Murder in a Good Cause (18 page)

Sanders nodded and followed him down the steps.

“I'm afraid that we have things to discuss,” Lohr added as soon as they had crossed the wide and busy street. “I haven't even had time yet to see how Clara's poor children are,” he said as a gentle reminder to Sanders that he represented them as well.

“Yes,” said Sanders curtly. “There are also certain things that we need to know from you, such as the terms of Mrs. von Hohenkammer's will.”

“The will that is presently in effect?” asked Lohr.

“Yes,” said Sanders curiously. “Was there . . .”

“She had asked me to prepare a new will for her. But she did not have time to have it signed. According to the old will, the estate is split between the two daughters, but Theresa's half is largely tied up in trust for the children. Two-thirds of it.”

“And in the new will?”

“In the new will, it is completely tied up. She doesn't get a mark in capital.”

“But why . . .”

“Clara thought her a fool married to a fool and a thief. Is this the house, Inspector?”

The huge living room made the small group look very small. Klaus Leitner was leaning against the cold hearth, one elbow on the mantelpiece, a study in elegance. Sanders saw him shoot his arm out from his sleeve and glance quickly at his wrist. Trying to figure out how long he had to stay there. He sympathized a little. Theresa was sitting in one of the large chairs, at its edge, perched upright and looking intensely at her husband. A look of wifely concern and affection? Not bloody likely, thought Sanders, taking in the rhythmic sideways swish of her foot. It reminded him of the tail of an angry cat, lashing slowly back and forth. Her husband stood for a while beside Leitner, then paced up and down, and then sat down on the large couch beside Veronika. She was the only one who was absolutely still, very pale, concentrating hard on Herr Lohr as he read the document in front of him. Frank Whitelaw leaned slightly over the back of the couch, but whether the attitude was protective or predatory, Sanders could not tell. Bettl stood in the doorway with the air of a waitress anxious to clear away the coffee cups and go home. Sanders was finding it interesting to sit in the background, watching their actions and expressions, unable to understand what anyone was saying, yet knowing to some extent, from Lohr's brief summary, what was being said. Only the Milanoviches and Whitelaw conversed in English, since Milan's German didn't seem to be good enough for this sort of occasion. Milan's voice provided an annoying tenor counterpoint to Lohr's steady baritone as he bobbed back and forth, asking his wife what was being said. She frowned and shook her head and refused to translate.

Lohr finished his preamble to the will and started in on the specific provisions. Klaus Leitner looked surprised; he hadn't expected as much as he got, then. Maybe. Bettl—that is, Elisabeth—Kotzmeier looked impassive, her face a closed mask. Annoyed. She had expected a larger slice of the pie. Whitelaw looked as if he had known all along what to expect. Perhaps he had, or perhaps he was as good an actor as his former employer. There was a jumble of strange names—friends and relations in Munich—and then a quick summary of the disposal of the residual estate. The inclusion of “Veronika, my daughter,” drew a sideways glance, bright-eyed and heightened in color, from wife to husband, but not until Lohr came to Theresa's name did the real reaction come. Even her husband grasped that part. Milan Milanovich leaned back and stared at the lawyer, his cheeks splashed with scarlet rounds of color; his wife slowly turned an ashen gray.

“So that's that, Nikki dear. I'm so glad that Mamma didn't carry out her threat. It would have been awkward for us if she had. Or perhaps you already knew?” Theresa's tone was carrying; she spoke in English, making sure Inspector Sanders had not missed her speech. Veronika von Hohenkammer shook her head in bewilderment and then began to sob.

Sanders looked at his watch: seven twenty-three. Lohr, whom he had to talk to, was tied up with the von Hohenkammer children and assorted hangers-on tonight. He would see the inspector in the morning, he had said firmly, in a voice that invited no argument. And now he was alone. Whatever she was doing, wherever she had been, she ought to be home by now. He dialed the number, very carefully. The telephone rang, once, twice, started to ring a third time, and clicked. “Hi, there,” said a slightly tinny version of Harriet's voice, “you've managed to dial Harriet Jeffries/Parallax Productions. I'm in the darkroom and too covered with chemicals to take your call right now. Wait until that funny little noise sounds and then leave your name and number. I'll get back to you as soon as humanly possible. Thanks.”

“Goddamn it, Harriet,” he roared into the phone, “I hate answering machines. I especially hate cute answering machines that lie. You can't still be in the darkroom. If you are sitting there listening to this and you don't call me back, I am going to come over to your place and drown you in the fucking darkroom. And thank you, too. I'm at the apartment,” he added in a slightly more normal tone. “And it's bloody Monday at bloody seven twenty-five.” After he hung up, it occurred to him that he hadn't thought to leave his name. She'd know who it was. How many irascible, unpleasant, obscene, and overbearing male friends could she possibly have?

Nikki von Hohenkammer woke up in a state of acute physical discomfort. After a little groggy thought, it occurred to her that she was cold. Very cold. Her feet, covered only by a sheet, were aching with cold. And there was no remedy for it where she was. She ran across the icy floor, pulled back the curtains, and slammed the window shut. A new and hostile world looked back at her from the other side of the pane. The sky outside was gray; the tree branches shivered restlessly in the wind. The summer's heat, which had stretched so unseasonably into September, had come to an abrupt end. She continued her survey of the premises, nagged by a sense that something else was wrong. After a minute, it came to her: The omnipresent police car no longer sat in the gravel drive in front of the house, and as bitterly as she had resented its presence, its absence now made her feel unprotected and alone. She shivered and headed for the shower.

While she stood under the biting spray, letting the hot water run through her hair, she considered her various problems. The first one needed little thought. If she were arrested before her plane left for Munich on Thursday afternoon, there would be no decisions to be made. Herr Lohr would stay in the country until he was sure she had a good lawyer. If she weren't arrested, though, there would be things she had to come to terms with. She needed to talk to someone about the money. She had been so convinced that she would get nothing—as convinced as Theresa had been that
she
would get everything—that she was totally unprepared to face undisputed possession of all that wealth. Not that her mother's will was out of character: Veronika, who had always been careful with money—that extravagant red car had been a present—received her just half; Theresa, who had always thrown money away with abandon, had her just half tied up to protect her from herself and her husband. No matter what threats she made, Mamma had always acted rationally. Nikki stepped out of the shower and toweled herself dry as fiercely as if she were trying to remove her old skin. She wrapped a towel around her head and went back into the bedroom.

Last night's dinner had been appalling; she had no intention of going through anything like that again. Theresa's voice had become softer and sweeter with every sentence, the way it always did when she was in a homicidal rage. Nikki shuddered. And Milan. Halfway through the schnitzel, one of Bettl's more successful efforts, he had put down his knife and fork, smiled wordlessly, and walked out. They had all looked at Theresa, whose expression did not change, and then pretended that nothing had happened. Through the delicate clatter of knife and fork on china, they heard the crash of the front door, the metallic slam of the car door, and a grinding of the ignition as the Porsche started up. It was followed by a screech of tires scrabbling to make contact on gravel, and Milan was gone.

For the rest of the evening Theresa sat like an infuriated Roman matron, toying with her food and drink until Frank Whitelaw offered to drive her home.

Throughout the whole hideous meal Whitelaw had tried valiantly to pretend that nothing had happened; he had done his best to maintain a witty dinner-table discourse with Nikki and Herr Lohr, being amusing about art and the oddities of the colonial cultural scene. Paradoxically, he made everything worse. She was grateful for his efforts, but they reminded her that she didn't really want him, oozing tact and charm, around forever. How was she going to dismantle her mother's network of dependents without being totally coldhearted and ruthless? She shook her head. She would have breakfast, talk to Klaus about his business, ask Herr Lohr about the estate, and make some decisions. Throwing on some jeans and a sweatshirt, she headed out to face the world.

The smell of coffee drifted in through a silent house. She walked down the hall and pounded on Klaus's door. She was rewarded by a low moan. “It's past nine,” she called. “Breakfast is now.”

The table was neatly laid with a basket of rolls and several pots of jam. Veronika walked into the empty kitchen. It was spotlessly clean. A large china pot of coffee sat on a warming plate, and on the stove was a pan filled with milk. She reached over and turned on the burner under it. Inside the refrigerator she found freshly cut butter and a pitcher of orange juice. She carried them all into the dining room, considered the ambient gloom, piled everything on a large tray, and carried it into the conservatory. “Bring the coffee,” she called to Klaus, whose footfalls were echoing on the stairs.

“What about the milk?” he asked. “It's boiling.”

“Bring it, too, of course,” she answered impatiently.

“Where's the omnipresent Bettl?” asked her cousin as he came into the conservatory with two china pots.

“She must be out shopping,” said Nikki. “I came down and found everything laid out. Like the magic castle in
Beauty and the Beast
.”

“Well, we've got Beauty,” he said, “and Bettl makes a good Beast, but I don't know quite where I fit into this plot.” His ramblings were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. “I'll get it,” he said. “Pour me some coffee, will you?”

He listened for a long time, looking slightly glazed, and finally spoke. “Look, Theresa, just let me finish my coffee and I'll be right over. Have you called the police?” The phone sputtered hysterically back at him. “All right, sweetheart, we won't do that. Just hang on until I get there.” He dropped the receiver back in its cradle. “That's all we need right now,” he said gloomily.

“For God's sake, what has happened?” snapped Nikki. “What do you mean, police?”

“Your esteemed brother-in-law has disappeared, taking two suitcases, the Porsche, all the cash in the house; a considerable amount.”

“How much?” interrupted Nikki.

“Over seven thousand dollars,” Klaus continued. “Kept around for buying milk with after the banks close, I suppose. Anyway, he vanished during the night like the snows of yesteryear.”

Nikki giggled. “You aren't very sympathetic. Is Theresa upset?”

“She appeared to me to be furious rather than upset, although she did use words like ‘worried out of her mind' and ‘what if something has happened to him.' But it struck me that she'd be even more upset if nothing had. Anyway, I'll go over there and see what I can do to calm her down. Unless you need me here?”

Nikki shook her head. “I have lots to do, if I can only get around to it. I might have lunch with Harriet. Don't worry about me.”

Veronika shut the door thoughtfully behind her cousin and walked back to the conservatory. The room was gray and gloomy, like the day, and she shivered with the cold. She had to get out of the house, but first she had to find some warmer clothes. Her mother must have had sweaters over here. After all, she always came in early spring. As soon as she put socks on her icy feet, she would look for something she could wear.

Her mother's sitting room was still locked and sealed off, but the police had removed their seals from the bedroom. She went over to the dressing room and threw open the huge closets. They were almost empty. Damn! What had happened to all the clothes? There were some thin wool dresses, not warm enough, too long, and much too conservative in cut. There should also have been warm wool pants. She began to open the large drawers that filled one wall. They were empty. Goddamn Theresa must have been in here as soon as the police left and swiped everything she could get into. Or Bettl, in which case it would be everything any member of her large and unpleasant family could get into. She slammed the drawers shut. Unless . . . of course. Mamma might have had her woolens packed away in the basement, not cluttering up her closets during the hot weather.

Veronika put on a pair of running shoes and headed for the basement stairs. Where would she have kept everything? Not in Klaus's darkroom. She opened the wine cellar, looked around, and shut it again. The next room was a storage room, usually locked, but of course the police had removed the padlock. It contained four wooden packing cases and an assortment of empty cartons. She glanced at the wooden crates, which were filled but not yet nailed down. Surely even her mother didn't ship all her clothes back and forth across the Atlantic in wooden crates, but you never knew. Poor dear Mamma—her eyes filled with tears—had had some rather pre-jet travel notions. She pushed open the partially closed box nearest to her. It was filled with shredded paper and objects carefully enveloped in bubble packing. She took out one and unwrapped it. It was a silver teapot, in need of polishing, but, to her inexpert eye, very pretty. A box filled with antiques she had picked up over here? Odd when you thought of the house in Munich and the house in the country both stuffed full of this sort of thing. She set the teapot down on another crate.

She opened the next wrapped package. It was a silver teapot, in need of polishing. She stared at it for a long time. She opened the next one. It was a silver teapot, in need of polishing. She began to giggle. Mamma must have been going berserk. She kept pushing away the material and finding more parcels. When she had extracted the fourth silver teapot, three sugar bowls, six sets of tongs, a tray, and four cream jugs, she had a demented vision of her mother opening an antique shop in the house in Munich. Her impulse to laugh was suddenly displaced by cold fear. What in hell was going on?

She tried to remember when Mamma had started insisting that this room be locked. This summer? Last summer? Or was it Mamma? Maybe it had been Theresa. She could see herself, as clearly as if she were still there, sitting on the dock in the sun, dangling her feet in the water, reading the Toronto papers, which were filled with articles about a wave of large-scale thefts in the city. Thefts of art, jewelry, and silver. Good, expensive silver. And Mamma had become worried about money, hadn't she, in the last year. Worried about Theresa being left penniless, about Milan's shady dealings. And, she suddenly remembered, worried about running afoul of the law. Mamma would scarcely have been breaking into houses, but she could have been helping someone, for a share in the profits. . . . Veronika shook her head. It was mad. Her mother would never do something like that. Would she? But how much did she really know about her mother? And what other explanation could there be for all this? And whom, of all the people in this city, would Mamma have bent the law to help? She felt a sick sense of dread as she thought of her sister and her husband, in prison, and her niece and nephew . . .

Meanwhile, she was getting colder and colder. She left the room, flung open the door of Klaus's darkroom, and grabbed a heavy sweater he had left hanging there on the hook. She ran upstairs to her bedroom, put on a T-shirt, pulled on the sweater, reached for the phone, and dialed 911. But as soon as she heard herself asking for the police, she broke out into a sweat. This was crazy. Whatever it was that Mamma had been mixed up in, she couldn't call the police. She hung up and redialed. She listened impatiently to Harriet's answering machine and then poured out her dilemma in incoherent bursts. “Harriet, it's Nikki. I've found some things . . . in the house. I'm sure they shouldn't be there, and I have to talk to someone. I'll meet you at noon . . .” Suddenly she remembered that Harriet was out of town for the morning. “No, four o'clock would be better for you, wouldn't it? I'll see you there at four. By the front entrance.”

As she dropped the receiver down in its cradle, another telephone in the house disconnected as well.

When the telephone rang, Carlos was just patting cologne onto his newly shaved cheeks. He listened to the steady voice, grunted, and slammed the receiver down. In less than a minute, he had changed into more respectable clothes, stuffed his pockets with wallet, cash, and keys, and was out the door. In another ten, he was heading east along St. Clair, confident that the girl would be moving west, toward shopping and restaurants. In fact, there she was, walking across the bridge, in the direction of the subway station. The car would be a distinct liability. He turned at the first corner, parked under a No Parking at Any Time sign, and set out after her.

He thought briefly about what he had been asked to do and rejected it as too complicated and dangerous. Never leave loose ends was the credo he lived by. Much better to deal with her permanently. The subway station would be the best place. As he mulled over the problem, his longer legs eating up the distance between them, he fished in his pocket for change. He paused at the first newspaper box he came to, indifferent to its contents, shoved in his money, and took out a paper, useful for hiding busy hands. Up ahead, the girl slowed as she approached the subway station, and he reached into his pocket for bills to buy tokens with. She paused in front of it and peered into her big shoulder bag. She looked up at the sky, dropped the flap of her bag shut, and headed toward Yonge Street.

“What the hell?” he muttered as he tucked his paper under his arm and followed, adjusting his pace to hers as they moved. Wherever she was going, she was dead easy to follow. In her red-and-blue heavy sweater that reached almost to the knees of her disreputable blue jeans, she offered a striking contrast to the neat dark suits and skirts of the working women striding purposefully along the street.

She turned at the corner and headed briskly down Yonge Street.

Manu put down his burden and knocked peremptorily at the door of the apartment. He heard leisurely footsteps inside; the door opened halfway, and there was a split second of frozen movement as the fence took in the sight in front of him.

“For chrissake, man,” he hissed, “get that stuff out of the hall.” Manu leaned down lazily and picked up the box again; as soon as he had a grip on it, the fence grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the apartment. “I thought I told you not to bring it here. Not now.”

“Don't bother to close the door,” said Manu. “The buru will be here in a second with the rest. It's all downstairs. He's bringing it up.”