The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [187]
Finished, McVey looked at Osborn measuredly, then gave him the floor and sat down. Remmer translated as Gravenitz swore Osborn in, then Osborn began his testimony. In it, he restated what McVey had said and then simply told the truth.
Sitting back, Gravenitz studied Osborn and at the same time listened to the translation. When Osborn finished, he glanced at Honig, then back to Osborn. “You are certain Merriman was your father’s murderer? Certain after nearly thirty years?
“Yes, sir,” Osborn said.
“You must have hated him.”
McVey shot Osborn a warning glance. Be careful, it said. He’s probing.
“You would too,” Osborn said without flinching.
“Do you know why Erwin Scholl would have wanted your father to be killed?”
“No, sir,” Osborn replied quietly and McVey breathed a sigh of relief. Osborn was doing well. “You have to remember I was a little boy. But I saw the man’s face and I never forgot it. And I never saw it again until that night in Paris. I don’t know how much more I can tell you.”
Gravenitz waited, then looked to McVey.
“Are you certain, beyond doubt, that the Erwin Scholl who is now here in Berlin is the same man who hired Albert Merriman?”
McVey stood up. “Yes, sir.”
“Why do you believe the individual who shot Herr Merriman was also employed by Herr Scholl?”
“Because Scholl’s men had tried to kill him before and because Merriman had been in hiding for a long time. They finally tracked him down.”
“And you are certain, beyond doubt, Scholl was behind it.”
This was the kind of thing McVey had tried to avoid, but Gravenitz, like respected judges everywhere, had a second sense, the same kind parents had, and it carried the same warning: Lie and you’re dead. “Can I prove it? No, sir. Not yet.”
“I see . . . ,” Gravenitz said.
Scholl was an international figure, huge and important, and Gravenitz was teetering. A thinking judge would no more casually sign an arrest warrant for Erwin Scholl than he would for the chancellor of the country, and McVey knew it. And Osborn’s deposition, strong as it was, bottom line, was in reality hearsay and nothing more. Something had to be done to push Gravenitz over or they would have to go to Scholl without a writ and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Remmer must have sensed it too because suddenly he was standing up, pushing back his chair.
“Your Honor,” he said in German. “As I understand it, one of the primary reasons you agreed to see us on such short notice was because two police officers working on the case were shot. One could have been coincidental, but two—”
“Yes, that was a strong consideration,” Gravenitz said.
“Then you would know one was a New York detective, killed right in his own home. The second, a highly respected member of the Paris police, was seriously wounded at the main rail station in Lyon, then taken to London and put in a hospital under a false name and a twenty-four-hour police guard.” Remmer paused, then continued. “A short time ago he was shot to death in that very same hospital room.”
“I’m sorry—” Gravenitz said, genuinely.
Remmer accepted his sentiment, then went on. “We have every reason to believe the man responsible was working for Scholl’s organization. We need to interrogate Herr Scholl personally, Your Honor, not talk to his lawyers. Without a writ we will never be able to do that.
Gravenitz put his palms together and sat back, then looked to McVey, who was staring right at him, waiting for his decision. Expressionless, he leaned forward and made a note on a legal pad in front of him. Then, running a hand through his silvery mane and glancing at Honig, his eyes found Remmer.
“Okay,” he said in English. “Okay.