The Wind Chill Factor (21 page)

“So I thought I would enjoy a conversation with Herr Kottmann. But he was gone.”

“Where have they gone?” I asked. It was airless in the little office, antiseptic, organized, but my mind was in chaos. Every time I turned around there was something new and disagreeable.

“They left in the very early hours of this morning from a small private airstrip north of the city. The airplane was Herr Kottmann’s Lear jet, the pilot was Helmut Kruger, a professional pilot for hire who often flew Kottmann on little jaunts around the country. Their destination was filed as Patagonia … do you know Patagonia, Mr. Cooper?”

“For God’s sake, of course not.”

“It is the end of the world. Desolate, bleak, at the end of South America. Ah … no one goes to Patagonia for a good time.” He sighed and daintily killed his cigarette. “Yet it is the sixth visit Herr Kottmann has made to Patagonia in six months.”

“Surely you can interview him when he gets there,” I said. “Or when he returns.”

“Well, not necessarily.” He pursed his lips and drummed his fingertips on the file. “Let me explain. He, St. John, and the pilot set off for Patagonia. They … never arrived. The Lear has landed nowhere, nowhere between here and their destination, and nowhere in Patagonia. They cannot be raised by radio. They have not been seen by any other airplanes along their flight path.” He pursed his lips again, as if to blow me a kiss. “They have disappeared. I’ve already ordered an air and ground search. I’m not quite sure why, but I have the distinct feeling that we’re not going to find them.” He smiled gravely.

T
HE LAST LEG OF THE
flight to Glasgow ended in the dark and the rain. I had tried charting the events since my departure from Boston in a notebook but it quickly became too involved. I couldn’t organize it. I was no Roca.

When I left him at the Moreno Street office he had been perplexed but far from confused. He faced his new difficulties with dispatch and discretion. By evening he would surely have each in its own manila folder.

He told me he would keep Maria Dolldorf under protective surveillance until what he termed “this period of instability” was over. He was also ordering some very thorough research into Professor Dolldorf’s financial condition and any continuing involvement he might have had with Kottmann or any other leftovers from the Perón years.

The diary Maria had found among her father’s papers particularly fascinated Roca. He informed me that inquiries would be made into Barbarossa and Siegfried; into circles of Peronistas who from time to time worked up a sweat about bringing the deposed President home.

So I gave up on my chart.

All I really cared about was my little sister Lee. I had to find her. Innocent and childlike, I was convinced that when I found her it would all begin to come clear. I would understand … once I found Lee.

I felt a hand on my arm.

It was my seatmate, a small, solid man with a red face, dressed in a Harris tweed suit. He had a Clara Bow bee-stung mouth that looked as if someone had yanked it shut with purse strings.

“I say, that’s Glasgow down there,” he said primly. “We’re here at last.” He pointed out the rain-flecked window as the 707 banked slightly: Glasgow squatted below, asleep and grimy. The purse strings crinkled open in a tight little smile. “I didn’t want you to miss that first look.” He looked away shyly.

“That’s all right,” I said. I yawned.

“Have you had a long journey?”

“Rather. From Buenos Aires.”

“Oh, my! That is a long way.” He made an effeminate gesture with pink, pointed little hands. “I thought I’d come far … from Rome and Madrid. But you’ve beaten me with Argentina, haven’t you?” He smiled. “Oh my, yes.”

I nodded. I was hoping he wouldn’t try to pick me up. He pulled a pigskin briefcase from beneath his seat and straightened it on his lap, across his fastened seat belt. I fastened my own and he stuck out a pink, soft hand.

“MacDonald.”

“Ah, yes,” I said hesitantly. “Cooper.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Cooper. I always like to meet people I travel with—it’s a superstition, I realize, but I always think of the chance of dying, a plane crash … it’s a good idea to know who you might die with, don’t you see?” He smiled at me brightly and withdrew the little hand. “Is that too awfully morbid? I suppose it is. Well, so be it, so be it … it’s my way.” He patted his moist shining forehead with a handkerchief.

The 707 was dropping lower through the rain. I was conscious of the engines throttling, the vibrations of the fuselage.

“Staying in Glasgow long?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I shouldn’t think so.”

“Not a terribly cheery place, Glasgow. Awfully commercial, industrial, not at all like Edinburgh. On business I suppose?”

“No, no. No business.”

“Well, if it’s a holiday you’re on, Glasgow is bound to be a disappointment, Mr. Cooper. Edinburgh, now there’s your tourist spot.”

The plane was coming in much lower now, gliding over a deep serene blackness, landing lights ahead of us.

“I’m on a personal matter, Mr. MacDonald,” I said wearily. “No vacation, no holiday.” My eyes burned from the stifling air in the cabin.

“Insurance, myself. Business, business, always business.” He shrugged narrow shoulders and brushed a hand nervously across his egglike cranium, eyes squinting behind his plain plastic spectacles as if he were about to receive a blow. There was perspiration on his forehead. It finally occurred to me why he’d begun the conversation. He was afraid. Taking off probably affected him the same way. Now, waiting for the wheels to touch down, his pink little hands gripped the armrests, knuckles blanching. Then came the thud, the slight jolt, and we were earthbound. MacDonald released his grip, wiped his forehead again, and I saw color returning to his face.

I saw him again at the baggage pickup. He smiled with the camaraderie of the born insurance salesman, made his way to where I waited.

“Where are you staying?” he asked, now full of relief and not so worried about dying. I suddenly found myself enjoying this harmless man after the fellows I’d been running across.

I named the hotel and he nodded approvingly. “Top of the heap.” Our bags came down and we hoisted them. “Well,” he said before climbing into a taxi, “we must have a drink. I can unhesitatingly recommend a pub I’m sure you will enjoy.” He waved and was gone, the image of his bee-stung lips lingering in my mind.

The wind blew the February rain in slanting sheets, cold and penetrating. Ground fog clung in patches to the tarmac. I wrestled my own bag into a taxi and we swung off into Glasgow. Cold and wet and shivering, I could not have been farther from Buenos Aires.

When I left the Lorne Hotel early the next morning, Sauchiehall Street was thick with a grimy winter fog. I felt refreshed, nervous, ready. The shock of Lee’s photograph had begun to ease and I was ready now to start searching for her in earnest.

I took a taxi to Cyril’s office. The fog closed in, smelling wet and dirty. I rather liked it.

The offices were on the second floor of a respectable, quiet, prosperous-looking building in West Regent Street. All Britain Distributing, Ltd., offered a very restrained face to the world, polished brass and dark shiny doors. The reception room was small, gleaming, carpeted, presided over by a middle-aged woman in sensible tweeds. A radiator hissed out of sight, but it was cool in the room. I told her who I was, she blinked, disappeared through a heavy door that closed without a sound, and came back saying Mr. Dumfries would see me right away if I’d kindly follow her.

Jack Dumfries was tall and slender, turned out in a vested dark blue suit, white shirt, narrow striped tie below the spread collar. It was the British uniform for the business day. A signet ring glinted on his little finger. He was an ageless man, fresh-faced but slightly stooped, in his thirties. Or forties.

We shook hands, he poured us tea from a dainty little pot with a pastoral scene painted on its plump sides. A fire struggled with wet logs, hissing and popping in the grate. It was a marvelously elegant office, typical of Cyril’s concern for surroundings.

Dumfries took up his stand by the mantelpiece, stirring his tea, smiling officiously. I hoped to God he wasn’t going to turn out insufferable.

“What’s your title here, Mr. Dumfries?” I asked. I sat down in an oxblood leather armchair and looked gravely up at him. The fire warmed me; I hitched closer.

“I am the managing director, Glasgow,” he said, sipping tea into his large mouth, staring at me with wet blue eyes over the rim. “I report to Mr. Cyril Cooper in writing, twice monthly, to the London office.” His voice was edged with defensiveness. “As far as Glasgow is concerned, it’s my own show.”

“Sit down, Mr. Dumfries,” I said, “please.”

The china was rattling as he lowered his elaborate frame into another leather chair. Rain clattered on the casement, flung by the wind through billowing fog.

“My brother Cyril is dead, Mr. Dumfries.”

“Oh, no. …” He looked very sad, but wheels were turning behind the wet blue eyes, calculating instantaneously.

“He died quite suddenly in the family home, back in Cooper’s Falls, Minnesota.” I pulled out my pipe and began filling the bowl. “Now, his interests in All Britain Distributing, Ltd., pass to me. I am somewhat unfamiliar with them but my attorneys are straightening all that out now. I will need recent audits and inventories made available in the relatively near future.” He looked normally disconcerted as I struck a match and lit my pipe. I smiled, watching it all sink in on him.

“Of course, whenever you wish them, Mr. Cooper. I’m certain you’ll find everything in perfect order.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, preparing himself for any onslaughts from the new management.

“I have every confidence in you, Mr. Dumfries,” I said, “every confidence. My brother was an excellent judge of men and if he chose you to take charge of things here in Glasgow I’m certainly not going to change things. You may rest assured.” I puffed on the pipe, got a good fire going, sipped some tea.

Dumfries sighed, sagged inside the expensive uniform.

“This is a shock, Mr. Cooper,” he said, relaxing a bit. “How did your brother die? He seemed in excellent health last fall, which was the last time I saw him. We seldom saw him here—a very silent owner. We never knew where he was. We’re really just an investment for him.”

“He did die of an illness, Mr. Dumfries—he was poisoned. Someone murdered him.”

The color seeped from Dumfries’ face. It was turning into an unpleasant morning. He got up and stood staring into the fog, the street below. “That’s incredible. I don’t know what to say.” He looked back sharply. “Do they know who did it, then?”

“No, I’m afraid not. All very mysterious, very sinister. You see, there have been two attempts on my life as well … and several other people are already dead.”

I gave him an abridged version of what had happened. He hurried through two cups of tea and lit a cigarette. The façade of reserve had pretty well crumbled. I liked Jack Dumfries. When I finished he stared at me and said: “Jesus Christ and company. … By rights, if the pattern continues, old Glasgow is in for a crime wave, what? Now you’re here, I mean.”

“If the pattern holds.

“There are some questions I’d like to ask you and we might as well get to it. First, there’s something I’d like you to take a look at.” I took one of the Lorne’s envelopes from my pocket and handed it to him. When he opened it and fetched out the clipping he snorted in surprise. “You have seen it before?”

“Of course I have,” he said. “I arranged to have this picture taken.” He stroked his chin. “Odd, though, what you two chaps have seen in it … you see, the day this photograph appeared in the Glasgow
Herald
was the same day your brother arrived in Glasgow last fall, the same exact day, and he brought it with him to the office. I’d never seen him in quite that mood but I’ll never forget it, that’s certain.”

The Glasgow Trade Fair was in progress at the time and Dumfries was quite pleased with himself for having arranged the photograph of Herr Gunter Brendel and the accompanying story by Alistair Campbell which made special mention of a business arrangement contracted for between All Britain Distributing, Ltd., and Herr Brendel’s firm of importers in Munich. In the normal course of things, All Britain had been trying to crack the German market with a new brand of scotch whiskey called Thistle and Heather. This was the breakthrough which Dumfries had been working on for some time. To celebrate it, he had prevailed on Campbell, whom he had known for several years, to treat the deal as an example of expanding trade relations with Germany and thereby gain publicity for Thistle and Heather. All in all, it had worked perfectly. Together they had arranged for the photograph to draw attention to the story and it was understood that from then on as much of the new whiskey was Campbell’s as he could possibly consume—a not inconsiderable gift given the journalist’s capacity.

When Cyril arrived at the All Britain offices that morning he was unusually excited. Shooing everyone out of the office, he and Dumfries had sat before the fire and Cyril had begun questioning him about the photograph, the story, and the events leading up to the agreement with Brendel’s firm.

“He was very persistent,” Dumfries recalled. “He particularly wanted to know how the whole thing had been initiated, whether they had come to us or we had gone to them. Of course, I had made the initial contact with Brendel because the word was out that his firm was in the marketplace.”

“Did you go to Germany to pursue it?” I asked.

“No, Herr Brendel came here from his offices in Munich. He wanted to see if we were in the trade to stay, don’t you see?”

“Did he know that my brother owned All Britain?”

“Aha, you see, that’s another point which fascinated your brother—once he was absolutely certain that I had initiated the negotiations and not the other way round, then he started in on that angle. Was there any way Brendel could have known of his involvement? Had I ever made mention of it? Could it have come to Brendel’s attention in any way that I knew of?” Dumfries lit another cigarette and peered into the teapot, which was empty. He went to the door and summoned more tea, which appeared almost instantaneously.