The Josef Slonský Box Set

by Graham Brack

‘You won’t need your coat. It’s a detour inside this building.’

  At the foot of the stairs they turned towards the cells.

  ‘I just want to run something past Banda. Watch his reaction for me.’

  Mucha opened the door and they entered. Banda glanced at them with an irritated expression.

  ‘Have you come to molest me again?’

  ‘No. I wondered if you felt like giving me some help.’

  Banda put his pencil down carefully.

  ‘Why should I want to help you?’

  ‘So I can help you.’

  ‘And how would that be, precisely?’

  ‘Do you know Daniel Soucha?’

  Banda pursed his lips.

  ‘I know of him. He’s by no means a friend.’

  ‘I see.’

  Slonský turned to leave.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really. It’s just that he’s having the same trouble with his relationships that you are.’

  ‘Someone murdered his girlfriend? I can empathise. Are you going to lock him up too?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re going to have a coffee with him first.’

  Mucha closed the door behind them.

  ‘Well, Navrátil?’

  ‘Nothing. But what was I supposed to be looking for?’

  ‘He didn’t doubt that Soucha would have a girlfriend. So he didn’t know either. And if he didn’t know, he couldn’t have arranged to have the picture sent. And therefore, in my humble but conclusive opinion, he isn’t the murderer. Quod erat demonstrandum.’

  ‘Quod what?’ asked Mucha.

  ‘Erat demonstrandum. “Which was to be proved.” It was a test, Mucha.’

  ‘Oh. Did I pass?’

  Soucha was a tall, slim man with a floppy shock of blond hair that repeatedly fell over his right eye when he moved his head. Cartoonists concentrated on that piece of hair which, in their representations, became bigger and more unmanageable as the years passed. In some versions now it jutted from his head like a cantilever, extending well beyond the tip of his nose and flopping across his right shoulder when it collapsed. He showed Slonský and Navrátil to seats around a low glass table and brushed his hair back as he unbuttoned his jacket and sat in a single fluid motion.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point, sir. I’m afraid this isn’t going to be pleasant.’

  Soucha looked at each of them quizzically.

  ‘Bad news? Someone in the family died?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s about you. Someone has sent me a document that I need to ask you about.’

  If Soucha was concerned, he hid it very well indeed. He looked just like a man who had no idea what Slonský was talking about.

  ‘Fire away, then.’

  Slonský passed him the envelope. Soucha hesitated, as if unsure whether he was meant to look inside, then peeled back the flap and pulled out the photograph. As he realised its content his face passed from Mediterranean tan to Nordic white.

  ‘Good God. I … Where…?’

  ‘It was posted to me, sir. No covering letter. I take it that you recognise yourself as the gentleman on the right.’

  Soucha swallowed hard.

  ‘Yes. That is me.’

  ‘And the other gentleman?’

  ‘Look, we’re not doing anything illegal. Why are you asking me about it?’

  ‘We’re investigating a serious crime, sir, and the circumstances in which this was received suggest to me that there is a connection. I just don’t know what it is. I hoped you would.’

  ‘Does this have to get out? I mean, you’ll exercise discretion about who gets to see —’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. If my questions are answered satisfactorily no-one else need see it. Though, of course, the sender may have made other copies.’

  If Soucha was pale before, he became rather grey now.

  ‘Let’s get it over with. What do you want to know?’

  Slonský motioned to Navrátil to make notes.

  ‘The other gentleman, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘You seem to know him rather well in the photograph, if I may say so, sir.’

  ‘I only met him a few days before at a party. He’s called Mario.’

  ‘Mario?’

  ‘Presumably a nickname.’

  ‘You don’t say, sir? Mario. Write that down, Navrátil.’

  ‘I think he’s foreign. Austrian, maybe. He spoke Czech with an accent.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen him again?’

  ‘Lunch a few days later. Then we lost touch.’

  ‘Do you have a phone number for him?’

  ‘He stopped answering.’

  Soucha took out his cellphone and found the number, which he showed to Navrátil.

  ‘Dial it, Navrátil.’

  Soucha rubbed his hands together in a compulsive washing motion as they waited.

  ‘Number unobtainable, sir,’ Navrátil reported.

  ‘Shame. Where did you meet?’

  ‘It was a party at the National Theatre. I went to see a play and was invited to join the host for some wine and nibbles.’

  ‘“Nibbles”, sir?’

  ‘You know, canapés. That sort of thing.’

  ‘We’re not big on canapés in the police, sir. They’re rarely offered. But your host introduced you to Mario.’

  ‘No, he was just there. I’m not sure who brought him. He didn’t seem to be with anyone in particular.’

  Slonský shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘I don’t mean to offend, sir, but I don’t know anything about … that sort of lifestyle, and I need to understand how this happened. If nobody knew that you were that way inclined, how did you and Mario recognise that you were kindred spirits?’

  ‘You just know, Inspector. When you’re “that way inclined” you get a sense for who else feels the same way. Presumably Mario sensed it about me.’

  ‘So he approached you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he did. I was chatting to a few friends when I noticed him looking at me intently. It was a bit unnerving, to be honest. Then he smiled and when I detached myself he walked over to say hello.’

  ‘And one thing led to another.’

  ‘Not immediately. We agreed to meet at the weekend.’

  ‘Where, sir?’

  ‘Our original plan was to meet at a restaurant and see what progressed. But on the Friday I was talking to a friend who offered me the use of his summer house if I ever wanted it.’

  ‘That’s very generous, sir.’

  ‘Yes. I said I’d like to do that one day, and he said he wasn’t using it at the weekend, and perhaps I’d like to look it over. I would be doing him a favour because he hadn’t had time to go out there for a few weeks and he’d like to know it was in good repair.’

  ‘Was this recently, sir?’

  ‘Last summer, I think.’

  ‘So you agreed to go out there. Very helpful of you, I’m sure. Weren’t there any staff in a place this size?’

  ‘He said nobody lived in. There were a few people in the village who came up when he needed a cook or a gardener, for example, but it would be empty. He suggested I might like to take some company.’

  ‘I imagine he didn’t know about Mario, then.’

  ‘No, he offered to fix me up with a girl if I wanted, but I said it would be good to get away to do a bit of writing.’

  ‘Who was this kindly benefactor, sir?’

  ‘Dr Sammler. Theodor Sammler.’

  ‘And how do you know him?’

  ‘He was quite a big donor to the party.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Could still be. But I met him first after he provided a lot of IT equipment for our central office. I gather he’s some sort of wheeler-dealer.’

  ‘Where would I find Dr Sammler?’

  ‘I don’t know. Central Office could probably tell you.’

  Slonský mulled this information for a few moments, then picked up his hat
and held out a hand.

  ‘Goodbye, sir. Thanks for seeing us. Navrátil, pick up the photo, please. We’ll see ourselves out, sir.’

  As they strode to the car, Navrátil shook his head wonderingly.

  ‘He just lent a stranger his house! Who goes around doing that?’

  ‘Very kindly people, Navrátil. Trusting, gentle kindly souls. People like you, in fact. And, of course, the occasional complete villain. Let’s see what we can find out about Dr Sammler.’

  Chapter 16

  Klinger’s eyes narrowed and flicked from Slonský to Navrátil and back to Slonský again.

  ‘Why do you want to know about Theodor Sammler?’

  ‘Idle curiosity.’

  ‘I believe the idle bit. I suppose you aren’t going to tell me.’

  ‘You know I’d like to,’ Slonský said soothingly, ‘but my lips must remain clamped together like a nun’s knees.’

  Klinger held his steepled fingers to his lips while he thought.

  ‘At least answer me this. Do you have any evidence that Sammler has done anything that my department ought to know about?’

  ‘No. But the fact that you ask suggests you have.’

  Klinger got up and went to the filing cabinet, drawing out a slim folder with a number of coloured sticky notes protruding at the edge. Slonský noted with delight that a green sticker was out of alignment with the others, and watched silently as Klinger opened the file and carefully repositioned it, before closing the folder again and holding it up to check that the edges of the stickers formed a straight line.

  ‘If I had, life would be easier. Sammler is a German businessman. He’s lived here in Prague for about twenty years on and off. Daddy was a rich industrialist somewhere in West Germany, and we assume he bankrolled young Theodor, because the youngster first seems to have come here around 1986. He got a job with an Austrian bank and came back a couple of times over the next year or so. But he really comes to official notice after the Velvet Revolution when we privatised a lot of our businesses. Do you remember the coupons?’

  Navrátil shook his head.

  ‘Vaguely,’ said Slonský.

  Klinger smiled in anticipation of the opportunity to give these neophytes a lesson in financial matters.

  ‘Briefly, any adult Czech could buy a book of vouchers for thirty-five crowns. They could then register it for another thousand crowns, in exchange for which they got points. The points were used to bid for shares in companies that the government was selling off. Most Czechs didn’t understand the system and, frankly, couldn’t be bothered, but a few banks hit on a way round this. They would manage your points for you, and even pay you a fee. You gave them your vouchers, and they did all the rest. Of course, quite often the return for the banks was huge, but all you’d got was whatever you sold the vouchers for. Sammler cooked up one of the first of those schemes, but it was actually rather clever. He borrowed money on the strength of the shares he had just bought, which enabled him to buy more shares, which pushed the price up, so he could then redeem his loan more cheaply. If he was slick it was money for nothing. Ownership of some large Czech assets passed to foreigners, and while we enjoyed the money coming in, there was an inevitable backlash.’

  He paused to sip his coffee and invite questions, of which there were none. Navrátil had not understood and Slonský just wanted to get to the end of the story.

  ‘Friend Sammler was clever enough to get out of voucher trading and offer his services to the government to get some of those assets back. He didn’t have a lot of successes, but he didn’t need many. A select few gave him a big return. He found foreign owners who needed cash, and he would buy a stake in something they owned. But the deal would include a clause allowing him first option on the rest of that asset if they ever sold it. Then, as sure as night follows day, there would be a collapse of the company’s share price, and the asset would be quietly sold to Sammler’s bank to get some cash in quickly and discreetly. It’s estimated he may have paid only sixty per cent of the true value of what he bought. Sammler’s bank became very rich, and he did quite well out of it too. What none of us knew then was that Sammler had owned the Austrian bank all along, or at least he controlled it.’

  Navrátil wanted to ask a question, and was sorely tempted to raise a hand as if in class.

  ‘Was any of this illegal?’

  ‘Probably not. And I don’t hear of anything now that is definitely illegal. I just wonder why he stays here instead of using his undoubted financial skills in Germany where he could make a real killing.’

  ‘Maybe he likes Prague,’ suggested Slonský.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to like much at all. He does the Prague Castle circuit, knows all the top people, but hates publicity, doesn’t have expensive hobbies — not one for fast cars or flashy holidays.’

  ‘He has a country house though.’

  ‘Yes, he does. You heard that? Not exactly a cottage, is it? But there are bigger ones, and he doesn’t spend a lot of time there, I understand. If I didn’t know better I’d say he only keeps it so he can lend it out to people who might thereby feel they owe him a favour.’

  ‘There you are!’ exclaimed Slonský. ‘I knew we’d agree on something if I came here often enough.’

  Klinger leaned forward abruptly.

  ‘You know something, don’t you? You’ve heard a whisper. Come on, Slonský, out with it.’

  Slonský sighed.

  ‘Between us?’

  ‘Between us,’ Klinger confirmed.

  ‘You know this murder we’re investigating. It turns out that Sammler lent his house to one of the suspects. I just couldn’t see why he would do that.’

  ‘Is the suspect a politician?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there you are then. Why does Sammler do anything? Definitely not for charitable reasons. He’s an arch-capitalist, Slonský. He believes everything has its price — and everyone.’

  ‘Why did you lie to Klinger just then?’ asked Navrátil as they trotted down the stairs.

  ‘He brings out the worst in me. I can’t resist telling him a little story.’

  ‘But Soucha isn’t a suspect for the Gruberová murder, sir.’

  ‘No, but Banda is.’

  ‘Has he visited the country house too, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Slonský. ‘But it’s worth asking, don’t you think?’

  Banda’s scribbling was his sole amusement. Mucha had given up rationing his paper and had left him a ream of flimsy copy paper, which Banda had turned into some letters, a few complaints, and several chapters of autobiography. If he had hopes that the latter would prove a bestseller, they were sabotaged by his exclusion of any matters of general public interest, such as how he had murdered his girlfriend.

  He glanced up briefly as Slonský entered the cell.

  ‘Have you come to torment me again?’

  ‘Only if absolutely necessary. Though I can’t guarantee I won’t hum a Sinatra tune or two.’

  Banda laid his pencil down parallel to the top of his page and turned to Slonský to indicate that he was prepared to give him his full attention.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I wondered if you knew a Dr Theodor Sammler.’

  ‘Of course I do. Who doesn’t?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  Banda shrugged to convey that anyone who was anyone would know Sammler, but that Slonský might not fall into this group.

  ‘Perhaps you would write me a letter of introduction.’

  ‘If it helps me get out of this place, bring me a better pencil and I’ll get onto it straight away.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to get out if I were you. If you didn’t kill Irina, whoever did might be upset if you aren’t blamed for it, since he must have gone to such trouble to frame you.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her, and that’s a chance I have to take. Though I hope that the police will ensure my safety by catching the real killer.’

 
; It was Slonský’s turn to shrug.

  ‘We might, if we’ve got nothing better to do.’

  Banda closed his hand tightly around his pencil and breathed deeply to dissipate his anger.

  ‘I’m not sure I like you,’ he hissed.

  Slonský leaned forward until their noses were almost touching.

  ‘I’m not sure I give a toss,’ he replied.

  The two men held their stares like boxers at a championship weigh-in, until Banda threw his pencil aside in annoyance.

  ‘This is ridiculous. Ask me what you want, then leave me in peace.’

  ‘Tell me about Dr Sammler.’

  ‘I know very little about him personally. We met regularly, as you would expect given that he is a leading financier in the Czech Republic and has been very helpful to this and previous governments.’

  ‘How regularly?’

  ‘Perhaps once or twice a month. Rarely one to one, but we move in the same circles in the Castle district. However, if Sammler wanted to speak to me he had only to ring my office and I would make time for a man of his importance.’

  ‘Have you ever been to his country house?’

  ‘No. I don’t even know where it is. I’m not sure he does either. He’s not a country lover, Slonský. Dr Sammler is thoroughly urban.’

  ‘Any family?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe so. Certainly I’ve never heard mention of any. I think he lives alone near his office, perhaps with a housekeeper.’

  ‘Is he a socialite?’

  Banda laughed.

  ‘Sammler? A playboy? No, he’s a German. He doesn’t believe in fun. In a previous age he’d have been a Puritan.’

  ‘So he didn’t approve of your relationship with Miss Gruberová, then?’

  ‘He neither approved nor disapproved, at least not to my face. He’s a cultured man who is better bred than to comment on another man’s private affairs.’

  ‘Any idea how he feels about homosexuality?’

  ‘No, nor do I know what football team he supports, his shoe size or his favourite wine. If you’re asking me if he is one, the answer is no. If he needs a female escort, he has no trouble finding one. But he is a very self-contained man, Lieutenant. He seems not to crave human relationships very much, other than those devoted to business.’