Clamour of Crows

by Ray Merritt

  “Something bothered me about his death. After he died, I went back to his office. It was apparent that some of his files had been removed. I’ve always suspected Mr. Grogaman may have taken them. Fra Jero saw him the day he died. Perhaps they were his and he took them. I don’t know. All the remaining files seem to relate to the Catalan independents or the monastery as far as I could determine, although I’ve not yet finished sorting through them.”

  “Do you remember any that were entitled Cerberus, Chimera, Hydra, or Typhon?” I asked. “Those would be helpful to Mr. Baum’s estate. We need them to complete those filings I mentioned. That’s part of my job.”

  “No. Not that I can recall,” she said. “But I will look at what’s left. There are some folders I have not gotten to. Those are the ones that he kept in his bedroom. As I said, Mr. Grogaman, I believe, may have taken some of the others.”

  “Sister, I appreciate your taking time to help. I think I might visit the basilica now and perhaps I could see you a little later.”

  She said, holding my hand, “I sense that you are troubled. As my beloved teacher, Miss Clavel, often said, ‘Something is not right, something is quite wrong!’ I sense that may be the case here.

  “Yes, go visit La Moreneta. Perhaps she will calm your worries.”

  39

  It’s not like me to show emotions, particularly in the presence of strangers. Must have been the Ambien. More likely the aftershock of the Nip attack. Maybe it was the place. Perhaps Barcelona is the city of the damned. I needed some space to think. Obviously too many coincidences. Ben and Fra Jero die the same day. Luc and the good padre related. Both families from Madeira. A priest who spent most of his time in the vaults of Switzerland. Was he an alms dealer, an arms dealer, or just the proprietor of a financial Laundromat?

  A saint or a sinner?

  I wandered into the basilica. It was the most luminously beautiful room I had ever seen. Saint Peter’s pales in comparison. Dynamic and graceful all at once, the ornate nave with candles flickering, the Madonna cradling the Infant, the glitter of gold-leafed mosaics radiating around the room. A score of pillars with gold inlays of liturgical icons supported the dome. Above the altar, a larger-than-life crucifix floated, suspended by barely visible wires.

  I decided to follow Sister Maddy’s advice. It required falling in line with a flock of the faithful slowly making their way up a small stone stairway embedded in the rear side of the dome, rising at least one hundred feet to its peak. I joined the suppliants holding on to the well-worn iron banisters, polished clean by the clenching hands of those who awaited their turn to pay homage to, or gain forgiveness or at least comfort from, the Black Madonna. Ben had been one of them.

  Apparently it didn’t work for him. That must be the meaning of his comment in his prec letter. “Evil may be coming my way and even the Dark Lady cannot protect me.”

  The satisfaction of that epiphany was suddenly replaced with unease. I had the sense I was being followed. Perhaps it was just my now quite robust paranoia. I was out of my element. I was a paper warrior, a brute in the boardroom. Atticus, not Bond, was my idol. As if to underscore that, a hand on my back gave me a violent shove. My knees buckled but my hand braced me, preventing a nasty fall. Fully expecting a helping hand from a sympathetic stranger, or a brush-off from a maniacal fanatic rushing ahead to heal his sins, I saw only an older couple, in matching hiking coats, apologetically nodding as they advanced up the stairs. I followed suit with a certain chagrin. I was hell-bent—probably again not the right term—on seeing the orb. Arriving at the peak, I crossed a tight parapet and walkway to the statue, which was housed behind a sheet of glass. One of the Virgin’s hands was not shielded. It held an orb. The tradition is to kiss the orb while raising your other hand to Jesus. I demurred and just closed my eyes and thought about Alice.

  Downhill was easier and, upon reaching the altar level, I saw Sister Maddy, who was kneeling at a stand of votive candles.

  “Kneel down and don’t engage me,” she whispered. “Just listen as you light a candle. You’re being followed. Your driver is keenly interested in your whereabouts. I want you to get up and go to the gift shop. Buy enough books and things to fill a gift bag. Come back here. If you look to your left you will see a confessional. Step into it if the red light is on. If not, kneel here again and enter when the light does go on. Sorry for the intrigue. I’ll explain later. Be sure to bring your bag of goodies.”

  With that she blessed herself and scurried away without a word—the way only nuns can do.

  I followed her instructions faithfully. It took me a good half hour to work my way through the crush of shoppers. And as I returned to the confessional booth, gift bag in hand, I saw the little red light was on and dipped behind the curtain.

  “Bless me father . . .” I halted. Pavlov was right. Conditioned reflexes never die, but in this case it was habit, not hunger, that triggered them.

  “No,” she laughed. “The Church hasn’t come that far and I’m way out of line being in here. But I sense that something is very wrong. As I said before, when I found Fra Jero dead, it was clear that some of his files had been removed. When I checked his bedroom, I found several folders filled with receipts and some other documents in Portuguese. I just now quickly perused them. Most have markings in Fra Jero’s hand with the names of those companies you mentioned.”

  She opened the latticed partition that was intended to provide anonymity and separation between the priest and the penitent and we exchanged identical Montserrat shopping bags.

  “You must understand. I love the Church, but I don’t always love some of its members. Some have guilty souls. You can see it in their eyes, as I did in Fra Jero’s and in Mr. Grogaman’s. I did not see it in the eyes of Mr. Baum and I do not see it in yours. Now go. And may God be kind to you. You will see a neon exit sign when you go toward the main altar. Take that door and just outside there is a line of cabs. There you will see another nun with your suitcase. Luckily it was on the backseat of your limousine, which wasn’t locked. I took the liberty of removing it. Take any cab, give the driver fifty euros, and you will make it to the airport in record time. I have made sure your old driver will be distracted. I have some pull with the basilica guards. Now go . . . go! And may God be with you.”

  With a broad smile, she added, “And thank you for the lovely gifts.”

  40

  Luck was with me. Sister Maddy must have lit more candles.

  A flight to Paris took off shortly after I arrived at the airport. I stuffed the contents of the shopping bag into my carry-on and stowed it overhead, spending the entire flight eyeing every passenger for any sign of a tail.

  On arrival, I took a cab to the Plaza Athénée, paid the driver in cash and hurriedly entered the lobby, and proceeded directly out the side entrance, where I hailed another cab to take me to my destination—The Ritz.

  James Bond I am not, but careful I am.

  My phone beeped with the acronyms CM BGLOS DTB. I’ve had to learn a whole new way of communicating—texting acronyms, annoying but amusing shorthand. In this case, not so amusing. “Call Me. Bad Guys Looking Over Shoulder. Don’t Text Back.” I quickly grabbed my new secure phone and dialed Drew.

  “Hi, it’s me. How’s my girl doing?”

  “You mean the Divine Miss Nip? The lady is fine.”

  “Great, but really, how is she?”

  “She’s fully recovered, according to the vet, who made a house call. Can you believe it? She’s one special dog.”

  Drew paused. “There’s lots to tell you, but we’re concerned about security. The people Terry hired to watch our perimeters here believe we are in fact under surveillance. Same people parking different cars every day and just hanging out in their vehicles. Not very sophisticated, but effective in letting us know they’re watching. Dixie thinks you should continue to use your personal phone for harmless chatter and the secure phone for sensitive stuff. OK?

  “And you were right on about c
ircling back to Pervy and Kati. Struck out with Peter, though. Seems he’s tied up with foundation issues and is unavailable. Tremaine’s lawyers are pushing their motion to remove Evan as a director of the foundation and replace him with their—or the court’s—designee. Abelard continues to function as executive director.

  “I did some research and found out that Tremaine’s father was in fact buried in a cemetery just outside of London—not at sea. I asked an associate from the London office to check it out. According to the obit, he was buried at Abney Park in Stoke Newington. It was on her way home so she stopped by. She befriended a groundskeeper and asked if the deceased’s body was buried there or just his ashes. He said he didn’t have to check. ‘Ashes are for Mum’s mantel; this is a proper cemetery. We only bury bodies!’ Curious, isn’t it?

  “And some good stuff on the other front! First, I reached Pervy at home after work. Sounded like she’d already had a bit of bitters. I’ll read you her response: ‘Allo, o ar yu. You callin bout the afloat. You know, I’m no twocker and I’m no tea-leaf.’ Translated from her cockney—‘Hello, how are you? You calling about the overcoat? Please understand I don’t take things without consent and I’m no thief.’

  “Pervy went on to explain that after everyone left the day Ben died, she went into the closet of the suite for a final clean-up and found Ben’s overcoat. Apparently Abelard missed it. Assuming that no one would want it, she took it for her husband. He’s about Ben’s size and could use a good coat. They put it away during the warm spell and just this week pulled it out. Her husband found in the upper pocket an envelope with a handwritten letter addressed to Dorothy. She was going to call me, but hadn’t gotten a chance. She didn’t think Ben would have minded. I assured her she was right and we all knew how fond of her Ben was. I asked if she could bring the letter to work and I would have someone pick it up. The London office handled that and I had them send it straight to you by office courier. His name’s James, and he’s on his way by train to the Ritz to hand deliver it. He should be there, I suspect, very soon. Told him to personally give it to you and no one else.”

  “Great, what does it say?”

  “I had him fax me a copy, mostly personal stuff. I’m not really sure what it all means. Hopefully you and Dorothy can sort it out.”

  “Well, I’m stuck in Paris traffic so it will be awhile. What else did you learn?”

  “Oh, yes, on another matter. Pervy told me she was called up to the suite on the night before Ben died to witness a letter Ben signed. It was also witnessed by a ‘dandy gezza.’ I think she was referring to Mr. Amaroso. Ben gave her three hundred euros for witnessing his signature. That pleased her.

  “And Kati was much more forthcoming too. She admitted that she was not so before. She didn’t want to get involved in a public fight or a lawsuit. Her visa status is shaky. She came to London on a compassionate visa revocable if her conduct is considered inappropriate. She’s already on thin ice due to her ‘profession’ and her brother’s suspected activities. She then volunteered that after Ben’s death, Dorothy had sought her out and befriended her. She is covering all her pregnancy expenses and found her an excellent obstetrician. Dorothy even told her of her plans to have a child with her mate and promised to continue to help her. Kati feels like she has a new Baum benefactor.

  “I probed her more about the night Ben died. Oh, by the way, she did not see him the night before so no help there. He told her he was going to be busy with his daughter and his banker. What she did tell me was that Ben, Luc, and ‘the lawyer’—Evan, I assume—had a very big row. Ben talked about something he learned in Spain, she thought. Ben and Luc, whom she referred to as the ‘soldier-man,’ were yelling at each other. She remembers hearing Ben scream, ‘I’ll sell the fucking thing! Never liked it. The devil’s business.’ The ‘soldier-man’ yelled back, ‘That’s suicide.’ He then left and slammed the door. The ‘lawyer’—Evan—kept promising Ben he could make it all go away, but Ben wasn’t buying it and just kept asking for another drink. Kati tried to calm him down. She had never seen him so upset. He started to sweat; his speech got slurred. He kept talking to himself. That’s when she left.

  “Well, that about covers it.”

  “Thanks, Drew. Very interesting. I’m seeing Dorothy early tomorrow and I’ll let you know what transpires. Is Dixie there?”

  “No, he’ll be back in a few minutes. He’s back in the stable.”

  “OK, I’ll get him later.”

  Interesting. Everything pointed back to Barcelona. Ben may well have figured out what the good friar was doing. But I wasn’t sure I had. He was an obvious cash courier. That is not unusual for Spain. Even the royalty and the government leaders seem to have monies slide off into Swiss accounts. And he would be a perfect agent. Every Swiss bank knew that Montserrat was a cash cow. Millions of visitors, making donations and buying souvenirs, make it the “religious Disneyland” of Spain. And the money was all in cash or credit cards. A few million more from Luc’s operations added to the Basque insurgency funds wouldn’t cause suspicion or concern. Especially since Fra Jero had no doubt been depositing the monastery’s cash receipts in Switzerland for decades.

  The day turned gray, blending in with the buildings, all motley from centuries of smoke and fumes. I think all I really miss about Paris is Alice. She made it special for me—not the nightlife or the bistros, the ungodly traffic, the horrid pollution, the leaky autumns, the frigid winters, and certainly not its annoying love of self.

  The driver announced our arrival. The Ritz hadn’t lost its luster. It was still radiant, a small gem nestled near the Place Vendôme. Dorothy had said to ask for Frederick. I did and he was very solicitous. The suite was under Mademoiselle Baum’s name. He never asked for my passport and refused my offered gratuity.

  Dorothy, obviously, had real pull here.

  It’s true the Ritz never changes. The service remains legendary, the place immaculate. The femmes de chambre, wrapped in their crisp white aprons and armed with feather dusters, kept the Oriental rugs and Louis XV furniture looking new. But what elevated it above all other hotels was its history. Chanel and Hemingway lived there; Diana and Dodi dined there before their demise.

  Once in my suite, which could only be described as a period piece, I finally exhaled. As if on cue the phone rang. They were sending up a young man from the London office with a letter. He arrived. I thanked him and sent him on his way.

  What to open first? I opted for the stuff Sister Maddy had appropriated for me—the contents of the gift bag we exchanged. It consisted of three groups of deposit slips, each held together by a heavy-duty rubber band. Each stack was about five inches high. There must have been more than one hundred deposit slips in each pile, and I noticed that they were in reverse chronological order—the last being about a month ago and the first five years earlier. The first pile contained deposit slips for Zingg & Co., Cie, Geneva, each with the same numeric identification number. The only writing on them was the amount—usually in denominations of 100,000 Swiss francs and an initial I couldn’t decipher—Fra Jero’s, I presumed. A square date stamp with the word “reco” was pressed onto each deposit slip, with what appeared to be a hand-signed initial evidencing acceptance. The other two piles were similar. Only the bank name was different. One was for East West Bank, Zurich, the other Barquet S.A., Banque Privée. It wasn’t until I turned them over that I saw the names of the accounts—Cerberus S.A., Chimera S.A., and Hydra S.A.

  I stopped totaling the amount when I got to two million US dollars in each pile. This was where the money that Dixie and Frank Mack had unearthed had gone. Monies from ClearAire affiliates, clients, finders, or middlemen, I suspected. Payoffs? Kickbacks? I couldn’t tell.

  The time difference and the drama of Barcelona had finally drained me. I couldn’t function; I couldn’t calculate. I couldn’t even begin to decipher the letter that was delivered. It appeared to be a poem of sorts to Dorothy, written by Ben—Pervy’s purloined letter. I dropped m
y clothes on the edge of the bed, hit the lights, and remember nothing but awaking the next morning.

  41

  We met at L’Espadon, one of the Ritz’s epicurean pleasure palaces. I would have been more gastronomically involved had circumstances been different.

  “Dorothy, it’s great to see you again. It’s been quite a month—for both of us.”

  “You’re so right,” she said ruefully.

  She was as attractive as I remembered, exuding a classic elegance—appropriate for the Ritz. Yet there was nothing porcelain or patrician about her. Her countenance was more complicated. A mix of irony, intelligence, melancholy, and contentment made her all the more mysterious.

  “Café au lait, skim milk, decaf, heavy on the milk,” I said and she echoed ditto. The waiter took our order with expected deference, but with a hint of condescension that he couldn’t quite tamp down.

  “Oui, mademoiselle, monsieur.” I thought I heard him mutter, “Pourquoi s’embêter.” To a connoisseur, I suppose, without the whole bean and but a touch of cream, it really wasn’t worth it.

  “There is quite a lot we have to talk about, but I suspect the subject you are most interested in, understandably, is your father’s involvement with the pregnancy.” I smiled.

  “Yes, of course. Do you have news on that? I gather you know we had a terrible fight with Dad just before he died. It was awful, especially with Leo and Eloise being there. He was in a very bad mood and had been drinking heavily before we arrived. He announced a new condition before he would give us the release letter for the sperm bank. He wanted us to agree to abort if the child was female. Even though that would probably be unenforceable, it put an ugly pall on the whole thing. I was hoping he would relent when he sobered up, but he died not long afterward.”