Beethoven's Tenth Read online

  Mitch studied her pert, pretty face and saw nothing artful behind it. He noted Jake’s place in the Schiller book and asked her if he might borrow it overnight. “Might be a good way to fall asleep—and maybe I’ll learn something first.”

  “Yeah—that Willy Tell wasn’t any too bright.” Daisy tapped the book accusingly. “I mean, what kind of father would let his son be used for target practice? He should’ve turned on the evil governor or bailiff or whatever that Gessler guy was and zinged him through the neck.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” he said and headed up to bed with a grateful goodnight.

  Absorbing every line took him two hours to complete the play. Schiller was definitely no Shakespeare, Mitch decided five or six pages into Tell. For all its heavy-breathing histrionics and clunky exposition, though, the tale of the Swiss yeomanry rising up against the oppressive officers of the Austrian emperor all those centuries long past had a fervent moral idealism that came shining through. But what, Mitch wondered when he reached the end, could possibly have possessed the German-born Beethoven, who he knew had moved to Vienna in hopes of winning fame and fortune, ever to write a symphony celebrating the return of freedom stolen from the Swiss by the ancestors of those very same Austrians who had cordially welcomed the composer into their midst? Might the answer hold the key to whether Tell was authentic or counterfeit?

  Still dressed when he finished the Schiller play, Mitch went quietly downstairs to replace the book. Guided on his route by a glass-shaded desk lamp that the Hasslers kept on all night, he could hardly help noticing the small stack of opened bills awaiting payment on the desktop blotter. Where was the line between pressing the investigative advantage his hosts had handed him by their hospitality and trespassing on their privacy? Time did not allow him the luxury to philosophize on the question. Instead, he seized the opportunity to thumb hurriedly through the pile of bills, looking for suspicious creditors. None leapt out at him. The telephone bill, on second thought, invited further scrutiny. He slid it out of its envelope and located the pages listing long-distance charges. Just two phone numbers recurred. From their area codes, he guessed that they belonged to the Hasslers’ son and daughter. But then he saw it: a single anomalous entry for an overseas number with an unfamiliar national prefix. He took down the number and date of the call on a scrap of paper he grabbed from the wastebasket beneath the desk, replaced the bill in its envelope and the envelope in its previous place in the sequence—between the gas and electric company and Blue Cross statements—and dropped the pile onto the blotter in approximately its former state of random array. Then he made his way back up to the third floor as weightlessly catlike as he could manage. Too many telltale stair creaks testified that he was no feline. And that his detective skills needed honing.

  By six thirty, he was up and on his cell phone. It took five rings to rouse his assistant at her home number. He spoke softly, on guard not to be overheard by his hosts. “Sorry to call so early, Miranda—it’s Mitch. I need a little help on the double.” There was a fuzzy noise in response that he took for at least semiconscious alertness. “Stick your head under the cold water tap and then call Johnny Winks. Ask him to please check with his reverse phone book sources for the name of the party who has the number I’m going to give you—I believe it’s in the vicinity of Zurich, Switzerland. Then let him look up the number or numbers there under the name Erpf—that’s E-R-P-F—in particular for Ansel or the initial A—but any first name’ll do. There can’t be more than fifty living Erpfs, and probably just a handful. Ask him to get back to you ASAP—then call me on the cell as soon as you hear.”

  He gave her the overseas number listed on the Hasslers’ phone bill along with one retrieved from his cellphone belonging to Johannes Winkelmann, Geneva-based former Interpol agent, later UNESCO security officer, now arguably the most resourceful private investigator in the German-speaking sector of the continent. Johnny Winks, as everyone at Cubbage & Wakeham called Herr Winkelmann, was a master of the black arts of financial espionage, in particular the simple bribery of well-placed insiders at every data depot from Hamburg to Lugano to Eisenstadt. Mitch had enlisted Johnny in the Tell matter earlier in the week after Harry and Sedge Wakeham in London had conferred and agreed to see how the early stages of the investigation played out. As expensive as he was productive, Johnny had already begun nosing around the Erpfs’ Zurich neighborhood and poking into their family dynamics.

  By the time Mitch had showered, dressed, phoned Clara to see if all was well, and come downstairs for breakfast, Daisy had already left for a decorating job up in Somerset County. Jake offered his guest juice, toasted muffins, coffee, and minimal conversation first thing in the morning, preferring to commune with the Trenton Times. Mitch wondered whether his late-night prowling around the house had been detected and resented, or if Jake minded that his city guest had borrowed the Schiller play. Neither seemed likely, so he risked breaking the ice by mentioning that he’d read William Tell overnight and wondered what Jake thought of it so far.

  “Hey, yeah, I’m pluggin’ right along like a snail,” he replied, “but I like it so far. Daisy gave up on it when this birdbrain Tell shot the apple off his kid’s head—she said he shoulda been shot himself for that.” What got to Jake more was Tell’s apparent stupidity after he’d managed to split the apple and not his boy Walter’s noggin. “What kind of nitwit hides a second arrow under his shirt, lets this Gessler creep spot it, then admits—for crissakes—admits that the second arrow was meant for Gessler if the boy got hurt? Naturally they haul his ass off to jail. But the Austrians are even dumber. They stick Tell in this boat to sail him across the lake to jail, and when this big storm blows in, they take off Tell’s chains and hand him the tiller because he’s the strongest bozo on board. So he steers in close to shore, jumps out onto a rock, grabs his bow, which they left conveniently nearby, and shoves the idiot Austrians back out into the lake.” Jake shook his head. “I mean, gimme a break, pal.”

  Having determined that Jake was no subscriber to poetic license, Mitch switched to a more pressing subject.

  “By the way,” he began in as low a key as he could manage, “I should tell you there’s some concern at our office that your connection with Ansel Erpf may be more complicated than you’ve told us.” It was a ploy that seemed worth trying.

  Jake took a final gulp of coffee and put his cup down slowly. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asked with a touch of truculence.

  “Let me try to reword it,” Mitch backpedaled. “It could be seen by some people as more than strictly coincidental that this fellow living right next door to your grandfather’s house just happened to be hanging around with you when this amazing discovery was made—he may even have led you to the attic trunk without your realizing it. And then, lo and behold, he turns out to be a musician who, with a little effort, figures out the big deal in the box and alerts you to it.”

  Jake frowned. “What—you guys are still thinkin’ Ansel knew what was in there and wanted me to find it?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s another question.”

  “But if it was a plant for me to find, why was he so pissed when I took off with it?”

  “Maybe because you weren’t expected to grab the box and take it home. Maybe they had hoped to use you, deal with you in some way or other, and you fouled up their plans.”

  Jake’s well-scrubbed face was wreathed in bafflement.

  “I don’t see how.”

  Mitch’s cellphone went off in timely fashion. He answered without seeking privacy out of Jake’s earshot. Miranda’s message was short and sweet: “Bingo! The number you gave me is for Ansel Erpf’s phone, and Johnny says it’s unlisted so it cost him a lot extra to find.”

  “That’s fine,” Mitch told her. “Please tell Mr. Olmstead I’m tied up with other business, and I’ll be in touch
next week sometime.” He put the phone away and readdressed his host, at pains not to disclose his freshly fed suspicion just yet. “I know it’s dumb, but there’s one person in our office who even thinks it’s possible that you and Ansel—and maybe some people he’s in cahoots with—may all be working together and want to use Cubbage & Wakeham to, well, legitimize your big discovery, which may not have been a discovery at all. Or maybe these other operators enlisted Ansel and you to carry out their scheme and cut you both in on it as a payoff for your cooperation.”

  “That’s total bullshit!” Jake cried, steaming now.

  “That’s what I told them,” Mitch said, spreading out the bait, “but then word came in that you and Ansel talked on the phone not long after you got back home, and nobody at our place can figure out why that would be if you weren’t somehow in this thing together—instead of at odds over your having taken off with the manuscript.”

  Jake tossed his newspaper onto the table. “Is that what this is all about?” His already elevated blood pressure was getting a workout. “And anyway, who says I spoke to him?”

  “Did you?”

  “I—well—he called me, actually—”

  Mitch folded his hands patiently and deposited them on the table. “Actually, the phone records we’ve checked show that you called him, Jake—using his private number.”

  “I did? Yeah, okay—I didn’t remember—”

  Mitch nodded, trying to ease him off the hook. “Remembering it right would be good.”

  “Right—okay—I gotcha.”

  “How did you happen to have his private number if you weren’t—aren’t—involved somehow with Ansel Erpf?”

  Jake’s face calmed. “Oh, that’s easy—Ansel passed on his number to old man Schacht, my grandpa’s lawyer. The way it happened was Ansel’s family lawyer talked to Schacht, like we told you people, and besides letting me know the Erpfs were pissed because I took the manuscript, which they figured was rightfully theirs, and left the country, I was invited to phone Ansel if I changed my mind and wanted to work out something—meaning, you know, maybe we’d split whatever a new Beethoven symphony might be worth. Schacht said I should work through him, but, well, I thought maybe it would be better if I talked directly to Ansel to explain why I’d taken the box and blew out of town—and why we need the money a lot—if there is any coming out of this whole friggin’ thing. So I called him.”

  “And how did Ansel respond?”

  “He sounded out of it, like he was stoned or something. He just said, ‘Yeah, yeah—you’re just a plain crook, Jacob’—stuff like that. I gave up after a few minutes.”

  Mitch wore his most compassionate face. “Were you just putting Ansel on, or is there some special need you folks have, something you didn’t care to share with us at our office last week, that might give us a better read on your whole situation? It’s not a good idea to try to bullshit us, Jake, or conceal information if you want us to work with you.”

  Jake threw up his hands and the next minute was spilling his heart out. He and Daisy had two big problems at the moment, and the Beethoven discovery seemed as if it might be a heaven-sent cure for both. His wife was afraid she might soon lose her business over a lawsuit brought by a client claiming that a foyer chandelier improperly installed by a workman Daisy hired had fallen, narrowly missing her but definitely crushing their beloved family cat dozing on the rug directly under the fixture. Daisy’s insurance company was balking over a settlement, so she had hired Owen Whittaker from a good Princeton firm to defend her—“and they get pretty fat fees.” On top of which the Hasslers were worried sick about their granddaughter in upstate New York, who had lately been found to have a heart aneurysm. Her family’s HMO was unwilling to allow the case to be handled by an out-of-group surgeon in whom the Hasslers’ daughter, an experienced RN, reposed the utmost confidence. “Which means we may have to pony up some big bucks to help the family out,” Jake said mournfully. “So I asked Whittaker if there was some way—without putting us in deep hock—he could get involved, and he says maybe, if it doesn’t ear up his time, the firm would let him handle it on a—whatchacallit basis—contingency—”

  “Would you mind our knowing the particulars?”

  Jake gave a seemingly guileless shrug. “The deal is he gets fifteen percent of anything we make off the manuscript—and nothing if it doesn’t pan out. Which is okay, I guess, but then when I found out the Erpfs were making trouble and might even take me to court for grabbing their property—which is a big fat joke if you ask me—I figured Whittaker wouldn’t be up for defending us in two suits—Daisy’s and mine—not on a contingency deal, anyway. So I thought I’d call Ansel to ask if maybe his family would settle for, like, ten percent of whatever price I could get for selling the manuscript—which would’ve meant ten for them, fifteen for Whittaker, and ten for your firm.” Jake’s pain-pinched expression registered his level of enthusiasm for the deal. “Daisy and I figure that sixty-five percent of something is a lot better than—you know—zippo. But Ansel wasn’t focusing when I phoned—and, anyway, his people are rolling in money. It would just be some kinda power trip for them if they really try to come after me.” He sighed. “Now you know all our aggravation—see why I didn’t want to lay it on you guys?”

  Mitch took a final swig of his coffee. “So long as you were trying to make a deal with Ansel and, considering that his family is loaded, why not get your lawyer over there to tell the Erpfs that you were planning to bring the manuscript to us to auction it, but maybe you’d give them first shot at buying it from you instead?”

  “Yeah, I thought of that—except Daisy and I—we didn’t have a clue about what the thing is worth—I still don’t—so Whittaker said maybe an auction through you people was the way to go and not to worry about Ansel and his people until we had to.”

  Mitch had met his share of accomplished liars, and Jake Hassler did not fit the bill. Still, his story required substantiation; everyone’s did. “How unhappy would you be,” he asked, “if I said I’ll need to phone your daughter—very briefly—just to, well—you can understand—”

  “You think I’d make up something like that?” Jake demanded. “About my own granddaughter having a serious medical situation?”

  “Sorry,” Mitch said, “but people in difficulty sometimes do or say things they never would otherwise. I’d rather be straightforward with you, Jake, than call behind your back.”

  “Thanks a bunch.” Jake shook his head, more in sadness than anger. “Fuck it—and fuck you guys, too, but I guess you’re in a shitty business, dealing with a lot of creeps.” He reeled off his daughter’s phone number, adding, “But don’t mention Beethoven—she’s liable to blab it around out of, ya know, excitement—”

  Mitch shook off Jake’s disclosure and rose from the table.

  “I won’t be needing to call her now,” he said, extending his hand in thanks. “Only if you’d refused to give me the number.”

  At Daisy’s shop, her assistant told him the proprietor was out for the morning on a decorating job. When Mitch said he was with the insurance company handling the claim for “the chandelier accident,” the assistant grew wary, said, “Oh, that,” and invited him to come back in the afternoon or leave his card. Which was all that Mitch really needed to hear by way of corroborating the other part of Jake’s tale of family woes. “Next time I’ll call ahead,” he said, adding that it was just a routine question, and thanked the young woman.

  Back at his New York office, he placed a call to Jake’s attorney. “As a lawyer myself,” said Mitch, “I’d never dream of asking you about your fee arrangement with Jake Hassler—it’s obviously a private matter under lawyer-client privilege. But in this case, it goes directly to your client’s veracity—and if his truthfulness is questionable in one area that’s easy to check out—the one I’m asking you about—it casts a shadow over the much thornier business of this Tell man
uscript and the circumstances surrounding it.”

  “What is it you want to know, Mr. Emery?” Owen Whittaker asked, his use of Mitch’s last name suggesting that their relationship was on the brink of turning adversarial. He listened to Mitch replay his breakfast-table conversation with Jake, mulled it for a moment, then said, “You’re right—my arrangement with Mr. Hassler is none of your business. But I appreciate your directness in coming to me, so I don’t mind confirming what Jake told you about our agreement. I didn’t know Jake had tried to work out a deal with the Zurich family, but I don’t blame him for having tried, do you?”

  “Not in the least—only that’s not what I’m mostly concerned about.”

  “You think he’s making things up to cover some sinister connection with his grandfather’s neighbors—is that it?”

  “We have to consider every possibility.”

  “I don’t know him all that well, Mitchell, but my sense is that you’d have to check out half the human race before finding a straighter-shooting guy than Jake Hassler. I could be wrong, though. Do your thing—we’ve all got a vested interest in the outcome.”

  {5}

  After their week apart, except for the nightly one-hour break Clara permitted herself for sharing her delivered dinner with him in C&W’s plush top-floor apartment, Mitch was aroused at the sight of her in the tight jeans and loose sweatshirt she favored when working in private. At ten on the dot, she joined him, Harry, and Gordy, already seated in the high-ceilinged company library, handed each of them a printout of her twenty-five-page report, brushed a kiss off Mitch’s cheek as she slid past him, and took her seat at the far end of the conference table.

  Clara had laid down only two rules for their brief private soirées in the company apartment—no physical contact beyond a brief nuzzle and no Beethoven talk whatever. “I don’t want you to direct me, sway me, question me, or anything me,” she insisted, “or the deal’s off.” Mitch respectfully nodded while crossing his heart. As a result, he had no more idea than his two senior colleagues about where her research had taken her.