Murder in a Good Cause (14 page)

That left two men. Sanders turned to them and pointed in the direction of the open basement door. “I want to know what's down there, or rather, who. Move carefully. Then check this floor. There's supposed to be a gardener responsible for security. He lives on top of the garage. When you're through with the house, see if you can raise anyone over there. His name is Esteban—Paul Esteban. And look out for the dogs.”

“What dogs?” said one of them suspiciously.

“Guard dogs,” he said. “The house is protected by guard dogs. Why aren't they barking? Or don't you think they've noticed us yet?” He suppressed the further remarks that sprang to his lips. “Don't worry. They didn't take a piece out of me, so they must be chained up.”

Not much more than thirty minutes later, five police officers, three cruisers, an ambulance, and the injured man had all left the premises, leaving Sanders sitting in the kitchen with one healthy replacement for Franklin, Veronika von Hohenkammer, Klaus Leitner, and Bettl Kotzmeier. It would be hard to say which of the people in the room looked the worst, with the exception of Franklin's replacement, who was in fine shape. Out in back, two more men were still dealing with the problem of the gardener. The five of them were sitting around the kitchen table; Klaus had his head cradled in his arms and was apparently unconscious. Bettl sat bolt upright, but her eyelids drooped, and her eyes kept unfocusing, while her head sank down from time to time, then jerked rapidly back up again. Nikki sat very still, her dark eyes enormous in her white face.

“Listen,” said Klaus, opening an eye and cautiously raising his head an inch or two, “I have one hell of a headache, and I feel like death. Do you think you could tell me why we were dragged out of bed in the middle of the night like this?”

“Gestapo!” Bettl muttered.

Sanders looked at her with interest, did a few mental calculations, and then figured that she would have been prepubescent at the time the Gestapo had been disbanded. He turned back to Klaus. “Just a few questions . . . We'd like to know exactly what happened here tonight, if you don't mind. You must have heard something going on.”

“I didn't hear a thing until I woke up and this gorilla in uniform was shaking me, with another one leaning over his shoulder, watching. They dragged me out of bed.” He had raised his head a little higher to speak and then let it drop cautiously down again to where it had been.

“When did you go to bed?”

“Oh,” he said, raising his head once more, “that. You want to know when I went to bed. I can't remember.” His eyes fogged over. “It's so damned hard to think.” He grasped his head in both hands. “I remember. It was early, very early. I finished dinner, and suddenly I was so tired I couldn't stand it, and I went to bed. That's all I can remember.”

“And what about you, Miss von Hohenkammer? What did you hear?”

She jumped, startled, glanced at him, and then turned her head away. “Nothing much, I guess. I heard your men in the house. Downstairs.”

“My men?” asked Sanders, puzzled.

“Yes,” she replied coldly.

“Did you hear me ring the doorbell?”

She nodded.

“Then why didn't you answer?” he asked.

“I assumed one of you would answer it.”

“I see,” said Sanders. “You assumed one of us would . . .”

She nodded again.

He shook his head and filed this away for future consideration. “And you, Miss Kotzmeier?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I know nothing, I hear nothing, I clear the table and go to bed, and that's all I know.”

“What time was that?”

“I don't know. I don't watch the hour every minute that I work.” She managed to invest this remark with moral force, as though even asking her the time betrayed a slack attitude toward one's employment.

“Was anyone else in the house?”

“That photographer person was talking to Miss Veronika,” said Bettl. She made the word “photographer” sound like a species of vermin. “And she stayed for dinner.” She obviously felt that photographers had no business eating at the same table as honest folk.

“No one else? What about Mr. Whitelaw?”

“Yes, of course. When did he ever miss a meal here?” At that moment there was a mild commotion at the door that led outside from the kitchen. After a certain amount of stamping about, three men came in from the utility room behind the kitchen: two neatly uniformed police officers and one bedraggled gardener. His clothing was rumpled and twisted, as if he had been sleeping in it, and his hair was wet and tousled. His eyes were red, and he yawned enormously as he staggered into the room.

“Esteban, the gardener,” said one of them. “Sorry we took so long, but he was kind a hard to wake up.” He looked up above their heads as he spoke. “While we were knocking, we noticed that the door was unlocked, and we entered in order to ascertain if Mr. Esteban was in any difficulties. On account of him not answering,” he added. “We thought something might have happened to him. From the difficulty we had in arousing him, we thought he might have been drugged, or something.” Sanders looked at the red face and wet hair and wondered what methods they had tried.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and turned his attention to Esteban. One thing was clear: He hadn't been in a drunken stupor. If he had consumed enough alcohol to do that to him, the whole room would have reeked of it. He smelled as if he had gone to bed cold sober. “Okay, Esteban, what happened tonight?” His voice was crisp and unsympathetic. “And you two, keep him on his feet. We don't want him passing out again.”

“Nothing happened tonight.” His consonants were thick and indistinct. “Nothing. I did what I always do. Nothing different.”

“What do you always do, then?”

“I had my supper over here with Bettl. She always keeps me something from their dinner.”

“Did you eat together?”

He glanced over at her uneasily. “No, she eats early. She had coffee while I ate my supper. Then I went out and did the rounds. I took the dogs for a run, because I was going to have to keep them locked up.”

“Why?”

“There were all those policemen out there.”

Sanders nodded.

“Then I chained them up and went over to the house to make sure the doors were locked and the burglar alarm set. It wasn't, either. Bettl must have left some doors open.” At the sound of her name, that woman jerked her head upright again and gave him a fierce glare. “Anyway, I locked up.”

“What's happened to the dogs?” asked Sanders suddenly.

“They're asleep,” said one of the constables. “In a kennel behind the garage. Can't budge 'em. But they're breathing okay. I checked.”

“My God,” said Sanders. “It's like one of those fairy tales. And then what, Esteban? After you locked up.”

“Oh, before I locked up, I took some coffee out to the policeman on duty. Bettl always leaves me a thermos full of coffee. Then I must have gone back to the apartment, I guess, because that's where I was, but I don't remember anything else.”

“Why this generosity toward the police, Esteban? Are you in the habit of playing host to police officers?”

The gardener flushed, looking at the moment like a tousled little boy caught doing something naughty. “Not really. But Dona Clara's daughter—Miss Veronika—she told me to ask him in and give him coffee.”

“Is that true, Miss von Hohenkammer? Did you tell Esteban to ask Constable Franklin in?”

She nodded.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because that man was going to have to sit there all night,” she said with a flash of anger. “It seemed a gracious thing to do. It wasn't his fault you were making him spy on us.”

Sanders looked steadily at her for a moment or two, as if considering challenging her statement, and then turned away. “Did you have coffee, Mr. Leitner?” he asked.

Klaus Leitner raised his head, a little more confidently this time. “Yes. I always have coffee after dinner. I must have. Yes, I did.”

“Did you have coffee, Miss von Hohenkammer?”

She shook her head. “No. I was too tired to want coffee.”

“How about Miss Jeffries?”

“Miss Jeffries?” Klaus looked baffled.

“The photographer,” said Sanders dryly.

“Oh, Harriet.” Sanders clenched his teeth.

“No, I don't think so.”

“Yes, she did,” said Veronika. “I'm sure she did. Because she was so sleepy when she left. . . .”

Sanders made an incoherent noise, jumped up, and turned to the constable. “Round up some more cars and get these people down to the General. And Whitelaw as well. I'll take care of Miss Jeffries.”

“What for?” he asked.

“For chrissake, for blood tests. They've all been doped, you idiot. And stay with them until we're sure they're all right,” he added grudgingly. He bolted from the house and drove through the quiet streets like a man possessed.

Sanders pulled up to the curb with a squeal of brakes that sliced through the quiet of the night and startled a prowling cat in the bushes belonging to Harriet's landlord. He ran up the walk, up her brief flight of steps, reached for the doorbell, and stopped. There were keys dangling from the lock. Door keys, car keys, the lot. When he grasped them to open up, the door swung in. He yanked out the keys, slammed the door shut behind him, and turned and ran to Harriet's bedroom. She was sprawled on top of the covers, facedown, fully dressed, her feet dangling over the edge of the bed. His stomach contracted with a cold thud. “Harriet?” he said tentatively, reaching over to touch her neck. It was warm, with a lovely strong pulse beating in it. She didn't move. “Harriet,” he said, louder this time, grabbing her by the shoulder and shaking her.

She mumbled vaguely and rolled over on her side.

“Harriet! For chrissake, wake up!” He shook her harder.

She flopped over on her back.

He grabbed her by both shoulders and yanked her to a sitting position. Her head dropped down and straightened up. Her eyelids fluttered and then opened. She blinked twice and focused on his face. “What in hell are you doing, John?” she asked thickly. “What time is it?”

“Time to get up,” he said.

“Uh-uh,” she muttered. “Gotta sleep . . . just a minute.”

“No! We're getting up!” He dragged her, mumbling protests, up the stairs and into the bathroom, filled up the basin with cold water, and pushed her face into it.

“Christ almighty,” she said with a certain clarity that had been lacking before. “Did you have to do that?”

“Yes,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Like hell. My head aches and—”

“Did you drink the coffee tonight?”

“Did I what? John, are you crazy? You came over here to wake me up and ask me if I had coffee? What is this?”

“Did you?”

“I can't remember,” she said. “God, but my head hurts. Where was I tonight? Was I with you?”

He shook his head.

“No, I was at Clara's house, wasn't I? Did I stay for dinner?”

He nodded.

“Then I probably had coffee, if there was any. I always do.” He took her by the arm and began pulling her toward the door. “Hey, where are you going with me?”

“Off to the hospital,” he said. “Your bloodstream is evidence.”

It was noon before Sanders dragged himself back to his desk. An interested little crew of medical personnel had checked Harriet over, taken blood samples, and pronounced her undoubtedly drugged. “Like most of the rest of them,” said the resident cheerfully. “But she'll be all right.”

He had asked after Franklin, and the resident shook his head. “I don't know,” he said. “He didn't look too good when he came through here. They've taken him upstairs.”

With that, he had taken Harriet home again, tucked her into bed, and fallen asleep upstairs on her couch, reluctant to move too far away from her and unwilling to crawl into her bed when her brain was too fogged to know he was there. She had seemed unsurprised to find him in the morning and had quietly thrown together a sketchy breakfast for the two of them.

“Are you all right?” he asked as he finished his coffee.

“I think so,” she said doubtfully. “Except that my head aches and I haven't the faintest idea how I got home last night.”

“You drove,” said Sanders grimly. “Doped to the eyeballs and you drove back here and put the car in the garage. I don't know how you did it, but you did.”

“Automatic pilot,” she said. “Did I hit anything?” He shook his head. “And listen—I had one small glass of wine at dinner. I was so tired I didn't even have a beer, in case it put me under. And I sure wasn't popping any dope.”

“I never said you were. Somebody doped everyone in the house.”

“Why?” asked Harriet. “What was the point? Not to speak of how.”

“I don't know,” said Sanders. “Although it will be interesting to explore that question. And how? Probably in the coffee. I don't know any more about it because I brought you back here instead of sticking around to find out. You're an evil influence on me, Harriet Jeffries.”

She looked gravely at him. “Perhaps I am,” she said. “You should consider that. Is everyone else all right?”

“I don't know,” he said. “It's one of the other things I should be finding out. Which means I ought to be going.” He paused for a moment, searching for the best tone to strike, and then said lightly, “I could always come back tonight, though. If that doesn't sound too grim.”

“What's today?” she asked. “Saturday?”

He nodded.

“I have to be downtown at six tomorrow to do the north side of a building. If you're here, you'll have to come along to guard my stuff.”

“Six? In the morning?”