by Emma Lathen
Added up, these points came to an impressive total, as Thatcher had to admit. “But you yourself recommended him in Bonn as a competent chief of staff.”
“He is, or rather he has been. That’s what alarms me. All of this is very uncharacteristic. Zabriski’s manner has always been unexceptionable with the delegates. You know the kind of thing, a good deal of surface deference supported by the confidence that he’s the real expert.”
“And yet you’ve labeled him ignorant about vital concerns.”
Von Hennig shrugged. “That didn’t matter. We all know he has a vainglorious view of BADA’s future under his direction, but it’s as if he were some bore droning on about his stamp collection. He didn’t try to force agreement. On the contrary, he rather enjoyed displaying more vision that the rest of us. I can only recall one instance when his fanaticism caused trouble and that was the toxic dumping.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Gabler. “I saw the photograph.”
“Too many people did,” von Hennig said sourly. Then turning to Thatcher he continued. “Zabriski marched into the council with the most astonishing proposals for sanctions. We were not only supposed to put that wretched Hroka out of business but cripple Estonia with some kind of boycott.”
“Surely that caused waves.”
Peter smiled in grim recollection. “Vigotis was livid. Fortunately Annamarie took charge. She thanked Zabriski for his suggestions, dismissed him from the chamber, then went to work putting out the fire.”
“So that’s why Hroka is always accusing him of being anti-Estonian.”
“Yes. But actually Zabriski’s so anxious to have BADA’s authority recognized he was simply grabbing at the excuse for a show of power. Silly, of course, but not dangerous with Annamarie riding herd on him. Unless it was the beginning of some kind of breakdown.”
Thatcher wished that he had seen Zabriski in some other context than his endeavors at the Kiel Canal. There he had certainly not looked like someone heading for a crack-up. “It’s hard to judge without knowing what’s been going on,” Thatcher said.
Gabler coughed delicately. “Surely the most egregious aspect of Zabriski’s behavior was choosing Bach as his confidant rather than Madame Nordstrom?” he suggested. “Even if they are having difficulties.”
“That’s it! That’s what’s been nagging at me,” von Hennig declared in a moment of self-discovery. “Mentioning those difficulties was a departure from Annamarie’s usual style. Normally she would have corrected Zabriski in private and never referred to the incident even with a delegate, let alone outsiders.”
“You don’t think it just slipped out?” Thatcher ventured.
“Ha! Everything she does is deliberate. She was signaling a new plateau in her dealings with him.”
Thatcher was remembering more. “And she was not all that bothered by Zabriski’s brusqueness to Andersen.”
“Lining up support,” von Hennig said cogently. “I tell you one thing. This report we’ll get tomorrow may be peanuts compared to what’s going on between those two. I think I’ll leave you now and see if I can catch Casimir Radan at the hotel. He’s usually not averse to a little discreet gossip and he may know what’s been happening around here.”
As soon as von Hennig departed Thatcher addressed the unspoken thought behind Gabler’s expression of disapproval. “Peter is not condoning fraud, Ev. He simply suspects that this famous report may be a gambit in some kind of power struggle between Madame Nordstrom and Zabriski.”
“I would have thought the outcome of such a struggle self-evident.”
“Probably, but Peter knows more about BADA than we do. He may be concerned how much damage would be caused in the process.”
Reluctantly Gabler agreed.
“And as we’re not likely to learn anything more here, we might leave ourselves,” Thatcher continued. “I’d like to check in with Miss Corsa and Charlie.”
“And I,” said Gabler, rising briskly, “have to make arrangements for tomorrow with Mrs. Gomulka.” In the elevator Gabler explained that, after wading through a host of unworthy applicants, he had finally found a satisfactory candidate for employment. Thatcher hoped that the rate of pay would compensate this unknown woman for what she was getting into. Gabler had been busy on other fronts as well, as Thatcher was reminded upon reaching the ground floor. He had automatically turned to the front entrance and its taxi rank when Everett plucked at his sleeve.
“Not that way, John. We’re going to the parking lot at the back. I rented a car at lunchtime.”
In Gabler’s opinion the wait for a cab had often been unconscionable.
“Well, not any longer,” said Thatcher, following Everett outdoors into the darkness of an early northern evening. From what could be seen as they picked their way across the half-empty lot, the car of universal choice at BADA was the Fiat Polska.
“They all look the same to me, Ev. You lead—”
Breaking off, Thatcher peered at the isolated vehicle ahead. A large irregular shape lay in its shadow. With a frown he advanced several paces, then froze.
“It’s Zabriski,” he managed to say through a congested throat. Dropping to one knee, Thatcher forced himself to look at the battered head lying in an ominous dark pool. “And I’m almost sure he’s dead.”
Everett stared around the lot in bewilderment. “But how could . . . I mean nobody could be driving here that fast. . . and to just leave him . . .”
“It wasn’t a car, Everett,” said Thatcher, grimly pointing. “It was that.”
A tire iron lay several feet away, ugly with Stefan Zabriski’s blood.
Chapter 10
Fishing Expedition
In the eternity that followed Everett Gabler was first to recover.
“We have to summon help,” he said shakily.
Although mesmerized by the horror lying at his feet, Thatcher did his best to adjust to the needs of the moment. Then, like the answer to a prayer, approaching footsteps sounded. Thank God!” exclaimed Thatcher, hailing somebody—anybody—who could assist. They can call—
“Oh, no! Don’t come closer!” yelped Everett.
But it was too late. Wanda Jesilko, swathed in scarves, paused in a stray shaft of light and frowned an inquiry at the two men confronting her. Then she peered beyond them to the lifeless bundle tossed carelessly against the Polska.
“What’s that?” she asked, sidestepping Gabler’s outstretched arms. When she reached the body, she stared downward at the lolling mangled head. “It looks like . . . but it can’t be . . . Stefan? Oh God, Stefan!”
Crumpling to her knees she began rocking back and forth like an old woman. “No . . . no . . . no . . .” From whisper to denial to paroxysm her keening mounted steadily. Even Everett was paralyzed. But this time, relief was at hand. Somewhere behind Thatcher, a door was flung open. Drawn like flies, BADA personnel swarmed outside, pushing forward until they formed a human shield around the stricken woman. Wanda’s convulsive cries became the mechanical underbeat to their confused chorus. The questions and exclamations, all unintelligible to Thatcher, were nevertheless music to his ear. Already, excitement was dispelling the nightmare. Sooner or later, cold hard reality must follow.
It was later rather than sooner.
“Over an hour, by my reckoning,” said Everett, consulting his watch again.
“Just be grateful we’re not out there with a corpse and a hysterical woman,” said Thatcher callously.
Gabler shuddered retroactively, although their current situation did not have much to recommend it. The delegates’ lounge, to which they had been herded with 15 or 20 others, no longer glowed with warm, shaded lamplight. Instead, a harsh overhead fixture beat down uncompromisingly on an ill-assorted and unconvivial gathering. Frightened waiters were circulating with much-needed drinks like medics dispensing first aid, but apart from their muted bustle, only whispers broke the silence. This left a clear field for the inveterate faultfinders.
“I repeat,” said one of
them, “notifying the local police was highly incorrect procedure.” Carping had begun with the arrival of the first uniform. Yes, there was a rapidly cooling body in the parking lot, but BADA was not a tawdry saloon. Crime on the privileged premises of an international organization required tact and diplomacy. Could these requisites be supplied by passing patrolmen?
The two stolid young giants currently guarding the door did not inspire confidence along those lines, but Thatcher was on their side. While they gave no indication of sensitivity, they had at least activated the system. Downstairs, homicide specialists were circling Stefan Zabriski with clinical detachment. Somebody had sped Wanda off to the infirmary. For this bonus, Thatcher counted confinement in the delegates’ lounge a small price to pay.
Others differed. “But why are they keeping us here? What are we waiting for?”
Thatcher’s curiosity, as lively as the next man’s, was still centered on the murder, not its immediate aftermath. Offhand, he would have guessed that they were waiting for more policemen.
Instead, they got Annamarie Nordstrom. Her entrance into the lounge was a work of art. “I came as soon as they managed to contact me,” she announced.
Every inch the chairman of the general council of the Baltic Area Development Association, she advanced into her realm with ironclad dignity. Her lieges needed calming.
“Madam Chairman, do you realize that somebody prematurely called the local police?” said the fusser.
“So I understand,” she said, grandly dismissing this quibble. “I don’t care. Oh, I know BADA has extraterritorial rights, but we must remember that Stefan is . . . was . . . a Polish citizen, and a distinguished one. So instead of worrying about technicalities, will you please tell me exactly what happened?”
Thatcher was wondering how many others detected a slight crack in her veneer when he was catapulted into the spotlight. “That’s what we do not know,” complained an eminent hydrologist. “But Mr. Thatcher here, and Mr. Gabler, they found Zabriski’s body!” When, several lifetimes ago, Thatcher had last shared a table with Madame Nordstrom, he had done the listening. As she sank into a chair beside him he decided that reciprocating with the discovery of a corpse did not constitute a significant improvement. His account was as bald and unvarnished as he could make it.
“How awful,” she said at the end of his recital. To have Wanda Jesilko come along just then.” Surely an odd, almost grotesque aspect of the tragedy to single out! An expression of profound gravity enabled Thatcher to conceal his surprise but Everett quivered slightly. Without apparent self-consciousness, Annamarie explained herself.
“. . . most of us will confine ourselves to simple facts, but after this shock, Wanda may . . . er . . . lose her sense of proportion.”
Thatcher interpreted this as protectiveness toward BADA but Everett went further afield. “A very unpleasant experience for anybody,” he said gamely. “But do I gather that Mrs. Jesilko was particularly attached to Zabriski?”
“Lovers,” she said briefly. “When Stefan’s wife died, and Wanda’s husband took off, well . . . they’ve been together for five years now.”
A relationship that was as respectable as you could get, short of the altar, thought Thatcher. On the other hand, it did suggest that Wanda might know more than Madame Nordstrom wanted the police to hear.
As if reading his thoughts, she gave a small sigh, then indicated she could no longer ignore the call of duty. Tapping a spoon against her cup for attention, she rose and made her statement. “This isn’t the time for me to elaborate on the sorrow we feel at the loss of a valued colleague. I do want to allay doubts you may have about the investigation. Ordinarily, we prefer to keep some facets of BADA to ourselves, but this is an exception. We owe it to Stefan to be as helpful as possible, to transmit everything we have seen or heard. I’m sure anything irrelevant will be disregarded.”
“Odder still,” commented Thatcher.
While Gabler found much that was admirable in Madame Nordstrom’s remarks, he recognized a contradiction. Following her misgivings about Wanda Jesilko, pleas for candor rang hollow. Then a possible explanation presented itself. Unnoticed by Thatcher, the law enforcement arm of BADA’s host country had joined the party. Together with an assistant, a heavily decorated policeman had slipped into the lounge. Large and unmistakably imposing, he had a thatch of prematurely white hair and jet-black eyebrows. Gazing blandly at the BADA personnel, he listened while Madame Nordstrom continued: “. . . Colonel Oblonski, who has been assigned because of unique qualifications,” she said with a brilliant smile in his direction. “We’ve put an office at his disposal and no doubt he’ll inform you how he plans to proceed.”
Her own cooperation, it went without saying, would be unstinted, however delayed. “Apparently, the premier of Poland is calling on my private line.” She excused herself. This bravura performance was impressive but, thought Thatcher with a glance at the impassive Oblonski, not necessarily effective.
“Quite the high-handed lady, isn’t she?” said Oblonski with the interior rumble that denoted amusement as he entered the office assigned to him. His aide was more sensitive to international niceties. “I suppose you could say she’s one nation speaking to another,” he suggested.
“Yes, but she talked to BADA first, didn’t she?” Oblonski replied. “With pretty strong hints that there was a lot to say about Zabriski. Well, to give her credit that makes it easy to know where we should start I want to talk to those foreign bankers who found the body.”
“You mean you don’t think this was a robbery that went wrong?” his assistant, Alex, asked.
“The wallet and the pockets were untouched,” explained Oblonski. “Tell them to send down the Americans.”
Everett Gabler and John Thatcher, overcoats in arm, duly appeared. Their testimony, a model of its kind, furnished Oblonski with an overview of Zabriski’s movements in the delegates’ lounge as well as their own. Oblonski did not seek more.
“A clear statement, although not immediately helpful,” he observed after Thatcher and Gabler had been dismissed with profuse thanks. Subsequent segments of the parade past him made the Sloan Guaranty Trust shine by comparison.
“. . . all I can tell you is that Zabriski had some kind of bee in his bonnet,” said a witness with absolutely nothing to contribute.
“. . . storming up to Bach at Andersen’s table. But I couldn’t hear a word. . . .”
Even congenital busybodies had been handicapped.
“No one had the courtesy to tell me a thing,” said a still-resentful Lithuanian. “You’ll have to ask Eric. Or that grubby little Estonian, Hroka. He was right in the thick of things. He and Leonhard Bach both, as if either of them has anything to do with BADA. Now, von Hennig I understand, he’s a delegate. And American bankers—well, that goes without saying. But you’ll have to ask Annamarie why she chose . . .”
One by one the lounge upstairs was emptied. By the time the last important personage had been allowed to go home, Oblonski had become interested in the hours immediately preceding Zabriski’s death.
“Von Hennig, this Bach, and the Estonians,” he read from a list. “Andersen too. They all left before the body was discovered, so they’ll have to wait. In the meantime, the boys downstairs have identified the tire iron as BADA property. Let’s have a word with the parking attendant.”
But the attendant had already departed for the day and in his place came a solid elderly man, quietly self-possessed. “I’m the BADA mechanic,” he explained modestly. ‘The only reason I’m still here is I had a job to finish. The real attendant left at six o’clock. That’s when they lock the back gates and make people circle the building to the front drive.”
He was not bothered by any linkage between the murder weapon and BADA.
“If you were working late, how could anybody take one of your tools?” asked Alex.
“Things took longer than I expected,” said the mechanic placidly. “So I went to the cafeteria for something t
o eat. Must have been gone oh, a half hour or so. From about 6:15 to 6:45.”
Oblonski consulted his map of BADA. “And access to your shop is through the bay doors facing the lot, or that door from the corridor inside?”
“Yep,” said the mechanic.
“Couldn’t an outsider have gotten into the parking lot from the front drive?” demanded Alex.
“No way,” said the mechanic. The whole area’s floodlit and attended all night. He’d have had to walk or drive right past the guard out front.”
Alex subsided but Oblonski was still reviewing geography. “So anybody inside BADA heading for the parking-lot exit had to walk past your shop.”
“Yes, and some of them like to use it as a shortcut, Herr Zabriski, for example, and his secretary. They’ve done it when I’ve been working late.”
“Zabriski wasn’t always alone?”
“Sometimes he was, sometimes he wasn’t,” said the mechanic with indifference. “Of course, I lock up before I go home.”
As soon as he left, Alex nervously blurted out, “Colonel, if we prove this is an inside job, they’ll say we’re causing an incident!”
“Oh, no,” Oblonski assured him. “We’re just finding out what happened so the brass can decide how to handle it.” With that out of the way, he went on. “Now Zabriski and that German went up to the bar, didn’t they? Let’s see if the bartender is still around.”
The emergence of a Spaniard speaking fluent Polish astonished the young assistant, but Oblonski, who had spent years on the mean socialist streets, would not have blinked to find a Tibetan mixing BADA’s martinis. How well, he asked, did Pablo recall his patrons?
“Perfectly,” Pablo boasted. “Herr Bach? Well, he was already at a table, but instead of waiting to be served, he came rushing up to the bar. That was because Herr Zabriski was in a hurry to talk to him privately.”
“Is that what you assumed, or what they actually said?”
