“But Aaron Sommers wasn’t a Viennese Jew,” I objected, sidetracked for a moment by the lesser problem.
Bertrand Rossy snapped impatiently, “Oh, this Hoffman, he must have become crazy. Either that or forgetful. He had insured an Austrian Jew named Aaron Sommers in 1935 and a black American of the same name in 1971. So he submitted a death claim for the black man instead of the Jew. It was all so foolish, so unnecessary—and yet, for us, so fortunate. He was the one agent we hadn’t been able to find with a large book of prewar Jewish policies. And then it turned out he was right here in Chicago. That day in Devereux’s office, when I looked in the Sommers papers and saw Ulrich Hoffman’s signature on his agency work sheet, I could hardly believe my fortune. The man we had been seeking for five years was right here in Chicago. I’m still astounded that you and Devereux didn’t notice my excitement.”
He paused to congratulate himself on his public performance. “But Fepple, he was a total idiot. He found one of Hoffman’s old registers in the Sommers file, together with some blank signed death certificates. He thought he could blackmail us over the false death certificates. He didn’t even understand that the Holocaust claims were more important. Much more important.”
“Bertrand, enough of this history,” Fillida said in Italian. “Get her to tell you where the doctor is.”
“Fillida, you must speak English,” I said in English. “You’re in America now, and these two unfortunates can’t understand you.”
“Then understand this,” Rossy said. “Unless you tell us where those books are at once, we will kill both these friends of yours, not fast with a bullet, but slowly with great pain.”
“That woman last night, the therapist of Hoffman’s son, she said this Jewish doctor has them. These are my books. They belong to my family, to my company. They must come back to me,” Fillida said, her accent strong, her English not as smooth as her husband’s. “But this clerk opened the safe and nothing is in it. Everybody knows you are the friend of this Jewish doctor, the best friend. So you tell us where she is.”
“She’s disappeared,” I said. “I thought you guys had her. It’s a relief to know she’s safe.”
“Please don’t make the mistake of assuming we are stupid,” Rossy said. “This office clerk is totally expendable now that she’s opened the doctor’s safe.”
“Is that why poor Connie Ingram had to die?” I asked. “Because she couldn’t tell you where Ulrich Hoffman’s notebooks were? Or because she would have told Ralph or the cops about fraudulent death certificates—your own obsession with Hoffman and Howard Fepple?”
“She was a very loyal employee of the company. I feel regret over her death.”
“You took her out for a lovely dinner, treated her with the kind of charm that persuaded Grandpapa Hirs’s little girl to marry you, and then took her to the forest preserve to kill her. Did you let her think you were attracted to her? Does it cheer you up, the thought that a naive young woman responds to you the same way the rich boss’s daughter does?”
Fillida curled her lip scornfully. “Che maniere borghesi. Why should I bother my head if my husband gratifies the fantasies of some poor little creature?”
“She’s complaining that I have bourgeois manners,” I explained to Ralph and to Mrs. Coltrain, who was staring straight ahead, glassy with shock. “In her world, if your husband sleeps with the staff it’s just a throwback to those old medieval customs. The queen of the castle doesn’t bother her head over it because she’s still queen. What is it, Fillida? Because you’re the queen you shoot anyone who doesn’t bow to you? Because you’re queen of Edelweiss, no one is allowed to get money from the company—you’ll shoot them if they submit a claim? You need to hold Edelweiss the way you hold your silverware and your daughter’s hair, don’t you?”
“You are ignorant. It is my family’s company, the Edelweiss. My mother’s grandfather, he started this company, only then of course it was called the Nesthorn. The Jews forced us to change the name after the Second World War, but they cannot force us to let go of our company. I am protecting the future of my children, of Paolo and Marguerita, that is all.”