Murder in a Good Cause (17 page)

I am coming to Toronto as soon as I can arrange it; probably the week of September 17th. You have often invited me; I now accept. As an old friend, I must insist that you permit me to talk these things over with you in person.

Please do not be too angry with me. Until next week, then,

Peter

Sanders read it again, then read it aloud to Dubinsky, who was weaving through the Sunday traffic. “Now what?” he said gloomily. “Peter, of course, is the lawyer. And that means this trip isn't something he just laid on. What do we know about who opens her mail?”

Dubinsky shrugged. “Whitelaw does,” said the long-suffering sergeant. “When he's around. But why is she selling all her stock?”

“Broke suddenly? Transferring cash into some other project? Blackmail? A boyfriend? Someone could be conning her out of it. Although she didn't sound easily conned.”

“And whatever was going on, she was being secretive about it, because we haven't heard anything. Not even from the accountant.”

“If whatever she was doing was so drastic that her lawyer was going to fly out from Germany, there must be a whiff of it somewhere.”

“You want me to go back for Bauer? Put him to work on the files?”

“No good,” said Sanders morosely. “I tried him yesterday. He can understand the German, all right, but it's all financial stuff, doesn't mean a thing to him. Back to our own files, then.”

Ed Dubinsky was working steadily and unhurriedly through the file on Frank Whitelaw, making his usual precise jottings on the material as he worked. Sanders had collected everything on Clara's family and was flipping erratically through it, occasionally stopping to read something that seemed to be of interest and otherwise apparently paying little attention to the material in front of him. Finally, he piled all the folders up again, pushed his chair back, and slouched down in an attitude of total collapse.

“Find anything?” said Dubinsky.

“Hard to say,” said Sanders. “Did you?”

“Whitelaw keeps claiming that he ran all her business affairs,” said Dubinsky, “but I don't see how he could have had anything to do with all this.” He nodded at the letter from the Munich lawyer lying on the desk in front of him. “He wasn't even in the city most of the summer. Off visiting friends in New York and Cape Cod, even went to Paris for a week.”

“There are such things as telephones,” said Sanders repressively.

“Yeah, but if he had been the one helping her raise all that cash, or whatever she was doing, then why would the lawyer worry about him opening the mail when he wasn't around? If you see what I mean. I mean if he's an accomplice— Dammit!” he said, and scratched his head. “The lawyer addresses the letter that way because someone is helping her do whatever she's doing, and that person opens her mail for her, and he doesn't want that person to open this letter.”

Sanders was staring at him as if he were the family dog, suddenly endowed with the gift of speech. “What in hell are you talking about?” he said finally.

Dubinsky took a deep breath. “I'm trying to figure out who he didn't want to open the letter, that's all.”

“Could be anyone,” said Sanders. “She could have told anyone to open the business mail and sort it and to send on the personal mail unopened.”

“Like who?”

“Mrs. Milanovich,” said Sanders. “Mr. Milanovich. Her neighbour. Her nephew. Wasn't he around part of the summer?”

Dubinsky nodded. “Maybe the other daughter was, too.”

Sanders yawned and nodded. “Sure. She was back and forth. Between Toronto and Muskoka. It's in there somewhere.”

“What I can't see is how that could have anything to do with why she got killed. Suppose someone was helping her raise cash. Why kill her? And why does she need someone to help her, anyway?”

“You've got it backwards, Ed,” said Sanders coolly. “She was doing it on her own, and someone killed her to stop her from throwing all her money away. Like her daughter. Like both her daughters.”

“So why the crazy letter?”

“Just because this Peter doesn't want Whitelaw or whoever reading a letter where he's rapping her knuckles? It's tact, Dubinsky. That's all. Just tact. Or is that a concept you've never run into?”

“So it doesn't matter why she was spending all that money.”

“Or whatever,” said Sanders. “Probably not. Just that she was. We've got to get those damned files read,” he added in a mutter, running his hands impatiently through his hair.

“Maybe we should call the lawyer,” suggested Dubinsky, “and find out what he knows.”

“No point,” said Sanders. “He left yesterday. He's in London, and no one knows exactly where. Or if they do, they're not telling us.”

“Hell,” said Dubinsky. “Why should they? Nobody tells us anything over here.”

“Quit bitching, Ed. You can drop me off on your way home. I need some sleep,” he added without specifying the reason. “We should be able to get a line on things tomorrow. Nothing's going to happen tonight.”

Which, as it happened, was true enough. But the consideration of what tomorrow might reveal was causing the drafting of some interesting, or even drastic, contingency plans here and there about the city.

At nine-thirty Monday morning, in a state of extreme irritation, Harriet Jeffries walked up to the front door of Clara von Hohenkammer's house. She had sleep to catch up on, work to get finished, and some profound disruptions in her life that needed time and thought. Simple humanity and ordinary charity had been battling with her own selfish interests ever since Nikki had telephoned her an hour and a half ago, but with guilt on their side, humanity and charity had won hands down. They hadn't been able to make her feel happy about this mercy visit, though.

Nikki was sitting in the conservatory in the full morning sun, still looking white with exhaustion, the morning paper spread out, unread, in her lap. She struggled to her feet when Harriet walked in and smiled a pale smile. “I'll get you some coffee,” she murmured, and pressed the bell on the desk. When Bettl appeared, however, her voice lost its languor; she snapped something too rapid for Harriet to catch, and the housekeeper hustled out again as fast as she had arrived. Nikki was getting very like her mother, thought Harriet, very quickly.

“I won't ask you how you are,” said Harriet as soon as the coffee had arrived. “But tell me if there's anything I can do.” As soon as the words fell out of her mouth, she realized she had made a horrible mistake. She was right.

Nikki took the opening at a dead gallop. “Could you stay here with me for a few days?” she said. Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke. “I know it's a lot to ask, but . . .” Harriet stared at her in amazement, wondering if this child had any idea just how much she was asking. “I need someone. I am so tired and miserable; I can't cope with people, and they seem to be turning up all the time, asking me to make decisions about everything.”

“Isn't your cousin staying here?” asked Harriet. “Can't he help?”

“Oh, Klaus,” she said with just a touch of amused contempt in her voice. “He's not very good at that sort of thing. For one thing, he doesn't understand how to deal with staff. If Bettl asked him what we wanted for dinner, he'd tell her not to worry about cooking, we could all go out to eat.”

“I'm not sure that I'd do any better,” Harriet said cautiously. She paused to think. “I wouldn't mind staying here, really,” she said, lying furiously, “but I have to work this afternoon, out of town. An overnight assignment. I won't be back until tomorrow morning. If then.”

“Can't you put it off for a few days?”

“No. It's the way the business works. If I can't do a job when it's wanted, it goes to another firm.” She felt a twinge—very small—of guilt as she said this, since although what she was saying was true enough, it certainly didn't apply to this particular project. It was a small condominium development, and when she had told the architect ten days ago that she wouldn't be able to start until this week at the earliest, he hadn't cared at all. “Just get it done before the snow hits the landscaping,” he had said briskly. She had no intention of telling Nikki that.

“I'm sorry, Harriet,” said Nikki, with a stricken look. “But it's so lonely here. I don't know anyone who isn't involved day and night in some important project or other, and I can't occupy myself for two consecutive hours,” she added bitterly. “I'm worse than Theresa. She at least has the children, even if she lets other people clean up after them.” She looked out the window to hide the tears that had welled up as she spoke. “I lead a completely useless life. I have no occupation, no interests, nothing I can do well. Not like Mamma,” she said in a very low voice. “Mamma was so good at what she did, and loved it so much. She never had time to sit around and feel sorry for herself.”

“Well, dammit, Nikki, if that's how you feel, then do something,” said Harriet, exasperated. “Get a job, go to university, start a business, I don't know. What you need is a little hard work. When did you last work hard at something?”

Veronika's head swiveled back to Harriet in surprise. “What?” She had to think for a minute. “Four years ago. Greek. That was hard work.”

“Well, do something like that again. Have you been to university?”

“I started,” she said brightly. “Then I got mixed up with all kinds of people and sort of didn't get finished.”

“There you go,” said Harriet. “Go back to university.” She paused. “Is there anything you'd want to do in university?”

Veronika leaned forward in excitement. “Archaeology. I want to do archaeology. That's why I took Greek. Only Mamma thought—”

Harriet held up her hand. “You're twenty-two, Nikki, and you can do what you want to do. Within reason. If it's archaeology, then why not? It's respectable, and a great career for someone with money,” she added with slight malice.

“If I have any money,” Nikki replied uneasily. “Mamma may not have left me anything. Still, my share of Papa's estate will keep me while I go to university if I'm not too extravagant.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “It won't buy me red sports cars, though.”

“Believe it or not, Nikki, my child, it's possible to live without a red sports car,” said Harriet. “Since you're stuck in Toronto, anyway”—this was the most tactful way she could find to refer to the police investigation—“why don't you spend a few days down at the museum? They have a good Middle Eastern collection. Maybe the curator won't mind talking to you about, uh, pots and things. I mean, archaeology.”

Nikki jumped up. “What a great idea! Let's go to the museum. You don't mind coming with me, do you? Damn,” she said, and sat down again. “I forgot.”

“Yes,” said Harriet. “The memorial service.”

Harriet felt as if she had just kicked a puppy. A tiresome but lovable puppy. “We'll have to put it off to tomorrow,” said Veronika. “When shall we go?”

“Later on,” said Harriet. “Call me.” She put down her coffee cup and stood up. “Take care, Nikki. I'll see you later,” she murmured, and fled from the house.

At ten minutes past ten the smallest boardroom at the bank gave the appearance of being sufficiently filled to contain a meeting of consequence. A half-dozen soberly attired men and one equally drably clad woman were chatting amicably. A certain distance separated Milan Milanovich from them—a distance you couldn't measure with a tape, but it was there, a clear, obvious, and almost-palpable barrier. Beside him, within the invisibly fenced off area that he occupied, was his lawyer, briskly cultivating an air of professional boredom.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said one of the beautifully tailored crowd, the one at the head of the table, and he evoked a hush of impressive dimensions. “We are waiting for Charles Britton, are we not?” He raised a questioning eyebrow about the table. “Who requested permission to attend as a representative of a major investor in the firm in question; major new investor, that is.”

Milanovich's lawyer straightened out the papers in front of him and addressed the middle of the table, speaking to a tray holding a carafe of water and eight glasses. “Mr. Britton was to have represented the late Mrs. Clara von Hohenkammer, who was prepared to inject a sizable amount of new capital into the firm. Not sizable in your terms, gentlemen”—and here everyone smiled politely—“but sizable in terms of the present capitalization of Triple Saracen.” He paused to allow an appreciative murmur to run through the group, should anyone care to start one. “This would, of course, have materially changed the position of the company in relation to its present obligations.”

“Does this mean that Triple Saracen will, or would, have enough to pay back the monies loaned it by this and other banks, then?” The question came from the woman, whose face was deadpan and voice sardonic and whose relative power was indicated by her seat on the chairman's right.

“Bloody bitch of an accountant,” the lawyer whispered into Milanovich's ear. “Not quite,” he replied. “It certainly would have been enough to enable the company to navigate successfully through this temporarily difficult period, to satisfy suppliers, meet payroll and interest obligations, and generally to convince you, gentlemen”—he stumbled slightly and looked up—“and, uh, lady, that this is a viable corporation.”

“This money, however, is not now forthcoming?” This was the smooth, rich voice from the head of the table, a chairman-of-the-board voice. “Because of Mrs. Von Hohenkammer's tragic and unexpected death?”

“Yes.” The lawyer nodded in agreement, and shuffled through the papers in front of him. “That is correct, but only in a manner of speaking. Mr. Milanovich informs me that he will shortly have access”—and here he moved a few more papers—“again in a manner of speaking, that is, through his wife, to half of the von Hohenkammer estate.” His eyes remained glued to the material in front of him until he finished. At last, he raised his head and smiled. “Which is, as I'm sure you realize, a considerable sum.”

“Are you sure?” asked the chairman. The woman frowned, clearly wondering whether
Mrs
. Milanovich knew what was being said on her behalf. Milanovich's lawyer moved over to the other side of the table and began to lay out their position to the chairman and the accountant. Milan sat where he had been put when he first walked into the room thirty-five minutes before, sweat beading in the creases of his forehead and trickling down his collar. Finally, the chairman raised his hand and voice once again. “In that case, perhaps we should adjourn this meeting for two weeks, and at that time, if Mrs. Milanovich would be so kind as to attend, and, if possible, the lawyer for the estate, perhaps we can work out a satisfactory solution to the present difficulty. Gentlemen? Madam?” Everyone murmured and smiled and began to gather up papers and briefcases. Milanovich sat as he had been sitting, until his lawyer grasped him under the arm and steered him out of the room.

One of the gray-suited types collared the chairman deftly before he could get away; he engaged him in two minutes of intense discussion and then strolled out of the meeting room. He walked casually over to a window where a tall man with his back to the crowd was studying a large dark green, menacing-looking plant. “Hello, John,” he said. “Enjoying yourself? Our boy is off the hook for two weeks. Stay of execution granted by the executive vice-president. Which is just as well. I'd like to do a bit more digging before the roof falls in on him.”

Sanders turned and nodded. “Bloody well time you turned up, Doug. You sure the roof is going to fall in on him?”

Douglas McMeans of the fraud squad smiled serenely. “As sure as God made little green apples,” he murmured. “A week next Monday the receivers go in. Even if his wife comes through with a promise of all the money from Mummy's estate, it won't help. He's into two different pension funds, paying off two different sets of officials, and they're both scared shitless. Anyway, the estate won't get through probate for months and months. And when it does, it won't be enough. No matter how much it is, it won't be enough. By the way, you didn't need to worry about him noticing you. He wouldn't have noticed you if you'd climbed into his lap.”

Sanders paused at the top of the stone stairs that led into St. Peter's Church on St. Clair Avenue. He was even later than he thought, and the memorial service was well on its way to being over. He slipped into a side pew at the rear and looked cautiously around him. In spite of Clara's wealth and fame there were few people in the church, most of them familiar. Front and centre he picked out the pale brown of Theresa's hair and the darker brown of her husband's. Veronika sat beside them, looking small and insignificant. In a well-organized world, unbearable guilt should be forcing one of them to rush over to the coffin and scream, “Mamma!” or maybe, “Clara!” or even, “Aunt Clara! Sorry about the cyanide.” Or words to that effect. But things like that never happened on his cases.

Twenty minutes later, the small crowd was milling about aimlessly on the church steps. A proper funeral mass, with all its attendant pomp and circumstance, would be held in Munich. Under the circumstances, there would be no post-funereal festivities here, and people seemed uncertain of what to do with themselves. Except for John Sanders, who was scanning the crowd carefully in the approved manner. But not for a murderer. He caught sight of slender, squared shoulders and medium-length straight hair under a dark beret moving quickly down the outside edge of the broad stairs. His heart lurched. He raised an arm in a futile gesture to catch her attention and started to run at a diagonal down the steps to reach her before she got away. A hand fell on his shoulder as he was darting around a tightly knit group. “Inspector, I'm pleased to have caught you.” He recognized the voice of Klaus Leitner and turned in fury. “Mr. Peter Lohr would like to speak to you. He is the family lawyer; he just got in from Munich.”

Sanders stopped where he was, pale with anger. As soon as he had let his eyes wander from her, Harriet had disappeared. There went his only chance to talk to her. Suddenly and frustratingly, she had made herself completely unavailable. She had turned on her answering machine last night and, as far as he could judge, simply left it on. He could not bear to lose her again so soon after rediscovering her, and lost she must certainly be, he felt profoundly, if he didn't see her again for weeks.

A man in a dark gray suit was standing quietly on the church steps, studying the landscaping with apparent concentration. “Inspector Sanders? I am Peter Lohr,” he said, and held out his hand. He was fiftyish, tanned, lean, and fit, and he had the pleasantly relaxed manner that often seems to accompany an enormous bank balance. The rigors of intercontinental travel had failed to destroy the effect of his exquisitely tailored suit or understated silk tie. But then, reflected Sanders, you couldn't expect Clara's lawyer to look as if he spent his life bailing whores out of jail in the middle of the night. “I am most anxious to speak to you about this business, Inspector,” said Lohr. “Perhaps you would accompany me to the house. I understand it is only a brief walk.”