by Emma Lathen
“The reason I’m not at the door is that I’ve been trying to persuade Adam and Casimir to join me there. But they’re being shy about it.” Bach’s companions did not look shy to Thatcher. They looked resentful.
“No, no,” Zabriski’s son protested. “This is your party, Herr Bach.”
Following his lead, Radan agreed fervently.
Their refusal struck Thatcher as eminently comprehensible. But Leonhard Bach, inspired, was beyond stopping. “It’s a terrible shame Stefan isn’t here to see this day,” he said, shaking his head at life’s tragedies. “But we should recognize his contribution to the cause of a new canal.”
Before anybody could reply there was a distraction. “Ah, Madame Nordstrom,” said Bach. This is a great moment for BADA, isn’t it?”
Annamarie skillfully finessed the issue. “Let me congratulate you, Herr Bach. It seems to me that everybody who is anybody is here tonight, from every corner of the Baltic. I wouldn’t have thought such a gathering possible.”
Her flattery not only made Bach purr, it also distanced BADA from the celebration. To complete the good work, she added, “Didn’t I see the finance minister over there?”
“Where?” Bach demanded, searching for another illustrious guest. “Ah, there he is!” Making hasty excuses he darted off.
“Thank God!” said a disgruntled Adam Zabriski. “That man wants to turn tonight into a wake for my father.” Then, recovering his public manner, he added, “If you’ll forgive me, I’d better see how Frau Jesilko is doing.”
He marched off, leaving Casimir Radan plunged into confusion. “I don’t understand Bach,” he complained. “Is he maintaining that Zabriski had anything to do with Germany policy?”
Madame Nordstrom was acid. “Everybody revises history, Casimir. In Warsaw, Stefan was a martyr for the environment. Tonight, he’s the man who single-handedly fought to build a premature canal.”
“Do I gather, Madame Nordstrom, that you’re not pleased with this new timetable?” Radan asked.
The blue satin shoulders of her gown twitched before she confessed, “Frankly, I think it’s a rotten idea.”
But she was still fighting a rearguard action. “Or rather that’s what I’d say if I hadn’t seen this sort of thing before. The Germans may have ordered a blitzkrieg, but it probably won’t work out that way.”
“You think that bureaucratic inertia will be in your favor?” Thatcher suggested.
“I’d prefer some luck,” she replied. “The first break would be dispelling these clouds of suspicion. When I should be thinking about BADA’s future, I have to deal with the Polish police instead.”
Casimir Radan resurfaced. “Rest your mind about the police, dear lady. Oblonski is no fool.”
“Perhaps not,” said Madame Nordstrom ambiguously. “Nevertheless, the fact remains,
Casimir, that just now he is causing Eric, and all of us at BADA, considerable inconvenience.”
When Thatcher came upon Eric Andersen a half hour later, the Dane was not visibly hagridden. Perhaps he had lost some of his healthy glow, but he was holding his own against a circle of antagonists. “Oil spills? Oh, the Americans blamed Exxon, but it happens everywhere. Yet you shippers oppose regulation.” A rebuttal, citing the cost of double hulls, continued the debate. Andersen countered arguments effectively by himself until fortuitous support arrived.
“What about passenger carriers?” Bill Gomulka demanded, attracted by a subject he could not resist. “Remember that Polish car ferry that capsized? The only survivors were crew members. That’s pretty damning.”
They were still slugging it out when Thatcher decided to find out if Everett Gabler had been abandoned. But the Gomulkas, he discovered, covered for each other. Carol, who had procured two heaping plates from the buffet, was ensconced on the settee listening to a sermon about the virtues of seafood. “Good idea,” said Thatcher. “I’ll get myself something to eat and join you.”
“I’ve never seen so much caviar in one place,” Carol told him. She could have mentioned other delicacies as well. Leonhard Bach’s caterer, exhorted to hymn the Baltic, had supplied an array of regional specialities. Ignoring Gabler’s strictures, Thatcher swept past herring and salmon, mackerel and eel, to the roast beef. There he found himself face-to-face with Jaan Hroka.
“I just had a few words with Mr. Gabler,” the Estonian said. Too bad he’s still laid up.” Forking slices onto his plate, Thatcher agreed. He was about to inquire into the current status of Hroka’s ship at Kiel, when Leonhard Bach passed, steering somebody to the bar.
“Good party,” Hroka grunted at him.
Bach halted. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself. You’ve got to admit, Hroka, that we’ve finally got something to cheer. I always said that the only future for people like us was a new canal.” The cordiality between the two of them seemed to be as skin deep as ever but, with Tallinn now in his pocket, Hroka felt magnanimous. “I never said you were wrong. I just said other things should come first.”
“There isn’t a port in the Baltic that won’t benefit,” Bach persisted.
“Plenty of people seem to think so,” Hroka replied. “I was just talking to one of the big boys from Hamburg—”
“Aha, you’d better watch it,” said Bach. “Let me give you a tip. Don’t trust every Westerner with a spiel.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Face it,” said Bach. “They’ve got the modem equipment, they’re cozy with their banks, they know how the system works. They sure as hell don’t intend to share the pie.”
“So?” Hroka asked.
Tonight, Bach saw any resistance as something to beat down.
“You don’t think you’re going to get much help from Estonian banks, do you? Or Western banks? Ask Mr. Thatcher . . .”
But Thatcher had already ducked his opportunity to play chorus to Leonhard Bach. He was on his way back to Everett. By the time he polished off his roast beef, he had been joined by two Finns, Bill Gomulka, and the Latvian delegate to BADA. “I think I’ll see what’s going on upstairs,” he murmured. The sounds drifting downward prepared him for the disco he discovered at the rear of the second floor. Once again he had to give high marks to the party’s organizer. While only festive strains assailed guests in the main salons, up here the younger generation could enjoy an overpowering decibel level. As he looked on, Thatcher sighted a flicking red skirt. Did Carol Gomulka realize that her energetic partner was Germany’s latest king of software? If not, he would have to enlighten her before the evening was over. Thatcher gave the frenzied cavorting a full ten minutes before he was driven to seek refuge. But at the foot of the stairs he ran into a bottleneck. Wanda Jesilko, clutching the banister, was delivering a speech to an audience of two.
“The nerve of Leonhard Bach,” she declaimed, loudly and clearly. “Because things have broken his way he throws a big, fancy party and claims it’s a memorial to Stefan.”
“Would you lower your voice?” pleaded Adam Zabriski, casting anguished glances behind him.
Waving a glass of vodka grandly, she said, “Why should I be ashamed? Stefan died for BADA and do any of these delegates care? Just look at them! They might as well be dancing on his grave.”
Since several of the delegates were within earshot, Madame Nordstrom remonstrated. “Now Wanda, they’re simply carrying on with the job. After all, that’s what Stefan would have wanted.”
“Oh sure, that’s easy enough for you to say. Your problems are solved. He’s gone and without any tricky power struggles.”
In the same reasonable tone Annamarie continued to protest. “You know perfectly well I valued Stefan, just as you also know he could sometimes be difficult.”
“All you care about is BADA’s reputation,” Wanda flashed back. “With all your talk about carrying on.”
“As if you haven’t been doing exactly the same thing. Rummaging through his files, coming here tonight.” The counteraccusation was too much for Wanda. Host
ility evaporating, she sank limply onto the convenient step.
“You’re right,” she wailed. “I’m as bad as the rest of you. Look at me! Putting on a party dress and dancing! How could I?”
As far as Thatcher was concerned, she should have put drinking front and center in her self-indictment.
“This has all been too much for you,” Adam announced heavily.
She ignored him. “I thought the important thing was to protect Stefan’s reputation,” she began.
Hastily Adam tried to lay this theme to rest. “But Father’s conduct was irreproachable. The police have proved that.”
“As if they could tell anything.” Wanda was staring into her glass, talking more to herself than to her companions. “What if Stefan did do something wrong? Who cares? This party has made me realize his killer is probably here, having a good time, looking forward to the future. It’s not right, I tell you. Murderers shouldn’t be allowed to run around enjoying themselves.”
“I’m sure the authorities are doing everything possible,” said Adam, clearly fancying himself their representative.
“Nobody cares what happened to Stefan, nobody but me,” moaned Wanda, growing more lachrymose by the moment. Since nobody was budging an inch Thatcher remained an unwilling witness to Annamarie’s next attempt.
“Wanda, you shouldn’t have come back to work so soon,” she said kindly. “Why don’t you take off for a few weeks? Go somewhere that doesn’t have all these reminders.”
Wanda’s bold features fell into the clown’s travesty of a smile. “The widow going on a cruise to forget her sorrows?” she asked sadly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should take a last look at all those dinky little ports and then the hell with the Baltic. All those places Stefan was so crazy about, Riga and Lubeck and Malmō and …”
“If that’s what you want,” said Annamarie, trying to end the drunken litany.
But it was Leonhard Bach’s tireless bustle that did the trick. Hovering at the chairman’s shoulder, he said, “Madame Nordstrom! I’ve been looking for you. There’s somebody you should meet.”
When Thatcher finally reached Everett Gabler, he was pleased to discover a newcomer had joined Peter von Hennig by the settee. “Perry!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” Pericles Samaras explained that with insurance claims, wise men did not dawdle.
“Well, you’re lucky,” said von Hennig. “You’ve arrived for the biggest bash Gdansk has seen in years.”
Unimpressed, the Greek replied, “Why do you think it’s so big? Look at that bunch of shippers tackling Eric Andersen. They all had to come here anyway. I’ll say one thing for BADA’s handling the insurance program. You run into all your competition.”
“It had to be something more compelling than an invitation from Leonhard Bach,” von Hennig remarked sagely.
Everett suspected there might be another lure. “And Germany’s announcement had nothing to do with bringing you all here?” he asked keenly.
“Oh, that!” said Samaras. “Of course there’s plenty of gossip about this wonderful new canal. But some of us think it’s not exactly around the corner.”
Thatcher summoned up an earlier conversation. “You haven’t been talking to Chairman Nordstrom, have you?”
Samaras chuckled complacently. “Better yet, I had the privilege of dancing with the lady.”
Repressing images of these two formidable figures in the disco, Thatcher asked, “Business or pleasure?”
“Both,” Samaras conceded.
“As if you didn’t pick up everything you could, Perry,” von Hennig accused him. “You were fishing to find out how she’s taking the news, and I’ll bet you got an earful.”
“Come, come, Peter. She may be disappointed but she’s a sensible woman,” said Samaras reproachfully. “Now that Germany has made up its mind, she knows that she either swings into line or stops being the head of BADA.”
Samaras had something to say about other women on the dance floor too. “But who was that gypsy creating a scene up there?” he continued. “I know Poles like their vodka but she was a real embarrassment.” Peter von Hennig and Everett Gabler were at a loss but Thatcher, to his regret, was in position to make an informed guess.
“Ah, Wanda Jesilko, going from strength to strength.”
But Wanda, who knew the limits to her alcoholic courage, had decided to call it quits. One more drink and she would be weeping in a corner. And that, she decided, must not happen here. Choosing her moment, she slipped into the small anteroom. It was a raw, chill evening with a brisk wind. The same impulse that had caused the shippers’ wives to don their furs had impelled Wanda into high, lined boots and her thickest coat. The small stir she made collecting her belongings was enough to produce a servitor on the lookout for early departures.
“May I call you a taxi, Madame?”
“No, I live close by,” she said, impatient for him to let her out and close the door on all the merriment behind her. Wanda was one of the few BADA personnel who actually lived in Old Town. She had come to the party on foot and looked forward to the sobering walk home. Pausing on the step she rejoiced in the sudden blast of cold air. Head down and shoulders hunched, she plodded into the stinging sleet. Her path took her along the river, with sullen black water on one side and shuttered gaunt brick warehouses on the other. At some remote subterranean level, Wanda felt that for the first time this evening her surroundings were in harmony with her emotions.
Wrapped in her own world, buffeted by the wind so that she swayed unsteadily, she never heard the footsteps gaining on her and never sensed the club rising to deliver a vicious blow. Then, blackness closed in.
Chapter 22
Scraping Bottom
Her body was hauled out of the river early this morning,” Oblonski’s assistant explained at the mortuary. “As soon as I saw the report, I knew you’d want to know.” Without reply, the colonel followed Alex down the corridor. This was not an inspiriting way to start the day.
In any city that has a river winding through it, the police are hardened to the unpleasant consequences of drowning. Nonetheless, Oblonski kept his inspection to a bare minimum. “Any signs of violence?”
The examining doctor pointed to Wanda Jesilko’s temple. “One bruised depression here. But with the stone embankment and the junk churned up by passing ships, she could have banged up against anything. Probably the autopsy will just tell you whether or not she was alive when she went into the water.”
Oblonski had already averted his gaze to a sodden mass on a nearby table.
“Are those the clothes?”
“Yes. She never had a chance once she was in the river. The boots and that coat would have turned into lead weights.”
“Well, do the best you can,” directed Oblonski, moving to the door. “And send me your report as soon as possible.”
Outside he paused to suck in great healing lungfuls of air and to glance appreciatively at the brilliant blue sky and the frosty mantle of sleet that had not yet melted. Alex, meantime, was eager to demonstrate his initiative.
“The Jesilko woman lived only a block from the river and last night was that big party in Old Town. So I called BADA and they say she was invited.”
The traffic arrangements for Leonhard Bach’s gala had been so complex the entire police force knew about it.
“Which means Andersen was there too. Not to mention the rest of that bunch.” Reviving, Oblonski decided that this time he would consult outside sources before tackling the unhelpful BADA cast. “Find out who catered the affair and tell him to collect the people who worked among the guests.”
Several hours later he faced a motley crew of waiters, barmen, and busboys. Even the complaints of the traffic detail had not prepared him for the scope of the festivities. “You were all on this job?” he asked incredulously.
Their nods represented almost their last contribution. The colonel had the foresight to equip himself with photographs but, even so, his wit
nesses were hazy about Wanda Jesilko.
“There were so many people,” they explained. “All moving around, all jabbering.”
“And there was so much to do,” their employer added. “Herr Bach was on top of me all the time. He wanted the buffet and bar restocked constantly, he wanted trays circulating. He was checking on the kitchen and the deliveries. My God, you’d think it was the end of the world if someone had to wait five minutes.”
But finally one middle-aged man slumped in the rear and giving every evidence of a hangover emitted a grunt when the picture of Wanda reached him. “I remember her. She left early.”
“Aha! And did she leave alone?”
“That’s right, she was all by herself.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Did she say anything?”
The waiter rasped a hand down his unshaven jaw. “She’d taken off her shoes and put on her boots by the time I noticed her. So I helped with the coat and offered to get a taxi. When she said she didn’t need one, I let her out. That was all there was to it. She was standing on the step tying a scarf around her head the last I saw.”
“Say, I’ll bet that was the woman I saw going toward the river,” a younger man exclaimed. “I was changing the ashtray on a table in the front window. While I was there I looked to see if we were in for a real storm. The only person outside was this woman in high boots and a scarf just getting to the corner. She didn’t look any too steady on her pins to me, but of course there was a lot of wind.”
With no more information about Wanda forthcoming, Oblonski flourished the photograph of Eric Andersen. “Sure, he was the one with a bunch of rich Germans,” someone said instantly. “They were all arguing with him about something.”
The group was recalled by the waiters because of its constant inroads on the supplies. “Every time you took a tray over to them, it was wiped out,” they reported waspishly.