Murder in Focus

by Medora Sale

  The telephone at the Austrian embassy was answered with commendable promptness, given the emergency conditions engendered by the visit of a head of government, but the person who answered was adamant in refusing access to the ambassador or to the security officer, even by telephone. It mattered not to him who John Sanders was, or why he was calling. He was not on the ambassador’s short list of preferential callers, and he could be dealt with by a minor flunky at his convenience. Friday was not a good day. “Next week, perhaps?” that discouraging voice suggested.

  “No, I will not leave my number,” snapped Sanders. “Would you take the time to ask the security officer, or his assistant, or his assistant’s assistant, if he’s heard of something called Dawn in Vienna? Now?”

  There was a pause, a lengthy pause, and Sanders felt encouraged. He smiled down at Harriet, who was jammed in somewhere under his right elbow, and drummed his fingers in a thoughtful rhythm against the open pages of the directory. A couple of clicking noises later, and a new voice took over. “Carlo Hoffel here,” said the voice with calm courtesy. “You have information on Dawn in Vienna, Inspector? You have my attention.”

  “There,” said Sanders, five minutes later, as he hung up the telephone. “That’s that. Now to deal—” He turned to Harriet and found her sitting hunched over in the corner of the booth, looking pale and very small. “Are you—”

  “I’m afraid we won’t have much of a chance to deal with anything,” she said. She took a deep breath. “There are some people out there who seem to want to talk to us.”

  Sanders turned around and groaned. On the street outside the telephone booth, four Ottawa police cruisers were pulling up, red lights flashing, each one disgorging two uniformed officers of the law. “Dammit!” he said, and placed a hand, half helping, half warning, on Harriet’s shoulder as she struggled to her feet. “Look, sweetheart,” he murmured. “It might be best not to mention the fact that we broke into that house until things become a little clearer. Police officers get a little odd about breaking and entering. All right? Can you make it on your own?” She nodded in response to both questions, he opened the door and walked through, his hands spread peacefully out to each side.

  A light blue Ford Escort was driving sedately down Echo Drive heading in the direction of the charming Georgian house that had been rented by Karl Lang for the year. The driver, an insignificant-looking man with pale red hair, of above-average height and more-than-average chinlessness, was whistling a faint and tuneless whistle as he drove. He checked his watch. 4:45. Precisely on time. The whistle became more energetic, although not more tuneful, as he rapidly calculated exactly how much he would be getting from Mr. Green. Although perhaps the bonus had gone up in smoke, since Mr. Green had been perturbed at his failure to recover the picture. Dammit. It hadn’t been his fault that stupid bitch of a photographer drove like a maniac and he’d lost her. He couldn’t afford to get stopped for speeding. Green knew that. Anyway, if he hadn’t been sloping by at the right time, they never would have found out who was taking the damn picture. He had followed them on his own initiative and that deserved a bonus. And he’d been working sixteen-hour days, trying to keep track of the photographer and her boyfriend, the cop. His thoughts became aggrieved, as they often were. He followed the road around a bend cautiously—it would never do to get into an accident—and then pulled to a stop. The house seemed to be surrounded by police cars.

  He stared at them, as though his halt had been occasioned by vulgar curiosity. A constable on the sidewalk waved him by with an impatient hand. He drove off, trying hard to remember if he had given either Lang or Green any real information that could identify him. On reflection he decided he hadn’t. Except the capacity to pick out his face. There were those workmen, too, but they wouldn’t remember him. Nobody did, usually. That was the advantage of looking the way he did. Still, perhaps he would take a nice spring vacation. Out west, say. He turned right at the next intersection and headed for the train station.

  The prime minister of Austria was taking his leave of his counterpart in the Canadian government amidst a flurry of handshakes and mutually congratulatory remarks. The opening session of the conference had been an enormous success. This was no surprise to the organizers. All the difficult issues were being dealt with downtown, where the experts were meeting, and the agenda for the political heads had covered nothing up to this point that could not be handled by the vigorous application of platitudes. Surrounded by a minor bevy of soberly dressed, anonymous-looking aides and translators, the P.M. graciously readied himself to be wafted into his limousine for the ride back into town and preparations for a second state dinner. Suddenly the broad hallway was filled with a new group of soberly dressed, anonymous-looking men and women, these ones taller, on the whole, and broader in the shoulder, younger and more vigorous-looking than the original crowd. Security. A few words were whispered into the ear of the Canadian prime minister. A few more into the ear of the head of the government of Austria. Security men exchanged glances, nodded, and the Austrian contingent retired into the pleasant reception room off the hall, followed—after some further discussions with the security staff—by the Canadians. The press contingent waited impatiently outside, puzzled by the failure of the last two delegations to appear. A speculative buzz later they concluded that some sort of deal was being enacted under the table by the two countries. The press secretary assured them that no such deal was being contemplated and they left, confident that it must be so. A minor story, of course, involving two not-very-important powers, but lacking anything more interesting coming out of the first day of the conference, it would have to do. As the press were departing, a helicopter roared overhead, then a second, and a third. One gently lowered itself onto the broad lawns of the secure site. The Austrian prime minister, surrounded by a tightly knit phalanx of security officers, gave a cheerful wave to the Canadian delegation and climbed on board.

  Peter Rennsler watched impassively as the limousine bearing the Austrian flag drove by empty of passengers and the procession of official cars unaccountably dried up. A hitch. He waited, just in case, for the last car, the Canadian one, to come by, on the slight chance that his man might be in it. Although if he were, Peter reflected philosophically, the chances were he wouldn’t be able to get a shot at him. It would take a hand grenade into the backseat to achieve his end. And that wasn’t his style. No matter. He heard the roar of helicopters and looked up. The first swept in his direction, hovered near his tree, and then settled delicately onto the lawn. A second flew in and wafted gently back and forth above the one on the ground. The third began a sweep across the woods. They represented a somewhat more serious hitch. He turned his attention to the doorway. But when it opened and his target emerged, he was completely surrounded by men half a head taller than he was. Rennsler waited until the prime minister disappeared into the helicopter, following the center of the group steadily in his sights, never getting a clear shot. He shrugged and swung his rifle over his shoulder. He wasn’t responsible if his employers had screwed up their own security; he had done what he had been asked to do. Half of his exorbitant fee was already safely stowed away in a foreign bank account, and he considered himself well out of the whole operation. He hadn’t cared for this assignment. His shoulders twitched as he thought of the man on the ground with the rifle at his back, and he climbed down the tree as rapidly and smoothly as he had climbed up.

  “I guess you can go home now, eh, mate?” said the soldier keeping guard on the hill to his right. “Lucky bugger. We gotta stay and clear the woods again. Jesus. As if someone is going to fight his way into this fucking piece of bog just to get a shot at one of them assholes.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the house, now quiet and almost deserted. “See ya,” he added gloomily as Rennsler walked lightly out of the woods and headed toward his motorcycle.

  Corporal Bill Fletcher stood, puzzled, with his rifle pointing toward the ground. His instructions had been clear en
ough, as far as they went, but no one had told him what he was supposed to do if the putative assassin didn’t shoot anybody. Should he have tried to arrest him? Jesus. Maybe he should have. If he really moved, he could still catch him. But what for? Being one of the bad guys? As far as he, William R. Fletcher, could tell, the man hadn’t done anything. Fletcher was willing enough to risk censure for killing someone in the commission of a crime—under orders, of course—even though in the circumstances and with the weapon he had in his hand, the inquiry board was going to be as suspicious as hell. He wasn’t willing, however, to make a fool of himself by arresting a soldier on duty for the crime of sitting in a tree and holding a rifle. He shrugged, and headed back to base.

  Sanders sat in the interview room and glowered at the officer interrogating him. His identification sat on the table in front of him, while the Ottawa Police Department awaited confirmation that he was who he claimed to be. Otherwise they had reached an impasse. Sanders was willing to admit to being in Stittsville, and to trespassing, including incidental damage to a fence and flower bed—although it probably had not been Mrs. Henryson’s fence, he pointed out to the insufferable sergeant, since the construction framework had not been on her side. He was not willing to discuss the question of arson, nor what had happened to the weapon that should have been in his shoulder holster, nor what he had been doing dragging a young woman across the backyards of Ottawa. And there they sat, for the moment, in silence.

  The door opened. A constable stuck his head in the door, shoved some paper at the sergeant, and said cheerfully, “He’s the genuine article, Sergeant. Or so they say in Toronto. And they would like to know what in hell is going on.”

  “They would!” sputtered the harassed sergeant. “What about me? Look, Inspector, just tell me what in hell you thought you were up to, okay?” There was a hint of regret in his voice as he mentally scratched the charge of “personating a peace officer (119, sec. a)” off his little checklist.

  “Would you do something for me?” said Sanders. He got a glare in response. “What time is it?”

  “Five-thirty-seven. That was what you wanted?”

  Sanders shook his head. “Would you contact Inspector Charlie Higgs at RCMP headquarters? He’s in Security somewhere, shouldn’t be too hard to find.” Sanders leaned back. He had a sinking sensation in his gut, as though he had just made some sort of decision that might not be very clever.

  The sergeant looked at him with a new wariness. “Security. Inspector Higgs.” He pushed his chair back and yelled for the constable, who poked his head in the door with suspicious speed. “Look, Coleman. Call RCMP and see if you can locate an Inspector Higgs in Security. Ask him if—don’t bother.” He sighed, watching the confused and panic-stricken look on Coleman’s face. “Sit in here and watch this guy. I’ll call the RCMP.”

  Sanders and Harriet were sitting tranquilly in the backseat of a patrol car, being sped toward the grim fastnesses of Mountie headquarters. Sanders had made mild objections to their riding as prisoners in the rear, considering who he was and where he was accustomed to sitting. “Look, buddy,” said the uniformed constable, unimpressed with Sanders’s rank or his power. “I was told to come and pick you two up and to make damned sure that you actually got to headquarters. Those were the words. So I am. Making sure.” Sanders gave up gracefully and climbed in after Harriet.

  “How are you?” he asked anxiously. “They weren’t very forthcoming about you back in there.”

  “I’m fine,” said Harriet. The gray of her cheeks and lips belied her confident assertion. “Really. Just a bit battered-feeling. What did you tell them?”

  “Absolutely nothing. What did you tell them?”

  “I said we were out running and we just felt like cutting through that backyard. I don’t think they believed me,” she added. “But it seemed friendlier to tell them that than just to sit there and say nothing. I thought they looked a little annoyed.” She dropped her head back and closed her eyes. “What do they want us at headquarters for?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” said the constable, whose ears were apparently sharper than either one of them had realized. “I was just told to pick you up and bring you here. Nobody told me what for,” he said as he turned into the drive and pulled up in front of the building. “I expect the superintendent will let you know.” He stopped, unlocked the doors, and came around to escort them into the building.

  By the time they reached Henri Deschenes’s office, Harriet was leaning heavily on Sanders’s supporting arm. Several others were already milling about there. A tired-looking Sylvia neatly snaffled Harriet as she went by her desk. “I expect they’ll want to see you later,” Sylvia said, “but for the moment, perhaps you wouldn’t mind sitting out here with me. I’m about to call down for sandwiches and coffee. Would you like some?”

  “No thanks,” said Harriet faintly, suddenly sickened by the thought of eating.

  “The egg salad is pretty bland,” Sylvia continued, paying no attention to Harriet’s reply, “the cheese is inedible, but they do a nice turkey and a really good hot corned beef and mustard.” She glanced sharply at Harriet’s white face. “Let me take your jacket,” she said, and reached for one edge of the collar as she began to move behind her.

  “I think I’d rather keep it on,” said Harriet. “I’m awfully cold.” But the peacefully mundane quality of the exchange seemed to signal that her ordeal was over for the time being and, overcome by a wave of exhaustion, she sat down abruptly in a large, comfortable chair that had appeared out of nowhere.

  Sylvia stood looking at her for one indecisive moment and then turned toward an alcove in the corner. “I’ll get you a coffee.” Harriet heard her feet brush over the carpeting, then the sound of her voice murmuring in the distance. In a minute she returned with two mugs of coffee. “Here,” she said, “I put the sugar in already. And the doctor will be up in a minute.”

  “What doctor?” said Harriet, looking doubtfully at the mug. She hated sugar in her coffee, but she was suddenly hideously thirsty.

  “You’re bleeding over that sweatshirt of yours,” said Sylvia. “And I just had the carpet replaced in here. We wouldn’t want to ruin it, would we? Drink your coffee.”

  Sanders was seated at another table on the other side of the door, in an atmosphere noticeably less hostile than the one he had just left. Charlie Higgs had come down to the elevator to meet them, presumably to erase the negative impression caused by their mode of transport, and Superintendent Deschenes seemed tranquil enough in humor as he stepped around his desk to shake hands. There were three others sitting quietly in the room. One of them, a dark, squarely built, powerful-looking man, rose to his feet as Sanders entered the room. He stepped forward and grasped Sanders’s hand firmly.

  “Carlo Hoffel, Inspector Sanders. I was talking to you earlier on the telephone. I would like to offer you the thanks of the Austrian government for helping to avert a most unpleasant situation.”

  “You mean the tip was good?” asked Sanders with a pleased smile. “You never know about these things. I didn’t have much to go on, and for all I knew, it could have been next Friday, or any Friday next month.”

  “Ah,” said Higgs. “Joe plus one. I wondered what you were on to. Remember Steve Collins’s system?” he said, turning to Deschenes, and then walking over to the conference table and sitting down, apparently willing to wait for elucidation. The others got up automatically and followed him.

  “Actually,” said Deschenes, “we don’t really know that the tip was good, although we are piecing together some interesting things.”

  “Yes,” said Hoffel. “There were some interesting things at the house on Echo Drive—”

  “The hell there were!” said Sanders, nettled. “I went over that house and found nothing—except Miss Jeffries’s pictures, which were what I was looking for all along.”

  “You didn’t go far enough, Inspector,�
� said Hoffel. “There were things up on the third floor. Weapons, ammunition, files. It’s wonderful.”

  “We had to leave you people something to do,” said Sanders. “Besides, we were otherwise occupied. And I would be extremely grateful if you could somehow extract those pictures from the house. They have no evidentiary importance. The only one you might want is in the mail on its way to Toronto. The box should be in a small back bedroom on the second floor, under the bed,” he added.

  “Indeed,” said Deschenes, opening the file in front of him. “Charlie, could you call down and see about rescuing that box of pictures?” Higgs nodded and moved over to the telephone on the conference table.

  There was a short rap on the door. Sylvia swept in, dropped a note in front of Deschenes and swept out again before anyone could register her entrance. Deschenes picked up the note and turned back to Sanders. “Would that be the same small back bedroom that also contained an armed man, unconscious, concussed, and bleeding, when we arrived?”

  “Mmm,” said Sanders. “Is he badly hurt?”

  “Adequately,” said Hoffel. “But we got Karl Lang, and that was what was important. Groenwald is merely a, uh, lackey, a dangerous one, a Canadian citizen with a criminal record and Austrian connections; but we wanted Lang. He’s one of ours. And not only that, but you have supplied what we never had before—and that is a clear-cut reason for someone to hold him while we seize his records and investigate him without interference from his well-meaning friends in the government.”

  “What’s that?” answered Sanders, startled.

  “Come now, Inspector,” said Deschenes. “Surely you are not that deficient in your knowledge of the criminal code. Forcible confinement, assault causing bodily harm.” He picked up Sylvia’s note again. “It seems that Miss Jeffries’s injuries are serious enough to fall within the meaning of the act. By the way, Miss Jeffries is being looked after. My secretary has obtained medical attention for her. She will be fine. We have Lang on charges that could bring in a good ten or fifteen years, maybe. Long enough before he comes to trial, at any rate, for the Austrians to carry out their investigations.”