by Emma Lathen
“I don’t know,” said Ormsby, “but we can start with the names that are members of the Olympic family. Bisson was a competitor. He lived in Olympic Village. The way I look at it, the place to begin is close to home.”
“Yes indeed,” Thatcher murmured. He did not add that the task force arriving from the Sloan was not going to stop there.
Ormsby’s exercise swung into operation immediately. By dawn the following morning, Roger Hathaway, still red-eyed from six hours with stacks of worthless scrip, found himself cast in a leading role.
Flourishing his credentials under the security guard’s nose, he loped through the lobby of Olympic Village toward the auditorium. Captain Ormsby and John Thatcher were there before him. Otherwise the room was deserted.
“Good,” Ormsby grunted, sweeping Hathaway into his briefing session without delay. “Now, once you gave me that list, Hathaway, we got to work. Out of all the people who passed counterfeit, nearly 100 were Olympic competitors or coaches. In other words, people right here in Olympic Village. We’re going to interview every single one of them, and we’re going to do it today.”
His plan was simple and drastic. The police had posted Olympic Village with a wanted list. Between seven in the morning and seven at night, everyone on it was to present himself in the auditorium.
“That gives them plenty of time to go do their stuff,” said Ormsby. “But when they get back, they report here, or else!”
“Don’t let the silence mislead you, Hathaway,” Thatcher advised. “Beyond these four walls, all hell is breaking loose.”
Hathaway could guess. Protests from coaches, howls from national committees, fulminations from sports-writers, must be reverberating outside, mingling with thunder from the IOC.
“We’ll run them in and out like clockwork,” said Ormsby calmly.
Looking around, Roger began to see the bare bones of the system. A uniformed policeman and a secretary were just taking up stations at the long table near the entrance. “They’ll check off the names as people turn up,” Ormsby explained. “And if they don’t turn up by seven tonight, we go out and get them.”
Halfway down the auditorium was another table where the staff was still assembling. All of them were in uniform.
“They check on where everybody was day before yesterday, when Bisson was shot. We still don’t know how the counterfeit meshes with the murder. For all I know, the murderer didn’t touch any counterfeit himself, let alone pass it. But it won’t do any harm to ask.”
Taking his cue from Thatcher, Hathaway remained quiet.
“And here’s where you come in,” said Ormsby, pointing to a nearby table.
“Oh?” said Hathaway with resignation.
“I’ve volunteered on your behalf,” Thatcher said, leading him across the auditorium while Ormsby conferred with a subordinate. “No doubt you hoped for time off after your efforts last night, but I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait.”
Disregarding the niceties, Hathaway asked what he was supposed to do.
There were written instructions. Assisted by a secretary, Hathaway was going to focus on Eurochecks. Where had they been bought, and in what denominations? How many counterfeits had been passed—and how many remained? How securely had they been kept? How accurately had they been recorded?
“. . . and anything else you can think of,” Thatcher concluded. “I don’t have to tell you that, if you get a hint of anything suspicious, you alert Ormsby or me. We’ll be around this morning. The reason you’ve drawn this chore is that, presumably, you’re more sophisticated about European banks than Ormsby’s staff, and, we hope, than the people you’ll be interviewing. Double-check the issuing banks and institutions and, if any of them rings false, let me know.”
“Everything but the kitchen sink,” Hathaway commented, still reading.
Thatcher eyed him. “Among lawyers, fishing expeditions have a bad name, Hathaway. But bankers find them useful and so, I gather, do the police.”
“Sure,” said Hathaway, but by then Thatcher was gone, disappearing out the door with Captain Ormsby.
Hathaway sat down to wait. An hour later, he was still waiting. Eight o’clock came and went, without a single Olympian, and Captain Ormsby’s tight organization began to fray slightly. Policemen tilted chairs back, stood up, stretched. The secretaries took to disappearing, then returning with cups of coffee. From somewhere ashtrays appeared, and the spit and polish of preparation gradually collapsed under the untidy litter of routine. Still no clients appeared.
“Say, this must be a nice change for you, getting to work here in Lake Placid instead of New York City.”
Roger, who had almost dozed off, came thumping back to reality. A large, rosy-cheeked trooper had ambled over, all innocent friendliness.
“It’s great,” Roger replied.
“Of course, this isn’t the real Lake Placid,” said the trooper, settling on a corner of Hathaway’s table. “You should see it once everything gets back to normal.”
The sooner Roger saw the last of Lake Placid, the better. His unencouraging silence did not make a dent.
“Is the Sloan staying open here?”
“We close two weeks after the Olympics shut down,” said Roger, wondering how often he had produced this answer.
“How about that!” marveled his visitor. “Is that your job, opening and closing temporaries?”
“This is just an assignment,” said Hathaway.
But Trooper Bork had the persistence of a puppy. “My sister works for a bank, too. She’s a teller over in Burlington.”
The past 24 hours had been no picnic for Hathaway. Fortunately, before he could tell this guardian of law and order to go jump into Lake Champlain, and take his sister with him, there was a halloo from across the room.
“Looks like we’ve got some business,” said Bork, shoving off. “See you around, Rog.”
But like everybody else in the auditorium, Hathaway had shifted his attention to the first fish scooped up in Ormsby’s net. A quartet of Dutch skaters, dismayed to discover they were ahead of the field, hesitated in the doorway, unwilling to advance or retreat.
“Come right on in,” coaxed the nearest officer, nearly defeating his purpose. Finally a tall, straw-haired boy gulped and advanced. Ten minutes later he was still apprehensive.
“We’re from the Sloan and we’ve got a few questions about your traveler’s checks,” Hathaway began. “Your name is . . .?”
“Conrad van Teutem,” the boy replied while the secretary, Olivia, downed her coffee and consulted a list.
Conrad van Teutem had exchanged $250, purportedly issued by the Eurocheck office in London, but in fact counterfeit. His remaining checks, which he surrendered with reluctance, were all genuine.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed ingenuously. “With that money, I am going to tour California.”
“You’ll love it,” said Olivia warmly.
Roger Hathaway was not interested in California. “Why London?” he asked, recalling Thatcher’s instructions. “Why didn’t you buy your traveler’s checks in Holland?”
Van Teutem, stuffing the precious folder in his pocket, looked up. “Because I live in London. I explained it all to them, to the police. My father is with KLM.”
“I lived in London for four or five years,” said Hathaway, suddenly wishing he could turn back the clock.
Young van Teutem was not responsive. In his short life he had already lived in Athens, Djakarta, and Moscow. Furthermore, he preferred snow-swept wildernesses to any city.
“I guess that’s about all I’ve got to ask you,” said Hathaway, unaccountably irritated. When van Teutem left, he exclaimed: “God, what a waste of time this is!”
Everything but blow drying her hair was a waste of time to Olivia. “I suppose so,” she said indifferently.
Just then a second Dutchman presented himself. Since he lived in Utrecht, not London, Hathaway put him through his paces without any further distractions.
&nbs
p; For the next two hours, he was too busy for nostalgia or for regret. After the Dutch came a trickle, if not a deluge. Singly and in groups Olympians began turning up. At times they stood on line, at times they proceeded without delay. But anxious, affronted or excited, they completed the circuit with Hathaway and his battery of questions. Inevitably, several oddities came to light. A surprising number of athletes, like Conrad van Teutem, did not live in the countries they represented. Chileans resided, trained and bought traveler’s checks in Frankfurt. Italians gave Swedish addresses.
“No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it,” said Hathaway to a sputtering, Zurich-based Finn. “I’m just making a note, that’s all.”
“Also,” said the Finn with a roll of his eyes, “you say $300 of counterfeit. Impossible! I am too poor. Only $100 have I changed since I am here. I show you.”
He thrust a thick folder of genuine Eurochecks at Hathaway, together with meticulously kept dockets. “Well?” he demanded.
“I guess it’s just that your records don’t tally with ours,” said Roger, unwilling to debate the point.
“I am not rich,” said the Finn, despite his cash on hand.
He was not the first to challenge Olivia’s list with a plea of poverty. The cult of the simple life loomed large at Olympic Village, and so did a hazy disdain for numbers.
Gunther Euler was the exception that proved the rule.
“$17,000,” said Hathaway, returning Euler’s Eurochecks. “You’re carrying quite a roll, aren’t you?”
Olivia, meanwhile, was fluttering her eyelashes.
Euler enjoyed their reaction but he had an explanation ready. “After the Olympics I go on to Japan. For that, there will be big expenses. So, I am prepared.”
“Uh huh,” said Hathaway, although he was representing the Sloan Guaranty Trust, not the Olympic credentials committee. “Well, they’re all okay. And you say you don’t have any idea how this counterfeit you passed turned up? How much was it, Olivia?”
“$600,” she said admiringly.
Euler did not like Hathaway’s tone, but there was nothing defensive about him. “Doesn’t everybody know? Poor Yves must have put them in my wallet.”
A lion, twitching his tail in the sun, could not have been more superb. The posture impressed Olivia, but it left Hathaway feeling his years. “Okay, Gunther,” he said dismissively. “Thanks for the cooperation. And good luck in the combined jump.”
But he was destined to see more of Gunther Euler before the day was out.
After dealing with an English figure skater, a Rumanian hockey coach and another Dutch speed skater, Hathaway awoke to a room-wide stirring. One of Ormsby’s men was just closing the door.
“We’re breaking for lunch,” Olivia informed the girl approaching them. “You’d better come back later.”
Miss Tilly Lowengard, however, was firm. “This afternoon I am racing. I cannot come back later,” she said, plunking herself down defiantly.
“All right,” Hathaway said absently. “This shouldn’t take too much time. You can go on ahead, Olivia. Now Miss Lowengard, I’ve got a few questions. . . .”
He wheeled them past her, mechanically noting down answers. “. . . Bank of Interlaken? . . . Now, according to our records, you passed a $150 in counterfeit—”
“No!” she burst out. “All my checks were legitimate. That I am certain of. I myself saw Herr Dangler issue them. You see, I work in the bank, so I know.”
He recalled his wandering attention. “Oh, do you? Well, let me take a look at your remaining checks.”
But while he riffled through them, Tilly continued her impetuous protest. “And since I work in a bank, I am always careful. When I sign a check, I make a very careful record. They say that Yves must have placed a counterfeit, but that is not possible.”
“Maybe in all the excitement you slipped up,” Hathaway suggested, as he had suggested before.
“No,” she said stubbornly.
He repressed a sigh. There was no sign of Ormsby or Thatcher, and a few more minutes of seepage from the room would leave him sitting there alone. He rose. “Well, I’ll put that down, Tilly. You don’t know what happened.” To keep her from pursuing her quarrel, he went on: “We appreciate your cooperation, too. Now, I think I’ll go over to the cafeteria to grab a sandwich.”
“I will come with you,” she declared, as he had guessed that she would. The mulish glint in Tilly’s eyes was not lost on Hathaway. She still had plenty to say. And, all things considered, he should probably hear her out.
But with his ham on rye came a breather.
Dick Noyes spotted them as they stood, trays in hand, searching for a place to roost. “Hey, Tilly!” he yodeled, rising and waving. “Over here! What are you doing here? Aren’t you racing this afternoon?”
“Tea only,” she said, threading her way toward his table. “And some toast. Do you know Mr. Roger Hathaway from the Sloan?”
“Hi,” said Noyes incuriously. “Tea? I always load up with steak and potatoes on the days I’m competing.”
“Me, too,” said Gunther Euler, with a cool nod toward Hathaway. He cleared a space for Tilly’s tray on the littered table. “Even on days when I only go out to practice, like today.”
Tilly grinned. “I have already eaten my steak and potatoes, at breakfast. What do you do this afternoon, Dick?”
“What do you think?” he replied with a grimace. “I’ve got to go talk to the police again. But then I’m heading out to Whiteface, Tilly, to watch you break every record in the book.”
His buoyancy did not mask a flicker of constraint, barely noticeable in the cheerful hubbub of the cafeteria. This particular trio, Hathaway suddenly realized, shared special links.
Then, with grave courtesy, Noyes turned to him. “Do you get a chance to catch many of the events, or are you too busy, Roger?”
“Not as many as I’d like,” said Hathaway. “It’s been a disappointment. When I went over to Innsbruck—”
“You were at Innsbruck?” Euler interjected with studied insolence. “So was I!”
“The whole world knows that, Gunther,” said Tilly gaily. “This is my first Olympics.”
“Mine, too,” Noyes chimed in.
Their conversation swirled on, leaving Hathaway odd man out until Noyes remembered his manners again. “Do you ski, Roger?”
“A little,” said Hathaway modestly. “I used to ski for Dartmouth.”
“Great,” said Noyes. “Listen, Tilly, I’ll see you at Whiteface but I’ve got to beat it now.”
“Yes, good luck, Tilly,” said Euler, ignoring Dartmouth completely.
Hathaway watched them march out of the cafeteria with mixed emotions. Turning, he found Tilly frowning darkly.
“I must go, too,” she said. “But before I go . . .”
He forced himself to face the fact that there was more work for him to do.
Chapter 7
Occluded Front
BEYOND the cafeteria steam tables were the Olympic Village kitchens. Beyond them were storerooms, piled high with everything from sardines to sourdough. And beyond that was a barnlike area with overhead doors opening onto a receiving dock.
20 minutes later, at just about the time that Roger Hathaway was following Tilly Lowengard out of the cafeteria, John Thatcher found himself surveying two giant trucks backed against the platform. A work gang was unloading them with rhythmic efficiency.
“Miss Maas? She’s in the office with the invoices,” one of them replied to Ormsby. Then, shifting a crate of grapefruit, he loosed a bellow that echoed through the chamber. “Katarina! Visitors!”
A long-legged girl with a mane of tawny blond hair came through a side door. She was wearing a white shop coat and carrying a sheaf of papers. Her businesslike appearance was marred, however, by the man at her side. He was just slipping his arm from her waist.
“Hello, Vaux,” said Ormsby shortly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“How could you
, when I merely stopped by to learn if a special shipment for my team has arrived?” Vaux turned to Katarina Maas. “You’ll let me know when it comes?”
“Of course,” she said, brushing by him. “How can I help you, Captain?”
After that, it was no surprise to have her repeat Vaux’s story almost word for word. Their encounter on the bus had been accidental. They had stopped at the motel on a whim. Their walk at Twin Forks had been inspired by scenic beauty.
As Thatcher observed her, he had to admit that her manner gave some support to Ormsby’s earlier suspicions. She was certainly still under 30, but the sleekness of her grooming and her self-assurance set her light years apart from the contestants like Tilly Lowengard. There was a casual arrogance in her femininity that suggested she took what she wanted, and no unknown Madame Vaux back in France would stop her.
Thatcher awoke to the realization that Miss Maas was finally departing from her companion’s script.
“Yes, I noticed that it was Yves Bisson who paid for the rental,” she was saying. “He had to persuade the man to accept a Eurocheck.”
“Oh?” Ormsby grunted. “Vaux claimed he was too far away to see what was going on.”
“That is not surprising,” she replied, unruffled. “François was talking with the Deladier girl so we were momentarily separated.” Suddenly her calm evaporated. “And it was all such childishness. Yves was simply rubbing it into Gunther that he had placed first and he was likely to win the gold medal. It’s not as if those snowmobiles are cheap. There was no reason why the others shouldn’t have paid their share. And Carlo Antonelli is a rich man.”
It was strange how Yves Bisson’s generosity had exasperated so many people. Dick Noyes, Thatcher recalled, had still been protesting.
“Surely it could have been a straightforward song of triumph by Bisson,” Thatcher suggested. “Without any wish to cause pinpricks.”
Katarina Maas tossed her head. “Even so, it was still a folly. But these athletes, they are all suffering from the same disease.”
“And what is that?”
“Arrested development,” she said icily. “You only have to look at them. Take Tilly Lowengard.”
