by Medora Sale
“Well, dammit, Nikki, if that’s how you feel, then do something,” said Harriet, exasperated. “Get a job, go to university, start a business, I don’t know. What you need is a little hard work. When did you last work hard at something?”
Veronika’s head swiveled back to Harriet in surprise. “What?” She had to think for a minute. “Four years ago. Greek. That was hard work.”
“Well, do something like that again. Have you been to university?”
“I started,” she said brightly. “Then I got mixed up with all kinds of people and sort of didn’t get finished.”
“There you go,” said Harriet. “Go back to university.” She paused. “Is there anything you’d want to do in university?”
Veronika leaned forward in excitement. “Archaeology. I want to do archaeology. That’s why I took Greek. Only Mamma thought—”
Harriet held up her hand. “You’re twenty-two, Nikki, and you can do what you want to do. Within reason. If it’s archaeology, then why not? It’s respectable, and a great career for someone with money,” she added with slight malice.
“If I have any money,” Nikki replied uneasily. “Mamma may not have left me anything. Still, my share of Papa’s estate will keep me while I go to university if I’m not too extravagant.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “It won’t buy me red sports cars, though.”
“Believe it or not, Nikki, my child, it’s possible to live without a red sports car,” said Harriet. “Since you’re stuck in Toronto, anyway”—this was the most tactful way she could find to refer to the police investigation—“why don’t you spend a few days down at the museum? They have a good Middle Eastern collection. Maybe the curator won’t mind talking to you about, uh, pots and things. I mean, archaeology.”
Nikki jumped up. “What a great idea! Let’s go to the museum. You don’t mind coming with me, do you? Damn,” she said, and sat down again. “I forgot.”
“Yes,” said Harriet. “The memorial service.”
Harriet felt as if she had just kicked a puppy. A tiresome but lovable puppy. “We’ll have to put it off to tomorrow,” said Veronika. “When shall we go?”
“Later on,” said Harriet. “Call me.” She put down her coffee cup and stood up. “Take care, Nikki. I’ll see you later,” she murmured, and fled from the house.
At ten minutes past ten the smallest boardroom at the bank gave the appearance of being sufficiently filled to contain a meeting of consequence. A half-dozen soberly attired men and one equally drably clad woman were chatting amicably. A certain distance separated Milan Milanovich from them—a distance you couldn’t measure with a tape, but it was there, a clear, obvious, and almost-palpable barrier. Beside him, within the invisibly fenced off area that he occupied, was his lawyer, briskly cultivating an air of professional boredom.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said one of the beautifully tailored crowd, the one at the head of the table, and he evoked a hush of impressive dimensions. “We are waiting for Charles Britton, are we not?” He raised a questioning eyebrow about the table. “Who requested permission to attend as a representative of a major investor in the firm in question; major new investor, that is.”
Milanovich’s lawyer straightened out the papers in front of him and addressed the middle of the table, speaking to a tray holding a carafe of water and eight glasses. “Mr. Britton was to have represented the late Mrs. Clara von Hohenkammer, who was prepared to inject a sizable amount of new capital into the firm. Not sizable in your terms, gentlemen”—and here everyone smiled politely—“but sizable in terms of the present capitalization of Triple Saracen.” He paused to allow an appreciative murmur to run through the group, should anyone care to start one. “This would, of course, have materially changed the position of the company in relation to its present obligations.”
“Does this mean that Triple Saracen will, or would, have enough to pay back the monies loaned it by this and other banks, then?” The question came from the woman, whose face was deadpan and voice sardonic and whose relative power was indicated by her seat on the chairman’s right.
“Bloody bitch of an accountant,” the lawyer whispered into Milanovich’s ear. “Not quite,” he replied. “It certainly would have been enough to enable the company to navigate successfully through this temporarily difficult period, to satisfy suppliers, meet payroll and interest obligations, and generally to convince you, gentlemen”—he stumbled slightly and looked up—“and, uh, lady, that this is a viable corporation.”
“This money, however, is not now forthcoming?” This was the smooth, rich voice from the head of the table, a chairman-of-the-board voice. “Because of Mrs. Von Hohenkammer’s tragic and unexpected death?”
“Yes.” The lawyer nodded in agreement, and shuffled through the papers in front of him. “That is correct, but only in a manner of speaking. Mr. Milanovich informs me that he will shortly have access”—and here he moved a few more papers—“again in a manner of speaking, that is, through his wife, to half of the von Hohenkammer estate.” His eyes remained glued to the material in front of him until he finished. At last, he raised his head and smiled. “Which is, as I’m sure you realize, a considerable sum.”
“Are you sure?” asked the chairman. The woman frowned, clearly wondering whether Mrs. Milanovich knew what was being said on her behalf. Milanovich’s lawyer moved over to the other side of the table and began to lay out their position to the chairman and the accountant. Milan sat where he had been put when he first walked into the room thirty-five minutes before, sweat beading in the creases of his forehead and trickling down his collar. Finally, the chairman raised his hand and voice once again. “In that case, perhaps we should adjourn this meeting for two weeks, and at that time, if Mrs. Milanovich would be so kind as to attend, and, if possible, the lawyer for the estate, perhaps we can work out a satisfactory solution to the present difficulty. Gentlemen? Madam?” Everyone murmured and smiled and began to gather up papers and briefcases. Milanovich sat as he had been sitting, until his lawyer grasped him under the arm and steered him out of the room.
One of the gray-suited types collared the chairman deftly before he could get away; he engaged him in two minutes of intense discussion and then strolled out of the meeting room. He walked casually over to a window where a tall man with his back to the crowd was studying a large dark green, menacing-looking plant. “Hello, John,” he said. “Enjoying yourself? Our boy is off the hook for two weeks. Stay of execution granted by the executive vice-president. Which is just as well. I’d like to do a bit more digging before the roof falls in on him.”
Sanders turned and nodded. “Bloody well time you turned up, Doug. You sure the roof is going to fall in on him?”
Douglas McMeans of the fraud squad smiled serenely. “As sure as God made little green apples,” he murmured. “A week next Monday the receivers go in. Even if his wife comes through with a promise of all the money from Mummy’s estate, it won’t help. He’s into two different pension funds, paying off two different sets of officials, and they’re both scared shitless. Anyway, the estate won’t get through probate for months and months. And when it does, it won’t be enough. No matter how much it is, it won’t be enough. By the way, you didn’t need to worry about him noticing you. He wouldn’t have noticed you if you’d climbed into his lap.”
Sanders paused at the top of the stone stairs that led into St. Peter’s Church on St. Clair Avenue. He was even later than he thought, and the memorial service was well on its way to being over. He slipped into a side pew at the rear and looked cautiously around him. In spite of Clara’s wealth and fame there were few people in the church, most of them familiar. Front and centre he picked out the pale brown of Theresa’s hair and the darker brown of her husband’s. Veronika sat beside them, looking small and insignificant. In a well-organized world, unbearable guilt should be forcing one of them to rush over to the coffin and scream, “Mamma!” or maybe, “
Clara!” or even, “Aunt Clara! Sorry about the cyanide.” Or words to that effect. But things like that never happened on his cases.
Twenty minutes later, the small crowd was milling about aimlessly on the church steps. A proper funeral mass, with all its attendant pomp and circumstance, would be held in Munich. Under the circumstances, there would be no post-funereal festivities here, and people seemed uncertain of what to do with themselves. Except for John Sanders, who was scanning the crowd carefully in the approved manner. But not for a murderer. He caught sight of slender, squared shoulders and medium-length straight hair under a dark beret moving quickly down the outside edge of the broad stairs. His heart lurched. He raised an arm in a futile gesture to catch her attention and started to run at a diagonal down the steps to reach her before she got away. A hand fell on his shoulder as he was darting around a tightly knit group. “Inspector, I’m pleased to have caught you.” He recognized the voice of Klaus Leitner and turned in fury. “Mr. Peter Lohr would like to speak to you. He is the family lawyer; he just got in from Munich.”
Sanders stopped where he was, pale with anger. As soon as he had let his eyes wander from her, Harriet had disappeared. There went his only chance to talk to her. Suddenly and frustratingly, she had made herself completely unavailable. She had turned on her answering machine last night and, as far as he could judge, simply left it on. He could not bear to lose her again so soon after rediscovering her, and lost she must certainly be, he felt profoundly, if he didn’t see her again for weeks.
A man in a dark gray suit was standing quietly on the church steps, studying the landscaping with apparent concentration. “Inspector Sanders? I am Peter Lohr,” he said, and held out his hand. He was fiftyish, tanned, lean, and fit, and he had the pleasantly relaxed manner that often seems to accompany an enormous bank balance. The rigors of intercontinental travel had failed to destroy the effect of his exquisitely tailored suit or understated silk tie. But then, reflected Sanders, you couldn’t expect Clara’s lawyer to look as if he spent his life bailing whores out of jail in the middle of the night. “I am most anxious to speak to you about this business, Inspector,” said Lohr. “Perhaps you would accompany me to the house. I understand it is only a brief walk.”
Sanders nodded and followed him down the steps.
“I’m afraid that we have things to discuss,” Lohr added as soon as they had crossed the wide and busy street. “I haven’t even had time yet to see how Clara’s poor children are,” he said as a gentle reminder to Sanders that he represented them as well.
“Yes,” said Sanders curtly. “There are also certain things that we need to know from you, such as the terms of Mrs. von Hohenkammer’s will.”
“The will that is presently in effect?” asked Lohr.
“Yes,” said Sanders curiously. “Was there . . .”
“She had asked me to prepare a new will for her. But she did not have time to have it signed. According to the old will, the estate is split between the two daughters, but Theresa’s half is largely tied up in trust for the children. Two-thirds of it.”
“And in the new will?”
“In the new will, it is completely tied up. She doesn’t get a mark in capital.”
“But why . . .”
“Clara thought her a fool married to a fool and a thief. Is this the house, Inspector?”
The huge living room made the small group look very small. Klaus Leitner was leaning against the cold hearth, one elbow on the mantelpiece, a study in elegance. Sanders saw him shoot his arm out from his sleeve and glance quickly at his wrist. Trying to figure out how long he had to stay there. He sympathized a little. Theresa was sitting in one of the large chairs, at its edge, perched upright and looking intensely at her husband. A look of wifely concern and affection? Not bloody likely, thought Sanders, taking in the rhythmic sideways swish of her foot. It reminded him of the tail of an angry cat, lashing slowly back and forth. Her husband stood for a while beside Leitner, then paced up and down, and then sat down on the large couch beside Veronika. She was the only one who was absolutely still, very pale, concentrating hard on Herr Lohr as he read the document in front of him. Frank Whitelaw leaned slightly over the back of the couch, but whether the attitude was protective or predatory, Sanders could not tell. Bettl stood in the doorway with the air of a waitress anxious to clear away the coffee cups and go home. Sanders was finding it interesting to sit in the background, watching their actions and expressions, unable to understand what anyone was saying, yet knowing to some extent, from Lohr’s brief summary, what was being said. Only the Milanoviches and Whitelaw conversed in English, since Milan’s German didn’t seem to be good enough for this sort of occasion. Milan’s voice provided an annoying tenor counterpoint to Lohr’s steady baritone as he bobbed back and forth, asking his wife what was being said. She frowned and shook her head and refused to translate.
Lohr finished his preamble to the will and started in on the specific provisions. Klaus Leitner looked surprised; he hadn’t expected as much as he got, then. Maybe. Bettl—that is, Elisabeth—Kotzmeier looked impassive, her face a closed mask. Annoyed. She had expected a larger slice of the pie. Whitelaw looked as if he had known all along what to expect. Perhaps he had, or perhaps he was as good an actor as his former employer. There was a jumble of strange names—friends and relations in Munich—and then a quick summary of the disposal of the residual estate. The inclusion of “Veronika, my daughter,” drew a sideways glance, bright-eyed and heightened in color, from wife to husband, but not until Lohr came to Theresa’s name did the real reaction come. Even her husband grasped that part. Milan Milanovich leaned back and stared at the lawyer, his cheeks splashed with scarlet rounds of color; his wife slowly turned an ashen gray.
“So that’s that, Nikki dear. I’m so glad that Mamma didn’t carry out her threat. It would have been awkward for us if she had. Or perhaps you already knew?” Theresa’s tone was carrying; she spoke in English, making sure Inspector Sanders had not missed her speech. Veronika von Hohenkammer shook her head in bewilderment and then began to sob.
Sanders looked at his watch: seven twenty-three. Lohr, whom he had to talk to, was tied up with the von Hohenkammer children and assorted hangers-on tonight. He would see the inspector in the morning, he had said firmly, in a voice that invited no argument. And now he was alone. Whatever she was doing, wherever she had been, she ought to be home by now. He dialed the number, very carefully. The telephone rang, once, twice, started to ring a third time, and clicked. “Hi, there,” said a slightly tinny version of Harriet’s voice, “you’ve managed to dial Harriet Jeffries/Parallax Productions. I’m in the darkroom and too covered with chemicals to take your call right now. Wait until that funny little noise sounds and then leave your name and number. I’ll get back to you as soon as humanly possible. Thanks.”
“Goddamn it, Harriet,” he roared into the phone, “I hate answering machines. I especially hate cute answering machines that lie. You can’t still be in the darkroom. If you are sitting there listening to this and you don’t call me back, I am going to come over to your place and drown you in the fucking darkroom. And thank you, too. I’m at the apartment,” he added in a slightly more normal tone. “And it’s bloody Monday at bloody seven twenty-five.” After he hung up, it occurred to him that he hadn’t thought to leave his name. She’d know who it was. How many irascible, unpleasant, obscene, and overbearing male friends could she possibly have?
Chapter 10
Nikki von Hohenkammer woke up in a state of acute physical discomfort. After a little groggy thought, it occurred to her that she was cold. Very cold. Her feet, covered only by a sheet, were aching with cold. And there was no remedy for it where she was. She ran across the icy floor, pulled back the curtains, and slammed the window shut. A new and hostile world looked back at her from the other side of the pane. The sky outside was gray; the tree branches shivered restlessly in the wind. The summer’s heat, which had stre
tched so unseasonably into September, had come to an abrupt end. She continued her survey of the premises, nagged by a sense that something else was wrong. After a minute, it came to her: The omnipresent police car no longer sat in the gravel drive in front of the house, and as bitterly as she had resented its presence, its absence now made her feel unprotected and alone. She shivered and headed for the shower.
While she stood under the biting spray, letting the hot water run through her hair, she considered her various problems. The first one needed little thought. If she were arrested before her plane left for Munich on Thursday afternoon, there would be no decisions to be made. Herr Lohr would stay in the country until he was sure she had a good lawyer. If she weren’t arrested, though, there would be things she had to come to terms with. She needed to talk to someone about the money. She had been so convinced that she would get nothing—as convinced as Theresa had been that she would get everything—that she was totally unprepared to face undisputed possession of all that wealth. Not that her mother’s will was out of character: Veronika, who had always been careful with money—that extravagant red car had been a present—received her just half; Theresa, who had always thrown money away with abandon, had her just half tied up to protect her from herself and her husband. No matter what threats she made, Mamma had always acted rationally. Nikki stepped out of the shower and toweled herself dry as fiercely as if she were trying to remove her old skin. She wrapped a towel around her head and went back into the bedroom.
Last night’s dinner had been appalling; she had no intention of going through anything like that again. Theresa’s voice had become softer and sweeter with every sentence, the way it always did when she was in a homicidal rage. Nikki shuddered. And Milan. Halfway through the schnitzel, one of Bettl’s more successful efforts, he had put down his knife and fork, smiled wordlessly, and walked out. They had all looked at Theresa, whose expression did not change, and then pretended that nothing had happened. Through the delicate clatter of knife and fork on china, they heard the crash of the front door, the metallic slam of the car door, and a grinding of the ignition as the Porsche started up. It was followed by a screech of tires scrabbling to make contact on gravel, and Milan was gone.
