The Day After Tomorrow

123

“SEVERAL DAYS before Doctor Osborn’s father was murdered”—McVey had taken a small, dog-eared notebook from his jacket, and was half looking at it as he talked to Scholl—”he designed a scalpel. A very special kind of scalpel. Designed and made for his employer, a small company outside Boston. It was a company you owned, Mr. Scholl.”

“I never owned a company that manufactured scalpels.”

“I don’t know if they manufactured scalpels, I only know one was made.”

McVey had known from the moment Goetz went upstairs, to advise him what had happened, that Scholl would leave his guests and come down to meet him. His ego would make him. How could he pass up the chance to meet the man who had just survived a deadly ambush and still had the hubris to invade his private arena? But the curiosity would be fleeting, and as soon as he had seen enough he would leave. That is, unless McVey could take that same curiosity and run with it. That was the trick, working the curiosity, because the next level was emotion and he had a gut sense that Scholl was a lot more emotional than he let on to anyone. Once people started reacting emotionally, they were apt to say anything.

“The company was called Microtab and based in Waltham, Massachusetts. At the time, it was controlled by a privately held company called Wentworth Products Limited, of Ontario, Canada. The man who owned it was”—McVey squinted at his handwriting—“Mr. James Tallmadge of Windsor, Ontario. Tallmadge and the board of directors of Microtab—Earl Samules, Evan Hart and a John Harris, all of Boston—died within a half-dozen months of each other. The Microtab people in 1966. Tallmadge in 1967.”

“I never heard of a company called Microtab, Mr. McVey,” Scholl said. “Now, I think I’ve given you enough time. Mr. Goetz will entertain you while I return to my guests. Within the hour the proper attorneys will be here to answer your warrant.”

Scholl pushed back his chair and stood, and McVey could see Goetz sigh with relief.

“Tallmadge and the others were involved with two other of your companies.” McVey kept on as if Scholl had never spoken. “Alama Steel, Limited of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and Standard Technologies of Perth Amboy, New Jersey. Standard Technologies, by the way, was a subsidiary of a company called T.L.T. International of New York, which was dissolved in 1967.”

Scholl stared in amazement. “What is the purpose of this recitation?” he said coldly.

“I’m simply giving you the opportunity to explain.”

“Just what is it you wish me to explain?”

“Your connection to all these companies and the fact that—”

“I have no connection to these companies.”

“You don’t?”

“Absolutely not.” Scholl’s retort was crisp and edged with anger.

Good, McVey thought. Get mad. “Tell me about Omega Shipping Lines—”

Goetz stood up. It was time to stop it. “I’m afraid that’s all, Detective. Mr. Scholl, your guests are waiting.”

“I was asking Mr. Scholl about Omega Shipping Lines.” McVey’s eyes were locked on Scholl. “I thought you had no connection to these companies. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“I said no more questions, McVey,” Goetz said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Goetz, I’m trying to help your client stay out of jail. But I can’t get a straight answer from him. A moment ago he told me he had no connection to Microtab, Alama Steel, Standard Technologies or T.L.T. International. T.L.T. International controlled those companies and is, itself, controlled by Omega Shipping Lines. Mr. Scholl happens to be the principal stockholder of Omega Shipping Lines. I’m sure you see what I’m getting at. It’s got to be one way or the other. Mr. Scholl, you either were involved in these companies or you weren’t. Which is it?”

“Omega Shipping Lines no longer exists,” Scholl replied flatly. Clearly he had underestimated McVey. His a persistence as well as his resilience. It was his fault he hadn’t given Von Holden his head in killing him. But that was a situation that would be rectified soon enough. “I’ve given you all the consideration you asked for and a great I deal more. Good evening, Detective.”

McVey stood up and took two photographs from his jacket pocket. “Mr. Goetz, would you mind asking your client to look at these?”

Osborn watched Goetz take the photos and study them.

“Who are these people?” Goetz said.

“That’s what I’d like Mr. Scholl to tell me.”

Osborn watched Goetz look to Scholl, then hand him the pictures. Scholl glared at McVey, then glanced at the photos in his hand. When he did, he started, but quickly covered it.

“I have no idea,” he said, directly.

“No?”

“No.”

“Their names are Karolin and Johann Henniger.” McVey paused. “They were murdered sometime today.”

This time Scholl showed no emotion at all. “I told you, I have no idea who they are.”

Handing the photos to Goetz, Scholl turned and started for the door. Osborn looked to McVey. Once he was through it, it would be the last they would see of him for a long time, if ever.

“I appreciate your taking the time to talk to us,” McVey said quickly. “I also know you appreciate the fact that Doctor Osborn has never been able to close the emotional door on his father’s killing. I promised him a question. It’s simple. Off the record.”

Scholl turned back. “You carry impudence beyond good manners.”

Goetz pulled open the door and Scholl was almost through it when Osborn spoke.

“Why did you have Elton Lybarger’s head surgically attached to another man’s body?”

Scholl froze where he was. So did Goetz. Then slowly, Scholl turned back. He looked—exposed. As if suddenly his clothes had been torn from him and he’d been sexually violated. For the briefest instant he seemed ready to crack. Instead, what seemed to be a self-willed mask descended over his face, from top to bottom. Exposure gave way to contempt and contempt to rage. And then, quickly, icily, terrifyingly, he brought it back to where he could control it. “I suggest you both turn to writing books of fiction.”

“It’s not fiction,” Osborn said.

Suddenly a door at the far end of the room opened and Salettl entered.

“Where is Von Holden?” Scholl commanded as Salettl approached.

Salettl’s shoes echoed on the marble floor as he walked toward them. “Von Holden is upstairs, waiting in the Royal Apartments.” The jumpiness, the deep intensity of earlier, was gone. In its place was a manner that was almost calm.

“Get him and bring him here now.”

Salettl smiled. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. The Royal Apartments and the Golden Gallery are no longer accessible.”

“What are you talking about?”

McVey and Osborn exchanged glances. Something was going on but they had no idea what. Scholl didn’t like it either.

“I asked you a question.”

“It would have been more fitting if you had been upstairs.” Salettl had crossed the room and was within a few feet of Scholl and Goetz.

“Get Von Holden!” Scholl snapped at Goetz.

Goetz nodded and was shifting his weight toward the door when there was a sharp report. Goetz jumped as if he’d been slapped. Grabbing at his neck, he pulled his hand away and looked at it. It was covered with blood. Wide-eyed, he looked at Salettl. Then his gaze ran down to his hand. A small automatic was clutched in it.

“You shot me, you fuck!” Goetz screamed at him. Then he shuddered and slumped back against the door.

“DROP THE GUN, NOW!” McVey’s .38 was in his right hand, he was using his left to ease Osborn out of the line of fire.

Salettl looked to McVey. “Of course.” Turned to Scholl, he smiled. “These Americans nearly ruined everything.”

“DROP IT, NOW!”

Scholl stared in utter contempt. “Vida?”

Salettl smiled again. “She’s been living in Berlin for nearly four years.”

“How dare you?” Scholl drew himself up. He was furious. Superior. Totally insolent. “How dare you take it upon yourself to—”

Salettl’s first shot caught Scholl just over his bow tie. The second tore into his chest at the top of his heart, exploding his aorta and showering Salettl with blood. For a moment Scholl tottered on his feet, his eyes rocked with disbelief, then he simply collapsed as if his legs had been kicked out from under him.

“DROP IT! OR I’LL SHOOT YOU RIGHT THERE!” McVey bellowed, his finger closing on the trigger.

“McVey—DON’T!” he heard Osborn shout behind him. Then Salettl’s gun hand dropped to his side, and McVey’s finger eased off the trigger.

Salettl turned to face them. He was ghostly white and looked as if he’d been splattered with red paint. That he was wearing a tuxedo made it all the worse because it gave him the appearance of a grotesque, gruesome clown.

“You should not have interfered.” Salettl’s voice was resonant with anger.

“Open your fingers and let the gun fall to the floor!” McVey kept inching forward with no reservations about shooting the man dead if he had to. Osborn had yelled for fear McVey would fire and kill maybe the only remaining person who knew what was going on. In that he was right. But Salettl had just shot two men; McVey wouldn’t give him the chance at two more.

Salettl stared at them, the automatic still held loosely at his side.

“Let the gun fall to the floor,” McVey said again.

“Karolin Henniger’s real name was Vida,” Salettl said. “Scholl ordered her and the boy killed some time ago. I secretly brought them here, to Berlin, and changed their identities. She called me as soon as she ran from you. She thought you were the Organization. That they had found her.” Salettl paused. The next was barely a whisper. “The Organization knew where you went. Because of that they would have discovered her very quickly. And afterward, they would have come to me. And that would have sabotaged everything.”

“You killed them,” McVey said.

“Yes.”

Osborn took a step forward, his eyes glistened with emotion. “You said everything would have been sabotaged. What was it? What did you mean?”

Salettl didn’t reply.

“Karolin, Vida, whatever her name was. She was Lybarger’s wife,” Osborn pressed. “The boy was his son.”

Salettl hesitated. “She was also my daughter.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Osborn glanced at McVey. They both felt the same horror.

“Mr. Lybarger’s physical therapist will be on the morning plane to Los Angeles,” Salettl said abruptly, and wholly out of context, almost as if he were inviting them to join her.

Osborn stared at him. “Who the hell are you people? You murdered my father, your own daughter and grandchild and God knows how many others.” Osborn’s voice raged with anger. “Why? For what? To protect Lybarger? Scholl? This ‘Organization’ ?—WHY?”

“You gentlemen should have left Germany to the Germans,” Salettl said quietly. “You survived one fire this evening. You will not survive the next if you do not leave the building immediately.” He tried to force a smile. It didn’t work, and his eyes found Osborn. “This should be the hard part, Doctor. It isn’t.”

In the blink of an eye he raised the automatic to his mouth and pulled the trigger.