by Emma Lathen
The colonel was too deep in his reconstruction of events to pause for an examination of Zabriski’s psyche. “Given the lack of results, the conspirators might have decided on further action, and Zabriski could have gotten rattled enough to blow the whistle. So he had to be killed before he could do anything.”
Perry Samaras made another contribution. “Then they decided to get some extra mileage by blaming the whole thing on the ecologists.”
“Well, those notes have actually done the trick,” Oblonski continued. “The Germans aren’t taking any chances. You’ve heard, of course, that they’ve decided to expedite work on the canal.”
“So I understand,” said Thatcher, without betraying how central this decision was to his own plans.
Colonel Oblonski was plucking his lower lip in dissatisfaction. “It doesn’t carry much conviction, does it? If Zabriski was appalled by bloodshed, why was he so invigorated and sunny at the canal?” he demanded. “And none of this ties in with what Leonhard Bach remembers from the night of the murder.”
With Everett Gabler’s cautions still in mind, Thatcher said, “I would not rely too heavily on the bits and snatches that Bach produced.”
“He seemed to be fairly responsible,” Oblonski protested, going on to cite the reluctance with which Bach had named Eric Andersen. “But I agree his story doesn’t take us anywhere.”
Thatcher said, “You’re facing two barriers. Zabriski himself did not intend to convey precise information. And Bach was trying to interpret what little came his way. There are bound to be errors in the result. Bach obviously made at least one mistake, either about the millions of dollars or about BADA being the source of loss.” At this point Thatcher was allowed to proceed no further. Calculations of this sort were meat and drink to Perry Samaras. After learning the context, he firmly endorsed Gabler’s views.
“A young man in our office came up with an ingenious attempt to reconcile the inconsistency,” said Thatcher when he could continue, “but that didn’t work either. My point, however, is that you probably have to dismiss the details as unreliable and concentrate on the chief thrust of Bach’s account, that Zabriski had stumbled onto an illegality connected with BADA and planned to expose it.”
“If BADA wasn’t the one losing money,” Oblonski argued, “there was no reason for Zabriski to be as upset as everyone agreed he was.”
“Like hell there wasn’t,” caroled Samaras. “You say he was hoping that BADA would expand its jurisdiction. If the first time they tried there were major losses, to anyone, you could forget further concessions.”
“There would be personal grounds for dismay as well,” Thatcher added. “Zabriski was in a struggle with Madame Nordstrom and his strength lay in his reputed administrative skills. He was the one who devised each and every system used by BADA. The emergence of serious flaws would make it difficult for anyone to support him.”
Looking at his companions rather as if they were unpromising police recruits, Oblonski muttered, “You’re not making this easy, are you? What about the barman’s testimony? He overheard Zabriski talking about evidence of a crime at the Kiel Canal.”
“Now there’s a good example of how little use these snippets are,” Samaras pounced. “It all depends on where the emphasis was. Zabriski could have meant he found evidence at the Kiel of a crime centered elsewhere. Alternatively he could have been referring to a crime involving the canal.” While Oblonski and Thatcher followed this reasoning, neither was cheered by Samaras’s ingrained habit of broadening every possibility to the point of no return.
“Wanda Jesilko was at Zabriski’s side every minute at Kiel and she didn’t notice a damned thing,” the colonel observed gloomily.
“Not every minute,” corrected Thatcher with a lively recollection of the polka performed by Wanda and Casimir Radan. “But if Zabriski’s great insight came from the piano accordion, then we’re really sunk.”
Samaras frowned. “But if she didn’t notice anything, then why was she killed?”
“Because she was going through the files,” Oblonski said instantly.
Thatcher was not so sure. “If I were the murderer,” he mused, “I would have been more afraid of Madame Nordstrom’s examination.”
Mellowed by good food, good beer, and good fellowship, the colonel had recovered sufficiently from his last session at BADA to produce a balanced reply. “Most likely the killer did not know about her activities. Madame Nordstrom is so closemouthed that I learned of them only yesterday.”
Pericles Samaras, as head of the Oracle Line, lived in a world where his slightest action was a subject of interest. “When the chairman of an organization calls for someone’s files, a lot of people notice,” he objected.
“Undoubtedly, but which people?” Thatcher asked cogently. “Mostly it would be messengers and secretaries. With the system at BADA, nobody in the delegates’ lounge would hear about it.”
Pondering some internal theory, Oblonski was studying the tablecloth’s design as if it held the key to his problems. “Maybe I should be paying more attention to the bookkeepers,” he said at last. “If we are no longer guided by Herr Bach’s idea of the dimensions of the loss, we are no longer confined to the upper reaches of BADA.”
“But Zabriski was neither a trained accountant nor a computer expert,” Thatcher reminded him.
“You keep coming back to that,” Oblonski almost groaned.
Thatcher tried to be encouraging and realistic at the same time. “Don’t be disheartened by Perry’s imaginative sketch of criminal ingenuity. Most schemes boil down to getting something for nothing, whether it’s a confidence man substituting old newspapers for cash or a corporate treasurer making payments to a nonexistent firm.”
Samaras was incapable of not taking this ball and running with it. “Or floating a new issue of stock with financials that conceal a major legal liability.” Turning to Thatcher he said, “You remember that case in Paris? And the one in Chicago?”
Now Thatcher was gripped by the joys of nostalgia. “Or fooling your outside accountants with impeccable paperwork about a warehouse stuffed with inventory, when there’s nothing there at all.”
The colonel held up a restraining hand.
“Just one moment,” he said amiably. “I do not think I will benefit from a review of every malefactor you people in the West have produced. How do you find out these things anyway? And if the paperwork is so good, how in the world do you protect yourselves?”
“Insofar as possible, you don’t believe a word you hear or read,” Thatcher summarized.
A great light was breaking for Oblonski. “My God, you’re all in police work and you don’t know it.”
“Very possibly. Everett Gabler is an outstanding exemplar of distrust. When he first came to Gdansk he read about projects BADA had already completed, then insisted on a tour of the sites so that he could see for himself. When Madame Nordstrom justified BADA’s location by referring to the historic appeal of Gdansk, he verified her claims by tramping through Old Town. Frankly, I think he went too far there. Why in the world would she make the whole thing up?”
“Real estate speculation,” Samaras said promptly.
Thatcher was too taken with his own train of thought to be distracted. “The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that sort of thing will be your answer, Colonel. Zabriski saw something that contradicted a written record. After all, he was in charge of BADA’s operations; he was the repository of most of its paperwork.”
Samaras was the smallest man present and, as is so often the case, was proving the mightiest trencher man. Having emptied his plate down to the last crumb, he had been judiciously studying the contents of a dessert cart on its way across the room. But he now returned his attention to the table.
“And you think that would have been enough?”
“Don’t you see? Once his suspicions were roused, his limitations would no longer be a handicap. The man was inexperienced, not unintelligent. He had access t
o all information; he would know how to check any irregularity he spotted. Swindles usually succeed because they are surrounded by a forest of confusing detail. But in its stark outlines, fraud is simple.”
Oblonski promptly incorporated this into his own experience. “As is most crime. People resort to theft because they want more money, they kill wives and mistresses because they are jealous, they get drunk and disorderly because they’re unhappy.”
Perry Samaras went even further. “Life is simple. Most of the so-called hard decisions can be clarified by stripping away elements that are largely irrelevant.”
Thatcher was not concerned with philosophy at the moment. Watching Everett Gabler turn into a wholehearted partisan of Madame Nordstrom had made him sensitive to certain undertones. Colonel Oblonski, he realized, could not be numbered among the lady’s admirers. Nonetheless he forged ahead.
“I think your best course, Colonel, would be consultation with Annamarie Nordstrom.” Choosing his words with care, he continued his advocacy. “She is head of BADA, she is there all the time, and she is immersed in its activities. While she might not have the intimate familiarity with Zabriski that Frau Jesilko had, she worked closely with him. She might give you some pointers about what he was likely to notice.”
Signaling for another beer, Oblonski formulated his objections. “Only if she’s willing to be helpful, which she hasn’t been so far,” he said sourly. “And, always assuming she’s not guilty.”
“That possibility shouldn’t stop you,” advised Samaras brightly. “She’s proud of what she’s accomplished at BADA and people always like to talk about their achievements. Very often, too much.”
Thatcher simulated disbelief. “Even you, Perry? I find that hard to accept.”
“When I was a young man I practically had to put a lock on my tongue. In those days some of my activities were not the sort to . . .”he paused, eyeing Oblonski, “. . . to invite inspection.”
Tonight the colonel was still learning. “You mean you were operating illegally?” he asked curiously.
“Certainly not,” replied Samaras, in no way offended. “But I was sailing so close to the wind that often I myself had no idea which side I was on. And I still did too much bragging. I’d talk to Madame Nordstrom if I were you.”
“All right, all right,” Oblonski capitulated. “But I’ll bet nothing comes of it.”
“Sometimes,” said Samaras, “nothing can be informative.” This obscure utterance coincided with the arrival of dessert, which prevented Oblonski from pressing for clarification. Given Perry’s pervasive cynicism, the diversion struck Thatcher as fortunate. So in the interests of sociability he too desisted. Colonel Oblonski was an apt pupil but only so much can be packed into one lesson. Asking him to explore the murkier corners of the universe according to Pericles Samaras might be premature. As it was, communication between yacht-owning tycoon and underpaid policeman was going better than Thatcher could have expected and, by the time the party broke up, cordiality reigned. A pleasant evening, everybody agreed, with only oblique reservations.
“. . . and very educational,” said Oblonski before he disappeared into the night.
Samaras, scenting disappointment, offered modest encouragement. “Look at it this way, John. We may have aimed him in the right direction.” Thatcher kept his own impressions to himself, examining them in the privacy of his room at the Hevelius. There, as he sat unbuttoning his shirt, he reviewed the evening. As a social event it was a success. As a work session he found it wanting.
True, Colonel Oblonski had received instruction, but it was of dubious practical value. And Perry’s right direction was a nebulous signpost pointing nowhere. What Oblonski needed was one target, not a sweep of the horizon. This criticism led Thatcher back to another. That gnomic nothing was fuzzy too unless it could be reduced to a blank spot as sharply defined as reality, as clear and comprehensible, Thatcher thought lazily, as Oblonski himself explaining negative conclusions by the German police. Then he paused when the colonel’s voice was replaced by Perry Samaras again, but this time at Janow Podlaski spinning ingenious theories.
“And, my God, good old Everett, running true to form,” said Thatcher aloud, startled where memory was leading him. “This could explain everything.” With his motionless hand arrested over the next button, he considered these three random sound bites. They did not build a case, of course, but did they lay a foundation? Undressing slowly, he examined this structure for flaws. When he found no holes to pick, he could only shake his head. Nighttime flights of fancy are rarely shot down on the spot by arm’s-length logic. They stand or crumble in the cold hard light of day.
“Well, one hour should be enough to tell,” Thatcher reasoned bracingly. Then he drew the blanket over his head against the unpleasant moment when he, like Colonel Oblonski, would have to confront Annamarie Nordstrom. But Madame Nordstrom was not available the next morning, nor for two long days thereafter. Instead she was embarked on what her office had been instructed to describe as a routine tour of BADA facilities. How Colonel Oblonski and John Thatcher were responding to this unscheduled absence had become a matter of indifference to her. By the time she reached St. Petersburg only BADA and BADA’s future mattered.
“Is there anything else you want to see, Madame Nordstrom?” the harbormaster inquired.
“Nothing,” she replied with bleak finality.
Chapter 26
Battle Stations
When Annamarie Nordstrom returned to BADA she found John Thatcher and Everett Gabler waiting. Looking every year her age, she was for once inhospitable. “Not now,” she muttered, bearing down on her secretary’s desk.
But Thatcher’s next words froze her in her tracks. “Exactly what Zabriski said to Peter von Hennig in the delegates’ lounge.”
Flushing a dull red she forced herself to say, “You must forgive me for being so preoccupied. I did not mean to be discourteous.”
“That was not a reproach, merely recognition that you and he covered the same ground. And I should tell you that Gabler and I have been busy on the BADA computer.”
Through half-hooded eyes she examined him in silence. Then: “Stefan’s files have been examined a number of times.”
“Yes, but by people convinced that there was something there. They would have done better to look for what was missing.”
He had finally convinced her. “You’d better come inside.”
An hour later Madame Nordstrom’s powers of persuasion had spent themselves against a stone wall. “Just one day,” she pleaded. “What difference can that make?”
But Everett Gabler was the embodiment of rectitude. “Leonhard Bach has committed two murders. There can be no delay.”
Abandoning the contest, she said, “Oh, very well. While you call the police, I’ll call my lawyers.” John Thatcher had no difficulty convincing Oblonski of Bach’s guilt, but when the colonel finally arrived he was irritable, harassed, and ripe for murder himself.
“The Ministry of Justice wants the lid kept on this for the time being. No publicity! No action!” he fumed. They want a diplomatic huddle to explore the consequences of any steps. My God, just because the man is a German, they’ll let him get away with two killings. “
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Colonel,” Madame Nordstrom said blandly.
He glared at her. “What can I do? My hands are tied.”
“But mine aren’t,” she retorted. “In about one hour my lawyers will be filing a civil suit against Herr Bach.”
“A civil suit?” Oblonski snorted contemptuously. “You’re as bad as the ministry. You want him to pay a fine.” Conciliatingly, Thatcher intervened.
“That’s not what Madame Nordstrom means. Her suit is a major story. By tomorrow morning it will be on the front page of the financial press around the world. Publicity is now unavoidable.”
The colonel carefully examined this statement before the beginnings of a smile emerged. “How soon before Bach is warned?”
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“He probably knows by now,” Annamarie replied with undiminished calm. “You know what docks are like. I’m sure that word of what I was doing leaked out.”
“You have endangered everything!” Oblonski accused. “Simply in order to achieve your own ends.” But today he was dealing with an Annamarie who had discarded her usual armor of formality. Early in the discussion she had shed her suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her silk shirt. Now, tilting back in her chair, she kicked off her shoes and deposited her feet in the lower desk drawer.
“Pooh,” she said, deliberately fanning the flames. “I had to gather enough evidence to file suit. And that suit is giving you the only leverage you have with your ministry. Besides, I still don’t have enough to persuade the court to attach two of Valhalla’s ships. What I really need is another day or so, preferably with Leonhard Bach out of action.”
Oblonski was bitter. “You think I couldn’t use that? If I could go through his belongings and his papers without causing an international incident, I too could acquire evidence. I did question his hotel before I came here. Herr Bach left suddenly several hours ago but he did not check out.”
“That doesn’t make any difference. He’s long gone,” she said fatalistically. “Already on the way to Rostock to gut his office.”
But Colonel Oblonski had not been lying as low as the ministry would have liked. “No. He has not yet taken a plane. So I could still stop him using his passport if the ministry were not so obstructive.”
“Why don’t you warn them about the publicity, Colonel?” Thatcher advised. “Germany may well prefer to avoid an extradition wrangle.”
The first ray of hope was dawning on Oblonski’s face when Annamarie interrupted. “Bach may not need a passport, Colonel. The Valhalla Line has a ship in Swinoujście.” Rising, she padded across the floor in stockinged feet to the large wall map. Thatcher and Gabler joined her to follow the finger she laid on the mouth of the Oder River. Any ship leaving this Polish port would reach German waters very quickly.
