by Rory Pralte
The German moved fast. He replaced the pistol in the holster, securing it and checking that his trousers were not hooked up. He bent down to try to pick up Michael but the unconscious American was too heavy, so he pulled him straight on the floor, loosed his tie and, at the same time, practised a frightened and panicked look.
He ran to the phone and was just dialling ‘O’ for the hotel operator when the door of the suite opened. “Wait!” he shouted down the phone. “Mr Blatch, Mr Shoner has just collapsed, he’s in the other room, I’m phoning for an ambulance, I think it’s serious.”
Bill Blatch ran to the side room. He looked at Michael on the floor, he looked very white. “Get them to get a doctor here fast!” he screamed at the German.
Within five minutes the drama was over. It took the doctor one look to assume Michael Shoner was dead. Another businessman with a massive coronary, he thought to himself, but we will have to go through all the paraphernalia to confirm it.
The ambulance arrived in ten minutes and after formalities of exchanging names and addresses, it was left to a very shocked Bill Blatch and apparently very shocked German to pick up the pieces.
Rolfe Krabbe eventually left Bill Blatch, confirming that he would be in touch in two days’ time to find out the funeral arrangements and any future meeting information. He gave his sincere condolences and confirmed that if there were any ways he could help he would.
Within eight hours Rolfe Krabbe no longer existed. Paul Schmidt was on a TAP flight to Bogota. He had returned to the apartment in Hanover, picked up all his belongings, left a nice note to Frau Weger saying how comfortable he had been and taken a taxi to Hanover Airport for a crowded flight to London’s Heathrow, connecting to Tap Air to Opporto and on to Bogota. He was tired but content. The death of his friend Pyo had been avenged, plus all the hassle he had had in Tokyo. That bastard Shoner had got his just desserts. He settled back in his business class seat.
“What would you like to drink, Sir?” The dark, long-legged TAP Air stewardess looked at him. What a man, she thought. There was often a favourite on the flights. The stewardesses often played games rating the attractive men from one to ten and all but one on this flight had given Paul Schmidt a big ten!
*
The traffic of people in and out of Hanover was immense during the Messe. Patrick had a good drive on the autobahn directly through from Zeebrugge and arrived in Hanover at about 9 in the evening, having stopped for lunch and dinner on the way.
He drew into the motorway service station very near to the Messe and asked if there were any rooms available and to his surprise there were.
He settled into the clean, antiseptic motel room, selected the obligatory CNN English channel and lay back on the bed, arms folded behind his head, thinking about how he was going to achieve a deal that would raise enough up-front cash to prevent the company going under. As he’d discussed with Anne, the most obvious way was with Kanji Toba of Motu. He drifted off into sleep. He was tired with the excess travelling. At 3 in the morning he woke , CNN still repeating the endless world news that is churned out daily. He dragged himself from the bed, undressed and soon was asleep again, under the duvet, dreaming of deals, problems, Anne, girls all jumbled like Liquorice Allsorts.
At nine o’clock the next morning, Patrick’s car drew into the car park near Hall Three and, entering the Messe with catalogue in hand, he immediately went to the near-deserted first floor restaurant and, over coffee and bread and cheese, planned the initial visits to stands and O.E.M.s to try to find an opportunity. He glanced around the quiet restaurant area, musing on the fact that there were probably many fat heads and empty wallets from exhibitors’ enjoyments from the night before. He thought to himself, no wonder this place is quiet.
He decided to first of all visit Motu Trading’s stand to fix an appointment with Kanji Toba, then he could plan everything else around this prime opportunity.
The Motu Trading stand in Hall Eighteen was not the big expensive stand many of the main copier and printer companies invested in for Hanover Messe. It was almost insignificant, sandwiched between a small scanning company and an electronic magazines stand. Most of the stand was in fact obscured to the general visitor, the area being segmented into a reception area with tables, chairs, a small bar and continual video displays of the products Motu’s trading partners provided for distribution by Motu Trading, and two enclosed, private meeting rooms.
Patrick approached the girl manning the reception desk at the front of the stand. “Is Kanji Toba here?” Patrick asked. The girl looked at her list of company attendees.
“No sir,” replied the girl.
“Is he expected today?” asked Patrick, slightly taken aback by the reply.
“I’ll check, please wait a moment,” and the girl slipped off her high stool and turned to go into the rear area of the stand. She stopped and, turning her head back towards Patrick, enquired, “Who shall I say is asking?”
Patrick replied, then waited for two minutes.
He waited for two minutes. He glanced around the stands in the ground floor of Hall Eighteen. Slowly the visitor traffic was building up and it wouldn’t be long before it was difficult to walk quickly in the hall, the density of visitors growing to uncomfortable levels.
The girl returned, slid back onto her stool and confirmed to Patrick, “Toba-San is not expected today but he is due here tomorrow for the last three days of the Messe.”
“Oh,” Patrick replied in a disappointed voice and, recovering his composure, said, “Can I make an appointment for tomorrow morning with Kanji Toba then, say at 10.30?”
“All I can do for the moment is leave a message for Toba-San for when he arrives. I think that’s tonight. I suggest you come here tomorrow at about the same time and I can confirm if he’s available.” The girl replied directly, in a friendly but business-like way.
Patrick sighed. “OK. Please give him my card and try your best to get me an appointment. I’ll be here first thing tomorrow.”
He turned away from the Motu stand and made his way to the outside of Hall Eighteen, found a bench in the grassed area between the halls and pondered his next moves for the day.
By three o’clock Patrick had visited the stands of all but three of the major companies he did business with, or possibly could do, and had one short, impromptu meeting with the Programme Manager at a Dutch company, who said there might be some possibilities later in the year on a new computer development programme. He was tired, hungry and hot. This Messe was really too big and too busy, thought Patrick.
He made his way outside of the hall he was in, crossed the path outside and made a beeline for the open area where there were several small eating bars serving bratwurst, pizza and a variety of drinks and ice cream. He selected the one with the smallest queue and, eventually getting to the serving area, ordered a bowl of thick German soup and a beer and, balancing his purchases, found a spot on the grass in the hot, mid-afternoon, Hanover spring sun. The soup was hot. He let it cool while he sipped his beer, looking round at all the visitors and exhibitors taking their mid-afternoon or maybe late midday break.
“Hey, Limey!” The American voice cut through the air behind Patrick and he stood up to greet a short, round, balding, jovial Mitch Peacock. Patrick smiled as he greeted Mitch, who he had worked with on two occasions, doing the first licensing deal in the U.S.A. with Mitch’s company, itself a niche manufacturer to certain - mainly U.S.A. - copier companies. Mitch was quite a character. He worked quite hard but played very hard, having a penchant for girlie bars. Patrick had met him in numerous U.S. cities and they always ended up in the same sort of joint, a late-night bar with plenty of bare female flesh on display behind the bar and sometimes even on it.
“Mitch, you old sod.” Patrick had been startled out of his fairly depressing and uneventful day. “I suppose you’re here keeping the Hanover nightlife awake. How are you doing? Long
time, no see.”
“We’re just running off to another meeting,” Mitch replied. “What are you doing tonight? We’re going to help liven up the Messe Beer Hall. Why don’t you join us and we can bring each other up to date on what’s happening. How about it Patrick, are you free?”
“That would be great,” Patrick replied.
“OK. Meet us at, say, 7.30 at the entrance. We’ve got a party of six from the company plus two customers and our two girls from the stand. Look forward to it, Patrick.” The two men briefly shook hands and the burly American strode off, his short legs gliding his body over the grass.
Patrick sat down, drained his beer and picked up the soup. He nodded his head to himself; why not? It would cheer him up.
The Beer Hall at Hanover Messe was large, holding upwards of 3,000 people on two floors; the upper floor forming a balcony surrounding the big open ground floor. The whole area was furnished with long, strong, wooden tables and chairs round either side and, on the first floor, facing each other, were areas reserved for two Oompah bands. During the ten days of Hanover Messe, every evening the place was packed with exhibitors entertaining visitors and consuming vast quantities of beer by the litre, schnapps and plates of good basic German fare, most comprising of knuckle of pig. All these were served to the assembled company by big-breasted German barmaids, some of whom defied gravity with the size and exposure of their breasts and the strength they showed carrying up to six steins of beer in each hand.
The atmosphere was further heightened by the bands playing stirring and instantly recognisable tunes and it was not long into every evening when raucous singing and dancing on the tables started, as well as amateur conducting, often by deliriously drunk Japanese visitors, truly out of their heads on the mixture of beer, schnapps and music.
Patrick arrived at about 7.15 and waited opposite the entrance so he could see Mitch arrive and go over to meet him.
At 7.35 a cream Mercedes taxi drew up and deposited Patrick’s friend Mitch, two smart-suited, middle-aged executives and a blonde girl in her early twenties. A second taxi drew up behind the first, bringing the rest of Mitch’s party, another blonde and a sandy-haired older man. Patrick waited until they had entered the Beer Hall and then crossed the street and, on entering, met Mitch and his party waiting to be seated in the small foyer of the vast area. The hall was not yet full, but one of the bands was already playing as they followed their waitress to a table on one of the outside balconies, overlooking the rows of tables quietly filling up below them. Immediately steins of beer were put on the table and these were quickly followed by a large, friendly waitress plying a good trade in schnapps. Patrick introduced himself to the sandy-haired man on his right and the two of them talked business, whilst gently flirting with one of the blondes sitting opposite them.
“Are you over here for the whole Cebit ?” enquired the sandy-haired man, whose name was Allan Brake, a Canadian working for a voice recognition company, aptly named ‘HEAR’.
Patrick outlined his business and the fact that he was in Hanover to conclude some licensing deals.
Out of the blue Allan Brake said, “Oh, did you know Michael Shoner? It’s a real shock, his death. You must have been in the same business, Patrick.”
Patrick wasn’t quite sure that he’d heard correctly. “Yes, I knew Michael Shoner. Did you say ‘his death’?”
“Why, yes,” Allan Brake replied. “Didn’t you see the show newspaper today? It was headline news. Front page. Apparently he just dropped dead in his hotel room - probably a heart attack. I never had any dealings with him but we know some O.E.M.s who did and frankly he wasn’t very well-liked. You never, ever know Patrick. Life’s a funny old beast.”
Patrick was shocked. Maybe my luck has changed, thought Patrick. This might help us in a number of ways. It would certainly put some uncertainty into Skymar’s dealings with their customers – and who will now own Skymar? Maybe that bitch Jeanette. Christ, she’d be a tougher cookie than Michael Shoner.
“Hey Patrick!” A loud American voice boomed at him from down the table. He was startled out of his thoughts. Turning to his right, he saw Mitch with the schnapps seller sitting on his knee, Mitch’s face resting in the ample breasts, a big smile on his face. “What a way to go,” Mitch smiled and swallowed as another glass of schnapps was poured down his throat.
“You’re in your element here,” Patrick almost shouted down the table, as the incessant babble of conversation, the bands - now both playing - and some loud chorus singing from below, made it almost impossible to hear.
The evening progressed, the beer and schnapps flowed and the drinking was broken for a short while for a traditional beer hall meal of knuckle of pig and dumplings.
By 9.30 all the tables were full and the whole hall, including Mitch’s party, were swaying, arm in arm, beer spilling all over the tables. Below, an impromptu snake of people was winding its way around the tables with the odd very drunk participant falling and being left behind.
At 10.30 Mitch announced they were all going to the Old Town in Hanover to sample the delights of the bars and clubs. The two blonde hostesses were keen to go along with the rest of the party. Allan Brake turned to Mitch. “I’m going to miss out on another very late night.”
Patrick joined in. “Yes, me too. I’ve some important meetings tomorrow.”
Within half an hour, Patrick, slightly unsteady from the copious beer and schnapps, paid off the taxi driver and, with slight difficulty, opened the door of his motel room. As he undressed, trying to hang his trousers neatly over the chair by the small dressing table, he muttered to himself, “Shoner dead. What a turn-up for the books.”
Within sixty seconds from his head hitting the pillow he was fast asleep. He regained consciousness next only when the alarm call came at 6.45. His head, a little muzzy from the previous night’s drinking, felt infinitely worse as he slowly swung his legs out of bed and sat upright.
*
Michael Shoner’s body was taken to the Hanover City Hospital morgue later the same day that he had died. Bill Blatch had been busy. Firstly he had contacted Skymar’s head office and found out that Jeannette was currently at the company house on the Oceanside at Marina del Mar. Bill Blatch contacted an old friend of Michael’s and asked how to break the news to Jeanette. He knew she was a tough woman but would be totally shocked by the news. After making sure all the company contacts in the Far East were informed, Blatch then had a visit from a consular official from the U.S. Embassy, who had flown up from Bonn, having been told of the death by a junior official representing the Embassy in Hanover. The consular official explained that there would need to be an autopsy as the death had been so sudden, but that the autopsy should take place the next day and that the body could then be flown back to the U.S.A. for burial.
So, at the time Patrick was hoping to meet Kanji Toba at the Messe, at 10.30 in the morning, the doctor who had pronounced Michael Shoner dead arrived at the City Hospital to be present when the post mortem took place.
The examination was, to outside eyes, very cursory, but the doctor actually doing the examination was an expert and well used to spotting any unusual reactions, blemishes etc that gave clues to the cause of death. This one appeared simple. Obviously a heart attack.
“Great way to go,” Dr. Gunter, the Pathologist, said as an aside to Dr Stern. Herr Gunter started his examination at the body’s feet and quite quickly but meticulously he worked his way up the cold, still body of the dead Californian. He paid particular attention to the tips of the fingers of the hands.
“There’s a slight yellowish tinge to the cuticles, look,” and Gunter showed Dr Stern.
“Is that usual? What does it signify?” All Dr Stern wanted was to be away from the morgue, finish his house calls so he could visit his mistress later in the afternoon.
“Seemed like an obvious heart attack to me, I was there within fifteen minutes
. He must have gone out like a light.”
“Strange tinge though.” Gunter looked thoughtful. “Not normal, unless, in some cases, poisoning had taken place.”
“The only poison that one’s had is a life of too much excess,” Stern replied lightly.
The examination continued until a very interested exclamation came from Herr Gunter. He was examining Michael Shoner’s hair. “This looks interesting, look here.” Gunter was peering at the back of Shoner’s neck at a small, red, raised area.
“Looks like an insect bite to me,” Dr Stern was getting impatient.
Following various tests carried out over the next two days it was concluded that Michael Shoner had died from a massive heart attack, brought on by an infusion of a highly toxic poison, apparently administered via an injection site at the back of the neck. The further examination of tissue under the microscope showed tinges of bruising, indicating that however the chemical was injected it seemed to have been done with controlled pressure. Michael Shoner’s body was returned to the Hanover City Morgue and the Hanover Police started their investigations and detailed interviewing of all the Skymar personnel in Hanover, starting with Bill Blatch.
*
At 10.30 that morning, Patrick was at the Motu Trading stand and, after waiting only five minutes, was shown into a private interview room and was shaking hands with Kanji Toba.
They discussed general business matters and Patrick, trying not to be too impatient to discuss trying to do a fast deal, something any Japanese would be very wary of, spoke at some length about the shock of hearing about Michael Shoner’s death.
“A man with many enemies, I think,” Kanji Toba continued. “The word is that he may have been killed. I don’t suppose you were broken-hearted to hear about this death, were you Patrick?”
“Well no, I must be honest that I had no respect for him or his company, but I would not wish him dead,” Patrick replied. “I understood that he died of a heart attack, if foul play is on the cards, as you say, there must have been many people with grudges; but big enough to kill for? That’s really scary.”