
“That’s what everyone tells me, Mrs Beckerman. I would like to do an interview with him.”
“An interview with my Hans for a magazine?” She was flustered. “That is very exciting. Come in, please.”
She led Robert into a small, meticulously neat living room. “Wait here, bitte. I will get Hans.”
The house had a low, beamed ceiling, dark wooden floors and plain wooden furniture. There was a small stone fireplace and lace curtains at the windows.
Robert stood there, thinking. This was not only his best lead, it was his only lead. People come in off the street, buy their ticket and take the tour. We don’t ask for identification … There’s no place to go from here, Robert thought grimly. If this doesn’t work out, I can always place an ad: Will the seven bus passengers who saw a weather balloon crash Sunday please assemble in my hotel room at 1200 tomorrow morning? Breakfast will be served.
A thin, bald man appeared. His complexion was pale, and he wore a thick, black moustache that was startlingly out of keeping with the rest of his appearance. “Good afternoon, Herr …?”
“Smith. Good afternoon.” Robert’s voice was hearty. “I’ve certainly been looking forward to meeting you, Mr Beckerman.”
“My wife tells me you are writing a story about bus drivers.” He spoke with a heavy German accent.
Robert smiled ingratiatingly. “That’s right. My magazine is interested in your wonderful safety record and …”
“Scheissdreck!” Beckerman said rudely. “You are interested in the thing that crashed Sunday afternoon, no?”
Robert managed to look abashed. “As a matter of fact, yes, I am interested in discussing that, too.”
“Then why do you not come out and say so? Sit down.”
“Thank you.” Robert took a seat on the couch.
Beckerman said, “I am sorry I cannot offer you a drink, but we do not keep schnapps in the house anymore.” He tapped his stomach. “Ulcers. The doctors cannot even give me drugs to relieve the pain. I am allergic to all of them.” He sat down opposite Robert. “But you did not come here to talk about my health, eh? What is it you wish to know?”
“I want to talk to you about the passengers who were on your bus Sunday when you stopped near Uetendorf where the weather balloon crashed.”
Hans Beckerman was staring at him. “Weather balloon? What weather balloon? What are you talking about?”
The balloon that
“You mean the spaceship.”
It was Robert’s turn to stare. “The … spaceship?”
“Ja, the flying saucer.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Robert felt a sudden chill. “Are you telling me that you saw a flying saucer?”
“Ja. With dead bodies in it.”
Yesterday, in the Swiss Alps, a NA TO weather balloon crashed. There were some experimental military objects aboard the balloon that are highly secret.
Robert tried hard to sound calm. “Mr Beckerman, are you certain that what you saw was a flying saucer?”
“Of course. What they call a UFO.”
“And there were dead people inside?”
“Not people, no. Creatures. It is hard to describe them.” He gave a little shiver. “They were very small with big, strange eyes. They were dressed in suits of a silver metallic colour. It was very frightening.”
Robert listened, his mind in a turmoil. “Did your passengers see this?”
“Oh.y’a. We all saw it. I stopped there for maybe fifteen minutes. They wanted me to stay longer, but the company is very strict about schedules.”
Robert knew the question was futile before he even asked it. “Mr Beckerman, would you happen to know the names of any of your passengers?”
“Mister, I drive a bus. The .passengers buy a ticket in Zurich and we take a tour southwest to Interlaken and then northwest to Bern. They can either get off at Bern or return to Zurich. Nobody gives their names.”
Robert said, desperately, “There’s no way you can identify any of them?”
The bus driver thought for a moment. “Well, I can tell you there were no children on that trip. Just men.”
“Only men?”
Beckerman thought for a moment. “No. That’s not right. There was one woman, too.”
Terrific. That really narrows it down, Robert thought. Next question: Why the hell did I ever agree to this assignment? “What you’re saying, Mr Beckerman, is that a group of tourists boarded your bus at Zurich, and then when the tour was over, they simply scattered?”
“That’s right, Mr Smith.”