Beethoven's Tenth
Page 38
More than an hour crawled by before the arrival of two higher-ups. The one in charge identified himself as Inspector Riggs and introduced his associate, a younger man in a better suit named Hornsby, who was an assistant to the deputy minister for the Home Office—an indication that the cause of his detainment was a matter of interest to the British government.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Emery,” said Riggs, not sounding it. “Care for some water before we get going?”
“Going where?” Mitch asked more waspishly than he knew was in order. “I’d be grateful if you’d tell me why I’ve been dragged down here.”
“Of course,” said the inspector, taking one of the two chairs on the far side of the table from Mitch while his colleague leaned against the wall near the door. “You’ve been brought in—rather unceremoniously, I’m afraid—because of some information we have received concerning your employment activities. The reports, if true, involve irregular conduct which constitutes criminal behavior, both in Britain and on the continent. We’ve been alerted by Interpol and are looking into these reports with officials in Germany and Switzerland. This is a preliminary inquiry—there may well be others—so it’s very much in your interest to be cooperative.” Riggs folded his arms across his chest. “Otherwise, we may need to hold you in custody until things are clarified. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Emery?”
As a former law enforcement officer, Mitch knew the man was just going about his business.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, inspector,” he said with all the calm and as little anger as he could manage. “I’m in Britain gathering information for my firm about the discovery of a manuscript attributed to Beethoven that its owner has asked us to—”
“We know why you’re here,” said Riggs.
“Okay. And do you also know I’m a licensed attorney and a former prosecutor in the States and am well acquainted with Anglo-American legal procedures? I’m aware of my rights and the limits of your power to detain me without cause and force me to submit to—”
“There’s no element of coercion here, Mr. Emery—not yet, at any rate,” the inspector cut him off. “You’re not obliged to answer, and you’re entitled to engage a solicitor before responding if you so choose. We’re merely putting you on informal notice that you’ve been reported as being involved in a number of—”
“Reported by whom, may I ask?”
“Just now, we’re the ones putting the questions,” Riggs countered coldly. “Let’s begin with potentially the most serious of the reports. We’re advised that Swiss officials want to question you in connection with the death of Mr. Ansel Erpf, one of their citizens, who was found dead on the beach of an Aegean island—”
“Yes, yes—I know about Mr. Erpf’s death. I understood the Greek police were satisfied it was a suicide—he addressed a note to me to that effect before he—”
“So we understand. However, the Swiss police are concerned about the circumstances of his death and believe you may know something about it.”
“That’s preposterous—I barely knew the man—and he had a long history of emotional instability and drug use.”
Inspector Riggs unfolded his arms and tilted his chair back. “Yet isn’t it true, Mr. Emery, that you met with Mr. Erpf on several recent occasions, apparently in order to persuade him to stop challenging the authenticity of this William Tell Symphony your company plans to auction and to drop his family’s claim to title of the manuscript—which he in fact discovered at the home of your client’s deceased grandfather?”
Mitch shook his head. “I met with Ansel largely to determine just how much he really knew about the origin of the symphony, its authenticity, and its discovery—that’s my job. He was resentful that our client removed the manuscript from Switzerland and was seeking to get it back, that’s true. But I didn’t meet with him to discourage his efforts. And even if I had tried to, what of it? That’s business—there’s nothing suspicious or illegal about what we—”
“It goes to motive for wanting him out of your company’s way,” the inspector shot back. “Furthermore, you made intrusive inquiries about Mr. Erpf’s private life, even to the extent of obtaining a copy of his London psychiatrist’s records—a serious breach of British law, in case you were unaware—possibly for the purpose of blackmailing Mr. Erpf into stopping his obstruction of your company’s financial interests. The Swiss authorities, additionally, are considering charges against you, your firm, and your client for colluding in the unauthorized removal of a national treasure from their country.”
Riggs’s reference to the violation of Ansel’s psychiatric files threw Mitch off balance. Who had ratted out C&W on that—someone on Johnny Winks’s payroll with a grievance? Or the secretary in Dr. Kohler’s office whom Johnny had bribed to get him Ansel’s file and then perhaps been stricken with guilt and went to the police in return for a grant of immunity? But how could snooping in Kohler’s files be pinned on Mitch if he only gave the verbal order from New York? Had somebody been tapping C&W’s phones, possibly for months? Who would take such wholesale measures to blacken the Cubbage & Wakeham name in an attempt to foil the auction? The German or Swiss culture ministries, maybe partnering? Or had the manuscript become the frantic obsession of some mystical international cabal who saw in it the resurrection of a godlike genius dead for two centuries? Mitch struggled to order his thoughts as an adrenaline rush stoked him for the combat of cross-examination.
“The manuscript had not been designated a Swiss national treasure at the time our client removed it from Switzerland,” he told the inspector, maintaining an even tone, “in the belief he had every right to do so. As to whether it’s a treasure or not, that’s precisely what I’m here investigating. Mr. Erpf may have known more about the manuscript than he allowed.”
“Did that give you the right to invade Mr. Erpf’s privacy,” Riggs asked, “and break into his attending doctor’s medical files regarding his mental condition?”
“I didn’t break into anything,” Mitch replied. “And any inquiries we made about Mr. Erpf’s condition were addressed to his sister, who has been largely cooperative with my firm—or at least seemed to be.” He began to sniff a frame-up unfolding. “If Mrs. Lenz is your informant in this matter, I think you’re being used, inspector—”
“And why would that be, Mr. Emery?”
“Because she and her family want the manuscript—they’ve convinced themselves they have a legal right to it but can’t enforce it through the courts, so they may have trumped up this nonsense about me and my company.”
“I see,” Riggs said and looked over at Hornsby.
“Let’s pursue the German issue for a moment,” the Home Office representative urged.
“We’ll get to that presently,” the inspector said, leaning forward, his elbows on the table and hands supporting his head. “We have further information that your firm at times engages the services of an intelligence organization notorious for its use of extralegal methods, including break-ins and bribery to obtain telephone and other records.”
Mitch’s stress level leaped; hypercaution was plainly in order. “How my firm conducts its business is a private matter,” he said. “If you have specific evidence of our engaging in illicit procedures, you should present it to us for a formal response—but not before. I won’t participate in a fishing expedition with you, inspector. My belief is that Scotland Yard is being intentionally misled—but why, I can’t tell you, beyond guessing that there’s unhappiness in some quarters because an American citizen and an Anglo-American auction house control a unique property that they feel rightfully belongs—allegedly for cultural and historical reasons—in other hands.”
The inspector’s brows arched.
“You’re saying you’re being victimized in some kind of international culture war?”
“So it would appear,” Mitch replied.
The evidence of a frame-up by masters of deceit was accumulating. Mitch felt himself begin to flush. This thing could not be laughed off. “I don’t know who’s been feeding you such a story, inspector, but it’s totally unfounded. Our authentication process—which I’m in charge of—is as incorruptible as humanly possible. I’ll say no more—except to repeat that I think you good people are being played by some very bad eggs determined to get at us.”
“I see,” Riggs said again. “We’ve also been advised that your firm has conspired to rig the planned auction of this William Tell manuscript by organizing rival consortiums of bidders in order to jack up its eventual sales price.” The inspector rose and began to pace the length of the table and back. “In fact, we’re told that your own father-in-law, a highly regarded figure in our financial community, is assembling a group of potential investors for just such a purpose—and that your New York proprietor’s wife has acted similarly among her friends who are benefactors of Lincoln Center in order to ensure a lively bidding war that will result in—”
Jesus, Mitch thought, whoever’s behind this has tentacles everywhere. Who could know all this shit and feed it to the Brits in such a distorted, incriminating fashion? “Anyone can enter a bid at our auctions,” he cut off his inquisitor. “The process is entirely aboveboard—the highest bidder wins—there’s no possibility of collusion to fix the outcome.”
“So you say,” Riggs retorted, “but that wouldn’t prevent friends of your firm from working together in groups to bid up the price of whatever you’re auctioning and then, when it got steep enough, withdraw from the competition, having forced the winner to substantially overpay for the prize.”
The gravity of these collective accusations began to weigh heavily on him now. “If any such phony bids are made at our auctions, they’re entirely outside our power to control,” Mitch insisted. “But any suggestion that Cubbage & Wakeham has ever attempted to engineer such an abuse of the auction process is a flagrant lie. You’re being snookered, gentlemen.”
Inspector Riggs stopped pacing and turned abruptly toward Mitch. “I appreciate your passionate loyalty to your company, Mr. Emery, but you need to be aware that if any or all of these reports are substantiated, not only may criminal charges be entered but the Home Office will be forced to lift your company’s license to conduct business in the UK.”
Their exchange had morphed from an informal inquiry into an adversarial proceeding. Mitch recognized this and shifted gears. “In that event,” he said, “I’d like to telephone Mr. Wakeham to arrange for a solicitor before I say another word—and also to speak with people at the US Embassy because I feel there may be international repercussions to whatever is going on here. Is there a place here I can have those conversations in private?”
“We’ve anticipated your concerns, of course,” Hornsby now spoke up, “and taken the liberty of trying to apprise Mr. Wakeham of the situation. Unfortunately, his office tells us he’s left for a hunting party at a Scottish estate and is unreachable until his return on Tuesday. We’ve also learned that your father-in-law is traveling in China at the moment, but perhaps you or your wife knows his itinerary so he might arrange for your legal representation. Otherwise, if you know a solicitor here who’s available to represent you, by all means try to reach him—or the Home Office will arrange for a counselor from our legal aid service. As for reaching someone at the US Embassy just now, good luck—they’re unlikely to view this matter as an emergency affecting your country’s vital interests, so you may not hear back until sometime next week.”
Smarmy bastard. Mitch rifled his brain for a London solicitor he knew to be competent enough to come to his rescue; no name surfaced. “And meanwhile?” he asked warily.
“If you’re willing to give us a statement directly, I’ll start the tape recorder,” said Riggs, “and then you can be released, provided you remain in London until further notice. We’d require that you wear an electronic tracking device so we can monitor your movements because, nonsensical as it may sound to you, Mr. Emery, we have to regard you as a flight risk.”
“And if I decline to make a statement?”
The inspector shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll have to remain our guest until you can enlist a solicitor. We have holding rooms upstairs—we don’t call them cells because they come with a bed, a lavatory, a telephone, a TV, and room service dining, though I’m told the food isn’t gourmet quality. The door is bolted on the outside, and your phone will be monitored. No incoming calls allowed, unfortunately—it’s not a hotel.”
Better to keep a stiff upper lip for the moment, Mitch told himself, than carry on. “Do you have a room with a view?” he cracked.
.
clara was alarmed, enraged, and frustrated all at once when he phoned and advised her of his temporary status as a jailbird. What made it worse was that Mitch could not amplify the charges against him, other than saying that they were ridiculous. “The Yard is listening in, hon—I’ll fill you in once I’m sprung. Meanwhile, try to locate your father and get hold of Harry wherever he’s weekending—Gordy will probably know—and see if either of them can chase down a decent London lawyer for me ASAP.”
“Will do,” she said gamely, fighting back her shock. “Meanwhile, ask them to give you an extra blanket. And I won’t tell a soul you were in the clink until you’re out—it’ll make a great story over cocktails. I love you, sweetie—and we’ll get through this just fine.”
Her pluckiness, rather than going to pieces, buoyed him for the two nights and one full day he remained in Scotland Yard’s custody. The very possibility, however remote, of his long-term removal from society numbed and chilled him at first. The prospect, given his suddenly altered circumstances, could not be dismissed altogether; life shat on a lot of people who did not deserve it even as it allowed so many sleazy sorts to make off with their ill-got prizes. And he had no appetite for martyrdom, which struck him as just a delusional form of masochism. Surely Harry and Sedge would not let him be put down as a sacrificial lamb to spare their supercilious asses—would they? Well, Clara, anyway, would make her father call in every chit at his disposal to save his son-in-law from claustrophobic madness—right?
Amid his dark ruminations, he tried in vain to unpuzzle who on earth had access to all the twisted information against him that the British police had been given. Inspector Riggs had brought up matters that Mitch supposed only top C&W management and its most trusted hires knew about. Was there a mole on the Cubbage & Wakeham premises, either in New York or in London? Could Johnny Winks be a double agent? Did his operatives feed confidential dirt to Interpol on a retainer basis? And who was trying so methodically to hang them out to dry? None of it parsed.
He turned on TV every now and then but was too distracted to follow much of it except the ever-reliable toilet humor. His mind flitted from subject to subject without settling in any one spot for long. Should he apply for divine intervention to help him out of this dreadful jam? No, the Almighty would see right through his timely discovery of faith and assign him to eternal residence in purgatory for his disingenuous appeal. If the fates liberated him, should he abandon the auction house and its capricious impresario at the first opportunity for a less problematic workplace? Perhaps a Wall Street law firm and go for the gusto of big bucks and power trips that came with a partnership. But he had been freighted with social conscience for too long to turn himself into a steward for the lords of lucre driven by the monomania the job demanded. No, a small-city or suburban firm would probably be better, allowing him to enjoy a more diverse, less compulsive workweek.
What of Clara’s career, though? They’d have to settle in or near a college town, which might be good—maybe Ithaca or Charlott
esville or their like. Nice family environment—and—and yes, it was time for him to weigh seriously Clara’s recent, tentative suggestion that they consider adoption. His sperm testing had checked out normal, her internal plumbing appeared to be in good working order, and yet, still nada. Their other options—hormone therapy, artificial insemination, in vitro fertilization, surrogate pregnancy—all seemed, while no doubt sensible alternatives to going childless, somehow distasteful. But since they weren’t getting any younger, as Clara reminded him, the subject needed to be resolved. Mentally frazzled at last, he slept, woke, slept, woke…
A little after eleven on the second morning of his involuntary seclusion—by which time he had read the Sunday papers, kindly delivered with his breakfast of porridge and kippers—a guard knocked on Mitch’s door to announce that his solicitor was awaiting him in a conference room at the end of the corridor. Good news, finally. But who was his solicitor and who had enlisted him? No incoming calls had been allowed. He combed his hair for the meeting.
Dennis Drummond, QC, whose card said his chambers were at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, was a tall, lantern-jawed, sixtyish gentleman wearing, Mitch guessed, bespoke Gieves & Hawkes pinstripes. He had thinning silver hair, crooked teeth, an elegant attaché case, and no affect whatever. “I was phoned in the midst of the night,” he said, limply taking Mitch’s extended hand, “by a partner at my firm who’s on close terms with your esteemed father-in-law, and your problem was explained to me. I had to wait till morning to reach the right people in the Home Office—they don’t much care to be roused on the weekend. But it’s all arranged—or will be within the hour. You’re to be released on self-recognizance and my vouching that you’ll remain in the city while we try to sort this thing out. I suggest we hold off on further conversation until we’ve left the Yard—the walls have ears, they say, probably with good reason.”