by Medora Sale
Sanders turned on his heel. “We’ll need to talk to you again, Miss Kotzmeier,” he threw back at her, with menace in his voice, as he walked rapidly toward the living room. He stopped in the doorway. “Let’s see,” he said, “she’s sitting there,” and he pointed to a couch and two chairs to his left. “She sees the tea.” He sat down on the small couch and looked at his watch. “Which is on the corner of that table. It’s been there for a little while, because she doesn’t see anyone bring it out—long enough for someone to empty the cyanide into the cup from the paper and throw it under the table.”
“Was there cyanide in that paper?”
“Don’t know yet. There’s some discussion about it, she says she’ll get it—I suppose someone else offered to fetch it for her—and she gets up.” Here he got to his feet again. “She walks over there, tastes the tea, which is not too hot to drink, or too cold, since she’s fussy,” and as he was saying this, he was walking over to the table and then miming the drinking of a cup of tea, “and then she has a fit of some sort, which takes a little time, the doctor has to notice it, and he runs over.” Sanders paused a second. “And then he glances at his watch and it is twelve twenty-nine.” Sanders looked at his watch again. “And that whole thing couldn’t have taken more than two minutes unless there was a lot more conversation than people claimed. Which means that the poisoned tea was on the table by twelve twenty-seven. How long does it take a cup of tea to cool down?”
“Christ almighty,” muttered Dubinsky, “how in hell would I know? Depends on the kind of cup it’s in, how hot it was, all that sort of crap. Are we sure the poison was in the tea?”
“Had to be,” said Sanders uneasily. “Where else could it be? But we’ll know by this afternoon; the lab should be through by then. I wonder if they got anything from the pot. Anyway, if we know how long it took to cool down, we’d know roughly when it was poured. But it has to be before twelve twenty-five if she”—he pointed at the kitchen—“isn’t lying.”
“And how do we know that when Big Bertha says twelve twenty-five she means just that? What clock was she going by? For all these calculations to mean anything, it had to be the same as the doctor’s watch.”
“Shut up, Dubinsky. That doesn’t help. Naw, you’re right. Let’s go get some lunch. This place is getting to me.”
As Sanders was trekking back and forth in the living room with his watch in his hand, Veronika von Hohenkammer, in jeans and a sweatshirt, was padding down the carpeted hallway between her room and her cousin’s. She knocked, emphatically. “Klaus, you awake in there?” There was a muffled sound that she assumed to be an invitation to enter.
He was lying on his stomach in a tangle of bedclothes and opened the eye that was visible to her. “What time is it?”
“Almost noon,” she said. “I couldn’t stand being in my room all alone or sitting in the kitchen with Bettl. The police are still poking around in Mamma’s room and downstairs.”
Klaus rolled over and groaned. “That’s all right,” he said, yawning. “Do you think you can get us some coffee? And do you mind if I take a shower before trying to talk?” She shook her head. “Then why don’t you try to find us some coffee and rolls and we’ll have them in the little back room. It seems sunny out. It’ll be more cheerful than this.” His wave included the unmade bed, the clothes on the floor, and the general air of dissolution and decay in the room.
“Go and take a shower.” She left him there and slipped quietly down the back stairs to see what she could produce. The sight of Bettl scrubbing the already-clean kitchen cabinets evoked a response in the girl somewhere between irritation and compassion; but Nikki decided that if she had to run the house for the next few days, she would have to quell the compassion and establish some ground rules. “Bettl,” she snapped. “We’ll have a pitcher of orange juice, a large pot of coffee, and some rolls with jam and butter for breakfast. In the sewing room, please, since the police seem to be everywhere else. As soon as possible.” She turned rapidly and went back up the stairs to the sewing room.
Klaus strolled into the sunny little room, clean, wet headed, and relatively clear-eyed. “And where is our coffee, may I ask?” he said in mock horror. “I thought you’d be down in the kitchen opening a jar and boiling a kettle, not sitting here doing nothing.”
Nikki silenced him with a gesture and pointed wordlessly at the door. He heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then Bettl entered with a large tray. On it were glasses, cups, plates, napkins, cutlery, a pitcher of orange juice, sugar, three kinds of jam, and butter, along with a basket covered neatly with a white napkin. “I’ll bring the milk and coffee in a minute,” she said in a neutral tone, then put down the tray and left.
“No flowers?” asked Klaus. “My God, Nikki, how did you do it?”
“I screamed,” said Nikki. “It’s the only form of communication she understands. But it never worked when Mamma was around. It just made her mad. Shhh. Here she comes again.” And this time she had a small heating element with a china jug filled with coffee and one of hot milk on it. She plugged it in and turned. “Thank you, Bettl,” said Nikki crisply. “You had better order in groceries for the weekend. Theresa and her husband might be here a great deal. We will need to have plenty.” Bettl nodded and left. “I may be about to get arrested, but until that happens, I don’t intend to starve to death.” Her eyes were wet, and her chin quivered, but she turned resolutely to the array of food and drink on the large table. “Orange juice?”
“Please,” he said, taking the proffered glass. “And what do you mean, you may be about to get arrested?”
“Breakfast first, and then we can talk. I’ve been thinking.” Fifteen minutes later, Klaus helped himself to another large cup of café au lait, leaned back comfortably on the chintz chesterfield, and said: “Right. Now what in hell are I you talking about?”
“Klaus, darling, you can’t be as stupid as you’re pretending to be. You must realize what’s going on.” She put down her half-eaten roll and curled up with her feet tucked under her, shivering in spite of the warm sun. “No matter what Theresa says, I can’t believe that Mamma killed herself.”
“Killed herself! That’s preposterous.” Klaus shook his head in amazement. “How could anyone, even Theresa, believe that?”
“It’s easy. Either you believe that, or you believe that one of us killed her. Who could have wanted her dead?” Nikki’s eyes swam with tears again, she blinked and went on. “Only someone who was going to benefit from her death. And that’s either me or Theresa. And Theresa didn’t move from the fireplace all night. I thought she had turned into a statue.”
“Except when the two of you were in the hall,” said Klaus slowly. “What were you fighting about?”
“Who?”
“You and Theresa.”
“Oh, that. That was nothing.” Nikki shrugged and turned away in embarrassment. “I was just teasing her a little, that’s all.”
“Teasing her? What about?”
“Well, she had the idea that you and I were going to get hundreds of thousands of marks—well, fifty thousand dollars—out of Mamma for this business of yours and that this would cut into her precious children’s inheritance, and so on.” Nikki looked up and shrugged, the ghost of a smile on her face. “I’m not sure where she got the amount from.”
“I think I mentioned it in a theoretical way as the cost of setting up a first-class studio from scratch.”
“That’s it, then. Anyway, she said we’d never get away with it.”
“Maybe she—”
“No. If there had been cyanide in my drink, maybe, but why Mamma? She couldn’t do anything like that. Not Theresa.”
“Maybe Milan did it for her?”
“Him! That lecherous little worm. He’s scared of his own shadow. He’d do it only if you could guarantee he wouldn’t get caught.” She clutched her knees tightly to her chest to
keep them from trembling. “And that leaves just—”
“You. I don’t see why. If you know you didn’t do it, then somebody else must have. All we have to do is figure out who it is.”
“I’m just trying to think the way the police will. Either someone had a reason to want Mamma dead, or there’s a maniac running around dumping cyanide in drinks and anyone at the party could have been killed.”
“Be reasonable, Veronika,” said her cousin sharply. “If you’re talking about motive, Theresa stands to inherit as much, or . . . in fact . . .”
“Yes. I’ve thought of that. I may be out searching for a job once the will is read. I knew I should be learning a trade of some sort.”
“Do you know if your mother left you anything?”
“All I know is that she was mad as hell at me last spring and she was thinking of changing her will. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m featured in it in an unpromising way. You know, ‘And to my daughter, Veronika, I leave one hundred marks and the wish that she may learn to change her life for the better.’”
“But you see,” said Klaus, checking to see if there was any more coffee, “if that’s true, then no one will suspect you.”
“That’s a wonderful choice, Klaus. Impoverished and free or rich and in jail. Do you think I should get a lawyer?”
“Whatever for?”
“We really don’t know the police around here, do we? They’re not all like that nice man up at the lake. He probably works up there to get away from real criminals in the city. Murderers and so on.”
Klaus shook his head. “Not even the same kind of police. But if you think you should get a lawyer, why not ask Frank? He seems to know everyone in the city.” He glanced sideways at her. “But isn’t running for a lawyer going to make you look guilty? Maybe you should just be straight-forward and honest and tell them everything that happened and assume they’ll catch whoever did it.”
Nikki looked at him steadily. “And if they don’t? Then what do I do?”
“We’ll worry about that when it happens.”
The lunchtime crowd had already thinned out when the buru walked quickly into the little Portuguese restaurant on College Street and sat down in a booth close to the kitchen. He ordered coffee and a pastry before asking casually whether the chef was available. The waiter nodded amiably. “He’ll be out in a moment,” he said. “He just has one order to finish, and it’s time for his break.”
Before his friend had finished his pastry, Manu pushed through the swinging doors that led from the kitchen, carrying a plate of chicken and rice in one hand and a coffee in the other. He put them down, walked over and picked up a napkin and cutlery, set a place carefully on the other side of the table, and finally eased himself down onto the bench. “What’s happening?” he asked casually. “I thought we had decided you should not come here.”
“We have reached a crisis point,” he said. “It is time to decide whether to go on or give up. Can they understand?” he added softly, nodding in the direction of the two waiters who were lounging by the coffee machine, waiting for the last of the lunch crowd to finish.
“Not a word,” said Manu. “A Columbian and a Chilean. I don’t like the idea of giving up,” he added in his mournfully gentle voice. “Not after we’ve done all the dirty work. And I don’t leave without the money. That’s what we came here for, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course,” said the buru. “I didn’t mean that. We’ll get the money all right. We’ll get the money for everything that has already crossed the border.”
“How much has he sold?”
“A lot. Almost half of what has been taken across. At decent prices, too. The other half could take up to a year to dispose of, but that doesn’t matter, does it? We have time. That is not what worries me.”
Manu smiled gravely and went over to get the coffee pot, refilled both cups, and sat down again. “What is it that worries you, then?” he asked, bending over his coffee.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? We have to make our move now, before it’s too late.” He pushed his coffee cup away, the worried frown on his face making him look like a fifteen-year-old, and ran his hands through his light brown curls. “I hate this,” he said with passion in his voice. “I wish there was some other way to raise the money.”
“There isn’t,” said his friend. “You were the one to realize that. This isn’t ’36. There aren’t crowds of helpful foreigners out there to pity us, to send us money for guns and rice. And the better things get, the harder it is to get money. So here we are, two paces along the road to freedom and independence, and we cannot move a single step farther. Unless we do what we are doing. What I hate is having to use a pig like Carlos. Or his friend.”
“Once you accept the necessity of subverting honesty to achieve your goals, you accept the necessity of a Carlos. That is why they exist,” said the buru mournfully. “That is why they exist.” He shook his head. “But it is too late now to worry about that. I have worked out the only way to do it and keep us safe. Because that is what is important. It is complex, perhaps too complex, but it should enable us to get clear. The others appear in their proper roles,” he said, all of a sudden grinning angelically, “as mules, bearing their burdens patiently and stupidly.” He pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil and once more began to jot down the beginnings of a plan.
Chapter 6
At precisely two, Frank Whitelaw walked into the sitting room without bothering to knock. He was a very different creature from the red-faced and brandy-soaked buffoon in the crumpled dinner jacket of the night before. He was now dressed with casual nonchalance in velvet corduroy and Irish tweed; his silvery gold hair billowed in richly shaped clouds around his elegant head. Sanders did some rapid mental revisions in his estimate of Whitelaw’s possible function in Clara von Hohenkammer’s household.
“Was it you who tried to call off the meeting this morning?” asked Sanders.
“Meeting?” said Whitelaw in apparent astonishment. “What meeting?”
“The meeting with”—and Sanders drew out his notebook, which he consulted ostentatiously—“Mr. Charles Britton, an accountant.” He looked up again. “The one Mrs. von Hohenkammer asked you to arrange. To discuss her finances, I assume. Only she died before he got here.”
“Oh, no,” said Whitelaw easily. “That meeting was to look into Triple Saracen Development, Milanovich’s company. Clara was considering helping her son-in-law out of his current disastrous mess. She wasn’t worried about her own financial situation. I would have known if she had been. As for who canceled it, I don’t know.” He cocked his head charmingly to one side. “I should have, I admit. But in the stress of the last twelve hours, I forgot about it. Mr. Milanovich must have called and canceled. A thoughtful gesture.”
“Did your employer have any enemies that you know of? She was a famous woman. Had she received any threats, by telephone or in the mail? Who opened her mail, Mr. Whitelaw? You?” asked Sanders.
“Enemies?” Whitelaw stood up and walked over to the other side of the room, where he paused to straighten a pen-and-ink drawing that had drooped a millimeter out of true; he turned and slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. And yes, I usually opened and answered her business correspondence. There were no threats that I knew of. Who could possibly have—” He suddenly sat down on a small damask love seat. “This has been a great blow to me. She was a great lady, a very great lady.”
Sanders regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “That’s an interesting sketch over there,” he said, nodding at the one that Whitelaw had just straightened. “Is it valuable?”
Whitelaw nodded. “Clara didn’t bother hanging things that aren’t valuable. By and large. And except for the Mondrian in the living room, her best pieces are all in here. For security, really. She never let strangers in this room.”
“What else is in here,” said Sanders, “beside
s a fortune in art?”
“Her business records,” said Whitelaw, nodding at the filing cabinet set against the wall. “All the ones that aren’t in Munich, that is.”
“Perhaps you could give me a quick run-through on her filing system,” said Sanders gloomily. “Before we start going through them.”
“Certainly,” said Whitelaw in tones of the gravest courtesy. “How’s your German?”
“German?”
“All of her financial records except for a few Canadian bank statements are in German, of course.” Sanders could hear the deep belly laughter that Frank Whitelaw was suppressing as he stood there and looked solemnly in their direction.
By the time John Sanders had recovered his equanimity sufficiently to check through the filing cabinet to see if Whitelaw was telling the truth—he was—and to come back downstairs, the von Hohenkammer family had gathered in the dining room. Theresa was in a black skirt and white blouse and carefully, but not garishly, made up. The perfect grief-stricken daughter, thought Sanders. Her sister was in jeans and bare feet, looking white faced and miserable. Sorrow? Guilt? Maybe both.
“Do you think,” said Theresa, “that we could sit somewhere more comfortable than this room?”
“Just a minute,” said Sanders. “I’ll check the state of things.” In the conservatory, Collins was standing by the table, holding several sheets of paper in his hand. “Did you find anything?” asked Sanders.
“Nothing significant, as far as I can tell.” Collins shook his head gloomily. “There’s nothing here but writing paper and airmail envelopes and stamps and things like that.”
“Then leave it and start in on the upstairs sitting room.”
Collins gave him a mutinous look. “Give us a break. We’ve been working down here all morning. O’Connor just went out for sandwiches; we thought it’d be nice to eat for a change. If you don’t mind.”