by Rick Blechta
“Meaning that you’re proposing to do something that might get us unofficial information on what the official investigation hasn’t uncovered or, on the other hand, might be unwilling to tell us.”
Roderick flashed a big smile. “There’s no putting anything past you, is there?” It didn’t take him long to outline what he had in mind, after which he got up and walked to the door. “Well, since that’s settled, I need to make a few phone calls. Try to get some sleep. You look absolutely knackered.”
Within a minute of the door shutting behind him, the phone rang. With a sigh, I picked it up. If it was bad news, I didn’t want to hear it, and somehow I knew it wouldn’t be good news. If it was Tory... I had no idea what I would say to her.
“Caspar Montenegro here. I am sorry to disturb you at what must be a most trying time, Mr. Lukesh. I wish to thank you for allowing me to speak with you.”
The heavy accent of the voice on the phone seemed vaguely German, but another accent I couldn’t place overlaid it. It sounded as if English were about the fifth language this guy could speak. The name Montenegro rang a distant bell in my mind, but the way in which it had been said led me to believe that the caller thought I should know it instantly.
“How did you manage to get through to me?” I asked. “I told the hotel switchboard to only let calls through from a few, very specific people. I’m sorry, but you’re not on that list.”
Again the pompous tone. “I informed the person who I was, and she put me through instantly.”
That ticked me off. This guy was probably just another journalist—and obviously a legend in his own mind. I should have slammed down the phone.
“Mr. Lukesh?”
“Still here.”
“Are you aware that I was one of the guests at the, ah, home of Baron Rudolph the night he, ah, met with his unfortunate end?”
That got my instant attention. “No, I wasn’t.”
The caller seemed disconcerted. “Ah, how much do you know, then?”
“No more than has been reported by the press,” I answered, preferring to play my cards close to my chest.
“You have not spoken to your wife at all?” he asked, sounding rather tentative.
“No one knows where she is—and that unfortunately includes me.”
Montenegro paused. “I trust that you will excuse me if I asked an indelicate question, but I was hoping that Victoria might have contacted you. Naturally, you are cautious. If I were in your position, I could fully understand why you might not wish to tell the authorities that she had.”
“What are you hoping that my wife might have said to me?” I asked, preferring not to beat around the bush.
Montenegro chuckled. “I have been told that you are no fool, and I can clearly see that this statement is a true one. I had thought that your wife would have told you why she came to Baron Rudolph and what my connection with the business was.”
“Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Yes. I can see under the circumstances that this might be best,” he said self-righteously. “I was contacted by Baron Rudolph. He wished me to act in my capacity as an impresario.”
The sluggish synapses in my brain finally made a few connections at the mention of the word “impresario” and I now had him firmly placed in the music business firmament—down near the bottom feeders. Caspar Montenegro had a gold-plated reputation as a producer of wildly successful extravaganzas (of dubious musical quality), but also an even greater reputation as a conniving bastard. Knowing what I did of Tory’s business with this baron, it wasn’t much of a jump to see how Montenegro fit in, but I thought it best to continue playing dumb.
“And that was?” I asked blandly.
“I see that I will have to be completely frank with you and rely on your sense of fairness. I would like you not only to consider what I am proposing, but also to remember that it was Montenegro who dealt with you so openly.”
The pompous fool coughed, giving me a chance to say something suitable about his generosity. I let him swing in the wind.
Covering the conversational hole with another cough, he continued. “Since you will know soon enough anyway, I will tell you that Baron Rudolph claimed to have discovered a lost violin concerto by Beethoven, and he—”
“What?” I exclaimed, playing my part. “That’s ridiculous!”
“My first reaction also, but the baron convinced me that he had unimpeachable expert opinions to back up his assertion. If what he told me was true, then this would be a musical discovery of monumental proportions. He desired that I should produce the world premiere performance with your wife and the Wiener Philharmoniker. I came to Austria with this as my hope, but was also prepared to be disappointed. Logically, this discovery of the baron’s seemed too good to be real.”
“And were you disappointed?”
Montenegro didn’t answer immediately. “No, I was not. The music your wife played the night the baron died was magnificent, astounding...a gift from God Himself! No one but Beethoven could write music of that power and insight.”
That surprised me. Pompous and shifty Montenegro might be, but I’d never heard him referred to as gullible. “So Tory actually performed this supposed Beethoven concerto?
“Yes. The baron arranged a small dinner for those involved in his project, after which your wife and one of the other guests, a rather mediocre pianist unfortunately, played the work. Even though she was obviously not yet comfortable with the notes, Miss Morgan’s playing was quite superb.”
“Did you get a chance to inspect the manuscript, speak to any of these experts of von Heislinger?”
“No... That was supposed to take place the next morning. The world now knows what unfortunately occurred during the night. Quite sad, all of this, quite sad.”
“What happened to the manuscript...afterwards?”
“It could not be found! The baron’s staff said that he was not in the habit of keeping this valuable object under lock and key. That is a criminal act with something so precious! When the body was discovered, we all demanded that it be ascertained whether the manuscript was safe. Neither it nor the briefcase in which it was last seen could be found.”
“And you naturally assumed that my wife had taken it.”
“Ah...” Montenegro said, “again at the risk of being indelicate, I will have to admit that we thought that the most likely possibility, yes. A quantity of money was also missing.”
“And what was Tory supposed to do with it? It would be kind of hard to do anything public with the manuscript after what happened, wouldn’t it? It seems more likely to me that one of the other guests has taken it.”
“The authorities conducted a most thorough search before they would allow anyone to leave. I don’t see how it could have been removed from Schloss von Heislinger by anyone but your wife. This is why I called—to find out if it was safe.”
“How come none of this has come out in the news reports?”
Montenegro hesitated. “We all discussed the situation before the police arrived and it was decided that because of the...sensitive nature of the baron’s musical discovery, it would be better if word of its existence did not leak out. As a musician, surely you can understand that. This musical find must be protected at all costs.”
I didn’t think that Montenegro cared for anything more than getting his hands on something worth... God! The mind boggled at the potential value of those pieces of paper—if it really was Beethoven.
“Who were the other people present at this little soirée?”
“I am sorry, but I would prefer not to say. None of us wants to become part of this media frenzy. Surely you can understand that.”
“But you called me.”
“I felt sure that I could trust your discretion, Mr. Lukesh.”
While all of this was extremely interesting, it didn’t completely explain why Montenegro had called. “What do you want from me?”
When he answered, the producer’s voice sounded even more pompous, more
dramatic—if that was possible. “If it proves true that your wife has the Beethoven Concerto, I would like you to contact me at once! This is an artifact of inestimable value, and it must be protected and presented properly to the world. I am willing to do that. Also, if it does, beyond all hope, transpire that your wife will be premiering it, I would like the name of Montenegro considered to produce this historic event.”
“And if things don’t work out that way?”
“Then I would like the cooperation of you and Miss Morgan in producing a film of her tragic story.”
In fury, I slammed down the phone without answering.
***
Around six a.m, I gave up the idea of pretending to be asleep and called down to the desk to see when I could get a copy of any English language newspapers. They told me they would send up copies of the International Herald Tribune and USA Today as soon as they arrived. With nothing else to do, I clicked on the TV , found CNN and half-watched it while I stewed about what I was going to do that day.
Roderick and I each had our assigned jobs. Against my better judgment, he was going to take on the von Heislinger household. That involved driving to the south to a village called Friesach, the nearest town to the place where Tory had come to so much grief. He’d told me he would check in before the end of the day, if at all possible.
I was of two minds about everything Roderick had been doing for Tory and me. We could never possibly repay the debt we owed him, which made me feel guilty. However, he really seemed to want to help, and because Tory had walked out in the middle of their tour, he didn’t have anything else on his plate at the moment. Also, if it hadn’t been for his irrepressible good cheer, I think I would have been driven to immobility by total despair.
Roderick, at least, seemed to have some idea how to go about his job—but he’d refused to tell me exactly what that was. I had absolutely no idea how to carry out mine: getting Ertmann, an official of the Austrian government, to come across with more information.
The only place I could think of starting was with my police friend, Judith Clough, who had helped me so much during our misadventures in England. Getting information from her might prove tricky, though, since we were on opposite sides of the fence again: she now worked for Interpol. We’d kept in touch sporadically, so I knew Jude was presently stationed in Brussels. I caught her on her way to her health club for an early morning workout.
“Jude? It’s Oscar.” (She thinks Rocky is a stupid name and refuses to use it.)
Silence, then her crisp British accent, “I was wondering if I’d hear from you. Tory certainly seems to have stepped in it this time. Where are you?”
“Vienna.” Pause. “Could you, ah, come across with a little information?”
“That depends. I probably shouldn’t even be talking with you, you know.”
Jude sounded a bit wistful. We’d shared a lot together, and I’d managed to get her nearly killed—not that she held it against me. I’d almost gotten a lot of people killed at the time, including myself. We’d also come within a hair’s breadth of becoming lovers before good sense had finally prevailed.
“I’m not asking you to compromise yourself,” I explained. “I met with an Austrian government official named Johann Ertmann yesterday. Nothing was said specifically—you know how it is when you do things in the upper echelons—but the guy came across as a straight shooter. He definitely did not seem to be the career diplomat type. I was just wondering if you’d ever run across his name in your travels.”
She laughed. “You Americans seem to think that just because Europe is so small geographically that everyone knows everyone else. His name doesn’t ring a bell, but I’m involved more with smuggling than anything else in my new posting. We don’t deal with your type of, ah, problem here.”
“I don’t think Ertmann is involved in murder investigations, either. He’s just the person who got tapped by the Austrians to meet with the US ambassador and me. Do you think you could find out something about him, some background? I want to get a feel for where Ertmann is coming from.”
“Why do you want to know more about him?”
“I want information—off the record.”
“You’re not planning a spot of amateur sleuthing again, are you? Remember what happened last time!” The closeness Jude and I had shared came down the line loud and clear.
“Not really,” I lied. “I need to be in a position to help Tory, if push comes to shove.”
“The best thing you can do for Tory is to get her to turn herself in. This is a dangerous game she’s playing.” A pause from Jude’s end. “Do you know where she is?”
“Is that an official question?”
“No. I’m just concerned, that’s all.”
“I have no idea—other than what I’ve heard on the news, and they said Italy. It’s pretty damn frustrating—and worrisome. What I need now is as much information as I can lay my hands on, good information, not the crap you get out of a TV , and I have the feeling Ertmann might be the one to give it to me.”
“All right. I’ll see what I can find out about him. I should be able to get something together for you by say...noon. How is that?”
“Anything you can do would be a help, Jude. We’re in a pretty tight spot.”
“I know.” After writing down my number, she said, “You’ll hear from me by noon.”
The Tribune arrived with my breakfast. Top story? My dear wife, of course. The coverage was thorough, if a bit light on hard facts. The police weren’t letting much out, so the paper filled in with background on both parties, “on-the-spot” interviews and comments from “authoritative” sources. All-in-all it painted a pretty bleak picture. Several Austrians interviewed, under a thin veneer of politeness, were howling for Tory’s head on a pole. Seems that in Austria one mustn’t murder the aristocracy, even when they’re officially not aristocrats.
***
Judith Clough was as good as her word, better even, since she called at 11:40.
“Okay, Oscar. I think I’ve got what you need, but I can’t dig much deeper without inviting questions, so I hope this is enough.”
“Fire away,” I said, picking up a pen.
“You were spot on about Ertmann. He is, or was a cop. His age is fifty-six and he started at the bottom with the Viennese Gendarmerie, working his way up by determination and ability. He was a very capable officer by all accounts and reached the rank of Oberstleutnant—sorry about the pronunciation—before being asked to join something called the Observationsgruppe.”
“The what?”
“The surveillance arm of the Staatspolizei, the Austrian State Police, but they do more than just surveillance. They can be brought in by local police or State Security to go under deep cover, and they are often involved in anti-terrorism operations.”
“Why would they send someone like that to talk to the U.S. ambassador?”
“That is puzzling. As a rule, the Observationsgruppe shouldn’t be involved with something like this. Hmm... This next bit of information might shed some additional light on that. Ertmann’s been married for thirty-one years and has one child, a daughter, and guess what? She’s a musician.”
“Don’t tell me. A violinist?”
Jude laughed uproariously. “You got it on the first try!”
“Do you honestly think they sent Ertmann because his daughter plays violin?”
“That would be very odd, but it is possible.”
“Could you find that out for me?” I asked.
“Oscar, I couldn’t. It would invite...questions.”
“I understand. Anything else you can tell me?”
“Be straight with him. You’re an honest person, and that comes across very clearly. Don’t try to prevaricate, and you might have some luck.”
“What do you mean by prevaricate?” I countered.
Jude was silent for a moment, then said, “If you know where Tory is, tell him. I’m certain Ertmann can and will help. One person I got informat
ion from has met the man and spoke very highly of him.”
“But I don’t know where Tory is. That’s what has me so frustrated! The little idiot hasn’t seen fit to get in touch with me.”
Jude’s answer, “Oh,” said volumes.
“In any event, I don’t know how to thank you. I already owe you so much.”
“I got something out of it, too, you know. Look at where I’m slaving now. I just hope this works out for you both. Your wife is the talk of our office, probably all of Interpol.”
“What’s the scuttlebutt?”
“Guilty, I’m afraid. What’s coming out does look pretty damning.”
“Tell me about it,” I responded glumly. “But I also know Tory. Slitting someone’s throat right in the bed she’s sleeping in? I can’t believe she could ever do that.”
“Try to find out, Oscar, but these are deep waters you’re in. The fact that someone like Ertmann is involved makes me...uneasy. Please be very careful. You do have an overdeveloped Sir Galahad instinct, you know.”
“I do?”
“Yes, and I have the scars to prove it.”
***
“There’s no reason to varnish the truth, Herr Ertmann. I know my wife is capable of sleeping with someone she fancies. She’s done it before, but I was hoping...” I let my sentence hang as I sighed heavily.
At three p.m, safely after the long Viennese lunch break, I had dialled the number on the card Ertmann had given me. An hour later, I sat talking with him at a table in a small café on a quiet side street next to the Vienna State Opera. All dark wood with creamcoloured walls and black and white tiles on the floor, it seemed the epitome of Viennese gentility. In front of me was a cup of the fragrant espresso and heated frothed milk the Viennese call mélange which Ertmann had ordered for me. I’d heard the Viennese love their coffee; now I knew why.
However, I got the feeling that Ertmann had picked the location not for its picturesque qualities, but because the place was out-ofthe-way and frequented by hausfraus downtown for a day of shopping—not government types or journalists.
“Please, call me Johann,” the Austrian had said with a friendly smile when the coffee was served.
