The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [154]
“Commander, two more things McVey wanted to know,” Benny said. “Microtab Company in Waltham, Massachusetts. It went belly up in May of the same year. The second thing he wanted to know was—”
* * *
Ian Noble had recorded Benny Grossman’s entire conversation. When they were through, he’d had a transcript made for his private files and took the tape and tape player to Lebrun’s heavily guarded room at Westminster Hospital.
Closing the door, he sat down next to the bed and turned on the recorder. For the next fifteen minutes Lebrun, oxygen tubes still in his nose, listened in silence. Finally they heard Benny Grossman’s New York accent finish—
“The second thing he wanted to know was what we had on a guy named Erwin Scholl who, in 1966, owned a big estate in Westhampton Beach on Long Island.
“Erwin Scholl still owns his estate there. Also one in Palm Beach and one in Palm Springs. He keeps a low profile but he’s a real heavy hitter in the publishing business and is a mucho-bucks major art collector. He also plays golf with Bob Hope, Gerry Ford and once in a while with the president himself. Tell McVey he’s got the wrong guy, this Scholl. He’s very big. Very. An untouchable. And that, by the way, came from McVey’s pal, Fred Hanley, with the FBI in L.A.”
With that Noble shut down the machine. Benny had ended with a note of worry, bordering on deep concern for McVey, and Noble hadn’t wanted Lebrun to hear it. As yet he hadn’t been told of the train incident. He’d taken the news of his brother’s death badly; there was no need for more.
“Ian,” Lebrun whispered. “I know about the train. I might have been shot but I am not yet dead. I spoke with Cadoux myself, not twenty minutes ago.”
“Playing the tough cop, are you?” Noble smiled. “Well, here’s something you don’t know. McVey shot the gunman who killed Merriman and tried to kill Osborn and the girl, Vera Monneray. He sent me the dead man’s thumbprint. We ran it and came up blank. He was clean, no record. No I.D.
“For obvious reasons I couldn’t use the services of Interpol for more extensive help. So I called on Military Intelligence, who kindly provided me with the following—” Noble took out a small notebook and flipped through the pages until he had what he wanted.
“Our shooter’s name was Bernhard Oven. Address unknown. They did, however, manage to find an old telephone number: 0372-885-7373. Appropriately, it’s the number of a butcher shop.”
“Zero three seven two was the area code for East Berlin before unification,” Lebrun said.
“Correct. And our friend, Bernhard Oven, was, up until it disbanded, a ranking member of the Stasi.”
Lebrun put a hand to the tubes running in and out of his throat and whispered, hoarsely, “What in God’s name are the East German secret police doing in France? Especially when they no longer exist.”
“I hope and pray McVey will soon be around to tell us,” Noble said soberly.
78
* * *
BY NIGHT, the mangled wreckage of the Paris-Meaux train was even more obscene than by day. Huge worklights illuminated the area as two giant cranes operating from flat cars on the tracks above struggled to remove the twisted, Compressed cars from the side of the embankment.
Late in the afternoon a light mist had begun to fall, and the damp chill woke Osborn from where he slept in the nearby growth of trees. Sitting up, he’d taken his pulse and found it normal. His muscles ached and his right shoulder was badly bruised