“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Charanjeet and wondered in the same moment why he kept saying ridiculous over and over. He was an educated man; could he really not think of anything else to say? “I don’t need my blood pressure taken,” he said.
“Your blood pressure is high,” said Mohan. “I can see it in your face. You are wound too tight. Take his blood pressure, Abinaash.” Charanjeet had to roll up his sleeve and submit his bare arm to Abinaash’s ministrations. His heart was pounding. Her fingers brushed his skin as she wrapped the cuff around his arm, and it was like a small electric shock. He closed his eyes. She positioned his forearm on the arm of the chair and held the end of the stethoscope—the same one Sister Hildegard had given her—against his pulsing vein. He imagined kissing her. She began to pump up the cuff, and he thought he would explode. He opened his eyes and looked at her, but her gaze was fixed on the gauge as she released the air. “One hundred sixty over one hundred ten,” she said.
“That is very high,” said Mohan. “I told you so. You are working too hard.”
“Don’t be … It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?” said Mohan.
“How should I know?” said Charanjeet.
“It could be any number of things, sir,” said Abinaash. She was looking straight at Charanjeet as she said it.
LIII
DIMITRI ADROPOV SAT IN THE car and watched as Charanjeet left his parents’ compound and walked toward the Fine Fabric Works. “Follow him,” he told the driver. Charanjeet was a few centimeters taller than Jürgen. He was a little thinner too, but then he was not a pastry chef. Otherwise, the resemblance was astonishing. “He’s Jürgen,” said Dimitri without realizing he had spoken aloud. “And he’s Jeremy Gutentag.”
Once James Wyatt Cheswich, the Trinity headmaster, had given Dimitri Mohan’s name and the city of Lahore, an Internet search had led to the Chamber of Commerce and from there to the Fine Fabric Works. The Chamber of Commerce site, with its list of member companies, gave not only company addresses and phone numbers, but also company officers, including Mohan Kapoor, retired president and chairman, and Charanjeet Kapoor, president and treasurer. A search of the name Charanjeet Kapoor turned up the fact that he had become president and treasurer of the company not too long after Jeremy Gutentag had disappeared. Dimitri thought it likely that Charanjeet was Jeremy Gutentag.
Charanjeet walked the few blocks to FFW and went in through the gate. He went over the pending orders with Hashinur. They broke at eleven to have their morning tea. Then Charanjeet shut the door to his office. It was the last time anyone saw him.
Charanjeet was reported missing the next day by his father. “It is not like him. He came home every night for dinner. And he never missed breakfast with me.” Mohan choked on a sob. The police searched Charanjeet’s rooms for clues, but did not find anything out of the ordinary. They spoke to the staff—the cook, two servants, and Abinaash. The father and the nurse had seen the son leave for work. But no one had noticed anything or anyone out of the ordinary.
The police then went to the factory. The police sergeant in charge of the case, a potbellied man with a great handlebar mustache, conducted interviews while two detectives examined the area.
“When did you last see Charanjeet Kapoor?” The police sergeant sat at Charanjeet’s desk.
“After morning tea,” said Hashinur. Even when he was standing at attention, his beard barely cleared the top of the desk.
“And what time was that?” said the sergeant.
“Eleven-fifteen,” said Hashinur, except he said it in Swedish.
“What?” said the sergeant.
“Eleven-fifteen,” said Hashinur. He pronounced it in Punjabi this time, and anticipating the sergeant’s next question, he added, “It is when we always end morning tea.”
“Did you notice anything unusual yesterday morning?”
“An order of bobbins did not arrive as it was supposed to.”
“What?”
Hashinur repeated himself in slow, deliberate Punjabi, as though he were talking to a schoolboy. “An order of bobbins was supposed to arrive. It did not arrive.”
The sergeant stopped writing and looked at Hashinur. “Anything that might concern the disappearance of Charanjeet Kapoor?”
Hashinur scowled. “I do not know what might concern the disappearance of Mr. Kapoor.”
“I see,” said the sergeant. “And how closely did you work with Mr. Kapoor?”
“I was his foreman. He was my superior.”
“And did you work closely?”
“Of course.”
“So how did he seem to you yesterday?” said the police sergeant.
“He was a conscientious and bright young man who threw himself into his work.”
“Normal?”
“He was a bright young man, full of ideas and energy—”
“Was?”
“Is. Is a bright young man.”
“Is this where you met in the morning?”
“It is where we met every morning.”
“And where did you have morning tea?”
“It is also where we had morning tea. Have—where we have morning tea.”
“Did he do his work with paper and pen or—”
“He worked with a computer.”
“And was his computer here this morning when you met?”
“It was here, and now it is not. It was a foldable computer.”
“You mean a laptop?”
“He used it on his desk.”
“So, was it a laptop computer?”
“Yes.”
“So it is missing?”
“It is not here, is it? So it must be missing.”
“Did you use his computer?”
“I did not. I do not believe in computers. Although he tried to teach me.”
“I see,” said the sergeant and brushed his mustache with the back of his hand. “Did he have a girlfriend?”
“You mean does he have a girlfriend? I do not know, but he is in love.”
“Really?” The sergeant stopped writing and looked up. “And how do you know that?”
“I can tell by looking at him.”
“You can tell just by looking?”
“Yes. For example, I can tell you are not in love.”
“And whom do you think he was in love with?”
“I think it is his father’s nurse.”
“But she is a peasant.”
“I am a peasant.”
“And why do you think he is in love with her?”
“Because she is smart and beautiful and very competent.”
“No, I mean what makes you think he is in love with her.”
“Because he does not like even the mention of her name.”
“You take that as proof that he is in love with her?”
“A sign. I take it as a sign that he is in love with her.”
The sergeant put down his pen and studied Hashinur. “Are you a detective?”
“Of course not,” said Hashinur and saluted the sergeant. “But I was at one time.”
At that moment one of the detectives who had been examining the premises entered the office. “Sergeant, I have found something you should see.”
The sergeant followed the detective, and Hashinur started to follow as well. “Wait here,” the sergeant said to Hashinur. Hashinur saluted again.
“This way,” said the detective. “There,” he said, and pointed to a small dark puddle by the entry gate. “It looks like blood.”
LIV
ONE MORNING THERE WAS A loud knock on Louis’s door. When Louis opened it, there stood Peter Sanchez accompanied by Renard and two other men. Louis stepped back without saying anything, as though he had been expecting them, and the four men came in. Peter Sanchez spoke first. “These two gentlemen—Monsieur Hubot and Monsieur LeBroc—are from the Police Nationale, the French National Police, fraud division, Louis. I’m sure you know why we are here.”
L
ouis thought for a moment. He looked at Renard. Renard met his eyes but gave nothing away. “I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”
Peter deferred to Hubot. “We’re here, Mr. Morgon,” he said in French, “investigating the theft of money from the Charter Island National Bank in George Town on Grand Cayman Island. The money was recently removed from accounts registered—through various aliases—to St. John Larrimer.”
“I know the money is gone,” said Louis. “I’ve been watching it.”
“You’ve been watching it? I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do see. I’ve been watching it on the Internet,” said Louis and gestured toward his computer.
“Which gave you ample opportunity to take it,” said Hubot.
“It might have. Except I didn’t. I want nothing to do with it. I only wanted to monitor it and to arrange, as best I could, for it to be returned to its rightful owners.”
“Its rightful owners?” The policemen looked at each other.
“To arrange, as best I could,” said Louis, “that it be returned to them, whoever they might be. That would be determined by the authorities appointed to see that that is done. The American president recently appointed—”
“We know you have been following St. John Larrimer and his money for months, and you have said repeatedly that you meant to get him and it. You—”
“You surprise me.” Louis switched to English to be certain that Peter would understand every word. “I am amazed that Peter Sanchez was able to persuade you to pursue a case—if you can call it that—founded on such circumstantial evidence. No, I take that back. It’s not even circumstantial; it’s Peter’s ridiculous imaginings and nothing more.”
Peter Sanchez exploded. “Goddamn it, Louis! Don’t play your fucking games.”
Louis stared at Peter. So did the other three men. “Let me explain something to you, Peter,” said Louis, “something your people may have missed while they were watching Charter Island National Bank. There was no way these men could have known this, but you should have. Don’t your agents even talk to each other?
“Richard Smythe. Does that name mean anything to you?” Louis paused a moment. “No? I see. Well, Richard Smythe is Larrimer’s friend and co-conspirator. A fellow thief, as far as I can tell. They went to Yale together. Didn’t you go to Yale, Peter?” Louis continued before Peter could respond. “Anyway, Richard Smythe is Charter Island National Bank. He founded it, he owns it and runs it—the bank where St. John Larrimer stashed his ill-gotten gains. Charter Island is, you probably know—or maybe you don’t, a money laundering service and Smythe’s personal money machine. And, by the way, Smythe was stealing from Larrimer, siphoning money out of his accounts, before Larrimer or someone else emptied the account.
“St. John Larrimer is beyond your jurisdiction, and so is Smythe. And, I might add, so am I. But Dimitri Adropov may not be—do you think you can find him? He’s been chasing Larrimer’s money. And there’s someone else you probably don’t even know about—Carolyne Bushwick, Larrimer’s ex. She’s got a phony real estate operation in Bridgeport—that’s in Connecticut, Peter—through which she has been funneling Larrimer’s loot. It’s amazing that I have to do your work for you, and in return all I get is harassment.”
Louis turned back to the two policemen. “I suggest you come back when you have some actual evidence against me.”
Louis had not expected Peter Sanchez or the policemen that morning, but in considering the situation later, he was not sorry they had come. It had been the perfect moment to feed Peter some information. That would allow the CIA and FBI to follow up on some of his hunches, and it had the additional benefit of embarrassing Peter in front of the French National Police.
“He left angry,” said Renard later. They were at the Hôtel de France. He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup.
“I’m glad he did,” said Louis.
“Why?”
“Because it might help him focus. I like it better when he’s on the case.”
“Even when he comes after you?”
“Even then. He can actually do something about Larrimer, find his money, find him. Peter’s pretty competent when he’s not distracted.”
“What do you think happened to the money?”
“Exactly what it looks like. I think Larrimer moved it.”
“Why?”
“I can only guess,” said Louis. “He must have suspected it would be found. Also I think his good friend Richard Smythe may have been stealing from him and he may have discovered that. In any case, now it’s gone.”
“And we’re no closer to Larrimer or his loot than we were at the beginning.”
Louis looked at Renard. “We?”
Renard shrugged.
“We may be farther away,” said Louis. “Zaharia tells me there is nothing more he can do to find it. It’s essentially gone. That’s what laundering is for, I guess. Mixed with all the other money. It’s disappeared into the vast and endless sea of capital, of world commerce. And Larrimer seems pretty untouchable too. He slithered back to his island without the slightest difficulty and took his thug, Nigel, with him. He must have lots of powerful people in his pocket. Maybe the story has simply run its course.”
Renard looked at his friend with a doubtful expression. “In a way, I hope it has. At least your part in it.”
“I’m with Renard,” said Pauline when Louis told her about the whole episode. “I definitely hope it has run its course.”
“I knew you’d be relieved,” said Louis.
“I never liked your taking the law into your hands. And I certainly didn’t like your using Zaharia the way you did.”
Louis didn’t say anything. What could he say?
It was a warm, sunny day. By noon the blustery north wind had dropped and a southerly breeze had come up. Louis and Pauline had pulled on their walking shoes, snugged them up and tied double knots. They put sandwiches in a small pack and walked out into the rising warmth. The freshly turned soil in the fields smelled rich.
They walked out to the quarry above the Beaumont château, then back down to the Dême and then farther than they normally went along its banks. They sat with their eyes closed and let the sun warm them, in a spot out of the wind. They ate their sandwiches—Comté cheese and green onions on baguette. Each seemed relieved for his own reasons that the story was over.
Of course the story wasn’t over. Its direction and momentum had just changed. Louis could not see that yet, but it had become a different story. Nothing had run its course, and nothing would. Nothing ever does. One story feeds into the next, which feeds into the next. Like the river of Larrimer’s money dispersing itself into the ocean of world commerce, where it would be stolen by someone else, or earned, or donated, or invested over and over again.
St. John now had an incipient conscience of sorts, and one could be forgiven for thinking that that fact alone could turn things around for Louis and for everyone involved. A thief who grows a conscience, even a minuscule, malfunctioning one, could possibly send the story in a happier direction. A Scrooge-ian resolution might even be possible. The grasping villain could see the error of his ways and do his best to make things right.
It had even entered St. John’s mind during another fitful night spent under the stars on his vast porch, that one way to gain peace in his soul and maybe even mitigate the heat building around him would be to return all the money he had stolen. Well, not all of it. He had to live on something. But if he could devise some means to make a significant gesture of restitution, he might feel better. And the law might leave him alone. It could even set off a chain reaction of some sort that could redound to his benefit.
Of course St. John knew that that would not happen, could not happen. Fairy tales may work that way; life never does. In life nothing works out that logically or predictably. Certainly not justice. Americans claim they’re a nation of laws, which is supposed to mean that they are an orderly people. But their laws, and the justice they
imply, are incomplete and extremely disorderly.
St. John was a crook, but he was a prudent and cautious crook. He had made substantial contributions to a number of members of Congress. They would take his phone calls and even spring into action on his behalf if need be. He had made certain in each case that some of the contributions were in direct contravention of the campaign finance laws. In other words, the politicians’ grateful receipt of his illegal contributions assured him twenty-four-hour leverage and their undivided loyalty. They had taken the money; they were crooks too.
LV
SINCE COMING HOME FROM NEWARK, Lorraine Usher had made certain that her pistol was nearby, safety on, but loaded and ready to fire. She had been to a shooting range and had taken instruction. She was able, after several lessons, to put all her shots in the black. “You have a gift,” said her instructor, a note of admiration in his voice. She had learned to dismantle and clean and reassemble her pistol. Its oiled, black parts slid together with a series of comforting clicks and clunks under her deft fingers. And Lorraine kept the pistol in a drawer in the small table beside the sofa. Her baseball bat still leaned beside the door.
Lorraine heard someone come up on the porch. She laid the book she had been reading aside. Arthur jumped down and scurried off to the kitchen. There was a loud knock on the door.
Lorraine looked out and saw a large man in the uniform of a mail carrier. His mail cart was on the walkway. He held a thick envelope.
Lorraine slid open the small drawer and then opened the door. The mailman smiled and offered her the envelope. “Special delivery,” he said. “Registered. Sign here.” He pointed and handed Lorraine his pen. She wrote her name, he tore the slip off the envelope. “Have a good day,” he said. She took the envelope, shut the door, and watched him go. Sometimes the mailman was just the mailman.
The envelope contained a thick packet of negotiable bonds with a face value—once she added it all up—of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
“Isn’t a hundred and fifty thousand how much you had with Larrimer?” Louis said. Lorraine had called him wondering whether he had somehow gotten hold of Larrimer’s money and sent her the bonds. She didn’t think that was likely, but it was the only explanation she could fathom. Louis assured her that that was not the case. Larrimer had moved his money some weeks ago, Louis explained, and as far as he knew, nobody knew where. “But it must come from him. You say there was no name on the envelope and nothing in the envelope but the bonds? No sales receipts, tracking slips, nothing?”
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