by Moulton, CD
“Or you can hand us the papers and go on.”
Rallardes was sweating, pale and looking a little dizzy. He coughed and went to sit on the bench to open his briefcase and hand Serg several sheets of legal contracts. Serg read them over, but didn’t hand them to Clint. Clint was there as an aide and didn’t have clearance to see them.
“Do I have your permission to show these to my aide?” Serg asked of Rallardes, who nodded.
Serg handed Clint a page that was a legal will/contract that would leave all his assets in cash to the Smithsonian, leave the lands he owned to his children equally divided and all other assets, including the art and jewelry, stocks and bonds, farm stocks and products to the International Cancer Research Fund.
“So! Leave them a lot of valuable land with no way to pay inheritance taxes!” Serg pointed out.
“He was one nasty son of a bitch,” Clint agreed.
A minute later Serg snorted and handed the contract with Rallardes to Clint. He got ten percent of everything except the land as probator of the terms of the will.
Serg handed him four sheets listing the assets. Seven and a half million Euros. Clint read over the sheets and said he thought he knew where the curare came from. Serg said probably right here. Rallardes certainly had the motive!
“No damned way!” Clint replied. “No notary. No motive. Not legal.”
“Ha! Then you don’t know so much about notaries and lawyers here. He can take this document to Panamá City and have it notarized and backdated in ten minutes. He WAS taking this stuff to Panamá City!”
“That’s a point.”
Rallardes actually squealed. Serg winked at Clint. Rallardes didn’t have any way to get the curare and certainly wouldn’t have the guts to kill anyone – unless it was an act. He would have the guts to hire it done.
“You can go on to Panamá City now, but be aware you remain under official investigation here until the matter is resolved,” Serg lectured sternly. “Should you try to leave the country or otherwise display probability of guilt you will be charged.”
“I didn’t do anything! I was only going to try to get my fee from them! With this I get nothing until he dies!”
“Which he very conveniently did?” Serg asked.
“Beside which he paid you two hundred dollars in cash for your services,” Clint added, holding up the receipt that had been stapled to the back of the will. Rallardes “Yeep!”ed and looked really sick. He’d forgotten it was there.
“Lawyers!” Serg exclaimed disgustedly. He pronounced it like the locals reading the word. “Liars!”
Clint and Serg turned their backs on him and walked off. He headed back toward his office. There was no reason to go to Panamá City now!
“Okay. Where did the curare come from?” Serg asked.
“They brought it with them, or one of them did. They raise race horses in both Switzerland and California. Curare is used in very small amounts in certain medications for horses. Most veterinarians carry it, even in the states.”
“So. How do we discover which one?”
“Or ones. The sixty four dollar – or seven million Euro – question.
“Somehow I get the feeling this is going to be one of those things that lead all over the map, figuratively as well as actually. There’s something behind this that made it happen now. At this particular time.
“I have to learn a lot about Lawrence. Donald doesn’t seem to fit.”
Serg nodded. “It could be more a question of why it was done here, not so much as why at this time. Or both.”
“Here, because you wouldn’t have the facilities to ever even find an injection point and couldn’t hope to make any progress in solving such a clever case. Now, because of that stupid will.
“Donald? Nothing whatever fits about the time where he’s concerned here. There weren’t any exceptions.
“Serg, get copies of his financial transactions over the past couple of months. And Donald’s. And the rest of them. I think maybe the old bastard had already taken care of the favorite son. If there was any transfer of large amounts we have motive – unless it wasn’t to Donald. If it was we have no motive for killing him.
“Cripes! I want to know more about Lawrence.
“One thing fits. It’s something I read in a Nick Storie novel.”
“What the hell is a Nick Storie novel?” Serg asked.
“It’s a series of detective novels Dave wrote back in Florida. There’s one story where ... well, it tends to fit this situation – except for Donald, which throws sand in that oil pan.”
“Does what? You fail to make sense.”
“Nick Storie makes what they call ‘mangled metaphors’ in the books. That was one of those. I’m thinking of the books at the moment.”
“Oh. ‘A monkey wrench into the works’ kind of thing. It’s kind of apt.”
“Uh-huh. There’s the strange part of this one. Donald doesn’t fit – but where DID he fit in anything?”
“I don’t quite see where any of them fit in it.” Sergio made a wry face.
“You DO have a point there.”
“I have to go to San Blas,” Clint announced to Sergio in the morning. “It seems that Dr. Sven Orison and a Karl Rasmussen are there. Very odd.”
“Odd?” Serg asked. “Why would that be odd?”
“Lawrence Lesley’s doctor and lawyer just happen to be in Panamá now? You said it was important to know why THEY’re here and why now?”
“It’s not so much odd as scary.”
“Scary? Now I’m confused!”
“Scary from the standpoint of solving a case that seems to be a crazy conspiracy of some kind, but by different people for different reasons. I think you will have to check most carefully into the politics of all of them. I think they will vary greatly among that select little group of misfits.
“They all also seem to be misfits in a strange way. Again, not because of some glaring detail. It’s subtle. Like ... I can’t say what I mean. I’m not at all certain there is a specific reason.”
“It’s not just because they’re here, it’s because they’re here NOW. It’s not because they don’t much react to a given thing, it’s because of the non-reactions to a specific set of things. It seemed to be a kind of opportune murder at first, but the poison was brought here. It wasn’t.
“Donald simply will not fit. They seem a little sad because he’s dead, but they don’t react much to anything. For one person a lack of reactions can be explained, but for a group?
“Only one of them has shown any emotion at all, but even that was sort of ... dilute. Maybe they’re on tranquilizers?
“I think I know why the attorney’s here – if I’ve figured the old tyrant correctly. Why is the doctor here? Why are they THERE, not HERE?
“I mean San Blas. It’s a mess and hasn’t even gotten started yet. I worked a number of murder cases back in the states. This has to be the most confusing thing I ever came across.”
“You earlier mentioned your author friend, Dave. Why not see if maybe they are working a crazy scenario from the story it has reminded you of?
“They are not using drugs of any type we can find, not even sleeping pills or aspirin. They drank very moderately if at all. They have no detectable vices. I have checked on the internet. They are very – neutral – people who have no enemies and few if any friends.”
“Yes. It was altogether different except for Lawrence. Maybe this one is a Miss Marple thing, dependent on personalities more than other factors.”
“Here we go again! Who the unholy hell is Miss Marple and what does she have to do with anything?”
“Agatha Christie.”
“Agatha Christie is using the Marple name here? Isn’t she the writer? Isn’t she dead?” Sergio was totally lost now. Clint laughed and said Miss Marple was an Agatha Christie heroine in a murder mystery series. She solved crimes by studying the personalities who became involved in a case.
Sergio sighed. Very deeply.
“All cases are, ultimately, based on personalities.”
“I have to talk with Dave,” Clint said. “Then on to San Blas.”
“Ho, Judi!” Clint called across the cove. “Dave there?”
Judi Lum was a close friend and neighbor he knew from Florida before moving to Panamá. She had helped him with his former cases here. Dave was an oddball author, botanist, geneticist, musician.
“Yes. We’re planting orchid seeds. He’s in the kitchen. Come on over.”
He waved and boated over to her place. Dave was swearing at the electric stove, claiming he couldn’t get anything right. He had to work on approximations. Judi poured everybody coffee and sat at the table on the deck just outside the door. Clint joined her and explained he had some questions as soon as the sowing was done. Dave said to go ahead. He made a lot of noise but this process didn’t require too much thought and approximately was plenty good. He just liked to bitch.
“You don’t have a tiny clue as to liking to bitch!” Clint shot back. “You’re up against professional bitcher in this one.”
“Great! Introduce us! Maybe I can use him or her as a character!”
“Nope! He’s dead. You won’t be having any bitching bouts.”
“Crap! Everything’s going wrong today! What obscure fact do you need explained?”
“Abstract stuff having to do with personalities and I want to bitch about getting involved in a stupid case where nothing QUITE fits with anything else, but you can’t put your finger on any specific fact.
“A bunch of people who simply don’t react to much of anything, an old tyrant who got offed – which was certainly NOT what you might call ‘unexpected.’ Another one who’s dead with no reason and his wife and family are maybe a little sad. A doctor and a lawyer here at this time, but not HERE.”
“Drugs for the non-reactions and you lost me about the here but not HERE.”
“No drugs. Not even booze or aspirin. The doctor and lawyer are in Panamá. San Blas. I’m going over to see them in a few minutes.”
“And?”
“They’re from Switzerland. There are seven million Euros in property and assets. Lawrence was apparently going to die of cancer within two months. He’d hired a local lawyer to make a will leaving everything to the Smithsonian. The family apparently didn’t have a clue about the cancer.”
“So the heirs knocked him over to stop it,” Judi put in.
“With curare brought from Switzerland?” Clint asked. “Also, one of the crew was killed when Lawrence was killed. Donald.”
“What d’ya want from me?” Dave sang. “That’s too weird for my tastes. I wrote a couple of things where each clue to one thing cancelled a clue from the other. That happens when the murders aren’t really connected except in a peripheral way and happens a lot more than people guess.
“You’re yakking about that loudmouthed asshole at the Pirate? Made a scene wherever he went to bait his worthless family?
“One of the non-blood did it. The husband or wife wanted out and wanted the money that comes with it. I can figure these things to the least detail. I’m only wrong ninety percent of the time.”
“I have to check on them, but it doesn’t seem to fit.”
“The doctor and lawyer are in Panamá but not here in Bocas? Concentrate on WHY and what kind of influence they have back in Podunkville Switzerland,” Judi suggested.
“Influence?” Dave asked. “You may have something. What are the credentials of those two and how close are they and were they?”
“Credentials?” Clint asked. Dave nodded.
“That’s scary!” Judi exclaimed.
“Second time someone’s said this one’s scary,” Clint said sourly.
“Second?” Dave asked.
“Yeah. Sergio said the same thing.”
“Serg?” Dave replied. “If anything scares him it very damned well IS scary!”
The plane landed in San Blas just at nightfall. The sunset was spectacular over the mountains to the west. Clint headed for the pension where he’d called Freddy Wagner, a friend he’d met in Panamá City two years ago when he first moved to Panamá. Fred ran the pension as something to do and a way to meet people. He wrote magazine articles about his experiences.
After putting his bag in the room Clint went to the big restaurant overlooking the Caribbean at the end of Avenida “A”. Freddy had told him the only people who might be the ones Clint was looking for were there every night. One was Karl and the other was Sven. They were Norwegian, but were living and working in Switzerland according to the bartender, Niko. Clint had them pointed out to him. Sven was a thin overly-suave type with pinc-nez glasses on a string that he put on and took off again three times in only five minutes. There was no reason so far as he could see to put them on unless they were more than reading glasses – in which case there was no reason to take them off except vanity.
Maybe he couldn’t wear contacts for some reason and was vain about using them at all. He reminded Clint of a French gigolo he once knew.
Karl Rasmussen reminded Clint very much of Henry Kissinger.
After about fifteen minutes he went to the table and introduced himself as an investigator into the death of their client in Bocas del Toro. They seemed nervous that he knew about them at all, but were trying to be amiable to learn what he knew about them and the family. Did the family tell him they were here?
He said no, that the family only knew their names and addresses in Stockholm, Switzerland. He’d traced them with the routine methods. They exchanged scared looks when he said, “Routine methods.” Sven was as smooth-voiced as Clint figured he might be. He worked hard at it. He was probably as vain as Clint imagined, too. Rasmussen was very quiet and spoke in a chopped sort of fashion. He wanted to get information without giving any. He was a bit shrewd – but he was a lawyer, so that would be expected. He was evasive when he answered anything at all. Clint remembered what had been suggested about checking the credentials of the two, so said he only wanted to introduce himself. He would speak with them tomorrow.
He went directly to the internet to contact Marko, an ex-mafia don who lived on Isla San Cristóbal. Clint had done him some favors and he had reciprocated. They were now fairly close friends. Clint was the only person besides Dave and Judi who knew who he was.
“Yo, Manny! (Marko was using the name “Manny Mathews” here)” Clint greeted. “Can you get information for me from Switzerland?”
Accountants and Quacks
“Dr. Sven Orison, M.D., Phd in psychology, takes on a lot of rich hypochondriacs and bleeds them on a steady basis for years,” Marko reported. “Why he’s in Panamá is at the request of clients who need his services and can pay. The Lesley bunch, no doubt.
“He uses some highly questionable methods and therapies. At one time he had a minor improvement method for certain incurable types of cancer. He could usually bring them to remission, but it was only temporary. He prescribes a lot of heavy tranquilizers and narcotics. He refers people to other doctors when his methods fail, often too late. He has some good international credentials in the psychiatric end. Did a lot of Pavlovian therapy with manic depressives. He got caught using scopolamine and such from organic sources at one time, but hadn’t quite crossed the line if just because it was recorded as experimental therapy. Pictures himself as a super stud of some kind and pays expensive prostitutes to bolster his ego. That’s fairly common among psychology majors. They take the courses to try to find what’s wrong with themselves.
“He’s a proponent of euthanasia in limited cases where the person is known to be incurable or deteriorated to the point where they are in unstoppable pain or severe depression from physical causes.
“Rasmussen is a reputable mouthpiece. He handles estates and dabbles a bit in politics. Not anything too odd or negative about him. Faced Orison in court once about five years ago on a case where he lost. Prosecuted for wrongful death, but the woman was terminal at the time he took her on. He may have hastened the
process.”
“Assisted suicide? That would explain a lot! Thanks, Manny. You’ve shortened a long process for me, I think. It fits with a character in one of Dave’s stories in a way. It does NOT explain Donald!”
“Then they aren’t connected very closely.”
“I begin to believe that more and more. The problem is that they were found in the same room killed with the same weapon. That is a bit too connected for my tastes. I have to find why.”
“Do you know who?”
“Closer than the family, no. It could be someone hired by that lawyer and doctor so even that bit’s not definite enough for me.”
“Well, good luck! Call me if I can do anything.”
Clint hung up, shook his head, called Orison to make an appointment for later and went down to breakfast.
“Let’s not beat around the bush here,” Clint suggested. “I can figure that Lawrence came here to kill himself. I don’t know why at this point. Why it was here, not why suicide.
“Doctor, you are well-known as someone who believes in euthanasia in certain cases. I tend to personally agree with you if there are definite and unbreachable limits. No one should be forced to live in constant pain or as a vegetable. I have no argument where Lawrence Lesley is concerned. I’ve watched a few people die of lung and bone cancer and it’s horrible beyond belief. If only you were here there would be no question in my mind about it.
“You, Mr. Rasmussen, are here. I do have questions.
“How and why was Donald involved?”
“I can’t tell you – only meaning I don’t know why he was specifically involved. The whole family’s involved in something I can’t discuss,” he answered.
“Something any one or all of them might kill over?”
He looked thoughtful, then shrugged.
