by Medora Sale
“Jesus, but you have a cynical view of mankind, Ed. It’s a wonder you can get up in the morning.”
“I can’t. Sally throws me out of bed. Let’s go get some breakfast.”
When Milan Milanovich walked out of the room in the Royal Bank, where he kept his safety deposit box—his other safety deposit box, not the one for which his wife also had a key—he was greeted not by a friendly teller wishing him goodbye and a good day but by a pair of police officers. Not especially friendly. Wishing to speak to him. Not here, but down at the police station. With his briefcase.
As he climbed sulkily into the cruiser, he had only one question. “How in hell did you guys find me? No one at this bank even knows me.”
“We noticed that, sir. But you parked your car outside the bank. On the street. In a no-parking zone.”
“Jesus,” he muttered. “I was in there only five minutes.”
“Long enough, sir,” said the driver cheerfully, and Milanovich subsided into silence.
The three remaining members of Veronika von Hohenkammer’s family were now sitting in separate rooms, guests of the Metropolitan Toronto Police, a study in variations on anger. Milanovich remained sulky; Theresa, imperious; Klaus, combative. “What did you get from them?” Sanders asked Collins, to whom had fallen the brunt of the questioning.
“Short version?” Sanders nodded. “Milanovich has a girlfriend. He’s been in the city all the time, with his car in her garage. But her husband’s coming home tonight, and he had to make his move. The briefcase contains $60,000 in US dollars. His own money, he says. Like a savings account. Just in case.”
“I’d be interested in finding out exactly where that money came from. Considering that he’s damned near bankrupt. And his wife?”
“She spent the day at home, she said at first, looking after the kids and talking to her cousin, Klaus. But the nanny doesn’t lie, and when we poked around a bit, it seemed madam had gone out several times. And so did Leitner. If the girl did leave the house between eleven and eleven-thirty, anyone of them could have been over there and known that she was going to the museum. Klaus went out before eleven to see their lawyer. Theresa remembered the safety deposit box at their bank and popped out to have a go at it. We’ve witnesses for all that. Either one of them could have gone to the house, heard her on the phone, known where she was going and when, and set up whoever he was. Of course, Milanovich’s girlfriend was at work during the day as well. His alibi is nonexistent.”
Collins’s recital was interrupted by the telephone. Dubinsky reached over lazily and picked up the receiver. “Yeah, it’s Ed.” He listened for a minute in silence. “You’re sure? Well, okay, bring the picture in. We’ll show it to Walker. You never hear of coincidence?” He set down the phone and looked over at his colleagues. “MacVey says that the sketch he did of the suspect the von Hohenkammer girl described is identical to the sketch he did of Walker’s pal, Carlos Ramirez. According to him, it sounds like the same guy.”
“He’s sure?” asked Sanders.
“That’s what he says.”
“I wonder . . .” And Sanders picked up a pencil and began to draw little boxes and surround them with bigger boxes on the piece of paper in front of him. Dubinsky shrugged and went back to the work on his desk; Collins muttered something about checking up on those statements.
For almost an hour the business of the department whirled past John Sanders, having as much effect on him as the water in a trout stream does on a boulder sitting in the middle of it. Over the long run, no doubt, considerable; in the short run, none at all. Finally, he pulled the telephone over and punched in a number without bothering to look it up. Dubinsky put down his pen to watch.
“Harriet?” That Dubinsky heard quite clearly. “Do you have . . .” and here his voice trailed off; several people walked in and out of the room, slamming doors and talking. “Could you bring them over? Now? Yes, it’s important or I wouldn’t have asked, would I?” There was a slight pause. “If I were just feeling sentimental, I would have asked for pictures of you, not of some building, for chrissake. See you in half an hour.”
But Harriet was there in twenty minutes, holding a manila envelope in her hand and looking slightly out of breath. “You found your way up, then,” said Sanders, taking the envelope from her.
“Not without a lot of help,” she complained. Sanders didn’t hear; he was laying the contents of the envelope out on his desk. Dubinsky got up, curious, to have a look. “Hi,” she said, holding out her hand. “Remember me? Harriet Jeffries. That long night at Clara von Hohenkammer’s.”
Dubinsky took her hand and tactfully refrained from mentioning that he had already memorized her features and her name, and now that he had pieced together exactly where Sanders had disappeared to yesterday afternoon, he was tucking away her address and telephone number.
“These ones,” said Sanders. “Send them over with the sketch and see what Walker has to say about them. Have them call me.” As an afterthought, he turned to Harriet. “Thanks. You had any lunch?”
She shook her head.
“Find someone, Ed. Two corned beef on rye.”
The call did not come until the corned beef had been commissioned, fetched, delivered, and consumed. Dubinsky answered the phone and then graciously handed it over to Sanders. He listened and nodded several times. “Look, ask him one more thing, will you? Is the buru a woman?” He stared up at the ceiling, ignoring the curiosity emanating from everyone around him. “That’s it,” he said at last, and put down the phone.
“What’s what?” said Harriet. “And would you stop being so goddamn mysterious?”
“I just had an idea, and it could have been a very stupid idea, but I thought I’d try it out. I mean, suppose the house where Walker said they kept all the stolen goods wasn’t in the suburbs at all but in the city? You know any big houses in the city that are surrounded by enough land that they sound and smell as if they’re in the suburbs?”
“Clara’s?” said Harriet. “That’s a hell of a long shot.”
“So? It would give a connection between Carlos and Nikki. Anyway, Walker says the guy that Nikki described is Carlos, all right. And he identified your interior shots of Clara’s house with the house in the suburbs where they kept all the stolen property.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Harriet firmly. “Clara would never have anything to do with something like that.”
“The person who ran the operation wasn’t a woman. Walker met him several times. When they asked him about it a minute ago, he said, more or less, ‘Don’t be stupid. He was a guy, just a kid.’ She wasn’t even there most of the time, Harriet. She probably knew nothing about it. But I’ll tell you who did.”
“The gardener,” said Dubinsky. “He’s the only one who was there all the time. And you could call him a kid.”
“Come on. Let’s go have a word with Paul the gardener. We’ll drop you off on the way.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. I have to go over to Clara’s house, anyway, to pick up some things for Nikki. She called me just before you did. Said she couldn’t reach anyone there, or at her sister’s.”
“That’s because they’re all here,” said Sanders. “Stewing.”
The house was emptier than any house Harriet had ever been in, devoid of any trace of life. Much emptier than when she had taken possession of it to photograph it. “I’m going up to Nikki’s room to get her things,” she said firmly. She didn’t like feeling spooked by atmospheres.
Dubinsky had taken Lucas with him to look for the gardener in his flat above the garage, since Lucas appeared to be less intimidated by the prospect of having to cope with dogs than Collins was. Sanders looked around the front hall, told Collins to keep an eye on things on the ground floor, and headed toward Harriet and the stairs. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “We need to find the housekeeper.”
Harriet emerged fr
om Veronika’s room with a suitcase filled with nightwear and other necessaries just as Sanders was descending from Bettl’s room. “You find her?”
“She’s gone,” he said. “Didn’t leave so much as a hairpin or a blond hairnet behind. Probably in Germany by now.” He shrugged. “Get what you were looking for?”
Harriet nodded, but her reply was cut short by the sound of Lucas running up the stairs.
“The sergeant would like you to come over to the gardener’s flat, sir. If you don’t mind.”
“Right behind you, Lucas,” he said. As he headed out the kitchen door, something suddenly occurred to him. “And what did you do with the dogs, Lucas? Hypnotize them?”
“Not a dog on the property, sir, as far as I can see.” Dubinsky was standing in the middle of a pleasantly shabby, immaculately clean room. One corner held a spotless kitchen; another, a bed, stripped down to its mattress. There was a table pushed against the wall next to a window; on it sat a typewriter and some books. Sanders picked up the top one: Obras de Miguel de Unamuno was stamped on the cover. He flipped through it idly, not understanding a word. “This was sitting on top of that book,” said Dubinsky, holding out a standard business envelope with “Inspector Sanders” typed on the outside.
The envelope was not sealed; when he lifted the flap, two sheets of paper slid out. “A lot to say for himself,” said Sanders, and began to read:
Tuesday, September 17
My dear Inspector,
It is clear to me that you have been moving closer and closer to us. If you are reading this, you have discovered my apartment. Therefore, as a courtesy, I write this to you before leaving the country, because I fear that I have left you no physical evidence of what has happened; for that you will have to go to the address listed below, where, if you are quick enough, you will find enough to satisfy even you. For I perceive that you are a careful—indeed, a fastidious—man in these matters. Not like some of the policemen in my country, who do not worry about small matters like evidence if your name is Basque.
I sincerely grieve for the death of Doña Clara. She was a great lady, and a very gracious one when in good temper. She reminded me very much of my own mother. I would never have harmed her, nor permitted my associates to harm her. If she was not murdered by the housekeeper, Bettl, then she was poisoned by her daughters or her nephew. Any one of them would have killed for a few pesetas, not to speak of Doña Clara’s fortune. All I know is that her death came at a very awkward time for us.
We had a beautiful scheme, Manu and I. I do not expect you, as a policeman, to appreciate it, but I do expect you, as a human being, to understand that in theory we intended as little harm as possible. We would steal from the rich and well-insured, store the fruits of our labours safely in the house of Doña Clara, sell them at our leisure, and take the money back home. Without touching anyone. That is always the problem, is it not? In theory. In practice, we needed to consort with criminals in order to steal efficiently and to dispose of our goods at a sufficient profit. I am not sure if I chose badly or if bad choice is inherent in the activity. Through Doña Clara’s thieving household, I found someone to dispose of expensive works of art. But through that person, I was encumbered with Carlos, who is a madman, and Don, who is a coward.
I knew they were not honourable men, but I had not expected them to be unprofessional, so unprofessional that in a crisis they would kill. Carlos for amusement, Don to save himself. It was Don who killed Mrs. Wilkinson with a blow on the head, using a statue of a Viking warrior. When Carlos shot her, she was already near death. Or so Manu tells me, and he is observant and truthful. Carlos shot one policeman; Don killed the other with a blow on the head. Don told me it was an accident. That is difficult to believe. The tragedy is that had I been there, I would have been able to control him, I think, but having drugged the entire household so that we could get the last shipment out, I found it necessary to drink some of that coffee myself. Otherwise, you would have been very suspicious. And with those actions they have destroyed our hope of raising enough money to help fund a significant political resistance in our own country. A futile hope, in all events, you will say. But I am young enough to believe that such things may be. If not now, later.
This morning we rescued what remained of the last consignment of goods. Doña Clara’s daughter had discovered our simple hiding place, although I do not think she knows who we are. I sent Carlos to keep her away from home—women seem to find him enchanting, strangely enough—while we moved it. Now I have misgivings about what has happened to her. Carlos asked for help to deal with her, and it occurred to me that he intended to keep her from the house by removing her permanently. I went myself to the museum, hoping to avert another death. She took fright when she saw me and ran before I could get to her.
Now there is no time to do anything but leave. You have Don already, Manu tells me. You are welcome to him. If you do not find Carlos at his apartment, look for him in Arizona. I do not know what his mother called him, but he has passports in the name of Ramirez and Ugalde, and also Garcia, first name Carlos always. As for me, I am tired of gardening. I shall locate Manu and return to university. You will forgive me if I do not tell you where. Euzkadi ta Askatasuna, Inspector.
Yours faithfully,
Ixtebe Etxebarrieta (Paul Esteban)
(or as Don knows me, the buru, the boss)
P.S. Manu has never killed anyone in his life; he is a brave but essentially peaceful man. Although he is not fond of the Guardia Civil. I sincerely trust that by the time you receive this letter, he will be far from Canada. And the dogs are at the kennel; you will find the receipt on Doña Clara’s desk.
The letter was neatly typed, including the signature. “Son of a bitch,” said Sanders. “There’s nerve for you. What does that mean?” he said, turning to Lucas and pointing to the words at the end.
“Hey, I don’t speak Basque,” said Lucas, taking the letter and reading it. “Oh, it’s the name of the political party—ETA,” he said, grinning as he came to the end. “It means something like ‘Country and Freedom.’ He’s an etarra. Member of the party.” He handed the letter over to Dubinsky and looked in the envelope. “Sir, there’s another slip of paper in here.” He pulled it out and whistled.
“What’s on it?” asked Sanders.
“A couple of addresses: on Palmerston and on Acacia Crescent.”
Sanders snatched the paper from him and glanced rapidly at it. “Come on. Back to headquarters. You can finish that in the car,” he said to Dubinsky. “Let Lucas drive.”
Sanders blew into the room like a hurricane. “I need warrants—now. Get someone onto it.”
“For what?” asked Collins innocently, reaching out his hand for the slip with the addresses on it. “This one is Carlos Ramirez’s flat, you know. We’ve already sent someone over there.”
“Someone isn’t enough,” snapped Sanders. “Anyway, the bulk of the stuff is probably at the other address.”
Lucas slowed to a moderate pace as they approached the building on Acacia Crescent; he pulled up some distance away and stopped. “You want to wait here until Sergeant Dubinsky arrives, sir?” he asked.
“No. He won’t be long,” said Sanders with more assurance than he felt. “And it may already be too late.” He opened the car door and looked carefully around him before striding up to the high-rise on the south side of the street. Not a bad sort of place to live, he reflected. Not as homely as some, better kept than most, and close enough to Bathurst and Eglinton that you could walk to restaurants. Art theft was prospering these days. As they stood by the entrance waiting for the superintendent, Sanders peered through the glass into the lobby and revised his estimate of profits by a few hundred thousands. All those green trees, heavy pieces of furniture, and fountains lurking in there didn’t come cheap.
Sanders paused in front of the door of the apartment on the seventeenth floor and listened. Inside he could hear
music playing—tasteful, delicate music—and soft, muffled footsteps. It would seem that luck was with them. Their bird had not flown. Sanders raised his hand and knocked, firmly, definitively. An official knock. A knock that any pimp or pickpocket in the world would recognize.
The music was turned down. The footsteps moved closer, and the door opened on a chain. “Well, well, well. Inspector. You tracked me down to my little hideaway. How very clever of you.” The door closed, there was a rattle of a chain being taken off, and the door opened once again.
“I had some help,” said Sanders as Frank Whitelaw stood to one side to let the two men pass.
This was an even different Whitelaw, affable and charming, wearing an embroidered silk smoking jacket over a cream-coloured silk shirt. Behind him the apartment glowed richly in the September sun. The Oriental rugs made Sanders want to give his shoes a wipe; the furniture looked like the antiques they don’t turn out in factories and then pepper with fake wormholes, and on the flat white walls was a collection of paintings that might just be real. Lucas stood quietly by the door; Sanders walked in and across the room and then stationed himself in front of a richly swirling landscape with horses whose sweat he could almost smell and whose laboured breathing seemed to ring in his ears.
“Impressive,” he said flatly.
“Isn’t it?” said Whitelaw, smiling. “A Géricault. But not a great one. It’s a rather tentative study he did for something else during one of his better periods. I’m fond of it, though, in spite of its lack of finish. Quite extraordinary power and motion, wouldn’t you say?”
Sanders grunted something that could be taken for appreciation. On the opposite wall, he noticed two rectangular white spaces, surrounded by the dust marks, the marks left by paintings after they been taken down. “And what was here?” he asked. “A couple of Rembrandts?”
Whitelaw smiled faintly. “Not at all. Just some of those Victorian landscapes that are two a penny at any gallery. I thought they might do for here, but they didn’t work. I’m still looking for replacements.”
