by Nan Lyons
“Mrs. Kohner, calm yourself, surely there are not more people who would have wanted to kill your husband?”
“Of course there were. Probably hundreds. He was a very popular man.”
“But what I mean is, who do you think was actually capable of killing him?”
“Everyone was capable of killing him. It seems to me that the question, Herr Inspector, is who stood to gain the most from his death.”
“And who do you think would gain the most from his death?”
“How should I know that? I am the Witwe not the Detektiv.” Detective Inspector Carmody watched a small sneer part her lips.
“I was wondering, Mrs. Kohner, if we might not discuss further your late husband’s … uh”—he stammered for a moment trying to find the right word—“your husband’s relationship with Miss O’Brien. I mean to ask, what were your feelings about this relationship?”
“You mean to ask questions that will make you feel superior.”
“Were you aware that your husband was having an … a relationship with Miss O’Brien?”
“Perhaps you are not secure as a man. Perhaps that is the reason you torture old women.”
“Mrs. Kohner!”
“What do you think, Wunderkind? What do you think I felt about my husband sleeping with Tasha? He comes home one day with her, like you bring home a lost dog. I had no children. She was ten, eleven, twelve. I had no pets. So we kept her. No one else wanted her. I made her clothes. I fed her. Nein, more than feeding her, I was the one who taught her how to cook. She was my friend, my sister, my daughter. No mother could love a child more than I loved her. Does she know about Louis?”
“Yes. She was here this morning to make a statement.”
“Did she tell you where she was last night?”
Carmody hesitated.
“Do you know she was making dinner for your Queen?” Hildegarde smiled. “I didn’t do such a bad job, ja?”
“You must be very proud of her.”
“I do not want to see her. I have not seen her in ten years.”
“Then you knew about their… relationship?”
“I knew because Louis told me.”
“He told you!”
“Yes. It was the morning after their first time together. He and I were alone. Rolling the Strudel dough. I looked at him and I knew. I picked up the pastry scissors and put them to his neck. ‘Are you sleeping with her?’ I asked, pushing the scissors into his neck. ‘Ja’ he says to me.” She began to cry. “You have never met such an honest man.”
“Did Miss O’Brien know that you knew?”
“Not for a long time. What kind of person do you think I am? You have no feelings. Do you think I would tell her? And ruin her first affair? I told you I loved her. How wonderful for her to find someone like Louis. What more could any mother ask?”
Inspector Carmody stared at Hildegarde, uncertain how to proceed with his questioning. “Mrs. Kohner, would you mind telling me why you and your late husband separated?”
“Because we had been together for too long.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand how two people can be together too long? Mein Gott! You British are so passionless you cannot understand lack of passion. Louis …” She hesitated. “Ach, mein Schätze.” She began to cry. And then after a moment, “My Louis was not an easy man to love. Even Natasha did not have an easy time with him. What do you think made her marry that American hot dog?”
“Do you think Mr. Ogden might have …?”
“And dirty his lily-white hands? Ha! I tell you, mein Kapitän, I think he would have loved to kill Louis, but he would not have the courage.”
“And Mr. van Golk?”
“Achille? Why should he kill Louis? Mein Gott! Achille had the most to lose by Louis dying. He cannot feed his fat face with Louis’ cooking any more. No, Inspektor. There was only one man with the courage and imagination to have killed Louis. And that was Louis.”
Detective Inspector Carmody rose from his chair. “I thank you for your help. We will be in touch as soon as there is something to report.”
Hildegarde got up. “So I will never hear from you again?”
“I’m confident we’ll be able to clear up this case.”
“I’ll send you a Strudel when you do.”
“Just one more question. When I called you this morning you said that Gerechtigkeit had been served.”
“I loved my husband, Inspector. But what he did was wrong. He was wrong to make my Natasha a Greek tragedy. I told him that But he wouldn’t listen. Now he knows he was wrong. He has been punished.”
“Indeed,” he said softly. “And justice has been served.”
“Precisely.” Carmody hesitated for a moment, then opened the door for her.
“Mami!” Natasha rose from the bench in the corridor and ran to Hildegarde. The two women embraced, crying. They held tightly to one another. “Mami, Mami,” Natasha repeated. Carmody stepped back from the doorway and stood listening as Natasha and Hildegarde sat on the bench.
“I didn’t know what to do, Mami. I called you and Frau Muller told me you were here.”
Hildegarde pulled back. “I did not want to see you.”
“Mami, don’t hate me. We only have each other now.”
“We always had each other. Now we have nothing.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I swear I will.”
“You owe me nothing.”
“Mami, that first time, I made him do it. He was drunk.”
“He told me. Please do not tell me again.”
“You knew? You knew in Vienna?”
“Tochter, I knew before you knew. I could see it on your faces.”
“Oh, God. How terrible it must have been for you.”
“Yes. And now it will be terrible for you. I lost Louis a long time ago. You have just lost him, and I am sorry for you.”
“I’ve always asked about you. Not from Louis, but from others. I’ve always known where you were.” She smiled briefly. “I even knew about your fights with Miss Penreddy, and the time you sprained your arm, and when you flew to Paris to help Auguste start his restaurant. …”
“And I have watched you on the television, and I have read what you write in the magazines.” There was a pause. The crying had stopped and they sat looking at one another, for a moment oblivious to where they were and why. “Do you remember, Tochter, how afraid you were that you would be ugly? Do you think back to those days at all?”
“Yes. I do. Mami, come with me.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere! New York, San Francisco, Paris, Rome. I have a lot of money. We could open a restaurant together. Remember how we talked about it. How we tried to get Herr Schnederer to give us a lease on that place on the Opernplatz?”
Hildegarde moved away. “Please, don’t do this to me. Do not be cruel. I have found peace all these years because I have had no dreams.”
“But, Mami. This would be real. We could have our own place. The way we want it to be.”
“Tochter, I am not unhappy with my life. And I do not think you are so unhappy with yours or else you would not be so successful. The champagne must not expect sympathy because it is not cognac. You have done well. Don’t become bourgeois and punish yourself for it”
“Then come and live with me. Be part of my life.”
“No,” she said softly. “My own life is too important”
“Mami, let me help. I want…”
“Listen to me. I have tried to hate you, mein Tochter. For years I tried, because I thought I should. I thought it would be proper. But I loved you when you were a child because I wanted to love you. Even when you were sleeping with my husband, I loved you.” She stood up. “It is enough. You must understand that I love you, but I do not wish to see you again.”
“Mami, I am all alone.”
“Then you must learn to like yourself.” She looked at her watch. “I must go. I am late
for the Sauerbraten.”
Natasha stood watching as Hildegarde walked away. Inspector Carmody came into the corridor and brought Natasha into his office. Without speaking he opened a file drawer, took out a bottle of brandy and a glass. He poured a drink for her. She drank it without ever meeting his eyes.
“Would you like another?” She nodded yes. He poured again.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass from him. “I thought on my way back down here that I could make it all up to her somehow. Or that she would at least be angry enough with me to comfort my own guilt. But I just feel so empty now. I don’t feel anything, Inspector.” Natasha looked up and noticed the picture of the Queen on the wall. She started to laugh. “It’s all so absurd.”
“What is?”
“Last night I felt like Cinderella. Inspector, what do I do? About the funeral. How do I …?”
“Mr. van Golk has already made arrangements. The body … the remains were released an hour ago.”
“Thank God. Is there anything else?”
“No. We have your statement from this morning.”
Natasha got up from her chair. “Inspector, do you think he suffered very much?”
He turned away from her. “The report shows that his hands were found clutching the inside latch.”
“Oh, my God. But how did …”
“We believe that he was knocked unconscious before being put into the oven. There was a fracture on the skull. But it would appear that the oven was not turned on until after the body was put into it.”
“You mean he regained consciousness while the oven was heating?”
“It would have taken about ten minutes for the temperature to rise sufficiently to have seared his lungs. But we believe he died from suffocation because the flames took all oxygen out of the oven.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, Louis.” Natasha ran from the room. “I’m going to be sick.”
NEW SCOTLAND YARD
Division of Homicide
Case Report No. 3287 Date 10 Sept
Reporting Officer D. I. Carmody
Description of Unusual Event:
At approx. 7:30 Mr. Frank Sacristedes (47, Caucasian, 8 Happenworth Square) discovered the body of Louis Wilhelm Kohner, 58, inside the bread baking oven of the Savoy Hotel. Sacristedes, an assistant to Kohner, was checking an incoming order in the pantry when he became aware of the smell of something burning. According to Sacristedes this was not unusual because rodents sometimes get trapped in an oven. Although it was Sacristedes’ job to turn on the oven each morning preparatory to baking the luncheon breads, he noticed that the oven was already on when he arrived shortly after 7. Sacristedes assumed that Kohner had turned on the oven himself. Sacristedes opened the oven door and found the body. Sacristedes said he knew it was Kohner immediately because of the ring on his finger (a signet ring with a crossed knife and spoon given to members of Les Amis de Cuisine, a professional club for chefs). Sacristedes slammed the oven door and ran screaming through the hotel dining room until he was subdued by the security staff.
The investigating police officer turned off the oven. He opened the door and found Kohner’s hands clenched as though still clutching the bolt on the inside of the door. Kohner’s stomach had exploded from the pressure within the oven. His face was not immediately recognizable until it was cleaned of internal debris. The deceased was twisted as though he were pushing from the inside to open the door (an impossibility). Identification of the body was almost immediate in view of the deceased’s jewelry, keys, and watch. The mouth of the deceased was open wide as though he had been screaming. Verification of dental records reconfirmed the identity of the Victim.
Examination showed that a blow had been dealt to the back of the skull. The blow (search at the scene indicated possible use of a heavy pot or wooden rolling pin) did not kill the victim but presumably rendered him unconscious while the perpetrator pushed the body into the oven. Analysis shows that the body was pushed in head first as evidence of blood was found at the back of the oven. This would indicate that the victim regained consciousness, moved himself to face the door, and tried to release himself from the oven.
The oven temperature (approx. 450 degrees) would indicate that the oven had been turned on just shortly before 7, only five or ten minutes before Mr. Sacristedes arrived. The coroner reports that death would have occurred due to suffocation. If not, when the oven temperature reached 200 degrees the air would have seared the victim’s lungs. It would appear that death took place at about 7:10, some twenty minutes before the body was found.
Appended are the statement by Sacristedes, report from the police officer, report from the coroner.
Personal Observations:
A worrisome case. There appears to be a singular lack of motive for killing the deceased. The appended statements, while still unverified in some instances, appear to be accurate. Or, at least, do not conflict with my personal observations below.
H. Kohner The deceased’s wife had known for some time that her stepdaughter was sleeping with her husband. Why would she suddenly decide to kill him? Wouldn’t it be easier to have killed her stepdaughter? It is possible she incinerated her husband before seven, and was back in Brighton for my call at eight. However, she does not drive and would have required an accomplice to drive her back since the train schedules would not accommodate her needs.
N. O’Brien: The deceased’s stepdaughter. Could something have happened during the night she spent with him? Perhaps he sought to end their affair. Could be anger. Her own guilt? Would appear to be prime suspect, although we have no evidence on which to hold her.
F. Sacristedes: Assistant to the deceased. Has no supporting alibi, appears rather unstable, but medical report indicates his shock genuine. No apparent motive.
M. Ogden: The deceased’s ex-son-in-law. Clear motive in view of recent divorce and his wife’s resumption of her affair with the deceased. But has corroborating alibi from prostitute (known to this department) with whom he spent the night.
A. van Golk: Publisher of LUCULLUS Magazine. Well known to the Royal Family. Wife related to the Foreign Secretary. Known to all the above. Had employed the deceased on numerous occasions. Can produce no witness but claims he was asleep in his flat. Appears the most stable of the lot. There seems to be absolutely nothing he could gain from the death of the deceased.
Chapter 6
Natasha lay on the couch in Achille’s office. Max kneeled at her side as Achille and Miss Beauchamp stood by. “Nat. It’s me, Millie.” She stirred. “Get her some water.”
“Perrier,” Natasha corrected before opening her eyes. “Did I die?”
“You fainted,” Max said.
“In the elevator,” she recalled. Miss Beauchamp brought the Perrier. Natasha sat up and clutched the glass. “I pushed my hand against the latch and imagined Louis was trying to open the oven door.”
Achille broke the silence. “Beauchamp, bring the poor thing some halvah.” Natasha smiled. “It’s nothing,” he said briskly. “We have our own halvah tree.”
Natasha put her hand on Max’s arm. “Hi, handsome. Long time no see.”
“Two hundred and eleven days,” he said.
Miss Beauchamp brought a tray with three more glasses of Perrier. “Downstairs does not drink with Upstairs,” Achille said to her. “Smash the glass when you’re finished.”
Natasha stood up. She walked past Achille and stared out the window. “I keep thinking of Louis.” She held on to herself to control the trembling. “I keep hearing him scream for help inside that oven.”
“Dearest kumquat, there is no point in dwelling upon what has happened. Let’s simply remember that Louis’ Pigeonneaux last night was his own best epitaph.”
“Is that the sum total of a man’s life?” Natasha asked, turning to face Achille. “A goddamn hors d’oeuvre? Is that what you thought of Louis?”
“Indeed not, puss. I thought of Louis as a thoroughly dislikable beast. It was to his culinary credit, an
d to my unfailing good taste, that I overcame my abhorrence of his rancid Prussian temperament and gave him a pot in which to petits pots.”
“You were his friend, Achille,” she reminded him. “You always helped him.”
“As I would have helped Hitler had he been able to poach a decent quenelle.”
“Thank God I won’t be around to hear what you say about me when I die.”
“Ah, but that is quite a different story,” Achille said. “When you die, my darling, I will no doubt be shattered. Possibly I shall even cancel my dinner plans. In memoriam to you, I shall have a spunsugar tooth, the size of the Arc de Triomphe, implanted next to the grave of Shakespeare.”
