by Medora Sale
Sanders stood in the living room with Dr. Alexander and stared at the white bundle by his feet. The doctor gave him a second or two to take in the situation and then started his terse recital. “You see that cup lying on the floor? No one has moved it, by the way. It was supposed to be some kind of tea. She drank it, convulsed, and died rapidly.” His eyes were glittering slightly with excitement, Sanders thought. Was he upset or merely enjoying the drama of it all? “I got to her pretty quickly, but she died as I was trying to resuscitate her. Do you want me to uncover her?”
“No, I’ll do it,” said Sanders, carefully avoiding the cup and delicately picking up the covering between thumb and forefinger. “What’s this? The tablecloth?”
“Looks like it. It was all they could find, and I wanted to cover her up before people got hysterical.” Sanders pulled back the cloth and noted the flushed face. “Smell her mouth,” urged Dr. Alexander. “That was when I decided something was very wrong.”
The sickly, bitter, almond-like smell lingered about the body, clear and unmistakable. “Christ,” muttered Sanders. “Cyanide.”
“That’s exactly what I thought. I’ve never run into it before—my patients generally don’t go in for poisoning themselves or each other—but it looked to me like a textbook case. So I left the cup exactly where it was, covered her up, and sent everyone into the dining room.” He was rocking back on his heels now, looking animated and pleased with himself.
Sanders backed away and looked carefully around. Nothing in the immediate vicinity seemed to engage his attention except for a small piece of crumpled paper sitting under the table on the otherwise-pristine floor. Almost automatically he picked it up delicately between thumb and forefinger and slipped it into a plastic bag in his pocket. “What did you mean by everyone?” he asked, turning back to the doctor. “Who’s in that dining room?” Sanders jerked his thumb back through the door.
“Six or seven people, I guess. The rest are upstairs.”
“The rest?”
“Her two daughters are up there with my wife, I think. And maybe her son-in-law is there, too. Everyone else who was still at the party—and I don’t know them all, by a long shot—is in the dining room. She had help, too. A housekeeper and maybe other people. You’d have to ask someone who knows the household better than I do.” He paused for a second. “Actually, her nephew is in there. He should know.”
“Thanks,” said Sanders absently as he looked around the room, taking in the furnishings, the flowers, the candles, the well-stocked bar. “But maybe you could tell me what you know. The victim was a friend of yours?”
“Yes . . . well, more my wife’s friend, and my patient.”
“Was she suffering from some illness?”
“Good God, no. She was about the healthiest patient I’ve got.”
“Her name?”
“Clara von Hohenkammer,” said the doctor, and then began to spell it for him.
“And she lived here? This is her house?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure you’d say she exactly lived here. She spent at least half the year in Munich. She was here only for the spring and summer.”
Sanders thought of the sticky, muggy heat of the day and commented that Toronto seemed to be an odd place to choose to spend your summers in.
“She also owned a summer place near Bala, and she spent the hottest part of the year there,” said the doctor. “I suppose you’d have to say she didn’t use this house much, really. May and June, I think, and then September and October. Or part of it.”
“I take it Mrs. von Hohenkammer had money.” Alexander nodded. “Anyone else live here? Did she have a husband?”
“No. She was a widow. She had two daughters. One lives in Toronto with her husband and kids, the other one lives at home, I think. There’s a housekeeper, and a nephew. They all sort of live here, too. Her husband died three or four years ago, maybe longer. My wife would know. They were old friends from Clara’s early days in Munich. I’m sorry. All I really know about her is that she wasn’t sick and never took pills, but liked to get a physical checkup twice a year, once here and once in Munich. Insurance against something creeping up on you, I suppose.”
Sanders nodded. “Did you see her drink the tea and collapse?”
The doctor shook his head. “No. One of the other guests saw it and told me about it. She was giving me a hand. Seemed to be a sensible young woman, but you can never tell.” He jerked his head in the direction of the doorway. “She ought to be in the dining room right now.”
“Perhaps you could point her out to me,” said Sanders, and yawned. He looked down at the white-shrouded heap on the floor. “Is there somewhere in the house where I can talk to people?”
“Just a minute.” Dr. Alexander walked across the hall to the dining room and opened one half of the big double doors. There was a murmur of voices, and Alexander returned. “The study is probably the best place.” He led the way toward the back of the house and pointed Sanders toward the small book-lined room.
“And who was your eyewitness?” Sanders asked Alexander as the doctor turned back toward the staircase.
“Thin,” said Alexander. “Long dark hair. There aren’t that many women in there. . . . You shouldn’t miss her. She’s one of the better-looking ones.” He leered at Sanders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go up and see how my wife is coping with the girls.” He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, apparently unaffected by events or the hour.
Sanders walked into the study, noting with a doubtful frown the half-sized leather couch and matching chair, the big desk in the corner, and the round table on the other side. Entirely too cozy and comfortable. And cluttered. He shoved back the round table and heavy chairs, picked up the only straight-backed chair in the room, placed it in front of the desk, and nodded critically at his arrangements before moving back to the door. “Dubinsky!” he yelled impatiently. His partner’s head appeared from the doorway of the dining room. “What in hell are you doing?”
“Getting statements from these people,” said Dubinsky. He sounded profoundly bored.
“Get someone else to do that. Didn’t I see Ryder around here somewhere?” Dubinsky nodded. “Let her do it, fast, so we can get rid of most of them.” Dubinsky nodded again and headed for the living room.
Having effectively cleared the hall and study of distractions, Inspector Sanders stalked over to the dining room. He pushed open the door and stopped. There, dead in front of him on the other side of the table, sat Harriet Jeffries, looking characteristically poised and gravely interested, chatting to a prosperous-looking man in evening dress. Sanders scanned the crowd. No one else in the room remotely fitted Dr. Alexander’s description; that put him in the impossible position of having as his principal eyewitness a woman who induced in him such a turmoil of conflicting emotions that he felt reduced to frozen immobility at the sight of her. He swore under his breath and seriously considered turning around and going home again. They could all stew in there in their black ties and expensive dresses until Sinclair stopped throwing up and came back on duty. Harriet glanced across the table, saw him, and coloured slightly; she stood in response to his abrupt gesture beckoning her and walked, erect and almost stiff, over toward him. She closed the door carefully behind her. “For chrissake,” he muttered, “what in hell are you doing here?”
“You don’t have to look so horrified to see me,” she said coldly. “I was invited. I do sometimes get invited to parties, you know. I’m considered quite an attractive addition to social occasions by some people.”
He raised a hand in a gesture of truce. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put it that way. It was a shock seeing you, that’s all.”
“Well, at least I expected to run into you under the circumstances.” He grabbed her by the arm and began to push her along the hall. “Where are you taking me?” She sounded distinctly irritated.
&nb
sp; “To the study,” he said grimly. “I want to talk to you.” He steered her through the door with one hand on her waist, reached back with the other hand and shut it firmly, and then leaned back on the solid wooden panels to keep it from opening again. He released his hold on her, and she stepped back. “You look tired,” he said. Her thin face was pale; her green eyes had dark smudges under them.
“Thanks,” she said. “I needed that.”
“If you want compliments, you can have them,” he said. “You were described as one of the better-looking women here tonight. That’s how I knew you were my eyewitness. But you still look tired.”
“It’s been a long day,” she said, her voice sharp and hostile. “I just finished a rush job. And I got shanghaied by Clara to come here tonight—very much against my will, let me tell you.”
“I wish you’d stayed home,” said Sanders. “I’m not at my most gracious when I’m working.”
“You couldn’t be any less charming than when I first met you. Remember? And do you mind if I sit down? I’m tired.”
Suddenly she looked even whiter and close to collapse. Sanders felt his heart lurch: he stepped forward and gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly. “I’ve thought about you,” he said quietly. “A lot.”
“Then why haven’t you called me?” Her voice was muffled in the material of his suit.
“I did,” he said indignantly, holding her out to allow him to look her in the face. “For weeks I called you. You were out or not answering your phone. God knows what.”
“I was on assignment out of the city for a month! I have a machine. You could have left a message. I checked it every other day or so.”
“I hate answering machines,” he said fiercely. “I’m not going to pour my soul out to some goddamn piece of tape. When did you get back? You could have called me.”
“I did,” she said venomously. “You’ve obviously never tried to get in touch with you. It’s easier to get through to the prime minister.”
He slowly released his hold on her and then steered her toward one of the leather chairs. “Here, sit down.” He began to pace back and forth around the cleared space in the study like a long-legged tiger in a very small cage. “What would you say,” he said, and then stopped and took a deep breath, “if I suggested that we get the hell away from here for a couple of weeks? Maybe go down to the coast or somewhere where we won’t run into anyone?”
“You’re kidding, of course,” said Harriet bitterly. She stretched out in the chair and yawned. “I won’t even bother mentioning the work I have piled up waiting to be done. Since you probably don’t find that important. But you also seem to have forgotten that you’re tied up right now.”
“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing here? Isn’t this your case? You can’t just walk off and leave it, can you?”
“Oh, this.” He looked around the study. “This’ll be dead easy. Find out who gets all the money and there you have it. Might take a few days to nail down the proof, that’s all.” He sat down on the substantial arm of the chair and dropped a hand cautiously on her shoulder. “Just wait. One of them will have gone trotting off and bought some cyanide from somewhere a couple of days ago—it’s amazing how stupid people can be—and he’ll have been hanging around the kitchen ready to pop it in her drink. There you have it.”
“Was it cyanide?” As Harriet spoke, she looked up at him, and her hair brushed softly against his wrist; he dug his fingers into her shoulder and bent closer over her.
“If your description was accurate, it probably was,” said Sanders.
“Did that doctor tell you what I said?” Her voice had softened to a murmur.
“Briefly,” he said, fighting to concentrate on something besides the feel of her shoulder under his hand and the scent of her hair and skin in his nostrils. “But I need the whole story.” He moved his head even nearer and with his free hand gently pushed her hair away from her face.
At that moment, Dubinsky knocked once and thrust open the door. The sight of his partner sitting on the arm of a chair, leaning over a witness whose upturned face he seemed about to kiss, stopped him where he stood. His massive frame filled the doorway and injected an air of profound disapproval into the proceedings. “You need me?” he said finally. Sanders leapt to his feet, reddened, and nodded. Dubinsky settled himself at the table, watching sourly as Harriet moved with suspicious haste to the straight-backed chair. Sanders retreated behind the desk and began the interview.
When she had finished her recital, Sanders leaned forward and twirled a pencil around his fingers, as if getting the action right were the most important thing in the world. “That’s all you know about the people here?” he said finally. “You didn’t get to know her family?”
“If I had known she was going to get done in, I would have made a great effort to find something out about each one of them,” she said, nettled. She felt that she had given a clear, lucid, and terribly useful account of the evening. “I had almost no sleep last night, and I spent most of the evening figuring out how to leave gracefully without offending her. I didn’t have time to investigate her family. Or her friends.”
“Her doctor seems to have had his eye on you, though,” said Sanders. “I’d watch him if I were you.”
She glared at him.
“Who was she, besides someone whose house you photographed? It’s a nice picture, by the way,” he added, glancing at the sixteen-by-twenty on the wall. “Where does all this ostentatious wealth come from?”
“What have you got against ostentatious wealth?” said Harriet sleepily. “No, forget it. She was an actress. Terribly famous in Germany, apparently. You know”—she yawned—“world-class on the legitimate stage. I saw her tonight doing a chunk of Shakespeare, and let me tell you, she was good.” Harriet brooded for a minute over the thought. “In fact, fantastic. Anyway, she moved here to be with her daughter and her grandchildren, and if you want to know anything about them, there’s a whole book of pictures of them on the table over by your sergeant there, and you can get bored out of your mind looking at them the way I had to. Her husband must have been rich as all get out and very upper class—she was a von, after all—but he died before she came over here. She was very charming, but overpowering. No one else could have dragged me out to a party tonight when all I wanted was to go to bed”—suddenly blushing and self-conscious, she glanced at Dubinsky and paused a second—“so I imagine she might have been difficult to live with. She seemed to squabble with her daughters, and they, I think, were squabbling with each other.” She gave a brief account of what she had heard. “The only trouble is,” she said, “that, naturally, they fight in German, and I lost some of it.”
“Who was near the table that had the tea on it in the fifteen minutes before she died?” he said abruptly. “You must have seen that.”
“For God’s sake, John,” she replied waspishly and familiarly, noticed Dubinsky’s suspicious glance, and reddened again, “I wasn’t keeping count of people. I didn’t notice who was over there.”
Dubinsky flipped back a couple of pages in his notebook. “The nephew was standing by the table,” he said heavily. “Klaus Leitner. Also the daughter, Veronika. And the maid. And someone called Kirsten Müller, who really didn’t seem to know anyone there. A lot of the people I talked to weren’t certain about the times. Mrs. Theresa Milanovich never budged an inch from the fireplace that anyone noticed; her husband and Frank Whitelaw, the deceased’s business manager, were at the other end of the room talking to the deceased.”
“What did you get from the housekeeper? She must have had her eye on things.”
“Nothing yet,” he said, his voice still sour.
“You’d better watch out for her,” said Harriet, looking over at Dubinsky’s six-foot-four, 250-pound frame. “She’s about five foot two by five foo
t two of solid muscle, and mean as hell.”
“Why don’t you go and tackle her, then,” said Sanders to his partner. “Find out what you can about that damned tea and if anyone was in the kitchen. Yell for help if you need it.” Dubinsky looked unamused, but got lightly to his feet and left the two of them alone.
“I’m not sure I can take having you around like this,” said Sanders, standing up and moving closer to her. “Not if Ed is going to spend his time bursting through doors, looking morally outraged.”
Harriet shook her head helplessly. “Is this going to take long, do you think?”
“Probably all night, if I’m lucky. But you don’t have to stay.” He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”
“No one has said I could go home yet. You’ve forgotten, I’m a witness. Maybe even a suspect.” She yawned and stretched in her chair.
“Shit,” he muttered. “I guess you’d better stay until the others have been seen.” He looked critically at her. “And I suppose you should go back and join them. Look out for that doctor.” Within seconds he was back at the desk, absorbed in his embryonic pile of notes.
Sanders stood as the woman entered the room. Her movements across the floor were jerky, as if each leg were uncertain about its destination and not at all sure it wasn’t going to collapse when it got there. He preferred his women to have enough muscle to carry their height, he decided. This one would faint if you suggested taking her for a walk. Or even for a beer and a sandwich. She looked like an underfed greyhound, and a bad-tempered one at that. “Sit down, Mrs. Milanovich,” he said perfunctorily. “I’m sorry to have to disturb you at a time like this, but—”
“How long is this going to take?” she interrupted. Her English wasn’t quite sloppy enough to be native, but it was pretty damned good. Good enough to be extremely bitchy in.
“As brief a time as possible,” he replied evenly. “But there are a few questions that I must ask—”