The Monte Cristo Cover-Up

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Thomas Lieven still wore his immaculate dinner suit. Bastian had unbuttoned his shirt collar and put his feet up on a chair, though he had first, with a side glance at his master, placed a newspaper on it.

  "Schallenberg will be delivering the paper in a week's time," said Thomas Lieven. "How long will your friends be over the printing?"

  "About ten days," Bastian answered. He lifted a balloon-shaped glass of brandy to his lips.

  "Then on the first of May—an admirable date, that of Labor Day—I'll be off to Zurich," said Thomas. He handed Bastian a share certificate and a list. 'This is a pattern for the printers and here's a list of the current numbers I want printed on the certificates."

  "Wish I knew what you were up to," mumbled the man with the bristling hair in a bewildered tone.

  It was only when Bastian felt sure he was absolutely alone with his master that he spoke so familiarly to him. He had known Thomas for seventeen years and had been anything but a domestic servant at one time.

  Bastian had been devoted to Thomas ever since he had first met him at the headquarters of a Marseilles lady gangster. At times, too, he had shared a prison cell with him. That sort of experience promotes loyalty.

  ^Tommy, why don't you tell me what the idea is?"

  "At bottom, my dear Bastian, the scheme's perfectly legal and respectable. Its purpose is to create confidence. My certificate swindle will be an elegant certificate swindle. No one will ever guess—touch wood—that it ever was a swindle. All concerned will make a bit and be quite satisfied."

  Thomas Lieven smiled dreamily and took out a gold repeater. It had belonged to his father. That flat watch with its spring lid had accompanied Thomas in all the dangers of his career. It had been with him on all his daring flights and pursuits. Again and again he had succeeded in hiding it, preserving it or getting it back again. He pressed the spring and the

  14

  lid flew open. The striking mechanism within chimed the hour in silvery tones.

  Bastian said gloomily: "I can't get it into my skull. A share certificate signifies participation in an important undertaking. The certificate coupons entitle one to receive at certain intervals a certain dividend representing a share of the profit made by the undertaking."

  "So what, dear boy?"

  "Well, damn it all, no bank in the world is going to accept coupons from your forged certificates! Their numbers will also be printed on the genuine certificates held by someone or other. The swindle's bound to be spotted right away."

  Thomas stood up. "Well, of course I'm not going to hand in coupons."

  "How are you going to get away with it then?"

  "I've got a surprise for you," said Thomas. He crossed to a wall safe and spun the combination. A heavy steel door swung open. In the safe lay bundles of notes, a few "gold" ingots with lead centers (and an amusing history) and three jewel boxes containing set and unset stones. In the foreground lay a little pile of passports.

  Thomas murmured, as if to himself: "It'll be safer to travel to Switzerland under another name. Now I wonder what German passports we still have left?" Smiling, he read out some names. "Lord, what a lot of memories! Jakob Hauser ... Peter Scheuner ... Baron Ludwig von Trendelenburg ... Wil-fried Ott ..."

  You were supposed to be Trendelenburg when you shunted those Cadillacs to Rio. I'd give the baron a bit of a rest if I were you. Hauser too. They're still looking for him in France," Bastian murmured, also as if to himself.

  [4]

  "Sit down, Herr Ott. What can we do for you?" asked the chief clerk of the Stocks Department, laying down the caller's modest visiting card, which read: "Wilfried Ott, Industrialist, Diisseldorf." The chief clerk's name was Jules Vermont. His office was situated on the first floor of the Swiss Central Bank in Zurich.

  Thomas Lieven, who had just mentioned his own name as Wilfried Ott, asked: "You are French, monsieur?"

  "On the mother's side."

  "Then let us speak French," proposed Thomas, alias Wil-

  fried, using that language with a faultless accent. Jules Vermont beamed like a rising sun.

  "Could I by any chance have a deposit number here?"

  "By all means, monsieur."

  "Fve just acquired a few of the new German Steel Union share certificates. I'd like to keep them here in Switzerland, under a deposit number, as I've just suggested, not under my own name . . .

  "Of course. Those awful German taxes, eh?" Vermont blinked one eye.

  He was quite used to foreigners depositing securities at the bank. Some 150 milliards of Swiss francs belonging to foreigners reposed in Switzerland in 1957.

  "Before I forget," said Thomas Lieven. "Would you mind having the coupons for 1958 and 1959 detached? I'm not sure when I shall be in Zurich again, so I'd prefer to keep those coupons by me and redeem them myself when the time comes. That'll save you trouble, won't it?" And it'll also save me going to prison, he added mentally.

  A little later everything had been arranged. Thomas Lieven's inside pocket contained a formal statement by the Swiss Central Bank to the effect that a certain Herr Wilfried Ott, an industrialist from Diisseldorf, in West Germany, had deposited new G.S.U. certificates to the nominal value of one million German marks.

  He drove his sports car, which even in Zurich attracted a lot of attention, back to his hotel, the Baur au Lac, where he was very popular with all the staff. Wherever he stayed, in hotels all over the world, all the staff adored him. His sunny disposition, his democratic views and his lavish tips were responsible.

  He took the elevator up to his suite. On arrival he went first to the bathroom and washed the coupons for 1958 and 1959 down the drain, to prevent any trouble ever arising from that direction. His sitting room had a balcony. Thomas sat down there under a bright awning and gazed contentedly at the little vessels floating on the glittering waters of the Zuricher See, while he meditated for a time. Then with a gold pencil he composed the following advertisement on a sheet of the hotel notepaper.

  GERMAN INDUSTRIALIST

  requires Swiss capital loan repayable in two years. High interest and first-class security 16

  offered. Serious investors only. Banker's reference essential.

  This advertisement appeared two days later in a prominent position among the advertisements in the Neue Zuricher Zei-tung, followed by a box number. After another three days Thomas collected forty-six replies.

  Seated on his balcony in gloriously sunny weather Thomas made a careful classfication of the offers.

  They could be divided into four groups.

  Seventeen of the letters offered the advertiser real estate, antique furniture, jewelry and car retail businesses but did not mention money in commending their offers.

  Ten letters came from gentlemen who, though they had no money, offered introductions to other gentlemen who allegedly disposed of this commodity.

  Eleven letters, some with and some without photographs, came from ladies who, though they had no money, nevertheless offered, some with and some without charm, their own persons.

  Pinally, eight letters came from people who offered money.

  -Thomas Lieven tore the thirty-eight letters of the first three groups into small pieces. Of the remaining offers two attracted Thomas Lieven's special attention on account of their complete contrast.

  One was typed with a rather poor machine on rather poor paper in rather poor German. The writer offered "In return for interest what I can accept amounts up to one million Swiss francs." The offer was signed: "Pierre Muerrli, House Agent."

  The other letter was handwritten in small, delicate script The yellowish handmade paper of the best quality bore at the center of the top of the page a small gold crown with five points.

  The text read:

  Chateau Montenac 8 May 1957 Dear Sir,

  With reference to your advertisement in the Neue Zuricher Zeitung I should be glad if you would telephone for an appointment here. H. de Couville.

  Thoughtfully Thomas laid the two
letters side by side. Thoughtfully he examined them. Thoughtfully he drew his

  gold repeater from his waistcoat pocket and listened to the silvery chimes striking the hour. One, two, three and then two more strokes. It was half-past three.

  Pierre Muerrli, Thomas reflected, was undoubtedly a very rich man, though also a very mean one. He bought poor-quality paper and typed on an old machine.

  Now H. de Couville, though he used a pen, also used the best paper. Could he be a count? Or a baron?

  We'll go and see ...

  The Chateau Montenac stood in an immense park on the southern slope of the Zurichberg. A broad, winding gravel path led up to the small palais, painted an imperial yellow, with green shutters. Thomas parked his car opposite the great porch.

  An uncommonly haughty-looking manservant appeared suddenly before him. "Monsieur Ott? Please follow me." He led him into the house, through several splendid rooms and finally into a splendid study.

  Behind an elegant writing desk a slender, fashionably dressed young woman of about twenty-eight rose to receive him. The soft waves of her chestnut hair fell almost to her shoulders. Her wide mouth was a brilliant pink, her brown eyes slanting and her cheekbones high. The lady also possessed long silky lashes and a gold-tinted skin of velvety softness.

  Thomas remembered with a slight pang that ladies with slanting eyes and high cheekbones had caused him trouble in the past.

  That type, he thought, always behaves in the same way. Dismissively, coldly, haughtily. But when you get to know them better there's no holding them!

  The young lady gave him a steady look. "How do you do, Herr Ott? It was I who answered your telephone call. Please sit down."

  She resumed her seat and crossed her legs, the skirt slipping back a little.

  Good long legs into the bargain, thought Thomas. Heir Ott, you require capital and you mentioned first-class security. May I ask what its nature is?"

  That's going a bit too far, Thomas thought. He answered calmly: "I don't think I really ought to trouble you with that. If you would be so kind as to tell Herr de Couville that I have called? It was he who wrote to me."

  "It was I who wrote to you. My name is Helene de Cou-

  ville. I manage all my uncle's financial affairs," explained the young lady with extreme deliberation. "So I should like to know, Herr Ott, what you call first-class security."

  Thomas bent his head, smiling. "Newly issued G.S.U. share certificates deposited at the Swiss Central Bank. Nominal value, one million. Previous shares quoted at two-seven-teen ..."

  "What interest are you offering?"

  "Eight per cent."

  "And what amount of capital do you require?"

  Good God, what a cold stare, he thought. He answered: "Seven hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Thomas Lieven perceived to his astonishment that Helene de Couville had suddenly lost her equanimity. She moistened her bright red lips with the tip of her tongue. Her lashes quivered a little. "Is not that a—well, rather a high figure, Herr Ott?"

  "Oh, I hardly think so, considering the value of the shares as quoted."

  "Of course ... yes ... but ..." She stood up. "I'm sorry, but I think I really must fetch my uncle. Excuse me, please, for a moment."

  He rose. She disappeared. He sat down again. He waited for eight minutes by his old gold repeater. Instinct acquired in many years of a lawless career told him that something was wrong. But what was it?

  The door opened. Helene returned. She was accompanied by a tall thin man with tanned features and a heavy jowl. He had close-cropped iron-gray hair and wore a white nylon shirt under a single-breasted jacket. Helene introduced him. "Baron Jacques de Couville, my uncle."

  The gentlemen shook hands. Thomas thought, with growing suspicion, He's got a paw like a cowboy's and the kind of jaws that are always chewing gum. As for his accent ... if that man's a born French aristocrat 111 eat my hat.

  He was now determined to cut the interview short. "Baron, I fear I have shocked your charming niece. Let us forget the whole matter, shall we? It has been a privilege to meet you both."

  "One moment, M. Ott. Please don't be in such a frightful hurry. Let's all sit down." The baron also seemed nervous. He pressed a bell. "Let's talk this business over quietly. With a few drinks."

  When the haughty-looking manservant brought in the drinks the whisky turned out to be bourbon, not scotch. I'm getting to dislike that fellow Couville more and more, thought Thomas.

  The baron raised the question again. He observed that he had actually been thinking of a considerably smaller amount. "... perhaps a hundred thousand would . . . ?" . "Baron, please let us drop the subject," said Thomas.

  "Or, say, a hundred and fifty thousand?"

  "Really, Baron, really .. ."

  "I might go to two hundred ..." His tone sounded almost plaintive.

  At that moment the haughty-looking manservant entered to announce a long distance telephone call. The baron and his niece immediately left the room.

  Thomas was gradually beginning to be amused by this aristocratic household. When the baron returned alone after an absence of nearly ten minutes, pale under his tan and in a dreadful state of perspiration, Thomas felt almost sorry for the poor fellow. But he took his leave abruptly.

  In the hall he met Helene. "Leaving already, M. Ott?"

  "I've been worrying you for far too long," said Thomas. He kissed her hand. He became aware of her perfume and the odor of her skin as he did so. He added: "You would make me very happy if you would dine with me this evening at the Baur au Lac or wherever else you would like. Do please come."

  "Herr Ott," said Helene—she sounded like a marble statue talking—"I don't know how much you've been drinking but I assume that accounts for your behavior. Good day."

  [5]

  The transaction with the house agent Pierre Muerrli went though as smoothly, immediately afterward, as the discussion with Baron de Couville had proved unproductive. As soon as Thomas got back to his hotel he called up Muerrli and briefly told him what he wanted, viz., a sum of 750,000 francs against the security of the G.S.U. certificates on deposit.

  " 'S that all?" Pierre Muerrli inquired in his throaty German-Swiss dialect.

  "Yes, that'll do me," Thomas replied, thinking, Moderation in all things!

  The house agent paid a visit to the hotel. Red-faced and stocky, he struck Thomas as a fast worker.

  Next day the following agreement was drawn up in the presence of a solicitor.

  Herr Wilfried Ott, Dlisseldorf industrialist, hereby agrees to pay interest at eight per cent on a loan of three quarters of a million francs, to be repaid at latest by midnight on the 9th May 1959.

  Until that date Herr Pierre Muerrli, Zurich house agent hereby agrees to leave undisturbed the deposit of share certificates assigned to him by Herr Ott as security.

  If however the loan should not be repaid by the agreed date Herr Muerrli will be entitled to dispose of the securities in any way he desires.

  Armed with this agreement Thomas and Muerrli drove to the Central Bank. There the authenticity of the receipt for the deposit was confirmed.

  Pierre Muerrli then handed over to Thomas at the former's agency a check for 717,850 Swiss francs, being the sum required less all expenses and eight per cent interest for two years.

  Thus Thomas had in a twinkling, so to speak, secured a sum of 717,850 Swiss francs, with which capital he would be able and in fact intended to work for two years. In May 1959, as stipulated, he would pay the whole amount back, then retrieve the forged certificates from deposit, tear them up and wash them down the bathroom sink. Everyone would then have made a profit, no one would have suffered any loss. Better still, no one would ever guess the kind of trick that had been played. And there you are! That sort of thing works simply enough if it works at all...

  When, some hours later, Thomas Lieven, alias Wilfried Ott, entered the hall of his hotel, he saw Helene de Cou
ville sitting in a chair.

  "Hallo! How nice to see you!"

  Helene looked up, in infinitely slow motion, from her fashion magazine. In an infinitely bored tone she murmured: "Oh, good evening."

  She wore a brown shepherd's plaid costume, the day having been rather chilly, and a jacket of Canadian mink. No man in the lounge could have helped repeatedly looking at her.

  Thomas said: "You're just a little bit late. But I'm so delighted that after all you were able to make it."

  "Heir Ott, please note that I am not here to meet you, but a woman friend who lives in this hotel."

  Thomas said: "If this evening won't do, then perhaps tomorrow morning for an appetizer?"

  "I leave for the Riviera tomorrow."

  Thomas struck his palms together. "Why, what a coincidence! It so happens that I'm also going to the Riviera tomorrow. I'll call for you. Shall we say about eleven o'clock?"

  "Obviously I'm not going to drive down with you. Ah, there's my friend." She stood up. "Good-bye, have a good time—if you can."

  Next morning at seven minutes past eleven Helene de Cou-ville drove out of the park gates of the Chateau Montenac in a small sports car—past Thomas. He bowed. She looked away. He got into his car and drove after her.

  Nothing special happened until they had passed Grenoble.

  Just beyond the town Helene's car came to a stop. She alighted. He pulled up beside her.

  "Engine trouble," she said.

  He checked the engine but could find nothing wrong with it.

  Helene had already entered a nearby house in order to telephone for a mechanic. The latter soon arrived and declared that the petrol pump was "absolutely down the drain." He added that the car would have to be towed away and that repairs would take at least two days.

  Thomas felt certain that the mechanic was lying, so as to be able to present a big bill. But he was only too pleased to have a liar to deal with. He invited Helene to continue her journey in his own vehicle.

  "Very kind of you, Herr Ott," she answered after prolonged hesitation.

  Her luggage was transferred to the other car. Thomas surreptitiously slipped the liar a princely tip.

  Helene only spoke once during the next sixty miles or so. It was to say "Gesundheit!" when Thomas sneezed.