by Emma Lathen
Even Ormsby caviled at that. “What’s wrong with her? She seems like a normal, healthy girl.”
“Normal!” Katarina’s laugh was so mocking that it caused two workmen to drop a carton and look nervously across the room. “Do you call it normal for a grown woman to behave like a ten-year-old boy obsessed with his model railroad? Do you realize that, for years, her every waking moment has been concentrated on shaving one second from the women’s slalom record? Every personal habit has been tailored to that end. And for what? There’s no future in it. Even if she succeeds, what will happen? Two years from now, every-one will have forgotten her. She’ll simply be a 25-year-old woman who’s missed out on everything. I don’t understand her at all.”
Thatcher could readily believe it. “You think Tilly Lowengard and Suzanne Deladier are perpetual juveniles?”
The wide grey eyes never blinked. “I was only talking about Tilly. There’s nothing wrong with the way Suzanne’s head is screwed on. Surely you have noticed the difference between women skiers and women skaters. Why, if Suzanne wins the gold medal, she’ll be snapped up by one of the ice shows, she’ll get a long-term advertising contract, there will be personal appearances, maybe even a movie career like Sonia Henie.”
She stopped, relishing the vision she had created.
“Then you’d say Miss Deladier views her years of training as an investment on which there will be a return?” Thatcher asked.
But these terms were more congenial to a banker than to Katarina Maas. “Myself, I would call it a gamble,” she corrected him. “And why not? Long shots have paid off before. After all, nobody expected Suzanne to win the French Open, and she did. Maybe the same thing will happen here. But that is why she does not participate in the immature games of the others. That is why she does not spend her time running around with some handsome boy on the French team. She may look like an ice maiden, but she has the mind of an adult.”
Before Katarina could continue, she was hailed by the unloading crew.
“I must check out this delivery so the truck can leave,” she explained. “If you have further questions, would you ask them while I work?”
Captain Philip Ormsby was not the man to be deflected by her obvious desire that they leave. Strolling in her wake, he continued to put his questions as she industriously ticked off items on her invoices. Miss Maas was uniformly unhelpful.
She knew nothing about Eurochecks. She herself had a personal account in New York.
“At the Chase Manhattan,” she amplified for Thatcher’s benefit.
She had no idea how well François Vaux had known Yves Bisson. She herself had never met any of the Olympic participants until last week. They were virtual strangers.
“You seem to have taken the measure of Tilly Lowengard and Suzanne Deladier,” Ormsby pointed out.
“I know something of the women because I lodge in their dormitory,” she explained coolly. “I rarely see any of the men contestants.”
The outing to Twin Forks had been an exception. Normally she was too busy to take time off.
“As you can see,” she said, waving off the first truck and preparing to deal with the second.
“Yes, indeed,” said Thatcher, whose attention had been engaged by the diverse goods spilling into the warehouse. Boxes of dried herring and crates of cabbage had followed hard on the heels of cases of ketchup and bottles of pickles. “It must be incredibly difficult, catering to so many nationalities.”
Immediately she was all business. “Oh, this is nothing compared to the Summer Games. With so many Asians and Africans, they have to take into account widely varying diets and religious interdictions. But here there’s no problem like that. Everybody is working hard outdoors in a cold climate. So they all want a high protein diet. Beef and chicken are our mainstays. Of course there are national differences in the side dishes. Almost all the coaches have some sort of special shipments for their teams. The French get cheeses and the Scandinavians get fish balls. But at least your American officials are cooperative. I hear that in Sapporo, the customs held up some German sausages until after the games. I haven’t had any trouble like that.”
She was a different woman when she was speaking about her job, so much so that she was almost cordial as she said good-by in the midst of the bustle of a freshly arrived load of caviar for the Russians.
As they made their way through a brightly clad crowd of skiers in the parking lot, Ormsby was thoughtful.
“For a girl who didn’t want to tell us anything, she gave me plenty to think about,” he said finally. “Take Suzanne Deladier. If she’s honestly hoping to make herself into a millionaire here in Lake Placid, then this is the last place she’d choose to get involved in a criminal caper.”
“It would scarcely be worth her while,” Thatcher agreed. “But I was more interested in what Katarina Maas was unconsciously telling us about herself. Did you notice how she assumes that all motives and returns are financial? I would say that Miss Maas goes through life looking for a fast buck.”
Ormsby steered them toward his police vehicle that was almost the only sedan in the lot, dwarfed by the surrounding buses and trucks. “Talking of Katarina, what did you think of that little scene with Vaux that we were supposed to have interrupted? For a man trying to hide an affair, he’s taking a lot of chances.”
“He was trying to hide it before he became a suspect in murder and grand larceny. It might be the lesser evil now,” said Thatcher, studiously fair. “But I agree that today was a put-up job. There were signs all over Olympic Village announcing the arrival of the police and the Sloan to discuss Eurochecks. Vaux knew we’d see him. What I don’t understand is why he’s shoving his relationship with Katarina down our throats.”
Ormsby revved the motor contemptuously. “He’s no more having an affair with her than I am.”
“It was your idea,” Thatcher reminded him.
“That’s because I was day-dreaming. I must have temporarily lost my marbles. The Twin Forks motel has been fully booked for over a year. You know what the situation is. The Lake Placid area doesn’t have enough hotel rooms for 60,000 tourists, let alone enough roads for their cars. So they’ve established a 35-mile area into which no private cars are allowed. That’s why we’re the only Ford around,” he said with a wave at the towering eminences rolling along the road ahead of them. “Most of the tourists are staying outside the circle and get bussed in. Anyone who’s got a room inside has got something rarer than a seat for the Muhammad Ali fight. I don’t know why Vaux took the Maas woman to that motel but it sure wasn’t to shack up.” He was struck by a sudden notion. “In fact, you can say that in this entire circle nobody is taking anybody to a motel room to play house.”
Thatcher was amused. “This must be the only 35-mile area in America about which you can say that.”
“Only for 12 days,” Ormsby grinned. “Then it’ll be back to normal.”
“Which leaves us still wondering what those two are up to.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ormsby decided to share some private information. “You know we’ve had the wires busy checking into these people’s background. Nobody’s got a police record, but Vaux comes the closest. When he did his military service, they didn’t care for the way he handled the funds on some sports spectacular he organized. They eased him out instead of giving him a court martial, but it was a near miss. The trouble is, that makes him out to be a petty crook, not the kind who’s got the contacts or the stomach for international fraud.”
While reminding himself to tell Everett Gabler that his sources were not infallible, Thatcher decided that he could share insights, if not information.
“You know, when I saw Miss Maas receipting those invoices and when I took in the volume of deliveries, I couldn’t help realizing that there was a setup made to order for her. A supplier could short-weight his shipments and give her a kickback. Unfortunately that doesn’t leave any role for Coach Vaux.”
Ormsby was interested. “
How much do you think she could get away with before the shortages were self-evident?”
Thatcher had too much experience with this kind of situation. “Probably around $2000 a day.”
“Forget it. I know the food wholesaler who’s got the Olympic contract. That kind of chicken feed wouldn’t be worth it to him.” Ormsby gave his companion a challenging look. “You bankers are all alike. You think in terms of fraud, embezzlement, and kickbacks. I move in different circles. There, when you want to steal something, you just take it. You don’t bother shuffling a lot of papers.”
Thatcher had to admit there was a good deal of justice in Ormsby’s accusation. Thatcher did habitually think in terms of white collar crime, of crooked books and fictitious payees.
“You mean why should Katarina be content with a kickback? Why shouldn’t she simply insist on full deliveries and then make off with $2000 worth? Well, you’ve just stated the obstacle, transport. How is she going to get away with ten sides of beef? She can’t drive out of the area with them, and she can scarcely take them on the shuttle bus with her.”
Ormsby was now smiling broadly. “I know, I know. But I wanted to remind you of the facts of life.”
“I take it there’s nothing in her background to support this.”
“Nothing along those lines. But there’s something that might interest you. This is a new job for her. She used to work for Lufthansa. Two years in Germany and then two years in the New York office.”
Thatcher was ashamed of his first reaction. “So that explains the New York bank account.”
“She got to you with that, uh?”
Thatcher rose above parochialism. “But you’re right, it opens up all sorts of avenues. With that history, Miss Maas could have contacts in travel agencies and Eurocheck outlets all over Europe.”
“It’s a cinch she’s up to something with that boyfriend of hers. But it’s going to take time to find out what.”
“Time,” Thatcher repeated as they pulled up on the town’s main street. “That’s just what we don’t have. Another 48 hours and the Games will be over. Then all these people will disappear over the horizon.”
Ormsby heaved himself onto the sidewalk and carefully proceeded to lock the car. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Thatcher. I have high hopes of getting that deadline extended.”
Thatcher had listened too long to Brad Withers on the subject of the sanctity of Olympic schedules.
“If you have any thoughts of persuading the IOC to elongate its activities, I can disabuse you, Ormsby.”
“They may not have the final word.” Ormsby was almost smug. “I was thinking of higher authority.”
For a dizzy minute Thatcher could see ambassadors and prime ministers summoned into play. Then he realized that the police captain was standing stock still, staring expectantly at the sky.
“Planning on heavenly intervention?” Thatcher asked sarcastically.
“More or less.” Ormsby beamed. “I was on to the weather station this morning. They’ve already got two feet in Buffalo and it’s moving this way. The forecasters are talking about the blizzard of the century.”
With a valedictory wave, he headed for the police station.
Chapter 8
Snow Job
THATCHER hesitated a moment too long on the sidewalk outside Town Hall.
“John, just the man I’m looking for!”
Brad Withers was striding across the street, his rubicund face glowing with anticipation. The Sloan’s president, Thatcher thought resignedly, was probably its only employee who could view the situation in Lake Placid with undiminished enthusiasm. Even the tellers, according to Roger Hathaway, were taking the $500,000 rip-off to heart. But Withers had weightier problems on his mind.
“It seems we’re in for a Little snow,” he announced.
“I had heard that.”
“Grand, isn’t it?” said Brad, taking a deep breath and expelling a cloud of whitish vapor.
Thatcher wondered if Ormsby and Withers had listened to the same forecast. Ormsby was expecting a killer blizzard. Brad seemed to be thinking of a gentle dusting.
“I suppose the weather might raise a few problems,” Thatcher suggested.
“Nothing to worry about. But I agree with Melville that we should offer our counsel to the local people. I’m on my way there now. The only trouble is, I can’t be in two places at once.”
Thatcher refrained from asking why a town that made its living as a ski resort needed guidance on snow removal. He was more concerned with what was coming.
“No, you can’t,” he agreed, avoiding any rash offers of assistance.
Brad looked at his senior vice-president trustingly. “You see, we make a point of having an IOC member present at every event. That way, the youngsters know we’re taking an interest. And I was supposed to be at the women’s slalom this afternoon.”
It could have been a lot worse. Thatcher hastily offered to pinch-hit before Withers could think of some less palatable form of service. The slalom was always an exciting spectacle, and it certainly beat scheduling overtime for snowplow crews.
By the time he was in an IOC car being driven to his destination, he realized that he had been too cavalier about the problems facing the local authorities. This was Thatcher’s first trip along the narrow twisting road that led to Whiteface Mountain where the downhill events were taking place. During the nine-mile course he saw two buses, going in opposite directions, barely brushing by each other. On one side of the road there were the rocky outcroppings of the Adirondacks; on the other side there was a tumble into the brawling mountain stream they were following. There was no room at all for maneuver. Losing even a foot of road width would present difficulties. And overhead the sky was growing blacker and blacker. Not surprisingly, Captain Ormsby’s expectations were beginning to look a good deal more reasonable than Brad Withers’.
But the weather had not affected attendance. As soon as Thatcher left his limousine, he was reduced to just one more body in the crowd good-naturedly pushing its way from the parking lot. Most of them were heading for the lifts that serviced the different stages of the ascent up the mountain. They filled the air with knowledgeable comments about various vantage points. Thatcher trailed indecisively in their wake, wondering where a deputy IOC official should take up his stance. A sudden greeting spared him the necessity of making a choice.
“Mr. Thatcher! Have you come to watch Tilly win it?”
Dick Noyes was making no secret of his partisanship. And he knew exactly where they should site themselves.
“Follow me,” he urged, heading for a chair lift, “and you’ll be able to see the last set of gates and the finish line, even in this murk.”
“I’m surprised you can spare the time,” Thatcher remarked, trudging after his guide. “Shouldn’t you be practicing for your own race?”
Noyes grinned. “For a deputy IOC member, you haven’t been keeping up,” he charged. “My event was over yesterday.”
His tone of voice gave Thatcher no clue as to the outcome.
“How did you do, or shouldn’t I ask?”
The grin broadened. “I placed 35th in a field of 36. That’s pretty much where I expected to finish, but I could have done without Gunther Euler’s crack. He congratulated me on finding someone in the world I could beat.”
Thatcher agreed that there was no need to rub salt into wounds.
“Oh, I can see his point of view,” Noyes said tolerantly. “Gunther doesn’t think much of college boys fooling around with skiing only as long as they’re in school. He even got off a couple of snide remarks about Roger Hathaway.”
“He prefers a more professional approach?”
“Watch it! That’s a dirty word around here,” Noyes warned in mock alarm. “Everybody knows how the IOC feels about amateurism. Some of them would like nothing better than to dig up a stinking scandal in the Winter Games.”
Thatcher cast his mind back over the last few days. “If that’s w
hat they want, surely they have it,” he said with some heat. “Or don’t murder and forgery count?”
“That’s not the kind of scandal I meant,” Noyes began, as they were landed at Mid Station. “Hey, Carlo! Over here!”
Carlo Antonelli’s style was more urbane. He delayed his response until he was within conversational range. Then he explained that, as the bobsled run was occupied, he had decided to watch the slalom.
“They tell me that your Tilly has a good chance,” he concluded.
“She sure does. You know, Tilly placed second in the European Women’s Championship and Helga Mueller is out with a broken leg.” Suddenly Noyes sobered. “Poor kid! She did it over at Killington two weeks ago. Fibular injuries are no joke and hers is a complex fracture. She’ll miss two seasons at least.”
For a moment Thatcher was startled by the judicious gravity. Then he remembered Everett Gabler’s report. Of course the boy was in veterinary school and knew all about fractures. In fact, Thatcher decided, he had almost been guilty of the same mistake Katarina Maas had made in her indictment of the financial innocence of Olympic athletes. There were all sorts of economic realities besides the rewards of a gold medal, and people blind to one could be alert to another. Dick Noyes, happily bouncing around the Olympics, probably knew all about the value of a beef herd, all about the average income of a livestock veterinarian. And Carlo Antonelli was not a mindless playboy either. He probably had the dollar figures of resort operation at his fingertips. After all, how many people meeting Tom Robichaux in a nightclub would guess that he spent his daylight hours trying to unload stock in Zimmer Industries? What it boiled down to was simple. Commercial ventures came in many guises, including the wholesale counterfeiting of traveler’s checks.
This meditation was interrupted by a crackling from the PA system and a roar gradually descending the slope.
“They’ve started,” cried Noyes.
Carlo Antonelli glanced at the lowering sky.
“And not a moment too soon,” he said. “In five minutes we won’t be able to see anything at all.”
