The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [240]
“If we relax a little, we might finish up and go home,” McVey said, addressing Scholl quietly and ignoring Goetz. “This whole thing is as distasteful to me as it is to you. Besides, my face is killing me, and I know you want to get back to your guests.”
Scholl had left the dais more out of his own curiosity than the threat of McVey’s warrant. Stopping briefly to inform Dortmund of what was happening and, thereby, sending Dortmund immediately in search of a phone and a battery of top German criminal lawyers, he’d left the Golden Gallery by a side door and started down the stairs, when an agitated Salettl came out after him, asked where he was going and how he dared leave their guests at a time like this. Then it had been ten minutes to nine, a full twenty-five minutes before Lybarger would make his entrance.
“I have a brief rendezvous with a policeman, one who obviously leads an exceptionally charmed life.” He’d smiled, arrogantly. “There is ample time for it, my good Doctor, ample time.”
Tanned and resplendent in his hand-tailored tuxedo, Scholl had been exceedingly polite when he’d come in, and all the more so when McVey had introduced him to Osborn. He’d listened attentively and done his best to be forthright with his answers—though he’d seemed genuinely puzzled at the questions—even after McVey had advised him of his rights as an American citizen.
“Let’s go over it again,” McVey had said. “Doctor Osborn’s father was murdered in Boston on April 12, 1966, by a man named Albert Merriman. Albert Merriman was a professional killer who, a week ago in Paris, was found by Doctor Osborn, and confessed to the murder. In doing so, he said that you had hired him to do it. Your reply was that you never knew or heard of Albert Merriman.”
Scholl sat expressionless. “Correct.”
“If you didn’t know Merriman, did you know a George Osborn?” !
“No.”
“Then why would you hire someone to kill a man you didn’t even know?”
“McVey, that’s a bullshit question and you know it.” Goetz didn’t like it at all that Scholl was giving McVey his head and allowing the questioning to go on.
“Detective McVey,” Scholl said calmly, without so much as a glance at Goetz, “I never hired anyone to commit murder. The idea is quite outrageous.”
“Where is this Albert Merriman? I’d like to meet him,” Goetz demanded.
“That’s one of our problems, Mr. Goetz. He’s dead.”
“Then there’s nothing more we have to talk about. Your arrest warrant is as full of crap as you. Hearsay from a dead man?” Goetz stood. “Mr. Scholl, we’re finished here.”
“Goetz, the problem is—Albert Merriman was murdered.”
“Big deal.”
“It is a big deal. The man who killed him was a gun for hire too. Also employed by Mr. Scholl. His name was Bernhard Oven.” McVey looked to Scholl. “A member of the East German secret police before he went to work for you.”
“I’ve never heard of a Bernhard Oven, Detective,” Scholl said evenly. A clock on the mantel over McVey’s shoulder read 9:14. In one minute the doors would be opened and Lybarger would enter the Golden Gallery. To his surprise, Scholl was finding himself intrigued. McVey’s knowledge was remarkable.
Tell me about Elton Lybarger,” McVey surprised him, suddenly shifting gears.
“He’s a friend.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s been ill.”
“But he’s well enough to give a speech.”
“Yes, he is. . . .”
“I don’t understand. He’s too ill to talk to one man, but not a hundred.”
“He’s under a physician’s care.”
“You mean Doctor Salettl. . . .”
Goetz looked at Scholl. How long was he going to allow this to go on? What the hell was he doing?
“That is correct.” Scholl adjusted the left sleeve of his jacket with his right hand, making a deliberate display of the still-healing abrasions. He smiled. “It’s ironic that we should both have painful physical wounds at the same time, Detective. Mine came from playing with a cat. Yours, obviously, from playing with fire. We both should know better, don’t you think?