121
9:00 P.M.
MCVEY AND Scholl faced each other in silence. The warmth of the room had turned the salve on McVey’s face to an oily liquid, making his facial burns appear even more grotesque than they were.
A moment before, Louis Goetz had advised Scholl not to say another word until his criminal lawyers arrived and McVey had countered by suggesting that while Scholl had every right to do so, the fact that he was not cooperating with a police investigation would not look good when it came time for a judge to make a decision whether or not to grant him bail. Never mind, he’d added measuredly, the not-so-coincidental ramifications once the media got wind that a man as distinguished as Erwin Scholl had been arrested for suspicion of murder for hire, and was being held for extradition to the U.S.
“What kind of crap are you throwing around?” Goetz steamed. “You’ve got no authority here whatsoever. The fact that Mr. Scholl has left his guests to meet you is evidence of cooperation enough.”
“If we relax a little, we might finish up and go home,” McVey said, addressing Scholl quietly and ignoring Goetz. “This whole thing is as distasteful to me as it is to you. Besides, my face is killing me, and I know you want to get back to your guests.”
Scholl had left the dais more out of his own curiosity than the threat of McVey’s warrant. Stopping briefly to inform Dortmund of what was happening and, thereby, sending Dortmund immediately in search of a phone and a battery of top German criminal lawyers, he’d left the Golden Gallery by a side door and started down the stairs, when an agitated Salettl came out after him, asked where he was going and how he dared leave their guests at a time like this. Then it had been ten minutes to nine, a full twenty-five minutes before Lybarger would make his entrance.
“I have a brief rendezvous with a policeman, one who obviously leads an exceptionally charmed life.” He’d smiled, arrogantly. “There is ample time for it, my good Doctor, ample time.”
Tanned and resplendent in his hand-tailored tuxedo, Scholl had been exceedingly polite when he’d come in, and all the more so when McVey had introduced him to Osborn. He’d listened attentively and done his best to be forthright with his answers—though he’d seemed genuinely puzzled at the questions—even after McVey had advised him of his rights as an American citizen.
“Let’s go over it again,” McVey had said. “Doctor Osborn’s father was murdered in Boston on April 12, 1966, by a man named Albert Merriman. Albert Merriman was a professional killer who, a week ago in Paris, was found by Doctor Osborn, and confessed to the murder. In doing so, he said that you had hired him to do it. Your reply was that you never knew or heard of Albert Merriman.”
Scholl sat expressionless. “Correct.”
“If you didn’t know Merriman, did you know a George Osborn?” !
“No.”
“Then why would you hire someone to kill a man you didn’t even know?”
“McVey, that’s a bullshit question and you know it.” Goetz didn’t like it at all that Scholl was giving McVey his head and allowing the questioning to go on.
“Detective McVey,” Scholl said calmly, without so much as a glance at Goetz, “I never hired anyone to commit murder. The idea is quite outrageous.”
“Where is this Albert Merriman? I’d like to meet him,” Goetz demanded.
“That’s one of our problems, Mr. Goetz. He’s dead.”
“Then there’s nothing more we have to talk about. Your arrest warrant is as full of crap as you. Hearsay from a dead man?” Goetz stood. “Mr. Scholl, we’re finished here.”
“Goetz, the problem is—Albert Merriman was murdered.”
“Big deal.”
“It is a big deal. The man who killed him was a gun for hire too. Also employed by Mr. Scholl. His name was Bernhard Oven.” McVey looked to Scholl. “A member of the East German secret police before he went to work for you.”
“I’ve never heard of a Bernhard Oven, Detective,” Scholl said evenly. A clock on the mantel over McVey’s shoulder read 9:14. In one minute the doors would be opened and Lybarger would enter the Golden Gallery. To his surprise, Scholl was finding himself intrigued. McVey’s knowledge was remarkable.
Tell me about Elton Lybarger,” McVey surprised him, suddenly shifting gears.
“He’s a friend.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s been ill.”
“But he’s well enough to give a speech.”
“Yes, he is. . . .”
“I don’t understand. He’s too ill to talk to one man, but not a hundred.”
“He’s under a physician’s care.”
“You mean Doctor Salettl. . . .”
Goetz looked at Scholl. How long was he going to allow this to go on? What the hell was he doing?
“That is correct.” Scholl adjusted the left sleeve of his jacket with his right hand, making a deliberate display of the still-healing abrasions. He smiled. “It’s ironic that we should both have painful physical wounds at the same time, Detective. Mine came from playing with a cat. Yours, obviously, from playing with fire. We both should know better, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t playing, Mr. Scholl. Somebody tried to kill me.”
“You are fortunate.”
“A few of my friends weren’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Scholl glanced at Osborn, then looked back to McVey. McVey was, without doubt, the most thoroughly dangerous man he’d ever met. Dangerous because he cared about nothing but the truth, and to that end, he was capable of anything.
122
9:15 P.M.
THE ROOM was hushed. Every eye in it followed Elton Lybarger as he walked alone down the beribboned center aisle of Georg Wenzeslaus von Knobelsdorff’s grand rococo creation, the green-marbled, gold-gilded, mesmerizing Golden Gallery. One foot place sturdily before the other. No longer reliant on cane or nurse. Smashingly resplendent in dress, he was aloof, practiced, self-assured. A symbolic monarch of the future passing in exhibition for those who had helped bring him here.
A wave of adoration rose in the chests of Eric and Edward as they sat on the dais and watched him make his way toward the podium. Beside them, Frau Dortmund wept openly, unable to control the emotion that washed over her. Then, in a gesture that swept the room, Uta Baur stood and began to applaud. Across the room, Matthias Noll followed. Then Gertrude Biermann. Hilmar Grunel Henryk Steiner and Konrad Peiper. Margarete Peiper stood to join her husband. Next came Hans Dabritz. And then Gustav Dortmund. And then the rest of the one hundred were on their feet making the tribute unanimous. Lybarger’s eyes swept left to right, smiling, acknowledging as the thunder of their applause shook the room, rising in force as each step brought him closer to the podium in front of them. The pinnacle of achievement was at hand and the ovation for it deafened.
Salettl looked at his watch.
9:19.
That Scholl was not yet back was inexcusable. Looking up, he saw Lybarger reach the podium steps and begin to mount them. As he gained the top and looked out, the acclaim soared, rising in a crescendo that pounded the walls and shook the ceiling. This was the prelude to
