by Emma Lathen
Pablo did not falter. “When they got to the bar I was setting up a tray, so they pushed further down to a clear spot. That’s when Herr Zabriski said matters of such gravity couldn’t wait. I definitely caught that snatch while I was passing.”
“And then?” Oblonski asked.
There was a flash of white teeth in the swarthy face.
“After a minute or two, when I finished the tray, I went up to them and Herr Zabriski was saying something about evidence of a real BADA crime at the Kiel Canal.”
“Ah,” breathed Oblonski appreciatively. “Did you hear anything more?”
Pablo was enjoying himself. “No, they left right away, but Herr Zabriski looked as sick as a dog. Usually he was as sharp as they come but tonight—”
For whatever they were worth, his insights were interrupted. A policeman stuck his head in the door to announce that Madame Nordstrom was free to receive the authorities. The formulation was not lost on Colonel Oblonski.
“So off we go, into the presence,” he said, rising obediently.
Madame Nordstrom did not let him forget the premier.
“. . . after expressing our sense of loss, and welcoming his assurances of an intensive investigation,” she said fluently. “Naturally, the resources of BADA are available to help clarify this tragic event.” Earlier, Oblonski had listened to her promises with the usual grain of salt. But now, thanks to the Spanish Pole, he was more fully armed.
“They tell me that Zabriski had stumbled upon something criminal at BADA,” he said deliberately. “Do you know anything about that?”
Madame Nordstrom did not blanch.
“Very little, and only what I heard at second hand. Leonhard Bach. no doubt you’ll be talking to him, could not or would not be more specific.”
But Oblonski was not interested in Leonhard Bach at the moment. “Zabriski,” he said, sticking to the point at issue. “What can you tell me about him?”
Again, Annamarie had little to offer. “We are . . . were . . . professional colleagues, and I had the highest opinion of him. But otherwise, I know almost nothing about him. He was a widower with a grown son, but that’s really all I can tell you.”
The police, with other and better sources, were already digging into the background of Stefan Zabriski, so Oblonski nodded as if she had given him a nugget of great value and said, “But you can tell me about the man himself. About his judgment, for example.”
She moistened her lips. “As you’ll no doubt learn Stefan, in addition to his very great abilities, was sometimes overzealous. He could seem intolerant of quite venial offenses. Perhaps it would be more accurate to call him deeply committed to BADA. Ordinarily, when he got upset about some irregularity, I was inclined to think he was exaggerating.”
“But not this time?” Oblonski pounced.
With limpid sincerity, she gazed at him. “If Stefan planned to write a report, and if he was murdered before he could do so, well, I for one do not believe in coincidence.”
“Then you accept the possibility of a serious situation within your organization?”
“Believe me, BADA will leave no stone unturned to find out,” she said forcefully.
“Because you’re worried about the reputation of BADA?” he suggested.
“Naturally,” she replied. There will be no hint of scandal here if I have any say about it.”
Wondering how she regarded murder he merely said, “Perhaps Zabriski’s secretary will be able to help.”
“Wanda!” exclaimed Madame Nordstrom uneasily. “But she isn’t fit to talk yet, is she?”
* * *
Wanda was fit and willing to the point of compulsion.
“Stefan would never do anything wrong,” she insisted before Oblonski finished introducing himself.
The colonel examined his witness thoughtfully. Wanda had made an attempt to repair the signs of ravage; her hair was brushed and her lipstick renewed. But the great dark eyes, glazed with anguish, were sunk in a chalk-white pallor and she seemed unconscious of the vivid bloodstains on her blouse. Oblonski, drawing his own conclusions from these indications of grief, calculated that he had less than five minutes.
“Everybody says that he was very dedicated,” he began warily.
“He cared too much about BADA, that was the trouble. That’s why he was always annoying people.”
“What people?” he asked, seizing the opening.
“Everyone,” she said wildly. “Stefan wanted too much, too fast, and he was furious when the others insisted on prudence and delay.” This did not sound like the material of murder.
“He was bothered about something when he came back from his trip. Was it about BADA?”
“He was upset before he left. That’s why he went away, to have time to think.”
“Upset about what?”
“He wouldn’t tell me!” Wracked by a dry sob, she covered her face with her hands, the incarnation of mourning. But the words still tumbled out. “I tried and tried, but no! He knew best . . . always knowing more than anybody about his ships, about his harbors, about everything except what was important. And what good did it do him? He’s lying out there with his head . . .”
Before she could break down entirely, Oblonski dragged her back from the edge.
“He must have said something.”
She clenched her hands over the arms of her chair, the knuckles showing white as she fought for control. “Something was going to come out, something bad about BADA, and he was afraid they’d say it was his fault. But that wasn’t so,” she added fiercely. “He’d just been taken in.”
Oblonski was keeping his voice as calm and emotion-free as possible. “Surely, as they all knew about his devotion, they wouldn’t be so swift to blame him.”
“Stefan had antagonized so many people. He knew they’d grab at the excuse to say he was incompetent.”
Zabriski had been worrying about the wrong people, reflected the colonel.
The same thought had occurred to Wanda. “Oh, the fool, the blind fool,” she moaned. “He was hoping things would calm down while he was away, or it would all turn out to be a mistake or some other miracle would happen.” It could now only be a matter of seconds before she would be useless.
“And when he came back this evening?” Oblonski pressed. “Did he say anything more?”
“Oh, yes. He said: ‘Hello, Wanda, I won’t want you until tomorrow morning,” she replied scornfully. “Famous last words, no?”
Careful to sound sympathetic, Oblonski continued. “I don’t suppose you heard what he and Bach were talking about.”
Her lips twisted. “Stefan was saying his facts were right. They were always right!” She closed her eyes abruptly.
Gently Oblonski persisted. “How did he sound, worried, anxious, angry?”
Her voice had become such a thin thread the colonel had to lean forward to catch her words. “He was beside himself. When they came out of the elevator I heard him raving about Eric Andersen. By the time he got to my desk he was muttering about Jaan Hroka and when the door closed he was going on to somebody else.”
Suddenly her memories overcame her. “I shouldn’t have left him; he was so helpless. But he said he didn’t need me, and I didn’t want to make things worse. So I just went downstairs to do some last-minute faxing before going home. Oh, damn them all. Look what they’ve done to Stefan!” she cried, her voice rising harshly. “Look what they’ve done to me!”
And without further warning she clutched her arms around her breasts and began rocking backward and forward to the tempo of her shrill wailing.
“My God,” said Alex when they escaped from the infirmary. “I hate these sessions with bereaved women.”
Oblonski had seen much more of this phenomenon than his subordinate. “That wasn’t just grief,” he announced. “She’s scared to death about what her precious Stefan was up to. She’s trying to establish his innocence before it becomes public. But then she’s not very rational right now.”
>
“What do you mean?”
“Somebody figured that, with Zabriski out of the way, it could be covered up. At least that’s what the all wise Madame Nordstrom thinks.” His sardonic tone faded into dissatisfaction.
“And if she’s right, we’ve got one pretty mess on our hands.”
Chapter 11
Empty Net
At 9:30 Colonel Oblonski decided to leave further inquiry at BADA to underlings.
“I’d like to get the story of what happened in lounge from the ones who’ve gone missing,” he said. “Before they put their heads together.”
Alex was dubious. “If they’ve scattered we won’t be able to get much done.”
There are only two likely hotels in Gdansk,” Oblonski pointed out. “We should be able to get through one before they’re all asleep.”
His first and most important strike hit pay dirt. Leonhard Bach was hard at work in his room, rapping out instructions to some distant associate. Waving the colonel to a chair, he continued to focus on the phone. Then redirect her to Lisbon,” he was saying. “The canal sure as hell won’t be open this week, so there’s plenty of time. And I want those freighters earning their keep.”
“Shipping agents,” he muttered when he finally hung up. Then, studying the card in his hand, he said, “What can I do for you, Colonel?”
Bach, in his present guise, was a far cry from the exuberant Rostock booster. Already in an aged dressing gown and slippers, with a pair of steel-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, he was surrounded by a mountain of freight-forwarding documents. When Oblonski briefly described Stefan Zabriski’s death, Bach was aghast.
“Clubbed to death! It seems impossible,” he protested. “Why, I saw poor Stefan only this evening.”
“I know, and that’s what I want to talk about.”
“How will that help?”
“You must realize that Herr Zabriski’s discovery of something amiss at BADA is now of prime importance.”
Bach narrowed his eyes. “Now, wait a minute. Are you saying that’s the reason he was killed? But that would mean . . . God in heaven, this could be a real stink.”
“True. So, while you were very discreet when describing the situation to the chairman, it is now time to add the details.”
“But I told her everything I knew. Didn’t she explain?” Frowning, Bach went on. “Stefan wasn’t giving me chapter and verse. If you’ve talked to Madame Nordstrom, you know as much as I do.”
“Not quite.” The words were uttered so gently that Bach missed their significance.
“Didn’t you forget Zabriski’s anger about Eric Andersen?”
Taken aback, Bach thought for a moment. “I suppose that was Wanda,” he decided. “I didn’t mention specific names to Madame Nordstrom because they might be taken the wrong way, which is exactly what you’re doing, Colonel. Stefan didn’t make much sense, so it wasn’t at all clear what he meant. He could have been saying that what Andersen did wasn’t a 100% ethical but it was nothing compared to what someone else had done. Stefan wasn’t pointing a finger directly at Andersen the way he did with Hroka—”
Bach broke off with a vexed exclamation.
“Hroka too?” asked the colonel.
“All right, I fell into that one myself. Stefan didn’t like how some of the new boys in the East are doing business, and he said Hroka was a prime example.”
“Of what?” Oblonski prodded.
“You may as well get it right,” Bach growled. “Stefan said Hroka as good as tried to bribe him. But you’ve got to understand that the two of them didn’t hit it off.”
* * *
Jaan Hroka, encountered rolling into the hotel lobby behind a blast of alcoholic fumes, agreed. “No, I didn’t get along with Zabriski. Who could? He was against Estonians in general.”
Oblonski remembered the same story Gabler had. “After the toxic dumping, maybe he had some reason.”
With a wave so broad it almost toppled his balance, Hroka replied, “He started in before that. Stefan Zabriski was running BADA for the exclusive benefit of the Germans. His very first program was guaranteeing loans for new shippers. Over half those loans went to Germans. And as for the harbor grant, Zabriski meant to throw that to Rostock, no matter what. That’s why his inspectors hit on an Estonian ship. He was setting us up.”
Hroka splayed a gnarled hand on the reception desk for support and, thrusting his face close to Oblonski, was haranguing him at top volume. Only when Oblonski was certain that no germane material would be forthcoming did he interrupt.
“Zabriski claimed you tried to bribe him.”
“Not that old song,” Hroka jeered. “You want to know what really happened? He was so dead set against Tallinn I asked him to stay with me and inspect the place personally. Little Mr. Morality acted as if I’d offered him a bagful of money under the table. But Leonhard Bach flies government officials into Rostock for caviar and champagne and that just proves he knows how to run a business . . . unlike us poor peasants in Estonia.”
Before the tirade could recommence, Oblonski asked if Hroka had overheard Bach’s discussion with the chairman. “Enough to know that, while Zabriski was playing games, someone had gotten his hand into the BADA till. And the great man was going to have to come up with an explanation for Madame Nordstrom even though she already wanted to get rid of him.”
Without a flicker of reaction to this unexpected tidbit, Oblonski continued. “And you heard that he was planning to leave the building?”
“I heard he was spending the evening on his report.” Hroka shrugged. “I didn’t know where he was going to do it.” An uninhibited witness is always a find for investigators but, if only half of what Hroka said was true, Stefan Zabriski had created hostility on all sides.
“I understand you had wanted an interview with Zabriski. Did you try to catch him after he was through with Bach?”
“Hell, no. One brush-off was enough. I finished my drink with Herr Vigotis, the Estonian delegate, and then we left.”
“Together?”
“Damned right!”
* * *
The Hotel Novatel summoned Eric Andersen from a billiard game somewhere in its depths. As a prominent public figure, the Dane cast his first response in the form of praise for the departed. “Yes, they tell me Zabriski was central to BADA’s operations,” Oblonski said after the high-flown periods came to an end. “And that he had made a nasty discovery that Herr Bach discussed with you earlier this evening.”
Andersen’s eyebrows rose at this police interest, but he replied without hesitation. “Yes, Bach said it sounded to him like fraud. He then went over to relay the news to Madame Nordstrom.”
“That seems an odd way for her to learn of the situation.”
“I thought so myself. Particularly as Zabriski was going home to prepare a report. It probably never occurred to him that someone else would break the news first. But, then, he should have known better than to tell Bach.” Pleased to have acquired this knowledge of Zabriski’s movements without specific questioning, Oblonski asked if others could have heard.
“We weren’t whispering and the room was crowded. That’s my point,” Andersen argued. “Telling Bach was the equivalent of telling the whole building. He really should acquire some discretion.”
“Perhaps he has . . . to a certain degree. Did he mention what Zabriski said about you? That the first instance of wrongdoing on your part was nothing compared to his recent discovery?”
The Dane’s ruddy face darkened. “No, Bach did not. If he had, I would have marched downstairs and given Zabriski a piece of my mind.” So much for elevated sentiments about BADA’s great loss.
“I’m afraid I must ask you what Zabriski was referring to.”
“It’s scarcely a secret BADA’s first undertaking involved cleaning up a toxic waste area and the council gave the job to a firm owned by my in-laws. Not only did I abstain from voting, but Zabriski himself endorsed the choice. His objections didn’t
come until he decided I was a threat to his hobbyhorse.”
“Hobbyhorse? You’ll have to explain.”
Andersen smiled humorlessly. “Zabriski was hell-bent on having BADA participate in building a second Kiel Canal.”
“A second Kiel?” Oblonski repeated, shaken out of his single-minded absorption. “But surely that would require incredible resources.”
“Far more than BADA has, not to mention that the entire concept is insane. But, for some weird reason, Zabriski convinced himself that the Kiel disaster had eliminated all opposition to his pet project. He was running around, assuming everybody would vote the way he wanted. When I declined, he suddenly discerned impropriety in my relatives being employed by BADA. He went well beyond what is permissible, as I was forced to inform the chairman.”
“And how did she respond?”
“She assured me there would be no recurrence.” With Hroka’s words still fresh in his mind, Oblonski savored this confirmation of trouble brewing between the chairman and her chief of staff.
“And that satisfied you?” he asked.
For the first time Eric Andersen sounded amused.
“Madame Nordstrom is more than capable of maintaining her authority.”
* * *
Oblonski worked late into the night, but he could not complete his collection. “Asking them to tell their stories after midnight would provoke howls of protest. We’ll make an early start tomorrow.” Despite these precautions he found the Hevelius Hotel unrewarding. His call to Peter von Hennig’s room went unanswered.
“A wasted trip,” he commented. The Hevelius was located in the heart of downtown Gdansk, but he was thinking ahead to the next item on his agenda. “We’ll catch von Hennig later, Alex, but before we drive halfway up the coast to Sopot, call this man Vigotis and make sure he’ll be there to receive us.”
So the wheels of police routine began rolling toward Anton Vigotis although Peter von Hennig was actually within arm’s reach, not in his own room but two doors down the corridor in John Thatcher’s. Peter was already well launched on a long, somber review. “Naturally when you informed me last night that Zabriski had been murdered, I was deeply shocked.”
