The Heir Hunter (37 page)

He stopped. Jessica was shaking her head back and forth.

“What?” he asked.

“After what just happened to us? No, no—I’m not stepping outside again until we leave the country.”

A pang of irritation rippled through Nick. “Look,” he said evenly. “If you want to sit it out when I go to the PI’s office, that’s fine, but I’m definitely going to need you afterward. Having you at Chagnon’s could help me a lot.”

“I did my part at the bank. You don’t need me for anything else. I’m not risking my life so you can solve some big mystery.”

“This
big mystery
may help me clear my name.”

Her stare was adamant. “I’m not going anywhere.” She looked up at him. “I’m sorry. It’s all up to you now.”

Nick almost exploded, but he was exhausted, tired to the point of defeat. He sat back on his side of the backseat and leaned his head back. He would try again in the morning. If need be, he would set off on his own. For now all he wanted was the nothingness of sleep.

He closed his eyes. He had never felt so wrung out before in his life. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would even be able to run.

T
HE STREETS OF
Geneva came alive with the sunrise. Blue and white streetcars clanged and rumbled noisily along their steel tracks like giant toy trains as business-people hurried to work along the cobbled streets. The tightly packed little souvenir shops were open for business, and the cafes were filled with coffee drinkers shading themselves under colorful oversized table umbrellas.

Nick had gotten up early and showered, not bothering to wake Jessica as he left. The taxi was waiting for him outside. He instructed the driver to take him to the southern side of the lake, to the early morning bustle of Place Bel-Air. Nick sat low in the backseat, his eyes scanning the busy streets as they moved through traffic. The driver reached the address in twenty minutes’ time and stopped the cab. Nick paid him, checked his surroundings, and stepped quickly to the curb.

He had managed to steal approximately five hours of sleep the previous night, but it felt closer to two. He had been troubled by dreams, none of which he could remember in detail, but they had been unsettling enough to prevent him from feeling completely rested. He would catch up on his sleep later—have all the time in the world to rest—when the Jacobs ordeal was over. For some reason, that thought wasn’t comforting in the least.

The private investigator’s office was just off the square,
on a side street called Rue de la Cité. Arne Muend was one of three private detectives listed in the Geneva phone directory, and his proximity to the banks on Place Bel-Air made him Nick’s rather arbitrary choice. The tiny ad offered spousal surveillance and background checks, among other services. Nick smiled grimly. Cheating husbands and wives knew no national boundaries.

He checked his notes for the address. The road was narrower and emptier than the Place Bel-Air and full of shuttered wooden buildings with colorful trim. A cluster of little stores—an art gallery, an antique shop, a travel agency, even a pet store—vied for the eye’s attention.

Nick pressed the appropriate doorbell and waited. When the gate buzzed, he pushed his way in. Someone was waiting at the top of a flight of stairs.

Arne Muend was a fortyish man with wavy brown hair and a thick waxed mustache. He wore a checkered blazer and sat at a desk beneath a huge wall-mounted elk’s head. He greeted Nick with a smile and a powerful handshake.

“Good to meet you,” said Muend, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. “I’ve made some very interesting finds for you.”

Nick sat and looked over the tiny office. The elk’s head stared down at him with dull glass eyes.

“I’ve a fondness for Americans,” Muend said in a loud German accent. “I consider myself a bit of an American. I lived in your state of Colorado for nearly two years. The mountains—once you’re near them, it’s impossible to be away. May I ask what city you are from?”

“Phoenix.”

“I know it. Flat and hot—not much else to it, eh?”

“Not much else,” replied Nick, glancing at his watch.

Muend folded his hands on his stomach and smiled again.

“Before we begin, something I’m naturally a bit curious about,” he said. “Switzerland is a long way to travel to see a private detective.”

“I’m here visiting with some old friends,” Nick replied. “Doing a favor for them. A confidential favor, actually.”

“And it will stay that way. This goes without saying. You will hear many things said of the Swiss around the world, my friend. If you choose to believe any one thing, let it be that we have a keen respect for privacy.” He tapped the side of his nose and winked. “We are exceptionally good at keeping our mouths shut. No matter what the circumstances.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Of course.” He removed a folder from a desk drawer. “Unfortunately we need to discuss payment first. Let me see—yes, five names. My fondness for Americans prevents me from charging you any more than two hundred and thirty francs. That rounds to one hundred and fifty American dollars.”

Nick removed a roll of bills and peeled off a hundred and a fifty. Muend placed the bills in his coat pocket and nodded cordially.

“This was surprising,” Muend said, leaning forward on his desk. “When I received your request yesterday, I immediately recognized half the names on the list. Anyone in Switzerland who reads the newspaper would have . . .”

Nick nodded. This sounded promising so far. “What can you tell me?”

“Let’s start with the only nonbanker of the group, shall we?” He removed a piece of paper. “Otto Kranzhoffer.”

Nick nodded, anxious for this. He hoped it would help him make sense of their encounter with the Swiss inspector the previous day.

Muend continued. “Swiss immigration records show that Herr Kranzhoffer arrived in Switzerland in 1961 from Austria. Since 1967 he had lived here in Geneva, on the Rue de Malatrex actually . . .”

“Nearby?” asked Nick.

“A short walk.”

“Good. I’ll take that address.”

“You may want me to finish first,” replied Muend, lowering the paper. “Herr Kranzhoffer died last February. Heart attack.”

“Christ,” muttered Nick, rubbing his forehead. He let out a long breath. “Any details on that? Do you know for certain it was a heart attack?”

“His chauffeur found him at home. The autopsy was very conclusive.”

“Chauffeur. Was he wealthy?”

“Was he wealthy?” asked Muend, seemingly amused by the question. “As a king, my friend. But no one knew until after he was gone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“One week after his death, a legal request was filed with the public court of Geneva. A man claiming to be his son stepped forward and tried to make a claim on the estate. His name was Erich Eckart. Do you know this name?”

Nick shook his head slowly. “Should I?”

“Not likely that you would,” replied Muend. “To make the story short, Eckart presented documentation showing Otto Kranzhoffer to actually be someone by the name of Hans Eckart. The court found the paperwork to be proper and true. Before it could render a ruling, however, city officials by custom were required to enter Herr Kranzhoffer’s home on the Rue de Malatrex and appraise the property. Shortly after this they did so. What they found inside was beyond what anyone could have imagined.”

“What was it?”

“An astounding collection of valuables. Vases of pure gold, close to a dozen classical paintings, gold bars—every possible bit of Nazi plunder you could imagine.”

“Maybe he was a collector,” Nick said, although the suggestion sounded hollow. “How do you know it was Nazi plunder?”

“The surveyors reported what they had seen, and experts were brought in. Within several weeks, the authenticity
of seven original medieval paintings which had vanished during the war had been confirmed. In addition to this, over four hundred kilograms of pure gold bars were found in his cellar. Oh, it was incredible, my friend—front page news in
Le Matin.
A day later, the historians came forward with more information. Hans Eckart was verified to be a Nazi war criminal who had vanished in 1945. Naturally, after this information was revealed, Erich Eckart’s request for inheritancy rights was promptly refused.”

Nick rubbed his chin and frowned distantly. Eckart and Holtzmann—two criminals who clung to each other in life and who would almost certainly be spending their eternities together.

“So what about the others?” he asked.

“Ah yes,” Muend said, finding another paper. “The others. Here’s where things get interesting. As I said earlier, the four other names you selected are known to many Swiss, especially those in the newspaper business. And the police stations. These are bankers—did you know that?”

“I did.”

“May I ask you one final question?”

“I suppose.”

“Might these four bankers be the old friends you spoke of?”

“They might be,” said Nick, after a pause.

“I feared that. I’m sorry to say that your friends are all gone. Let me go down the list chronologically.” He cleared his throat and read. “Henry Blaus, managing director of Burg and Blaus of Geneva. Murdered in Paris in November 1997. Found stabbed in an alleyway. No one arrested for the crime. The Parisian authorities have closed the case. Just like our French friends, eh? Quick to give up.

“Oscar Roullon, director, Droz and Cie of Geneva.” He looked up at Nick and winked. “Here’s where the tactics changed. He was found at the bottom of a ravine in March of 1998. A fall—seemingly. Apparently Herr
Roullon was an avid hiker, but odd, wouldn’t you think—a seventy-two-year-old man choosing to venture out by himself into a region he had never visited before? This is the story from his widow.”

Nick spoke quickly. “What’s this you say about ‘tactics’?”

“First the final two names.” He looked back at the paper. “Charles Chagnon, president of Alban-Witz, a very prestigious private bank here in Geneva. Located very close by, actually. Herr Chagnon drowned in a boating accident on our lovely Lac Léman. Classified as—wouldn’t you know—an accident. June of 1998. This brings us to the final one of your friends . . .

“Amil Gubelin, director, Gubelin and Cie of Lausanne. Herr Gubelin vanished in July of 1998. The police have been unable to trace his whereabouts. The newspapers speculate that he fled the country in fear for his life. Who could blame him, I say. I think he saw what was coming. The authorities are of course connecting it to the
Die Bankmörder.”

“The what?”

“Die Bankmörder
—the banking murders. A name created by the Zurich newspaper
Tages Anzeiger.
Understand something: bankers in this country are held in a certain esteem. If one is murdered, this is front-page news. But one murdered, two killed in peculiar accidents, and one vanished in the span of a year and a half? Can you imagine? It’s outrageous.”

“What have the police found? They must be piecing some of it together.”

Muend gave a short derisive laugh. “You would think so, eh? The only group in Switzerland that is more secretive than the bankers is the police. They’ve released almost no information of their investigations. The
Tages Anzeiger
has even gone so far to say that they are part of it. Once the police heard that, forget it—they closed up tighter than a clam. But I tell you, they would be quick to
congratulate themselves if they had indeed found the murderers or some important leads. My opinion is that they have no information to release. Nothing at all.”

Nick felt overwhelmed with what he was hearing. He chewed a fingernail as he thought.

“Back to Chagnon. You said he died in a boating accident, correct?”

“Correct. June of 1998.”

“Now, who is
Victor
Chagnon?”

Muend found the paper. “His only son.”

“He’s taken over as bank director, then.”

Muend shook his head. “When his father died, he left the bank. I understand he’s hired private security guards and become somewhat of a recluse. He hasn’t been seen in public for quite some time.”

“I need his address.”

Muend handed him the paper and pointed at the address.

“Herr Chagnon has an estate on the southern edge of the lake. It’s an exclusive community with no public roads. You may have to shout through a gate to get anyone’s attention. Be careful, though.”

“Why?”

“You’ll need to be,” said Muend, nodding his head grimly. “These people are very different from us, my friend. But you may have one thing in your favor. In Geneva, you have a better chance of getting answers from a recluse than you do from a banker.”

Nick checked the street before stepping out into the open. He neared the corner of Place Bel-Air and Rue de la Cité cautiously, stopping behind a large metal dumpster. He scanned the boulevard. People were everywhere. He stepped back into the doorway of a small gift shop and pulled out his phone. Jessica needed a wake-up call if she wasn’t already up. He would try to convince her to accompany
him to Victor Chagnon’s one final time, and now that she had had a night’s sleep he suspected he might have more success. He flipped open the phone, and as he was set to punch buttons he spotted them.

They were on a corner across the street, just three pedestrians in the crowd. He recognized his ponytailed assailant instantly—he was just standing there, in broad daylight, speaking to two smaller cohorts. Nick quickly backed into the gift shop and found a spot behind a display window to watch them. Ponytail was talking, and he didn’t look pleased. The big man took a step away from his companions and pointed down the street, then gestured the other way. He threw his arms in the air in a clear gesture of frustration. His mouth was moving quickly, giving harsh instructions.

Nick took a step back from the window. It was sobering to see them, but better for him to spot them than the other way around. It was a grim reminder not to let his guard down, even for a second. He doubted if they were the only three hired hoods looking for him on the streets of Geneva.