by Emma Lathen
Oblonski nodded understandingly, then seized the opportunity to busy himself offering cream and sugar. Only when they were settled with their cups did he move cautiously on to delicate territory. “I did not have the chance to see much of your sister and, as you say, she was shocked and bereaved during that time. But one thing puzzled me. Her very first words to me on the night Zabriski was killed were Stefan would never do anything wrong. That struck me as odd.”
He was happy to see Sofia’s gleam of comprehension. “I told her that was the last thing she should be worrying about. But after all those years of picking up after Stefan, of trying to make him look as good as possible, she just couldn’t help herself.”
“I suppose so,” Oblonski said, careful to match her cadence so the rhythm would not be broken.
“I called her on Saturday hoping to talk about the possibility of her moving, but the story about the terrorists had just been on the radio.”
Oblonski stiffened. “The terrorists?” he echoed in spite of himself. If Sofia had ever shared her sister’s dramatic coloring, it had been faded and bleached over the course of years. Her hair had grayed into a rusty dull mass caught back in a bun. Her eyes seemed watery behind strong lenses and her face had sagged with age.
“She was very upset, you understand, crying and breaking off her sentences so that I had a hard time following. But Stefan told her he had made some kind of mistake that was going to become public. He was afraid it would end his career and destroy his reputation. He said he could even be charged with trying to benefit. But he refused to say what the mistake was. That’s how Wanda knew it was serious, because he always told her everything.”
“Now just a minute.” Oblonski was frowning in perplexity. “Frau Jesilko told us that she barely spoke to him before he was murdered.”
“Oh, this had to be earlier. To make things worse he then fled out of town, pretending he had to go away on business. Of course she kept trying to justify him. She said he’d been misled by other people, that he’d gotten himself into a mess by allowing himself to be led by the nose. When she was protecting Stefan, Wanda tended to talk about him as if he were ten years old, he got overexcited, his companions led him astray, he meant well. But the period before the funeral had been torture for her. She was waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“All right, but what did the story about the terrorists have to do with that?”
Sofia’s voice had now become that of an older sister looking back on a lifetime of coexistence. “She claimed that was the other shoe. It sounded insane to me, but you have to realize that Wanda could always get carried away by her own imagination and drive herself into a frenzy. When I said as much she told me I didn’t understand how these things work, that the terrorists had to have somebody tell them about the schedules of ships using the canal and the cargoes they carried. Absolutely nobody was in a better position to do that than Stefan. So she thought he had been talked into helping someone stage what was supposed to be a minor accident.”
Rapidly considering what he had been told, Oblonski was inclined to dismiss it as the fears of a hysterical, grief-stricken woman. Ringing in his ears were the words of the Finnish delegate and a host of others describing Zabriski’s good spirits in Kiel and on the plane back. If he had been innocently tricked, he would have been crushed by the first news of the disaster. There would have been no accordion festival, no sing-along. Zabriski’s reaction had come later, after his return to Gdansk. “Your sister must have had some evidence,” he argued. “Otherwise why would she come up with such a horror story, particularly one so far-fetched?”
“That’s what I tried to tell her. Stefan certainly had his blind spots. In fact,” Sofia confided, “my husband always said that he didn’t have the common sense of a flea. But he was basically an honorable man.”
Oblonski was still mounting objections. “Besides, from what I hear, Zabriski wanted as much development in the Baltic as possible. He would scarcely unite himself with environmental terrorists.”
“That’s what Wanda meant by his being easy to mislead. If he’d been told that a small mishap would force everyone to acknowledge the need to modernize the canal, he would have swallowed it whole. According to Wanda he was in total despair when everybody didn’t swing into line, as if he’d caused havoc for no good reason.”
Oblonski sighed. None of this made any sense. Maybe it was because he did not know enough about the conflict over the canal’s future. Casting around for more solid ground, he made a random pass. “How did Adam Zabriski enter the conversation? Was he involved in all this?”
“Only because Wanda was so set on keeping Stefan’s name clean. She was determined to find out if there was any written evidence at BADA linking him to a plot. If there was, she was sure she could persuade Adam, with his ambitions, to use all his influence to suppress it.”
“That certainly explains his desire to write off your sister’s death as a suicide. No investigation, no unpleasant discoveries.”
Sofia snorted. “Suicide! Do you realize, Colonel, that the reason I’m the one who came to Gdansk is that Wanda’s daughter is expecting her baby in a week? Have you ever heard of a woman who thought she had nothing to live for when her first grandchild is about to be born?” She had hit her mark better than she knew. Only a year ago this same event had convulsed the Oblonski family. The colonel could still remember every ludicrous detail of his wife’s excitement; his memory was more forgiving about the details of his own folly.
“I see what you mean,” he admitted. “In fact I was not prepared to give any weight to Adam Zabriski’s theory.”
Instead of triumph Sofia was overcome by sadness. “And now Wanda will never see Katya’s baby,” she cried, lifting a handkerchief to her eyes. Sofia’s tale certainly accorded with the Wanda that Oblonski had seen in the BADA infirmary. There, ignoring the bloodied remnants of the tragedy still staining her blouse, she had been consumed by the desire to explain away any blame attached to Zabriski’s misdeeds. She had said as much at the party in the Old Town. Apparently vodka had caused her to reorganize her priorities, to decide that whitewashing Zabriski would yield place to avenging his death. But was she in any position to name his murderer? And would Wanda, even in the throes of sorrow, have concealed this knowledge?
Stranger things had happened, Oblonski admitted to himself. And he might be doing Wanda an injustice by ascribing her change of heart to vodka. In the first agonizing onslaught of bereavement many people lose their wits. Certainly someone had seen Wanda’s new goal as a threat. Unfortunately she had chosen to define it in front of a jostling, moving crowd in which the wrong person could easily have heard her.
“Let’s try going over the period before the party, Frau Niemcewicz,” he said. But two hours later, with every possible cooperation from his witness, he was no further along. He could only dismiss Sofia to the sad duty of providing for Wanda Jesilko’s final hours above ground. The last thing he had expected was to hear that Stefan Zabriski was responsible for sabotaging the Kiel Canal, and the whole idea still seemed outlandish. Except for one undeniable fact. Wanda Jesilko and Adam Zabriski, both intimately acquainted with the victim and both with personal reasons to reject the possibility, had been sufficiently alarmed to consider counter-measures.
But surely there was an equally strong objection. Zabriski had said he could even be charged with trying to benefit, as if such an interpretation was the wildest injustice. If he had deliberately enabled someone to damage the canal, where was the injustice? After a moment’s reflection the colonel decided wearily that this reading was not beyond Zabriski. Frightened about his career and humbled by his mistake, he might have conceded error. But under no circumstances would he have seen himself as anything worse than an innocent dupe. Suddenly a grin of pure evil lit Oblonski’s face as he dwelled on the reaction of Madame Nordstrom to this theory. So much for her attempts to achieve worldwide exposure for BADA. How wonderful if it all ended in the disclosure that her
own chief of staff had been playing games with eco-terrorists.
“That would teach the Ice Queen,” he muttered with open relish. Then, sternly returning himself to duty, he considered practical difficulties in this scenario. These presumed terrorists would have to know all about Zabriski—his technical knowledge, his views on the Kiel Canal, his personal foibles. They would have to meet with him and hold discussions. Somewhere there had to be a point of contact. And with Eric Andersen in the clear, that was not easy to find.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, breaking his pencil in a spasm of irritation and hurling it across the desk. He would do better to stick to facts. When the ministry of justice had waved the flag of terrorism at him he had replied with the physical constraints imposed by Zabriski’s murder. And now Wanda had been killed in exactly the same kind of closed situation. Coming to a decision he rose and bellowed for Alex. “I want to see this place where they had the party.” When they arrived they found the landlord prowling his premises, looking for damage.
“Wouldn’t you know?” he complained. “I rent my house for one week, and now there’s a death associated with it and police all over. I probably won’t be able to give it away during the summer season.”
Oblonski, who knew what Leonhard Bach had paid for his one week, was unsympathetic. “You’ll make out,” he grunted.
Rightly identifying the colonel as an unrewarding audience, the owner turned to business. “So what do you two want?”
“Show us the layout here.”
Oblonski had been visualizing a back hall, with movement along its length subject to casual observation by the staff. Instead remodeling had created one large kitchen with an outside door smack in the center. Using it meant tramping past the stoves and preparation tables. Leaving the owner to his self-appointed task of fabricating an artful bill, the two policemen descended to the street.
“We’ll do some walking now,” the colonel directed, heading toward the river. Today the Motlawa presented a benign appearance, with little ripples crisply sparkling under the sun. As they proceeded they registered details long familiar to them. On their left, massive warehouses stood shoulder to shoulder. The walkway itself had once been expansive wharves.
“It’s broad enough here for 20 people to march abreast,” Alex commented. “There’s no way a drunken lurch could end in the water.”
“Not unless Jesilko stopped by the edge to look at the river. People do that when they’re feeling moody,” said Oblonski, halting at the first corner. “We won’t go further here. I want to see where Madame Nordstrom parked her car.” The side street was residential, lined with houses split into apartments like the one Wanda Jesilko had occupied. Cars parked by the curbs, sounds of radio music, women carrying string bags gave evidence of life abundant. Marking off buildings until the right alley, Oblonski finally swung around to peer toward the river.
Uneasily Alex attacked the unspoken theory. “Madame Nordstrom wouldn’t make all that fuss in the kitchen if she was rushing out to murder someone.”
“I was wondering if it had to be premeditated. She might have seen the Jesilko woman and decided to speak with her on the spur of the moment. Then a quarrel and a sudden blow! . . . but no, that is too fanciful.”
Abandoning one theory Oblonski produced another. “The only way it makes sense is if it was a prearranged meeting.”
“Why would Madame Nordstrom want to kill Jesilko anyway?”
“Why was Zabriski killed?” Oblonski asked more comprehensively.
“He at least stumbled onto something dangerous.”
“But what?” Having arrived at the same old dead end, they silently retraced their steps to the market square. Except for a few pedestrians it was almost deserted. The only tour group in sight was a clutch of schoolchildren being instructed by their teacher in the glories of the Hanseatic League. Many of the street-level shops were shuttered.
“Looks nice now, doesn’t it?” Alex said approvingly. “Peaceful and law-abiding.” Car ferries into Gdansk during the summer brought a flood of Scandinavian and German holiday makers. Each and every one of them inspected the marvels of Old Town and purchased amber, vodka or handicrafts. In their wake came enough pickpockets, shady money changers, and gypsy beggars to keep the police on their toes. With the wind freshening Oblonski huddled lower into his upturned collar. When he finally spoke it was to pursue Alex’s casual remark.
“That’s the crime we’ve been used to, but times are changing. Did you read the story about the bank in Warsaw that got looted by the management?”
“Yes,” said his puzzled assistant.
“The new wave,” Oblonski said sardonically. That’s what we’ll be dealing with from now on.”
“We’ll learn.” This simple youthful confidence evoked a broad smile.
“Of course. But that’s why we can’t get a handle on this thing. If Bach is right, Zabriski uncovered some kind of commercial fraud. We’re not knowledgeable about that, so maybe we’d better consult someone who is.”
* * *
“Of course I’d be delighted to do whatever I can,” Thatcher said on the phone. Then, glancing across the room at his latest visitor, he was inspired by an imp of mischief. “But would you object to my bringing someone else along? I think you might find him very helpful.”
After hanging up, Thatcher smiled blandly over the desk. “The officer handling the investigation into Zabriski’s murder is seeking expert counsel about financial chicanery in shipping. I’m dining with him tonight and it occurred to me that you’d be just the man for the job.”
The deadpan expression on Pericles Samaras’s face never wavered. “As a successful practitioner of these arts?” he inquired politely. Then his gravity crumbled and he broke into laughter. “To think that I should come to this. But you’re right. I am just the man and it would be my pleasure.”
Chapter 25
Prevailing Westerlies
Within ten minutes Oblonski and Perry Samaras were getting on like a house afire. Thatcher, who had suffered belated qualms lest the colonel be disconcerted by Perry’s rollicking approach to white-collar crime, soon realized that these fears were groundless. Off-duty, Oblonski was not only a genial companion, he was an eager student. “It’s marvelous what we have to look forward to in Poland,” he commented when Samaras completed his razzle-dazzle survey of possibilities. “But wouldn’t most of this be beyond Stefan Zabriski?”
“Probably,” Thatcher answered. “I’m afraid he was a man working within the confines of very limited experience.”
“Like me,” the colonel said ruefully.
Perry Samaras shook his head. “No, you’re willing to accept change. From what I hear, Zabriski regarded anything novel as subversive.”
“Then why did everybody tell me how knowledgeable he was about Baltic shipping and what a wonderful administrator he was?”
“Join the club,” Thatcher murmured. “We’ve all been disillusioned. But remember, the man spent most of his life working under a system that he did understand. In addition, he was an astonishing compendium of isolated facts. Unfortunately knowing that the Polaska usually docks at Stettin while the Germania regularly services Rotterdam is not so useful, especially if you don’t understand the economic factors behind the Polish fishing fleet and a German freight line.”
Considerably impeding the waiter, Samaras planted both elbows on the table to lean forward helpfully. “Here’s a case in point, Colonel. The system that Zabriski put into effect for handling losses from the Kiel disaster is, from my point of view, a distinct improvement. It actually does make the processing of bulk claims easier and faster. But, for all I know, he may have dumped some time-honored safeguards against fraud without ever realizing their function.”
Oblonski had grown more reflective with every word. “Maybe I’ve been giving too much weight to Zabriski’s abilities. It’s not just the delegates who resented his pettiness. Even the BADA staff complained, but I assumed that was because he kept the
ir noses to the grindstone.”
Samaras sniffed contemptuously. “If you always watch the help to make sure they don’t take five minutes off, you’re not looking in the right direction to prevent major losses.”
Oblonski delayed proceedings in order to disembowel the dish with which he had just been served, a massive beef concoction baked inside a loaf of Polish bread. Only after his first puncture produced a satisfying gush of steam did he resume. “Do you think Zabriski might have been a thief?”
“In order to enrich himself? No.” After a moment’s consideration Thatcher expanded. “I would not put it beyond him to transfer funds from a program he disliked to one he supported.”
Oblonski mulled this over. “You know,” he said reflectively, “everybody assumed that Zabriski’s last trip around the Baltic was an excuse to get away from headquarters until things cooled down. But what if he was touching base with secret allies on some pet project?”
Thatcher could see what was coming. “You’re thinking of the Kiel Canal?”
“Yes, the Jesilko woman may have been right about the big picture but wrong about the details. The Germans are now ready to forget about eco-terrorists. The writer of one of the notes has been identified and he’s out of it. The other one didn’t come from any known group and has been branded a fake.”
Samaras finished the thought for him. “Even so, the canal could have been sabotaged by other interests.”
Oblonski ducked his head in acknowledgment. “Exactly. Some development group could have figured that an accident would get them their new Kiel. And Zabriski was a lot closer to them than to the environmentalists.”
“That would explain one thing,” Thatcher reasoned. “If Zabriski was part of the plot, his baffled fury at finding the opposition alive and well after a major disaster would be understandable.”
