Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

by George C. Chesbro

  Pomeroy nodded curtly. "Apparently."

  "Definitely. You have any idea at all of how he might have done it?"

  "None whatsoever."

  "You have any notions at all about this bloody business that you'd care to share with me?"

  "None whatsoever."

  It was looking like the business part of my trip to Switzerland was going to take even less time than I'd thought.

  * * *

  The first thing I noticed when I walked back into my hotel suite was a distinct and unpleasant medicinal smell. I assumed the odor was from some kind of disinfectant, but everything had seemed in perfect order when I'd checked in, and I couldn't understand why the maid would be cleaning a clean bathroom so late in the day. I opened all the windows before going down to the hotel dining room to eat. When I returned, the odor was gone. I closed the windows, turned on the air conditioner, and went to bed. I fell asleep almost immediately and dreamed of making love to Harper by a roaring fire in a chalet somewhere high in the Alps.

  Chapter Four

  My anxiety at the possibility of being stonewalled by Interpol turned out to be completely unfounded. Before leaving New York I had called Interpol's headquarters in Geneva, identified myself and my purpose, and asked for an appointment. It was not quite three o'clock on Wednesday, my second day in Switzerland, and I couldn't think of another thing I had to do, except actually prepare my report, which I could easily dictate to one of Cornucopia's secretaries for mailing to Neuberger. I was sitting in the silence of my chauffeured limousine, gazing out at the chocolate-box landscape, as we sped back to Zurich from Geneva. As I went over my notes and sipped at a Scotch, I decided that being driven around in a stretch Mercedes wasn't such a bad experience after all, and I made a note to myself to give Carlo a generous tip.

  I had feared resentment on the authorities' part over my gratuitous appearance on the scene, but that had not been the case at all. Carlo had delivered me to the entrance of the great, cathedral-like building that was Interpol headquarters promptly at eleven o'clock, and I'd been met at the door by one Pierre Moliere, their public relations officer. I'd been made to feel like an honored guest and had even been asked to sign a few autographs before being ushered into a spacious conference room for a briefing—complete with maps and charts—that had lasted nearly two hours. Without any prompting on my part, I'd been informed of everything I could possibly have thought to ask about John Sinclair and the theft of the ten million dollars—and more.

  Interpol was especially aggrieved over the brutal murder of Inspector Bo Wahlstrom, who it seemed had become something of a legend in their ranks for his dogged pursuit of John Sinclair over the years. Indeed, Wahlstrom was given a good deal of credit for refurbishing Interpol's image and reputation, which had suffered mightily over charges of collaboration with the Nazis during the Second World War.

  Interpol has only an investigative franchise, not enforcement powers, but Bo Wahlstrom had apparently been an investigator par excellence. Beginning sometime in the late seventies, Wahlstrom—then a low-ranking officer—had begun receiving some remarkably precise and damning information about John Sinclair and his various criminal activities. It seemed that a key to Sinclair's success, the reason why his hand in matters was so often able to escape detection until it was too late, was the fact that so many of his individual and corporate victims, with the notable exception of Cornucopia, were corrupt, or engaging in criminal activities, themselves. As a consequence, Bo Wahlstrom, although always a step or two behind Sinclair himself, had managed, along the way, to advance his career considerably simply by sweeping up after Sinclair—acting on information of criminal activities engaged in by the individual or organization brought to light during the course of one of Sinclair's operations. As often as not, Sinclair's victims—if they were still alive—would wake up the morning after Sinclair had taken their money to find the police, acting upon information supplied by Wahlstrom, waiting at their door with a warrant for their arrest. According to Moliere, nobody in Interpol was quite sure where Wahlstrom had gotten his information, but it was assumed he'd had an informant highly placed in Sinclair's organization. For the past few years, Bo Wahlstrom's sole responsibility had been to pursue John Sinclair.

  Then Bo Wahlstrom had apparently closed the distance between himself and his longtime quarry, and that burst of speed had proved fatal, ending in his brutal murder by torture. According to Moliere, in the days just before his death Wahlstrom had been particularly excited about something, and it was now generally assumed that the Swede had stumbled across some particularly telling piece of information that had led him to his death at the hands of the man whose real face was a mystery. What that information might have been also remained a mystery. The case file, presumably containing whatever it was Wahlstrom had uncovered, had been in the possession of a young Greek Interpol officer by the name of Nicholas Furie, whom Wahlstrom had taken on as an administrative assistant six months before. The young officer had been at a mountain outpost near the Italian border where Sinclair had reportedly tried to cross and been turned back but not captured by the Swiss Army. Furie had been murdered in his bed—his eyes burned away and his heart cut out—the morning of the day I'd arrived, and the case file was missing.

  So that was it, I thought. The secret of what it was Wahlstrom had discovered that had finally enabled him to catch up with John Sinclair had probably died with him and Nicholas Furie. But now, according to Interpol, Sinclair was trapped inside Switzerland, and the net was gradually tightening around him. Right.

  As far as I was concerned, things seemed to be proceeding apace. There was no mystery about what Sinclair had done, only the mechanics of how he had managed to construct an electronic key on his own and then execute the command for Cornucopia to cough up ten million dollars into his account. Now every available resource was being used to pursue him. That was what I had come to hear, and that was what I would report. My own opinion was that John "Chant" Sinclair was no closer to being caught this time than in the past and that he had probably already slipped across the border. But that wasn't my concern.

  Harper wasn't due in until Saturday afternoon, but as far as I was concerned, my job was finished, except for actually writing the report. When we arrived back at the hotel, I gave Carlo a good-sized tip. Despite his protestations that he was supposed to remain at my service until Harper arrived, I told him I didn't need him anymore and that he should use the time he would have spent with me to visit his family in Italy. He said he couldn't do that, but he thanked me profusely for the money, then got into the Mercedes and drove off, waving goodbye as he did so.

  I glanced at my watch, calculated that Neuberger was probably at home. Feeling a bit guilty at how little I was having to do to earn this particular fee with a European vacation thrown in to boot, I went up to my room and placed a call to Neuberger's mansion on Long Island, figuring my client might appreciate a prompt verbal report on what was going to be in my written report.

  Neuberger's butler, Peterson, usually answered his telephone, but the man's voice on the other end of the line definitely wasn't Peterson's. The voice was somehow familiar, but I couldn't identify it in the context of Emmet Neuberger's household.

  "This is Dr. Robert Frederickson," I said. "I'd like to speak to Mr. Neuberger."

  "Mongo?"

  "Who's this?"

  "Barry Stone."

  I felt a tingling at the base of my spine, and I sat down on the edge of the bed. Barry Stone was a Long Island homicide detective, a friend of Garth's and mine. "What the hell are you doing in Emmet Neuberger's home, Barry?"

  "First I have to ask why you're calling here, Mongo."

  "Neuberger's a client. I'm doing some work for him."

  "Where are you calling from?"

  "Zurich."

  "What kind of work are you doing for him?"

  "Come on, Barry, it's your turn. What's going on there?"

  "It could be a while before you get to speak t
o your client again, Mongo—if ever. He was snatched sometime last night, apparently by a guy named John Sinclair. I assume you've heard of him?"

  "I've heard of him," I said tersely, suddenly feeling slightly short of breath. "How do you know it was Sinclair? I didn't think kidnapping was his thing."

  "We can't be positive, because Sinclair changes his handwriting like other men change shirts, but there was a note left with his name on it. Also, every servant in the house was killed with something sharp and hot through the eyes and into the brain. Now, that is something Sinclair might do."

  I swallowed, found that my mouth was dry. "How much money does he want, and who does he expect to pay it?"

  "The note didn't mention money, and it wasn't addressed to anyone. It just said he'd be in touch. Now tell me what Neuberger sent you to do in Switzerland."

  I did. I talked for twenty minutes, struggling with feelings of distraction and disorientation, briefing the homicide detective on just what it was Neuberger had wanted me to do and what I'd learned from Hyatt Pomeroy and Interpol. After I'd finished I gave him my number at the Hilton, and he gave me a number where I could reach him if I found out anything else at my end. He thanked me and hung up.

  I poured myself a stiff drink from the bar in the suite, sipped it as I stared out the window, thinking. One thing seemed clear: my much-anticipated vacation with Harper was going to have to be postponed. Although I had fulfilled my professional obligation to my client, and while there was no reason why I couldn't traipse off to Zermatt with my beloved while Interpol and the Long Island police went about their respective business, I knew I couldn't. It seemed somehow inappropriate, and I was surprised to find that I had a somewhat proprietary feeling toward the hapless Emmet P. Neuberger, who had not only had his family charity ripped off for ten million dollars but was now likely to have his life ripped out of him. I knew I was going back to New York, not because there was anything I could contribute, but simply to stand vigil in a way for a well-meaning but vaguely obnoxious man whom nobody, including me, much cared for.

  I tried to call Harper at her home in Palmetto Grove, Florida, but she was out, and her answering machine was off. I was just getting ready to call the Zurich police and Interpol to ask them if they knew that the man they were so certain they had penned up in Switzerland was busy in New York killing and kidnapping people when there was a knock at the door. Surprised, I replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle, went to the door, and opened it.

  The man standing in the doorway was about six feet tall, well dressed in a three-piece suit off Savile Row. He was whippet thin, with pale brown hair and eyes. An angular, rodent-like face was made to seem even more angular and rodent-like by a wispy moustache. However, the most striking thing about the man was the strong antiseptic smell, perhaps skin or scalp medication, that he exuded. It was precisely the same odor I'd detected in my room the day before.

  "My name's Duane Insolers, Dr. Frederickson," the man said, producing a slender, well-worn leather wallet which he flipped open to reveal a very official-looking violet and gold card with his photo on it. "I'm with the Central Intelligence Agency, and I'd appreciate a few minutes of your time. May I come in?"

  I stayed in the doorway. "None of the spies I've ever met have gone around flashing ID cards. I hope you're not here to try to sell me a set of encyclopedias, or something."

  The man who had identified himself as Duane Insolers smiled wryly. "Ah," he said, scratching his left ear, "I've been told that you and your brother know more than a little about the intelligence community, and that some of my colleagues have made a bad impression on the two of you in the past. I can assure you that I don't shoot people, and I don't go skulking around trying to overthrow unfriendly governments. I'm really just a functionary, a bureaucrat."

  "Sure you are. Now you're starting to sound like a spy."

  "If you want more convincing, the last ten digits of that very large number at the bottom of my ID card is an eight-hundred number for a direct line to Langley. They'll verify that I am who I say I am."

  "What do you want, Insolers?"

  "To speak with you."

  "About what?"

  "May I come in?"

  "How'd you know about me?"

  "Well, to say that your reputation precedes you anywhere you go in the world is an understatement. Interpol told me you were coming to town to make inquiries about the matters involving Chant Sinclair. Interpol and the CIA cooperate on many things, but we're especially cooperative when it comes to hunting Sinclair."

  "You may not skulk around trying to overthrow unfriendly governments, Insolers, but you're definitely a skulker. If you didn't want to give me a bad impression of you, why did you search my room yesterday? What the hell did you expect to find?"

  He reacted. He caught himself quickly, but not before I had seen the glint of surprise in his pale brown eyes; it occurred to me that, as skillfully stealthy as Insolers might be, he was actually not aware of the odor he carried and left in his wake like an olfactory fingerprint.

  "Really, Dr. Frederickson. Even if your room was searched, what makes you think it was me?"

  "Is that a denial, Insolers?"

  He studied me carefully while he considered his answer. "No," he said at last. "I'm usually pretty good at these things, and I'll be damned if I saw any detection devices. You must know some tricks I don't."

  "I'm a veritable magician. What were you looking for?"

  "I wasn't sure, Frederickson. That's the truth." He paused, shrugged. "I guess old skulking habits die hard."

  "Forget it," I said, turning and walking back into the suite, casually motioning for him to follow me. "You can skulk around here all you want, and it won't make a damn bit of difference. You, Interpol, the Zurich police, and the Swiss Army are all wasting your time. Sinclair took his show back out on the road. He's an ocean away, butchering and kidnapping people in New York."

  I stopped and turned, expecting to find him right behind me. But Duane Insolers was still standing in the doorway, looking positively stunned and making no effort to mask it. "What are you talking about?" he asked in a tight voice.

  "I just finished talking on the phone to a Long Island cop who tells me Sinclair kidnapped Emmet P. Neuberger last night— motive unknown, since he didn't ask for money in the note he left. I was about to call the authorities here to see if they knew, when you showed up."

  "Just because there was a note with Sinclair's name on it doesn't mean he did it."

  "He left a calling card; he killed all of Neuberger's servants, burned out their eyes. That does seem to be his preferred method of murder these days."

  Insolers had obviously discovered the hidden bar with its complimentary supply of booze during his earlier visit to my rooms, because that's where he headed now. He opened the cabinet, took out a bottle of malt Scotch, and poured himself a serious drink.

  "Make yourself at home," I said evenly. "Maybe you'd like a drink?"

  He turned around and sipped at his Scotch, staring somewhere over my head, as if he hadn't heard me. "No," he said at last, setting the half-finished drink down on top of the liquor cabinet.

  "No, you wouldn't like a drink?"

  "No, I don't think Sinclair snatched Neuberger and killed his servants."

  "Why not?"

  It seemed a simple enough question, but it took him a long time to answer it. Finally, he said, "I have my reasons."

  "Which are?"

  "One of them is that even Sinclair can't be in two places at once, and there's very good intelligence, from a number of different sources, to indicate that he's still in Switzerland."

  "Maybe he had his people do it."

  Insolers dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. "Sinclair always works solo, regardless of the odds. It seems to be a point of pride with him."

  "Well, there's little likelihood of a copycat killer at work. This is basically a European story, and it hasn't gotten much play in the American press."
r />   "The Swiss have the borders sealed off," Insolers said distantly. "He couldn't have gotten out."

  "Just like he couldn't have gotten out of Vietnam twenty-five years ago, right?"

  "Ah," Insolers said, fixing me with his pale brown eyes. "You know about that."

  "It's in the public record, part of the legend. What do you want from me, Insolers?"

  The CIA operative picked up his drink, walked across the room, and sat down on a beige sofa. "If Sinclair really did get out of Switzerland," he said carefully as he slowly rotated his tumbler on an open palm, "I'm not going to be the only one surprised; not a few people are going to be downright disappointed. Zurich is beginning to resemble a convention center for a lot of different kinds of espionage types. So far, I've counted operatives from six different countries. It's another of the reasons why I don't think Sinclair did the Neuberger thing. These other people have been getting the same signals I have, maybe from different sources. The word is that he's still in Switzerland, lying low someplace."

  "Why are all these intelligence types interested in Sinclair? What's your interest? Sinclair's a murderer and con man, not a spy."

  "My interest is to find out what their interests are. My assignment is to try to sort out the players."

  "That's just double-talk. If you don't want to tell me anything, that's fine, but I still don't understand what you think you can find out from me."

  Insolers sipped at his drink while he studied me over the rim of the glass. After he had drained the tumbler, he resumed turning it in the palm of his hand. "Does the term 'Cooked Goose' mean anything to you, Frederickson?"

  He had tried to make the question seem almost casual, but I was certain I detected an underlying tension in his voice. I thought I was beginning to understand how Alice had felt when she'd tumbled down the rabbit hole. "Insolers, somehow I sense that you're not talking about food, or the usual slang usage of the term. Am I right?"

  "Level with me, Frederickson," the other man said quietly. "Do you know what it is?"