By now I was grinding my teeth, but my way was clearer. Find Ann/Anne and lay hands on the ledger. I grabbed the phone and called the Murchison home.
“Fran Murchison,” she answered.
“Mrs. Murchison. Good morning. It’s Sean Sean. I have an impertinent question.”
“Okay.”
“When I was at your home, I noticed a small gray or brown book on the desk. It appeared to have gold or yellow lettering on the cover. Am I correct?”
“Yes. So?”
“What is it?
“It’s actually a ledger. You can buy them in bookstores. Some of them come in a slipcase. D’you know what that is?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I keep my household financial records in it. Why?”
“It reminded me of something I can’t quite put my finger on, that’s all.” I wasn’t about to tell her it looked a lot like it belonged to the slipcase I’d found at the Gottlieb house. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your husband since last we talked?”
“Right. I haven’t.” She sighed and abruptly hung up. I called Darrol Madison.
“I’m updating you. As you know, German agents kept meticulous records of the goods they appropriated from people they conquered.”
“That’s correct.”
“It looks like some of those records, in the form of a ledger have shown up here in Minneapolis.”
I knew I wasn’t telling the lawyer anything he didn’t already know or suspect. I was mainly interested in his reaction to my knowing. He didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Mr. Madison?”
“Do I understand you to mean you’ve seen or got your hands on such a ledger?”
“Not exactly.”
“Perhaps you should explain.”
“I’m pretty sure the woman I told you about, Ann/Anne with no last name, has possession of one such ledger.”
“I see. You know this how?”
“She’s been supplying me with copies of pages.”
Madison’s voice took on a sharper tone. “What’s on the pages?”
“The translation I have so far mentions furniture and household utensils. Why would they confiscate furniture?”
“We aren’t sure. Some of it may have been valuable but we think some of it may just be a result of over-zealousness on the part of nervous lower ranks. Is there any chance you can get your hands on the original pages?”
“I don’t know. I’m working on it. Have you any rumblings of representatives from outside law enforcement taking an interest?”
“Not locally. It does happen. Once in a while one of our inquiries provokes the CIA or the FBI. I’m not aware of anything local at the moment.”
I paused and made a decision. “Look. I’ve been on the wrong track I think. It isn’t the painting at all. The one at MIA that Murchison donated. I think the old man, Gottlieb, came home from Poland after the war with a written record of German thefts stashed in his belongings. It was a small handwritten ledger in a slipcase. Brown with gold embossed lettering. Somehow, somebody got wind of it and came looking because somebody else is worried about what may be in the ledger. I think that when Manny Gottlieb wouldn’t turn it over to a pair of thugs, he was killed.”
“But why? Those ledgers exist. You can even see pictures of them on the internet. They certainly aren’t worth killing for.”
“Are you sure about that, Mr. Madison? I think the gift of the painting to the MIA and the gallery’s subsequent decision to repatriate it, set off an alarm somewhere. I believe there are people out there who are afraid of what’s in the ledger and want it destroyed. If Anne’s statement to me is accurate, two men accosted Gottleib on the bridge and threw him into the river. She picked up the ledger and is keeping it safe somewhere. Now I also think that slick operator, Gehrz, showed up to see that her cover wasn’t penetrated by somebody. By anybody. I’ll be surprised if we don’t discover that both Anne and Gehrz are foreign agents of some kind.
“I’m willing to bet the two guys who killed Gottlieb are foreign operators as well. I’m also pretty sure one of them is dead.”
“What?”
“That’s right. Never mind how I know or the circumstances. I’m telling you this so you can decide how you want to proceed.”
“Dammit,” he said softly in my ear. “All right, I appreciate the heads up. What’s your next move?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.” I hung up the receiver. I’d be damned if I’d give him any clue. He might be on the side of the angels, but I didn’t know who he talked to. I knew exactly what I had to do next, apart from avoiding getting arrested or killed.
Chapter 37
I went downstairs and got a paper cup of bad coffee from the kiosk in the corner of the lobby. The guy who ran the place had been there when I moved in ten years earlier and people who’d been in the building a lot longer said he probably came with the place when it was first built. But that was in the late thirties of a previous century, so I kind of doubted that. He did look old enough to have been there since the end of the Korean War. He moved slow and his coffee wasn’t very good, but it was hot and fresh any time he was open so that was something. Back in my office I called my good buddy Sergeant Ricardo Simon.
For a change, he was at his desk. “How’s your day?” I asked.
“’bout the same as yesterday.”
“I’m calling to find out what you’ve learned about that stash of papers we picked up in the basement the other night.” I was sure there was no need to remind Ricardo to which basement I was referring.
“Interesting you should ask, just now. What do you know about a dead body found late last night up on Pelican Lake?”
“Almost nothing. Why would I?”
“I don’t know, but we’ve had an inquiry from the county sheriff.”
Rats. Somebody talked out of turn or my car was traced. “I have nothing to say to that.”
We enjoyed a moment of mutual silence and then Ricardo went on. “Ah. Well, I have been formally advised, although not in writing, to forget about that envelope of papers.”
“Really?”
“Really. I haven’t even been asked for the source of my advice, so you won’t get a formal cease and desist order. I sort of scanned through them and sent the package to forensics. Then I got the message to lay off. I guess somebody in the lab saw something that triggered a call. You take my meaning? Between me and them, I suspect the well-manicured fingers of people far above me in pay grade, even people who live in other states, are now involved.”
“You’re starting to talk funny. I was hoping for a quid pro quo here, but I guess that’s not in the cards, either, yes?”
“Sean, we, or rather you, seem to have stepped in something. And I get the feeling we do not want any of it sticking to our shoes.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s probably international in scope. I bet the body in Crow Wing County turns out not to be a citizen. I also bet he had something to do with Manny Gottlieb.”
“Shit. I thought you just denied all knowledge of that body.”
“Not all, my friend. Plus, there are a lot of things I’d like to know about him. Like for example, who were his associates and where are they?”
Ricardo didn’t say anything for a minute then, “You got any rational basis for suggesting a dead guy in Crow Wing County is somehow linked to Manny Gottlieb’s murder here in Hennepin County?”
“I expect the location of the dead guy turns out to be a place belonging to Murchison Manufacturing.”
“Almost right,” said Ricardo.
I shifted the phone to my other ear. “Almost right?”
“Murchison Engineering is the property owner of record.”
“Oh, well, I guess that makes all the di
fference in the world, yes?”
Simon chuckled. “It may. Gotta go. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“Keep in touch,” I responded, hanging up.
There was a rap on the doorjamb of my office. The door swung slowly open and I looked up to see a face I’d hoped I’d never see again. Robert Gehrz lounged there, his coat open, his hat pushed back on his head. For the buttoned-up dude I’d encountered in earlier days, this man looked almost disheveled, relaxed, even. His suit coat was unfastened and his tie was slightly askew. Ever since Gehrz had entered my life I’d had a crawly feeling he linked me to some criminal stuff way above my competence level.
“Mr. Gehrz. I didn’t expect to see you again, ever,” I said. I pulled my chair closer to the desk, dropping one hand into my lap, fingers closer to the pistol in the holster strapped to the wall of the kneehole in my desk. I hadn’t had to use the quick release lever on the holster for months. I hoped the lever still worked as smoothly as when I installed it.
“Sorry, I didn’t call first to make an appointment, but I’m a little short of time here. I just came to settle our account. I believe I owe you a final payment for locating my friend.”
“Since I didn’t actually put you two together, physically, I can’t claim success. But you do owe me for some additional expenses. Say five hundred? You could have just mailed me a check if being here is inconvenient.”
That remark passed without a response. Gehrz stepped into my office and came to the desk. “Five hundred will be quite satisfactory.” He fished out an envelope that looked exactly like the one he’d displayed on two previous occasions. From the envelope, he produced five one-hundred dollar bills. They looked exactly like those he had handed over at our most recent meeting. Holding them gingerly by the very edges, he laid them on my desk in front of me. Gehrz showed a tiny smile that lifted one corner of his mouth a millimeter or two. It was as if he was demonstrating a technique. Maybe something he learned in spy school.
“Thank you,” I said. “Do you want a receipt?”
No response. Gehrz merely raised one eyebrow. I wasn’t in the habit of giving out receipts, but it seemed appropriate to ask. Apparently not so.
“I expect we won’t be seeing each other again,” he said then, “but should that happen, I hope I can count on your discretion.”
“Of course. Goodbye.” We didn’t offer to shake hands. Gehrz turned and left my office without closing the door. I could hear his measured steps down the empty hall. I heard the elevator door open and close. Robert Gehrz was out of my life forever. I hoped.
* * * *
My phone rang thirty minutes later, just as I was packing up to go home. I’d cleaned out my office files of everything relating to the Gottlieb-Gehrz-Market-Murchison business. Two thick envelopes, sealed and addressed to my occasionally used rented post office box were on my desk. I intended to deposit them with the Revulon sisters down the hall for their mail pickup later in the day. I would enjoy a late afternoon and an evening with my lady. No worries. The phone call was a wrong number.
Chapter 38
Arriving at my office around eleven the following morning, I discovered there had been no break-in, no one had left a message on my answering machine, and the mail contained no mystifying letters or packages. Things were entirely too calm.
My ruminations had pretty well tied up the case except for a couple of vital areas. There was still the question of who was responsible for the multiple attempts on my life, by truck and by birdshot, although Clem Murchison was becoming a serious person of interest in that regard. I did wonder what had happened to change Mr. Gehrz so significantly. Every time I’d seen him until yesterday, he’d been one buttoned-up dude, at least sartorially. Maybe it became just another question in this case. This case. I was beginning to believe I wasn’t ever going to answer my questions with any satisfaction. Not entirely unknown. More than one of my cases ended with some questions unanswered. Many times the lack of information went to motive. But here, I was almost overwhelmed with questions that lacked answers. It irked me.
My telephone alerted me to an incoming call. It turned out to be somebody from the Minneapolis Fire Department’s arson investigator.
“Mr. Sean. I’m following up with some information for you regarding the fire at that address on Forty-sixth. The former Gottlieb residence.”
“Yes. And thank you for the call. What have you learned?”
“We’re quite sure it’s a case of arson. Investigators found traces of an accelerant in the attic. But it has the appearance of a half-hearted effort, if I may use that expression.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“If I had to guess, and this is certainly not for public consumption, I’d suggest whoever set this fire, wasn’t especially interested in destroying the house, just the attic. Because of circumstances, we got the call early and responded quickly, so damage was limited even more.”
“Who called it in?” I wanted to know.
“According to my information, an unnamed civic-minded passerby.”
“Really.”
I could almost see the smile on the investigator’s face. “Yep. An anonymous male reported smoke in the attic as seen from the street. He didn’t give a name or where he was when he called it in. He said he saw clouds of smoke through the attic window.”
“I believe there are windows on two sides,” I said.
“Correct. When the truck arrived a battalion chief reported they were delayed a few moments because none of the crew could see smoke from the street and the address numbers had been removed from the front of the house at some time in the past.”
“I get it. You are perhaps assuming the caller didn’t actually see smoke, but knew it was there because…” I let my voice trail off.
“That is consistent with my thinking.”
“Interesting. Anything else you’d care to tell me?”
“Not at this time, Mr. Sean. But should you develop any new information, we’d appreciate it if you’d get in touch with the arson investigation office.”
“Count on it,” I said and put the hand piece in the cradle. Unable to lay hands on the ledger, the thieves or thief had tried to insure the ledger would be destroyed. Perhaps because they were not experienced in arson, they misjudged the thing and the prompt arrival of the fire department prevented the house from burning to the ground. I was willing to bet, though not a large sum, that it wasn’t the arsonist, but somebody who was shadowing the arsonist, who called the fire department. That suggested one Robert Gehrz. But it could easily have been someone else, perhaps the someone else who killed the Crow Wing guy. No matter how I twisted the known facts, I couldn’t paint Gehrz with that killing. It just wasn’t his style.
It was beginning to look very much as if the people who murdered Gottlieb were leading a parade of foreign agents around my city. If I could nail the killers, maybe the rest of those people would disappear. Meanwhile, where was Clem Murchison?
The phone rang. It was Mrs. Clem Murchison. “I just heard from my husband,” she said with no preamble.
“Did he tell you where he is?”
“He’s in the basement.”
“Excuse me?
She laughed but there was no mirth in the sound. “News to me too. I answered the phone a minute ago and it was him. He said he’d been up at the lake and encountered a spot of trouble. His words.”
The image of the dead guy in their cabin rose in my mind.
“When I asked him when he’d be home, he said he was in the apartment in the basement. Our basement here. He warned me not to come down. I don’t know why.”
“How’d he sound?”
“Desperate, I guess I’d say. Despondent maybe?”
“All right. Stay put and I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“Shouldn’t
I call the police?”
“Up to you, of course, but I’d really like to talk to him first.”
Mrs. Murchison sighed in my ear and broke the connection. I dropped the instrument and grabbed my coat. Outside the back door I was met with a blast of snow and a snarling wind in my face. The trip to White Bear was going to be slow and fraught, I figured.
My prediction was right. The going was tediously slow. Once again the Murchison driveway was snow-filled with only faint indentations from car tracks. They were rapidly filling. I looked, but I couldn’t discern how many vehicles had recently preceded me. In the parking area next to the front of the house a single black Mercedes with an inch of snow on the roof and hood sat as a lonely sentinel. I stomped up the front steps and hammered on the big door. Snow swirled around me and some of it melted into icy rivulets and ran down the back of my neck.
I never heard approaching footsteps so I was startled when the door was yanked open by the senior Murchison. Ceo of Murchison Engineering. “What?” he snarled. “We don’t need you here right now.”
“Is that Mr. Sean?” The voice came from somewhere toward the back of the house. I recognized it as that of Mrs. Murchison. Clem’s wife. “I called him. I want to talk to him.”
Murchison senior growled something I didn’t catch and turned away. He stalked rapidly back toward the source of the voice, leaving me to deal with the door and my outer wraps. My warning radar sent me siren signals. I dropped my wet coat and hat on the chair by the door and trotted toward the hall to the kitchen. There I found Fran Murchison looking somewhat distraught. She had a glass of what looked like gin or vodka on the kitchen counter, along with a cell phone. A second glass was empty. I assumed it belonged to Murchison.
“Do you want a drink?” her voice was clear. She didn’t slur, but the tension was thick and I smelled booze.
“No thanks. What’s the situation?” I slid onto a stool.
Before she could answer, Murchison, senior, reappeared from a room off to the side. He looked and acted agitated. “The door’s locked,” he said.
The Case of the Purloined Painting Page 19