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“Does he have a name?” Sam asked.
“If you were to ask in town about the crazy recluse, someone might know.”
“Where would—?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you. I really have to go.”
She quickly walked up the stairs and into the castle, never looking back.
“Odd,” Remi said.
Sam agreed. “Makes you wonder if that hunting accident was really a hunting accident.”
30
In the neighborhood below the castle, everyone seemed to know who the man was—Crazy Gustaw—but no one seemed to k
now where he lived. Sam was grateful that enough people in the area spoke English to make it easy to ask questions. Unfortunately, no one wanted to talk about the man. Their best source was at a newsstand. “You don’t find him,” the man working there said. “Gustaw finds you. If that happens, watch out.”
“How?”
The man shrugged.
After a frustrating morning of their polite inquiries being avoided, Sam pulled out several bills, placing them on the newsstand counter. “Is there anyone who can help us locate him?”
“Possibly at the pub,” he said, picking up the money and pocketing it, then pointing down the street. “After they closed the mines, some of the old miners still meet there. You’ll recognize them. They sit at the tables in the corner, playing dice. Gustaw used to drink with them. Not anymore. Not since his friend was killed.”
“We appreciate your help.”
“You may not. They aren’t too friendly to strangers.”
Sam agreed with his assessment when they walked into the dark-paneled pub. The group of men in the corner, ranging in age from mid-fifties to late sixties, continued playing their game, ignoring them, as Sam asked if anyone knew where to find Gustaw.
Sergei repeated the question in Polish. A gray-haired man sitting closest to them swept his gaze across the room, before landing on Sergei, then Sam, in English, saying, “Better you leave.”
“We’re looking for a guide,” Sam said. “Someone who knows the history on some of the tunnels in the mountains and who might be able to interpret an old map to current locations.”
“Sorry you wasted your time. The government has moratorium on digging in area. Too many people trying to find Nazi Gold Train.”
“We’re not after the train,” Sam said. “Just trying to find some information—”
“No information. The Guard always watching.” He turned his back to them, reaching for the dice cup.
“What can we do to change your mind?”
“Nothing,” he said without turning around. “You should leave. Before anything happens.”
“Like what?”
“Getting shot.” He covered the top of the cup and began shaking it, the dice rattling inside. No one else at the table would even look at them.
Sam glanced around the dimly lit bar, noticing the handful of other patrons sitting about, their expressions wary, looking the other way when Sam tried to make eye contact.
The bartender, drying glasses with a white towel, watched the proceedings in silence.
“Let’s see what he knows,” Sam said quietly. They crossed the room, taking a seat at the bar. “Three pints of whatever lager you have on tap,” Sam said. “And some information.”
“Americans?”