"Don't blame yourselves," Moise Rosenthal said, speaking for the first time since Avram had begun his narrative. "Gunter Gebhardt died because the neo-Nazis are trying to build an entrance ramp to the information superhighway. It's illegal for them to sell books denying the reality of the Holocaust, and the existence of the death camps. Instead, they're setting up a complicated computer network they plan to use to spread their propaganda. To do that, they need money."
"We've been convinced for some time that Erika wasn't acting entirely on her own. For one thing, most former Eastern bloc workers don't have enough money to do the kind of traveling she does. They just don't have the wherewithal to pay for tickets. There's also the matter of navigating a complicated bureaucratic maze in order to secure the proper exit papers and visas.
"I personally am convinced that Erika Schmidt is working for one of these neo-Nazi entities, although we're not yet sure which one. They're providing seed money and helping her cut through red tape. In exchange, once the missing gold is found, they'll be reimbursed for their up-front expenses, then they'll split the profits with Erika."
Michael Morris fidgeted in his chair. "What am I going to tell Kari?" he said. "Here's her father, an innocent man and…"
"I wouldn't be so sure about the innocent part," Moise cautioned. "For years Gunter Gebhardt has been involved in a joint venture with someone in Vladivostok. I believe he went into it solely in order to establish a cover that would allow him to smuggle his father's gold out from behind the iron curtain."
Moise Rosenthal sat back in his chair. He looked at Sue and me and smiled as if to say it was our turn. Now that he had told us what they knew, I believe he expected us to return the favor. Unfortunately, I wasn't in any mood for show-and-tell. Impeccable manners to the contrary, I still had a feeling Moise and Avram were playing us for fools. They had only told us as much as it suited them to tell. One important oversight was the fact that so far they hadn't mentioned a word about the toy soldiers they had bought from Else Gebhardt.
I stood up. "Excuse me for a moment, would you?"
Moise nodded graciously. I made my way to the nearest pay phone and punched in the directory-assistance number for eastern Washington.
"What city, please?" the operator asked.
"Yakima," I answered. "I'm looking for someone named Hurtado. First name Sergio."
Within moments I was speaking to Lorenzo Hurtado himself. I didn't beat around the bush. "Tell me something, Lorenzo," I said. "Was Gunter Gebhardt fishing or smuggling?"
"I am not a smuggler," Lorenzo answered. "I am an honest man. So is my cousin. We worked hard for Senor Gebhardt. We caught the fish. We cleaned them. We unloaded them onto the ships."
"What ships?"
"The Russian ships. American ships can't go into Russian ports."
"When you unloaded the fish, did you take anything on board?"
"Only food and supplies. Just enough to get back home. Senor Gebhardt would ship some spare parts and tools over ahead of time, so if anything broke while we were out, we'd have replacements. He said things they made in Russia weren't any good. He only wanted American."
"He didn't load on anything else?"
"Nothing else."
If Lorenzo was telling the truth, that pretty much blew the smuggling theory. Frustrated, I returned to the restaurant where the plates and dishes had given way to brandy snifters and cups and saucers.
"Look," I said impatiently. "Let's not play games. I know where you two were this afternoon. I know what you did. When did you figure out that those soldiers in Gunter Gebhardt's basement were made out of gold? Was it before or after you lied your way into Else Gebhardt's house to buy them?"
For a moment, there was dead silence around the table, then Moise said, "Those soldiers aren't gold, Detective Beaumont. You can check them yourself. They're made out of some other metal. Lead, maybe."
The soldiers weren't gold? There went my latest pet theory, shot straight to hell!
"Where is the damn gold then?" I demanded. "If Gunter didn't use it to make the soldiers, what the hell did he do with it?"
A tweak of amusement turned up the corners of Avram Steinman's mouth, wrinkling the corners of his eyes and twisting his face into a wry grin. "That, Detective Beaumont," he replied, "is what we were hoping you could tell us."
There was some stiff small talk after that. Moise and Avram were looking for information that neither Sue nor I was prepared to share.
I skipped the brandy. While drinking my second cup of coffee, I caught Michael Morris checking his watch three different times. Obviously, he had an important previous engagement. Our visit with Moise Rosenthal and Avram Steinman was making him late.
I passed on the waiter's offer of a third cup. I made one abortive attempt to pick up the tab, but Moise waved that aside, telling me it was handled on a direct-billing basis. Thank you, Simon Wiesenthal. Sue, Michael, and I made our joint exit a few minutes later. Because it was cold outside, we stood just inside the entrance while a pair of attendants brought around the cars.
"Do you think those two guys are really on the level?" Sue asked.
"Up to a point," I answered, "but I wouldn't trust them any farther than I can throw them."
"What about old man Gebhardt? Is he alive or dead?"
"Good question," I replied. "It's a crap-shoot either way. If I were you, I wouldn't bet any money one way or the other."
My 928 is always popular when it comes to the young men who work valet-parking concessions. Naturally, the Guard-red Porsche appeared in the hotel driveway long before Sue Danielson's battle-weary Ford Escort. It's possible the parking personnel at the Sorrento might have frowned on handling such lowbrow transportation, but Sue's considerable display of well-turned calf and thigh kept the car jockeys from making snide comments about her car. They did, however, feel free to comment on her looks.
Sue was fully capable of handling herself. She simply ignored their admiring but verging-on-rude leers. Rather than challenge them on it, she merely got in the car and drove away, stiffing the car jockeys out of their expected tip. When Michael Morris and I drove away, one attendant was busy griping to the other about how come she did that. I could have told him, but there are some things in life guys need to be smart enough to figure out for themselves.
Once Michael and I started down Madison, I caught him stealing yet another surreptitious glance at his watch.
"What have you got," I asked, "a hot date?"
He shook his head. "I'm worried about Kari," he said.
"What about her?"
"My mother didn't invite Kari to dinner tonight. She said that under the circumstances, with Mr. Gebhardt dead, she was sure Kari wouldn't want to accept a dinner invitation. The truth is, Mom doesn't like Kari at all. That was just an excuse not to have her over. But I told Kari I'd come over to her place right after dinner. Now I'm worried about showing up so late."
"Ten-thirty isn't all that late," I reassured him. "As soon as I get you back to your car, you can be at Kari's house in a matter of minutes. There's hardly any traffic this time of night."
Michael's car, a bright blue Geo Storm, was parked on Cherry just east of Third. He was in such a hurry to get where he was going that he leaped out of the Porsche while it was still rolling. He took off without so much as a wave or a thank-you. It's a wonder he didn't break his leg.
Such is love, I thought, watching him scramble into the car, start it, and peel out of the parking place. Love, youth, and raging hormones.
As the pair of bright red taillights sped up Third Avenue, I hoped he'd pay attention to his driving.
It would be too bad if some hard-nosed traffic cop pulled the poor kid over and gave him a ticket, I thought, not because Michael was screwed up on booze or drugs, but because he was an inattentive, lovesick swain.