Hartman can’t wrest thislady’s money from the greedy paws of some Swiss banker, who can?
No one was as stubborn as Peter. No one except Old Max, maybe.
Ben had little doubt Peter had won the battle.
He began to feel weary. The highway had become monotonous, lulling. His driving had fallen naturally into the rhythm of the road, and other cars no longer seemed to be trying to pass him quite so often. His eyelids began to droop.
There came a blaring car horn, and he was dazzled by headlights. With a jolt he realized that he’d momentarily fallen asleep behind the wheel. He reacted quickly, spinning the car to the right, swerving out of the oncoming lane of traffic, just barely missing a collision.
He pulled over to the side of the road, his heart pounding. He let out a long, relieved sigh. It was the jet lag, his body still on New York time, the length of the day, the madness at the Bahnhofplatz finally catching up with him.
It was time to get off the highway. St. Moritz was maybe a couple of hours away, but he didn’t dare risk driving any longer. He had to find a place to spend the night.
Two cars passed by, though Ben did not see them.
One was a green Audi, battered and rusty, almost ten years old. Its driver and sole occupant, a tall man of around fifty with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, turned to inspect Ben’s car, parked on the side of the road.
When the Audi had traveled about a hundred meters beyond Ben’s car, it, too, pulled over to the shoulder.
Then a second car passed Ben’s Opel: a gray sedan with two men inside. “ Glaubst Du, er hat uns entdeckt? ”the driver asked the passenger in Swiss-German. You think he’s spotted us?
“It’s possible,” the passenger replied. “Why else would he have stopped?”
“He could be lost. He is looking at a map.”
“That could be a ruse. I’m going to pull over.”
The driver noticed the green Audi at the side of the road. “Are we expecting company?” he asked.
Chapter Six
Halifax, Nova Scotia
The next morning Anna and Sergeant Arsenault drove up to the house belonging to Robert Mailhot’s widow and rang the bell.
The widow opened the front door a suspicious few inches and stared out at them from the dark of her front hall. She was a small woman of seventy-nine with snow-white hair in a neat bouffant, a large, round head, an open face but wary brown eyes. Her wide flat nose was red, evidence either of weeping or booze.
“Yes?” She was, unsurprisingly, hostile.
“Mrs. Mailhot, I’m Ron Arsenault from the RCMP, and this is Anna Navarro from the United States Department of Justice.” Arsenault spoke with a surprising tenderness. “We wanted to ask you some questions. Could we come in?”
“Why?”
“We have some questions, that’s all.”
The widow’s small brown eyes shone fiercely. “I’m not talking to any police. My husband’s dead. Why don’t you just leave me alone ?”
Anna sensed the desperation in the old woman’s voice. Her maiden name, according to the documents, was Marie LeBlanc, and she was just about eight years younger than her husband. She didn’t have to talk withthem, though she probably didn’t know that. Everything now turned on the dance of persuasion.
Anna hated dealing with the families of murder victims. Pestering them with questions at such a terrible time, days or even hours after the death of a loved one, was unbearable.
“Mrs. Mailhot,” Arsenault said in an official voice, “we have reason to believe someone may have killed your husband.”
The widow stared at them for a moment. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. The space between front door and jamb narrowed.
“You may be right,” Anna said softly. “But if anyone did anything to him, we want to know about it.”
The widow hesitated. After a moment, she scoffed, “He was old. He had a bad heart. Leave me alone.”
She felt sorry for the old woman, having to undergo interrogation at such a terrible time. But the
No one was as stubborn as Peter. No one except Old Max, maybe.
Ben had little doubt Peter had won the battle.
He began to feel weary. The highway had become monotonous, lulling. His driving had fallen naturally into the rhythm of the road, and other cars no longer seemed to be trying to pass him quite so often. His eyelids began to droop.
There came a blaring car horn, and he was dazzled by headlights. With a jolt he realized that he’d momentarily fallen asleep behind the wheel. He reacted quickly, spinning the car to the right, swerving out of the oncoming lane of traffic, just barely missing a collision.
He pulled over to the side of the road, his heart pounding. He let out a long, relieved sigh. It was the jet lag, his body still on New York time, the length of the day, the madness at the Bahnhofplatz finally catching up with him.
It was time to get off the highway. St. Moritz was maybe a couple of hours away, but he didn’t dare risk driving any longer. He had to find a place to spend the night.
Two cars passed by, though Ben did not see them.
One was a green Audi, battered and rusty, almost ten years old. Its driver and sole occupant, a tall man of around fifty with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, turned to inspect Ben’s car, parked on the side of the road.
When the Audi had traveled about a hundred meters beyond Ben’s car, it, too, pulled over to the shoulder.
Then a second car passed Ben’s Opel: a gray sedan with two men inside. “ Glaubst Du, er hat uns entdeckt? ”the driver asked the passenger in Swiss-German. You think he’s spotted us?
“It’s possible,” the passenger replied. “Why else would he have stopped?”
“He could be lost. He is looking at a map.”
“That could be a ruse. I’m going to pull over.”
The driver noticed the green Audi at the side of the road. “Are we expecting company?” he asked.
Chapter Six
Halifax, Nova Scotia
The next morning Anna and Sergeant Arsenault drove up to the house belonging to Robert Mailhot’s widow and rang the bell.
The widow opened the front door a suspicious few inches and stared out at them from the dark of her front hall. She was a small woman of seventy-nine with snow-white hair in a neat bouffant, a large, round head, an open face but wary brown eyes. Her wide flat nose was red, evidence either of weeping or booze.
“Yes?” She was, unsurprisingly, hostile.
“Mrs. Mailhot, I’m Ron Arsenault from the RCMP, and this is Anna Navarro from the United States Department of Justice.” Arsenault spoke with a surprising tenderness. “We wanted to ask you some questions. Could we come in?”
“Why?”
“We have some questions, that’s all.”
The widow’s small brown eyes shone fiercely. “I’m not talking to any police. My husband’s dead. Why don’t you just leave me alone ?”
Anna sensed the desperation in the old woman’s voice. Her maiden name, according to the documents, was Marie LeBlanc, and she was just about eight years younger than her husband. She didn’t have to talk withthem, though she probably didn’t know that. Everything now turned on the dance of persuasion.
Anna hated dealing with the families of murder victims. Pestering them with questions at such a terrible time, days or even hours after the death of a loved one, was unbearable.
“Mrs. Mailhot,” Arsenault said in an official voice, “we have reason to believe someone may have killed your husband.”
The widow stared at them for a moment. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. The space between front door and jamb narrowed.
“You may be right,” Anna said softly. “But if anyone did anything to him, we want to know about it.”
The widow hesitated. After a moment, she scoffed, “He was old. He had a bad heart. Leave me alone.”
She felt sorry for the old woman, having to undergo interrogation at such a terrible time. But the
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