Montaro Caine: A Novel

by Sidney Poitier

  “Yes!” she blurted out.

  “I want you to locate him, too.”

  “That’s what I have to tell you,” she said. “He called.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. He said it was an emergency, but I couldn’t reach you.”

  “Emergency?”

  “Something to do with a coin you once had examined by Dr. Walmeyer when Mr. Caine was his assistant.”

  “What did he say?”

  She told him what Caine had asked her to do. “I didn’t know what to do. I was frantic, so I called Dr. Mozelle. I hope I didn’t make a mistake.”

  “My God!” Chasman exclaimed, dumbfounded by the speed of events. “Get me Howard on the phone first, then Caine.”

  When Chasman’s secretary called back, she told him that Dr. Mozelle was not at his office and there was no answer at his home or at the hospital. Nor was she able to locate Caine.

  “Keep trying,” Chasman said. “When you do reach them, let them know I must see both of them as soon as I return.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I’m not quite sure at the moment, a few days maybe. In any event, when I know, I’ll text you the arrival time. I will go directly to Howard’s office. When you get ahold of Caine, tell him to meet us there.”

  16

  LARRY BUCHANAN WAS RUNNING LATE. HE HADN’T HAD TIME TO shave, and he was already feeling self-conscious about his slovenly appearance even before he arrived at the front desk of the Carlyle Hotel where he told the skinny and officious young desk clerk that he was on his way up to see Montaro Caine. Larry hated the way the desk clerk’s eyes swept over him. Larry knew that he needed a clean shirt, but it was nine-twenty in the morning and Bloomingdale’s didn’t open until ten a.m. He waited for the string bean with a phone in his ear to grant him safe passage to the elevators across the hall.

  “Yes, sir, right away,” said the string bean into the phone before hanging up. “Mr. Caine is in 1709. Do you need me to show you the way?”

  Larry shook his head. Of course he knew the way to Montaro’s suite, even if he didn’t exactly look like he belonged in the hotel.

  When Larry arrived at the suite, Montaro was eager to hear his friend’s report. But he had to wait until the slightly hungover Larry had demolished the cherry danish that Montaro ordered for him and washed it down with a large, freshly squeezed orange juice.

  “Well, buddy, here’s what I’ve got for you,” Larry started. “The plane belongs to a company, okay?”

  “What company?”

  Larry held up an index finger signaling for Caine to hold on and let him finish. “And the company is owned by another company.”

  Caine knew that Larry’s windy introductions usually led to substantial information, so he humored his friend. “Okay.”

  “Which is owned by a trust.”

  “Yeah, one of those,” Caine said.

  “Which is owned by another company, and so forth, and so on—the usual shit that leads to the usual dead end.”

  “I know the routine,” said Caine.

  Larry proceeded, paying little attention to Caine’s impatient tone. He smiled broadly. “But because I’m suicidal and also smart, tenacious, and incapable of accepting ‘dead end’ as anything but an invitation, I got to the bottom of it. The real bottom.”

  Caine brightened. “Let’s have it.”

  “And there at the bottom, I found a man named Fritzbrauner.”

  “Kritzman Fritzbrauner?”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “I’m sure you have. Piss pots full of dough. Lives in Switzerland. He’s into oil, shipping, arms, heavy manufacturing, and pharmaceuticals. His net worth is just below ten billion dollars. He also has one of the world’s most extensive collections of rare objects. I couldn’t come up with anything that explained why he’d be interested in Fitzer Corporation, but that doesn’t mean he’s not.”

  Montaro smiled broadly at his friend, as if he were seeing a Larry he had never known.

  “The girl, what’s her connection?”

  “Beekman? She’s Fritzbrauner’s daughter. Beekman was her mother’s maiden name. She travels sometimes on a Swiss passport issued to Colette Fritzbrauner, other times on an Argentine passport issued to Colette Beekman—the mother’s Argentinean. She left Fritzbrauner for a singer in Argentina and she’s been living in Buenos Aires ever since.”

  “How about Herman Freich? Find out anything about him?”

  “He’s an assistant to Fritzbrauner.”

  “Fantastic. How’d you get all this?” Caine asked.

  “Spent a little time snooping in Hargrove’s office around five this morning.”

  “You what? Son of a bitch! Larry!”

  “Yeah, I know. Jesus, I still can’t believe I did it. It was fucking suicidal, I know it. But when my contact in Switzerland gave me all that stuff about companies and trusts owning each other and the plane, I had to dig out the names of as many of those companies and trusts as I could, and I knew the old man’s office was the place to do it.”

  Suddenly Caine felt uncomfortable, but he wasn’t sure why. Hadn’t Larry just brought him more valuable information than he could have asked for? Caine thought briefly of Colette Beekman Fritzbrauner. He wondered if she was married. He considered asking Larry but didn’t want his friend to get the wrong idea. Or was it not the wrong idea?

  “So,” said Larry, chuckling, “where the hell are we? You ready to fill me in?”

  Caine stared at Larry with a troubled smile. He felt his breath catch in his throat. Larry had no personal investment in this case—he didn’t even know what it was about. And yet he had risked his career to help a friend. At that moment, Caine understood his discomfort. Larry was now invested in this too, as much for his own sake as for Caine’s. For Larry, it was all about being a winner, and he was willing to risk everything he had to finally become one. Does a man run faster, Caine wondered, to avoid the loser’s destiny or to embrace the winner’s reward?

  Caine threw an arm around the shoulder of his friend and squeezed him affectionately. “No, not yet,” he answered gently.

  Larry’s chuckle faded. “Look, buddy …” he began.

  “Say it,” Caine said.

  Larry averted his eyes from Caine’s, swallowed hard. He tried to crack his knuckles, but no sound came.

  “Come on, I’m listening,” Caine urged.

  “What I want to say is …” Larry began haltingly. “Monty, if Fritzbrauner takes a meaningful position in Fitzer, one or two credit points for my helping to bring that about could move me up a notch. Sorry I have to put it that way, but I’ve been lost in that fucking firm for nine years now. I—I’ve just got to do something, Monty. I’m dying on the vine. You know what I mean?”

  Caine was touched again by his friend’s vulnerability, surprised to find it lurking so close to the surface.

  “I hear you,” he said, although he felt fairly certain that Kritzman Fritzbrauner, a collector of rare objects, was most probably a great deal more interested in a particular rare coin than he was in Fitzer Corporation.

  Larry looked into Caine’s eyes. “O.K. buddy,” he said. “Your word is good enough for me.” Larry started for the door. “I gotta dash. Stay in touch.”

  “You, too, and love at home,” said Caine.

  “Same,” said Larry. “Love at home.”

  As Larry pulled the door shut behind him, those words echoed in Caine’s mind—Love at home. He took out his phone to call Cecilia.

  17

  THE SUN WAS SINKING BEHIND THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SAVOY Alps beyond Lake Geneva as Herman Freich drove his black Mercedes to Kritzman Fritzbrauner’s estate. He parked the car at the turnaround in front of the main house, grabbed Colette Beekman’s briefcase from his front passenger seat, then stepped purposefully from the car and moved briskly past the butler, Marchand Gilot, who was standing at the door with a stiff smile.

  “Bi
envenue, Monsieur Freich,” Marchand said with crisp formality.

  “Thank you,” Freich mumbled in English, still not quite used to being back on European soil. He hurried past Marchand into the estate.

  Freich marched through the splendid seventeenth-century foyer. Though as Kritzman Fritzbrauner’s most-trusted lieutenant he had been here countless times before, he still had a hard time believing that any human could actually live in this palatial setting, which resembled a grand château or museum. Wherever he looked, he saw a painting or sculpture that had been created by a master. Here, a Rembrandt; there, a Vermeer; at the top of a set of marble steps, a Bernini. At the far end of the foyer, he passed windows that looked out onto the garden and the terrace where Colette and the family chef were consulting with household staff members about a dinner for fifty that would be held here this evening. Freich had arrived an hour before the first guests were expected to arrive for cocktails on the terrace.

  As Freich moved along the hallway en route to Fritzbrauner’s study he made eye contact with Colette, who then leaned in toward the chef. “Je m’excuse. Monsieur Freich est arrivé,” she told him, then excused herself and headed into the house.

  Meanwhile, in his dressing room, Kritzman Fritzbrauner was searching the racks in his closet for a tie more appropriate to his dark pinstripe suit than the one his valet had laid out for him. The intercom voice of the butler, Marchand Gilot, filled the room.

  “Mr. Freich is on his way up, sir.”

  “Good,” said Fritzbrauner as he held a red tie under his chin against his pale blue shirt. “Tell Colette to join us.”

  “She’s already on her way.”

  Fritzbrauner lay the red tie against the leg of his pinstripe pants. He checked for a clash of colors, but saw none; the combination pleased him. Satisfied, he slid open the top drawer of his jewelry chest and reached for a pair of cuff links—a simple gold pair that his ex-wife had purchased for him many years earlier to mark their joyous first six weeks of married life. Fritzbrauner strode from his dressing area through his bedroom, across the sitting lounge of the suite to a door that opened into his study. Simultaneously, from the outer corridor, Freich and Colette let themselves in through a door on the study’s opposite side.

  “Hello, Herman,” Fritzbrauner greeted him.

  “Hello, Commander.”

  “Did you get some sleep?”

  “A little.”

  “New York weather was steaming, eh?”

  “Too much humidity,” agreed Freich with a frown.

  “You should go to the mountains next week,” suggested Fritzbrauner. He lowered himself into the high-backed chair behind his desk while Freich remained standing.

  “Maybe. We’ll see,” Freich said, then glanced at Colette, who knew what her father didn’t: Freich hated the mountains. Freich opened the briefcase and took out the velvet jewel box containing the coin. He handed it to Fritzbrauner along with his four-page report.

  “Well,” said Fritzbrauner softly as he opened the box. “Let’s see where we are.” He gave the coin a perfunctory glance, then immediately centered his attention on the report. Meanwhile, Freich returned the briefcase to Colette along with her copy of the report. A few minutes of silence passed while father and daughter read what Freich had written. When they were finished, Fritzbrauner looked up at Freich.

  “How satisfied are you that this Professor Chasman knows nothing about what Dr. Mozelle wrote in his notes?” Fritzbrauner asked.

  “Reasonably sure. Mozelle kept him in the dark.”

  “And,” said Colette, “in so doing, he also kept Professor Walmeyer and Montaro Caine in the dark.”

  “So whether we move ahead or not boils down to the integrity of Mozelle’s notes?” Fritzbrauner asked.

  “The dossier Hargrove put together was quite thorough,” Colette said. “Mozelle appears to be a solid man held in esteem by his colleagues.”

  “Yes, but even men of great standing and character can be duped by fakes, scams, and shams,” warned her father. Fritzbrauner looked to Freich for comment.

  “I see it exactly as Colette does, Commander,” Freich said.

  “There’s always a downside,” said Colette. “Yes, we’re risking our reputation. But if we’re right and if everything in Mozelle’s notes is true, if the coin was indeed found in a baby’s hand and if it is truly made up of unknown metals from an unknown civilization, the upside will be considerable.”

  “So you say go?” Fritzbrauner looked at his daughter with both pride and some small regret—for better and worse, she was very much his daughter, ambitious to a fault.

  “I do,” Colette said evenly.

  “Herman?” Fritzbrauner asked, turning to Freich.

  “I’m inclined to agree with Colette, Commander.”

  “O.K., proceed.” Fritzbrauner rose from his chair and moved around his desk to shake hands with Freich. “As for Dr. Chasman, what are his plans?”

  “To return home, I imagine,” Freich answered.

  “When?”

  “Two or three days if we’re done with him, and I think we are.”

  “I’m sure he’s anxious to return home,” Fritzbrauner said pensively.

  Colette and Freich both sensed hesitancy in Fritzbrauner’s voice. “You’d like to keep him here?” Colette asked.

  “It might not be a bad idea. A few extra days, a week, maybe. Once he gets back to America, wheels will begin to turn. A delay, if it can be arranged, will be to our advantage.”

  “Leave it to me, sir,” said Freich.

  Fritzbrauner smiled, then turned to his daughter. “I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes, dear.” He kissed her on the cheek, then disappeared into his bedroom suite.

  After her father had left, Colette looked at Freich. She could tell there had been a meeting of minds between Freich and her father. “If the gamble is worth the risk, why not go all the way?” they had seemed to tell each other.

  She now understood that her father’s real objective had become the same as her own—the outright, legal ownership of both coins.

  18

  AS SHE CIRCLED THE FLOOR OF HER ROOM IN THE TREMONT Hotel in Paris, awaiting a phone call that could conceivably be worth approximately ten million dollars to her and her boyfriend Victor, Cordiss Krinkle paused to consider how she had gotten here. In some way she could trace her arrival at this moment all the way back to her early Nebraska childhood, when she had rebelled against her strict Catholic upbringing and her repressively religious, admonishing mother. Cordiss briefly considered her early teenage years when she had first realized that her full and sensuous lips, her smoldering brown eyes, and her wild, unruly hair could compel men’s second looks. Then, Cordiss thought about the years not so long afterward when she became aware of the fact that her good looks would never be enough to win her all she wanted. But if she had to pick one day that had led her to this particular moment, it would have been the one earlier this year, when Whitney Carson arrived for what would be her final checkup at the Mozelle Women’s Health Center.

  On that fateful morning, Cordiss had been working for the clinic as a receptionist, office manager, and general all-around helper for approximately six years. She had been drowning in a sea of paperwork, too preoccupied to notice the entrance of the young black woman until she heard someone clearing her throat.

  When Cordiss looked up she saw the attractive, soft-spoken Whitney standing before her, a sheepish smile on her face, as if she had been trying to keep a secret but was not doing a very good job of it.

  “Whitney Carson. Well, what a nice surprise,” Cordiss blurted out. “Sorry, my mind was off somewhere in Medicare land.”

  “Hi, Cordiss, how are you?”

  “Fine. But never mind me, how the hell are you? Where’ve you been?”

  “Around.”

  Cordiss searched her appointment book, looking unsuccessfully for Whitney’s name. “I don’t see you down in our book,” she said.

  “I just
wanted to stop by and say hi to everybody,” said Whitney.

  “But why haven’t we seen you for such a long time?” Cordiss pretended to scold Whitney, but she truly did want to know the answer to her question.

  “What can I tell you?” Whitney said. “Things get hectic sometimes. I’m sure you know how it is.”

  “From that grin you’re wearing, it couldn’t have been all bad.”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s not.”

  “Aha! Tell me, tell me.”

  “In a minute. Let me just peek in and say hello to Dr. M. first,” said Whitney, turning toward the doctor’s office.

  “Oh, honey, he’s not in.”

  “Aw, shoot. What about Anna?”

  “No, she’s not here either. The doc’s on vacation and Anna’s under the weather. Her arthritis is pulling her down.”

  “Oh damn,” Whitney said.

  “Yeah. You’re overdue for a checkup, and the doctor’s gonna be pissed when he hears he missed you. Let me see”—she reached for her book—“you better come in next week. He’ll be back then,” she murmured as she leafed through the pages.

  “I can’t next week. Won’t be able to for a while,” said Whitney.

  “What do you mean? What about your checkup? I told you you’re due for one.”

  “Some other time.”

  “You want to get me fired, right?”

  Whitney laughed. But Cordiss’s flip remark was heartfelt; the doctor always took very special care of Whitney, and Cordiss sensed that part of her job description involved according the same special treatment to this patient.

  “You know what?” said Cordiss. “Since you’re here, I think we should let Dr. Chambers examine you. Let me see if I can get his nurse to slip you in before he goes to lunch.” She pointed Whitney down the long corridor. “Last door on the right. I’ll be there in a jiffy with your chart.”

  A half-hour later, Whitney reentered the reception area from Dr. Chambers’s office.

  “So, you were saying?” Cordiss asked, picking up the conversation where they had left off.