by Moss, John
When Rachel was two and a half, her parents dropped her off at the Sudbury General Hospital and she was transferred to the Huronia Asylum for Idiots in Orillia. She could not speak and was not toilet trained. She never saw her parents again. Two years later, Rachel’s sister arrived at the asylum, which had been renamed a generation before but was still known locally as the Asylum for Idiots. The sister died of pneumonia six months later.
A brother and two more sisters turned up, according to the records, but there was no indication that Rachel knew who they were. The brother, called Arthur after his father, died at age seven. One sister died at age eleven. They were both buried, like their sister before them, in unmarked graves on the institution grounds. The other sister seems to have disappeared from the asylum documents.
Rachel was discharged in 1945 after fifteen years as an inmate. There is no record of what happened to her for the next ten years. In 1955, she was charged by the Toronto Police with soliciting. She was not convicted.
In October of 1962, she turned up in Vienna, travelling on a passport issued in Ottawa the previous June. She worked as a housekeeper for an elderly doctor in the 13th District. She was apparently fluent in French and German and spoke passable Italian. During the next three years, the doctor arranged for her to take courses at the Universität Wien, the University of Vienna. After several years of background work in science and cultural history, she concentrated her studies on the psycho-social development of children, with special interest in Asperger’s syndrome and high-functioning autism. She received a Bachelor’s degree in 1970 and her Magistra at the age of 45 in 1973.
She wrote her thesis debunking the correlation between Asperger’s and a predisposition to violence. Two of her advisors had worked with Dr. Hans Asperger in the 1940s. In 1974, Rachel went to work for Asperger himself at the SOS-Kinderdorf in Hinterbrühl, a town near Mauthausen in the district of Mödling, where he had transferred after being Chair of Paediatrics at the Universität Wien. At his school, she worked as an SOS “mother” with children who had been abandoned by their parents and had special needs.
She left the SOS-Kinderdorf in 1994 and disappeared, but not before writing a book that was never published. In it, she documented conditions at the BMW factory in a satellite of the Mauthausen concentration camp, where engines were assembled for HE 162 jet fighters near the end of the war.
Conducting her research she found that there were no survivors, but from interviews with locals and from public records she was able to put together a devastating picture of barbaric subjugation in the factory, rivalling the Stairs of Death in the stone quarry close by, where Mauthausen slave labourers literally died from exertion as they hoisted heavy stone blocks up 186 steps. A copy of her manuscript, ironically entitled From Stone to Steel, was on file at the university but was no longer accessible.
Missing completely was her rumoured manuscript accounting for Dr. Asperger’s activities in the early 1940s, working with children in several camps or institutions in Austria and Poland. In it she apparently weighed evidence that might have suggested his devotion to damaged children was inseparable from his work under Hitler’s National Socialism. Evidence that this manuscript had existed was uncertain.
There was little doubt that this woman was indeed the woman identified by name on the back of the Klimt painting. She had spent twenty years of her life working with children in Hinterbrühl and in the neighbouring town of Mauthausen, where Madalena Strauss’ grandmother had been murdered.
How an abandoned child condemned as irremediably flawed had metamorphosed into a multilingual scholar and devoted caregiver was almost beyond comprehension, but that only enhanced her achievement. Where she had gone after Hinterbrühl, whether back to Canada, which seemed highly unlikely, or into retirement in the mountains of Austria or the suburbs of Vienna, or after an illness into an obscure grave, the rest of her story remained a mystery. And the nature of her connection with Madalena Strauss, signified by nothing more than a date inscribed on an invaluable painting, remained an even bigger mystery, even for Simon Wales.
“You’re certainly earning your money,” said Harry, when Simon’s story was finished.
“I haven’t been paid yet. You’ll have to decide what I’m worth.”
“Probably more than I can pay you, but I’ll do my best. What do you suggest?”
“For a thousand dollar retainer, you buy my soul. And then, let’s say, five times minimum wage, whatever that is. It’s still less than a top ranked caddy.”
“I don’t play golf, but it’s a deal. You’ve got to stay out of my garbage, though. And let’s pretend my locks and alarms actually work. Try knocking.”
“Or ringing the buzzer.”
“Exactly. Now, what about 1902?”
“It was a vintage year for claret.”
“Are you old enough to drink?”
“It was, in fact, a very good year in Bordeaux. Lots of rain early on, lots of sun, cool nights, hot days. A robust vintage, exceptionally long lasting.”
“And?”
“The point is, I’m admitting temporary defeat. I’ve researched 1902 from every conceivable angle and found nothing.”
“The Toronto couple, it is said they jumped from the roof. Can you even get onto the roof of the Kressler?”
“Apparently you can.”
“So tell me about the Findlays.”
“Corporate lawyers, both of them. Large house in Oakville, pseudo-Tudor. Muskoka cottage, Lake Rosseau. Expensive American cars. Tennis and golf. Early fifties, no children to speak of.” Simon took a deep breath. “They lost one, apparently.”
They lost one. Simon made it sound like the child was misplaced. And then they lost another, the boy who apparently vanished in midair.
Why from the roof and not the balcony next to his room? How did the Findlays connect to the fat man? How did they relate to Madalena Strauss? Why did she meet them at the Imperial Hotel and where was the little boy when they met? How did the Findlays connect with Harry, who had witnessed their deaths?
“I’d like you to find out who was registered in the room beside mine,” he said.
“At the Kressler?”
“North-east side. Now let’s go back to 1902. Was there something special about that year in the life of Gustav Klimt?”
“Nothing. I followed up the Elisabeth Bök angle. It seems she actually was Madalena Strauss’ great-grandmother and she actually did sleep with Klimt. But then so did everyone else. She was the original for the stunning variations of female beauty with unruly red hair and sharp green eyes that hang on the wall behind us. And she probably posed as his principal model in 1902—but the only connection between her and Rachel Damboch is Madalena Strauss and the writing on the back of her painting. I’ll keep digging.”
Harry leaned in his chair to get a better look at the paintings on his west wall. The Kiss was obscured, but The Forces of Evil gazed back at him with a suppressed smile, and for all the naked flesh and insouciant lust on display, she seemed remarkably secretive.
He sat forward and gazed at Simon Wales, who was watching the sailboats skittering over or cleaving the waves as dictated by their design. Skimming or ploughing through. Without taking his eyes off the boats, Simon asked, “Did she give them to you or did you steal them?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“That’s not an answer. If you don’t want to tell me, you’re under no obligation to do so. It’s not part of our contract. Did we shake? No, I don’t believe we did.” The young man reached over and Harry, feeling a little ridiculous, took his hand and shook it.
“We don’t have to prick our thumbs and mingle our blood?” he asked.
“No, it’s too late for that.”
Simon’s hand was small, but his grasp was surprisingly firm.
“I’ve bought your soul, then.”
“Good buy. Now, on to Dimitri Sakarov. It is what I didn’t find that’s most interesting.”
Dimitri Sakaro
v was in his mid-fifties, but like a lot of fat men who survive to middle age, he looked younger. He was a heavy smoker. He did not exist until after the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991. There were indications that he might have originated in the Novosibirsk Oblast of the Siberian Federal District. Nothing to confirm.
He was rumoured to have a sister. He did not have friends. He did not belong to a social circle or play golf. A young woman sometimes accompanied him on his extensive travels but never the same young woman twice.
He was the principal owner of a five star hotel called The Pushkin in Saint Petersburg, which he bought in 1993. There was no record of how much he paid or where the money came from. There was no record of him ever paying personal income tax in Russia, nor in any of the countries of the European Union. He never paid taxes of any sort in the United States or Canada. A passport had been issued in his name in 1993 in Moscow.
The books of the hotel seemed to be in good order. While Sakarov was the Chairman of the Board and Managing Director of Xerxes, the holding company that owned the Pushkin, he drew only a token salary. He had little to do with the day to day operations.
He kept an office on ul. Mikhailovskaja. He had one secretary, a middle-aged woman from Gdansk. She spoke Polish, Swedish, Russian, English, French, and German. He had a long-time personal assistant by the name of Fyodor Blozinski, who likewise had no known history before 1991.
Dimitri Sakarov apparently donated large sums of money to international NGOs that worked with children. He refused tax receipts and always donated in cash.
He had no police record. In the old Soviet Union and in modern-day Russia, it was virtually impossible to have no police or government record.
He was a successful businessman, a philanthropist, and an international traveller, but no one knew who he was.
He was presently in Canada, staying in a private condo he apparently owned in the refurbished King William Hotel.
“He’s in Toronto! Now?”
“At the King Willie.”
Kids don’t call it the King Willie, Harry. That’s old school irreverence. Where did that come from?
“Sorry I can’t give you more,” said Simon Wales. “I’ll keep at it.”
Harry was rattled to confirm that the smell of pot and tobacco hadn’t been in his imagination. At the same time, he was relieved. If he was within reach of Sakarov, Sakarov lived within reach of him.
Harry wrote Simon a cheque for $1000.
“That’s your retainer. It’s not an advance; it’s a bond. Keep track of your time and expenses but don’t deduct them.”
“No receipts?”
“No bills. Let’s just keep this between you and me.”
“For sure. With this Sakarov guy, his lack of a public persona is ominous, but it doesn’t confirm criminal activity.”
“And it doesn’t confirm otherwise,” Harry responded. He rose to his feet, letting the young man know their session was at an end.
An uneasy feeling lingered for some time that what he did not know about Simon Wales was more important than what he did. And he was certain that what he didn’t know about Dimitri Sakarov could be fatal.
12 COTTAGE LIFE
Harry meandered along Yonge Street as far as College, picked up a latte at Starbucks on the corner, and sat on a pink granite slab beside the faux stream in front of Police Headquarters. He removed the plastic cover from the coffee and set it beside him. He read the current words of wisdom printed on the cup several times. He sipped. He was undecided about what to do next.
It was late afternoon when Morgan and Miranda approached him from behind. They were on their way out for a coffee and Danish. For fourteen years they had been partners in Homicide and they were still closer than most married couples. They had been through a lot together.
“You waiting for us?” Miranda asked.
“Just passing through.” Harry rose to his feet.
“Join us,” said Miranda. “Looks like you could do with a refill.”
They huddled over a table in Starbucks like conspirators, their mood and their posture determined by Harry. He sat back. The other two sat back. He leaned forward. They leaned forward. Then Miranda spoke in a barely audible whisper, “Morgan told me about the little Siberian girl. The Child Exploitation people at Sex Crimes checked her out. She seems okay.”
“I wouldn’t think being dumped in some guy’s apartment halfway around the world is okay,” said Harry.
“I thought you’d be relieved to know she wasn’t molested.”
“She was brought here for black-market adoption.”
“How do you know?” Miranda asked, her voice still hushed.
“Have you seen her? People will pay thousands for a prize dog, millions for a stolen painting. There are people out there who’d pay a fortune for a child like her.”
“And you know this because?”
“I just know it, Miranda.”
“Has this anything to do with your Vienna excursion?”
She was being solicitous. He wanted to explain. But explain what? He said nothing.
“I checked out the power couple who killed themselves,” Miranda offered. “Melvin and Doris Findlay from Oakville. You wondered about a little boy. There was no little boy. They had a son, but he would have been grown-up by now.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was a runaway. Maybe he’s on the street. The parents lost track. They apparently moved on.”
How else do you deal with a child’s disappearance? You move on. You sure as hell don’t accept it, but you have to move on. Or you die.
Harry said nothing. He started to get up.
As he squared his hand on the table to rise, Morgan put his own hand over it. “Joan DeBrusk called me to see how you’re doing.”
“She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she?”
“More than a friend,” said Miranda.
“She’s a friend,” said Morgan with emphatic ambiguity.
“And you called her personally when we discovered the girl,” said Harry.
“Yes, I did. Is that a problem?”
Miranda looked quizzically from one man to the other. “You called her at home?” she asked.
Morgan seemed irritated, defensive. “She was at the kids’ centre when I reached her.”
“I need to speak to your Joan DeBrusk,” said Harry.
“She’s not my Joan DeBrusk. It’s going on six. She’ll be there by now. You want me to come?”
“I need to talk to her alone.”
Morgan was about to protest, but Miranda dropped her hand casually over his arm and gave it a squeeze.
“Yeah, sure. It’s on lower Church St. She works as a volunteer five evenings a week at the Zylberman Children’s Centre. She’s a good person, Harry. I’ll call her.”
“Please don’t. I’ll drop in when I get a chance. I’m not trying to cause problems here. There’s something I need to clear up.”
They talked about other things. Harry left first.
He walked directly across College and along Carleton to Church, then turned south and began looking for the children’s centre.
It was one of those mansions looming out of the past that once housed a wealthy merchant family. Now, even the lowliest servants would have felt compromised by the seedy location. With crenelated brick towers and excessive gingerbread trim, flanked by other old houses in varying states of dilapidation, the Zylberman Children’s Centre spoke not of grandeur lost but of the squalid present. The verandah was barren. Not a chair or a bicycle. But when Harry opened the wide front door, he was confronted with a riot of colours and raucous activity. It was sad such a sanctuary had to exist, but it was an exuberantly happy place inside.
Amidst the hubbub of children in a furor of unstructured play, Joan DeBrusk stood like a sentinel of serenity. She glanced up at him, smiled, and worked herself away from the free-for-all. She hardly seemed like a harbinger of doom.
“Good to see you, Dr. Lindstrom,”
she shouted, holding out her hand. “Let’s step into the office where we can talk.” She led him through to a small windowless room and closed the door. They sat on straight-backed wooden chairs, facing each other.
“Harry,” he said. “Not Dr. Lindstrom.”
“Joan. I hadn’t expected to see you so soon. Lucy is doing just fine.”
“You call her Lucy?” The freckles and open smile seemed sinister.
“That’s what she calls herself. It’s a pretty name, don’t you think?”
“It is a pretty name,” Harry agreed.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” asked Joan. “Have you come to offer your services as a volunteer? We always need help. Or a donation? We’re desperately poor.”
Was she playing him like a cat with a moth, like a terrorist who says “excuse me” when she pushes her way to the centre of a bus before pressing the detonator?
You’re escalating your metaphor, Harry, and you’re being redundant. That’s always a sign of uncertainty. And speaking of redundant, you seem to have developed a thing for dangerous redheads. This one seems guileless, but freckles can be deceiving.
“Harry, I’m sorry. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Last night. Morgan called you at home, right?”
“He called my cell, I was here, working late. I don’t stay overnight. Why?”
“But you knew before he called that you’d be coming.”
“To your place? No, how could I?”
“You knew that Lucy would be there.”
“Morgan told me. He didn’t give her a name. Is there a problem, Harry? Where is this going?”
“I’m wondering about your last words on the elevator.”
“My last words. I said ‘goodbye.’”
“No.”
“Oh, I told you Mr. Sakarov sends his regards.”
Remember, the most guile is when there appears to be none.