Going for the Gold Page 12

  “Tilly!” Dick Noyes was aghast.

  She looked at him steadily. “Well, we have to face it, Dick. That’s the biggest crime around that somebody has to be saddled with, and I seem to be the favorite target for that sort of thing.” She caught herself on a half-choking breath. “Oh, I know I sound paranoid. But I don’t know what’s going on! If I did, I’d feel better even if there were nothing I could do.”

  Dick had grasped her hand and was half-crooning. “Tilly, Tilly, you’re letting it get to you. We’ll figure something out, you’ll see. We’ll get the IOC to listen to reason.”

  “Fat chance,” rumbled one of the giants.

  Dick cast him a look of dislike and abruptly shoved his chair back. “This isn’t getting us anywhere, Tilly. C’mon, let’s dance.”

  Their departure loosened tongues.

  “Noyes is a fool if he is still thinking in terms of appeals to reason,” remarked the nimbler.

  He was contradicted instantly. “Nonsense, Bernard. Tilly is entitled to a full hearing and this is no time to give up. It was probably a mistake trying to talk to Melville in his box. Perhaps we should prepare a brief outlining Tilly’s rights.”

  “Egon, when will you abandon stereotyped thinking?” Bernard shook his head sorrowfully. “You have not considered the power structure we are dealing with.”

  “And you have, I suppose?”

  “Certainly.” Bernard was very calm. “The IOC has said there is no benefit to be derived from a discussion with us. Remembering that they are quite dense, we must simply create a situation in which the benefits are self-apparent.”

  Egon sounded hopeful. “You’ve thought of something?”

  “Yes.” Bernard’s gaze rested momentarily on Thatcher and Antonelli. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Thatcher could take a hint as well as the next man. But, as he left the table, he realized that his first impression of the Swiss had been misleading. He had allowed himself to be distracted by their massive forms and lithe vigor. Instead he should have noticed that Bernard’s eyes were alarmingly intelligent.

  After the Swiss, John Thatcher would have appreciated a respite. But it was not to be.

  “John!”

  Brad Withers was excusing himself to a companion before padding over to his vice-president. The companion was very young, very blond, and very pretty. It was only to be expected. Years ago Thatcher had noticed that a day starting with a hectoring phone call from Caroline Withers was likely to end with Brad being ponderously gallant to some sweet young thing.

  “Do you know who that is?” Brad asked in triumph.

  Thatcher frowned. There was indeed something familiar about the tilt of that head, the carriage of those shoulders. But Brad was too impatient for the slow process of recollection.

  “That’s Vera Darskaya, the Russian ice skater,” he said proudly. “You remember, she was tied with the French girl.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Now I don’t like to see you standing here, out of things, John. You come back and join us.”

  It would be impossible to convince Withers that anyone standing alone, however briefly, did not yearn for integration into the nearest group.

  “Perhaps a little later,” Thatcher temporized.

  Withers leaned forward and lowered his voice to an alcoholic hush. “Now this is strictly confidential, John, but Vera Andreevna has something on her mind.”

  “I’m sure she has,” said Thatcher at random.

  “And we’d both appreciate your advice.”

  But before Thatcher was forced to commit himself, he saw rescue at band. In the doorway stood Captain Phil Ormsby.

  And just as Thatcher saw him, he spotted Thatcher. He raised a hand in a gesture of invitation, or was it command?

  “If you’ll excuse me for a minute,” said Thatcher. “I think the police want me.”

  “But, John . . .”

  Bradford Withers’ voice followed him for all of three feet.

  Chapter 13

  Emergency Vehicles

  ORMSBY wasted no time. “You remember how we were wondering yesterday what Vaux and the Maas woman could be up to?”

  “Certainly. You accused me of being biased in favor of paper crime.”

  Ormsby was in high spirits. “Well, I think we’re going to settle it for good tonight. I thought you might like to come along.”

  “Come where?” asked Thatcher. “The only road in the area that’s open is the one downtown.”

  “Leave that part to me. Just be at the front door in five minutes.”

  Thatcher was still fastening his parka when Ormsby’s cavalcade pulled up. It consisted of two military-looking vehicles equipped with plows, four-wheel drives and tire chains. The police inside all looked ready to climb Mount Everest.

  “Are you sure anything will happen tonight?” Thatcher asked mildly after he had bundled himself into the seat next to Ormsby. “It seems an odd time for a criminal to move around inconspicuously.”

  “These are odd criminals,” rejoined the police captain. He was still hugging a secret joke to himself. “But we know they’re going into action tonight. One of my men spotted Katarina Maas sneaking out of Olympic Village, and François Vaux wasn’t far behind her. Incidentally, I was right about those two not being paper shufflers. When they see something they want to steal, they simply take it.”

  There was no doubt that they had moved from speculation to fact. Thatcher was impressed.

  “How have you managed to find out so much since yesterday? Particularly in view of the conditions. The Village must have been in chaos yesterday night and this morning.”

  “I started at the other end, that’s how,” said Ormsby in tones of self-congratulation. “I went to the big outfit that’s supplying the Village, the one I told you about, and asked them who’d be in the best position to fence stolen commissary supplies. They gave me three names in the area and it turned out to be the second one. I struck it real lucky, thanks to Vaux’s itchy fingers and the high price of French cheese. There were ten sides of beef that the guy didn’t have invoices for, but I would have had a hard time proving origin. Thank God there was this one case of Brie that still had the customs seal on it. After that, we didn’t have any more trouble. He told me all about tonight’s little arrangement.”

  As the rendezvous must have been scheduled before the arrival of the blizzard, Thatcher was still doubtful.

  “I hope that Vaux is as indifferent to the weather as you are,” he said tactfully.

  “Oh, this weather is all to the good from his point of view.” Ormsby’s confidence was unimpaired. “Incidentally, you realize that this whole setup is irregular.”

  “Considering how you dragooned me into this commando raid, it’s a little late to worry about my presence, isn’t it?”

  Ormsby hastened to explain. “I don’t mean you, I mean me. Theoretically this is a little side issue that I should leave to the local boys. But I’m hoping that once we can stick Vaux and Maas with a charge, they’ll loosen up with anything they know about Yves Bisson and his operation.”

  “Now, that I’ll go along with.”

  They were the last words Thatcher was capable of speaking for some time. The pavement had just ended. Their vehicle, however, plunged straight ahead. The difference in terrain was immediately apparent. The cover varied from a foot of powder snow, to deep drifts, to sudden bare icy patches. Nothing stopped Captain Ormsby’s convoy. The semi-tanks crunched along, skidding, recovering, climbing, thudding into drops. Thatcher grabbed a protruding metal strut and concentrated on keeping his head from bashing into the roof.

  “How much farther?” he managed to gasp after three miles of pounding.

  “We’re almost there. It’s that four corners where Vaux and Maas were hanging around the day before Bisson was shot.”

  When they arrived, the motel was not quite invisible, its outdoor lighting creating a pearly glow in the snowfall.

  “Ev
erybody’s gone to bed,” Ormsby grunted as he registered the darkened facade. “Probably bored to death.”

  Thatcher wondered briefly if this was where the unfortunate French were entombed. But no, this one at least had a coffee shop, he recalled. Some of them didn’t even have that.

  Ormsby was clambering stiffly down. “All right, boys,” he directed. “I want these trucks out of sight in the bays of that garage. Then we’re going to have a half-hour wait, so we’ll hope that there’s some heat in the office.”

  As Thatcher himself dismounted, he considered the captain’s strategy. Clearly it was intended to provide a superficially unoccupied vista so that the malefactors would walk into the trap. The vehicles would be out of sight. The police would be lurking in a darkened office. But . . . As one of the trucks reversed into the gas station, its powerful headlights lit up the road by which they had come.

  “Do you think half an hour is enough to cover our tracks, Captain?” he asked doubtfully. “I know it’s snowing steadily, but we seem to have churned up quite a wake.”

  Ormsby shrugged. “I think it’ll do the job. Besides, they won’t be coming from that direction.”

  Thatcher’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline. Instinctively, he swung around to examine the smooth white ribbon that signaled the further progression of the road up the hill that stood between them and Saranac. Why in the world should Vaux and Maas be coming from that direction? Surely the whole point of their operation was to move goods away from Lake Placid, not toward it.

  What began as a lack of faith in the police plan soon hardened into complete mistrust under the impact of physical discomfort. There was, in fact, a small inadequate electric heater. There were also giant gaps around the ill-fitting windows and door that admitted brisk gusts of wind. To add to the general joy Captain Ormsby, at the 20-minute mark, forbade all foot stamping and hand clapping. At the 30-minute mark, as far as Thatcher was concerned, his circulation ceased. At the 45-minute mark, Ormsby raised a finger, cocked his head and smiled. “Listen.”

  In a second Thatcher heard it too. It was a high-pitched, laboring whine.

  “But that’s not a car,” he protested. “And it’s not even coming from the road.”

  Indeed it sounded to him like some maniac with a chain saw in the woods far behind the gas station.

  “Snowmobiles,” Ormsby explained tersely. “There’s an old logging track that comes out here.”

  As Thatcher absorbed this new factor, he remembered the daredevils he had seen whizzing around the outskirts of Lake Placid. “Surely they go faster than that.”

  “Not when they’re pulling a string of loaded sledges.” Ormsby was relaxing now that he was assured of a fruitful night’s work. “Okay, boys. Open the door and get ready to move. They should be pulling up in a few minutes.”

  A string of loaded sledges! Well, why not? Thatcher had to admit that it was logical. In the great rum-running days, there were portions of the English coast cluttered with trains of loaded mules. Allowing for different weather conditions and different technology, this was much the same thing. Instead of a single smuggler carrying a hooded lantern, there would soon be a headlight.

  No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he could distinguish an elfin halo dancing in and out of trees. Then the flickering resolved itself into two distinct sources. The lead light clarified, its accompanying buzzsaw grew louder, and then a dark shape glided into the clearing.

  The young troopers at the door were too precipitate. Waiting only for the engine to die, they surged forward announcing they were police. The second snowmobile, with a clear view of the proceedings, still had plenty of room to maneuver and its driver reacted with lightning reflexes. Gunning the motor savagely, he swung around the tangle by the shed and then swept into a wide arc at full throttle. Above the snarling roar came the click of a safety release and, like ice skaters playing snap the whip, six loaded sledges tumbled free. The sliding semicircle effectively cut off the police, their trucks and, incidentally, the first snowmobile.

  “François, you pig!” screamed Katarina Maas.

  “My God, he’s going to get away with it,” groaned Captain Ormsby, watching helplessly as the fleeing driver charged the hill to Saranac.

  The words were barely out of his mouth when a powerful beacon of light appeared over the crest, and a giant roar heralded the advance of a third machine, on collision course with the fugitive.

  “Lord, who’s that?”

  The police might be at a loss, but François Vaux never doubted that this was another element in the ambush. Snapping into a precipitous U-turn, he made a desperate bid for the road to Lake Placid, only to meet his nemesis in the outermost sledge. His machine smashed into the obstacle and heeled over, while Vaux himself was neatly pitched into the waiting arms of a trooper.

  Meanwhile the snowmobile from Saranac that had arrived so opportunely coasted decorously down the hill, ran into the yard and halted. Two riders dismounted and approached. Silhouetted from behind by their own headlight, they might have been two visitors from outer space in their snowmobile suits and helmets and boots. But from one distorted hulk came a very familiar voice.

  “We regret there has been an accident and hope there has been no personal injury. We stand ready to provide any assistance we can.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Ormsby began.

  But the voice swept on. “However, I must protest the gross negligence with which this driver was operating his vehicle. In view of the hazardous road conditions—”

  “Everett!”

  It took quite some time to dissuade Everett Gabler from formulating his defense against a possible insurance claim.

  “This is a police trap, Everett, that you’ve walked into. But how in the world did you get here? None of the roads or the airports are open.”

  This was meat and drink to Gabler.

  “I have often had occasion to remind our junior staff that closing normal transport routes does not render any locale inaccessible. It simply means that more thought is required in attaining one’s goal.”

  “Yes, Everett, I’ve heard you on the subject.”

  What’s more, Gabler’s practice was as good as his preaching. Thatcher, for one, never doubted that if Everett had had an appointment in San Francisco on that historic day in 1906, he would have been there on the dot. As the San Andreas Fault heaved and water mains blew up and the city burned to the ground, he would have watched the clock tick past the hour, fulminating steadily about the irresponsibility of his absent host. Difficulties, after all, are made to be overcome.

  “And did you overcome them this time?”

  According to Everett, it had been simplicity itself. A short air hop to Albany, followed by dog hops on little-known feeder railroads, had brought him to Saranac.

  “And there, I was fortunately able to persuade Mr. Sturgess to carry me on his machine.”

  Introductions were hastily made. Mr. Sturgess, naturally, turned out to be a thoroughly reliable, middle-aged stalwart who saw nothing strange in Everett’s proceedings.

  Ormsby was amused at the entire incident. “Well, you turned up in the nick of time. And I’m glad to see that part of your bank knows about snowmobiles. You people should get your act together.”

  Unfortunately he then went on to explain the nature of their night’s activity. Gabler was sorry to see Thatcher wasting his time this way.

  “Of course I understand this is a legitimate concern of the police,” he said graciously to Ormsby. “Indeed, I expected to find the authorities preoccupied with the murder of that ski jumper. We all recognize the superior claims of a threat to human life.” He paused to bend a steely gaze on his delinquent chief. “But, John, we should certainly not forget that the Sloan has suffered very substantial losses through a scheme that could easily be repeated at any moment.”

  Thatcher thought of all the precautions now exercised by Roger Hathaway.

  “Not easily,” he demu
rred.

  “And it is for that very reason that I decided not to defer a consultation with you until more clement weather.”

  Ormsby, who believed in leaving family fights to the family, intervened. “I’m hoping that tonight’s catch may shed some light on your problem. But it’s high time I got on with it. Why don’t we load up and get back to town? There’ll be room for you, too, Mr. Gabler.”

  Cleaning-up operations were accomplished with dispatch. Two troopers were left to guard the evidence, which included more sides of beef than Thatcher had ever seen outside of a warehouse. The prisoners went in one truck, and the senior members of the party climbed into the other.

  “I’ll let you know if Vaux and Maas come up with anything,” Ormsby promised en route.

  “Are you hopeful?”

  “You never can tell. Maas and Vaux are going to take this differently. It sticks out all over them. The woman has never been caught before. Right now, she’s spitting mad and trying to blame somebody else for her troubles. She’ll probably clam up and yell for a lawyer. But Vaux’s been there before and he’s always managed to wriggle clear. He’s already thinking of ways to make a deal. That should make him pretty cooperative.”

  “Unless,” Thatcher pointed out, “what he has to tell would get him into even worse trouble.”

  “Yes, there’s always that,” Ormsby agreed as they pulled up to the motel. “But we’ll know by tomorrow.”

  Gabler had been champing at the bit during this exchange. Nonetheless he omitted not one detail from his meticulous leavetaking. He even stood on the sidewalk to watch the trucks pull off. Then he took a mighty breath.

  “And now, John,” he said severely, “perhaps we could turn our attention to these Eurochecks.”

  Chapter 14

  Zero Visibility

  EVERETT Gabler’s hopes for a rewarding work session at two o’clock in the morning were dashed the moment they entered the Sloan’s motel suite. The bank’s president was already there, wrapped in a benign alcoholic haze and struggling ineffectually with his elaborate ski boots.