“That party the other night was quite a bash,” he began, and I detected a faint southern accent in his voice, a sort of middle-southern-states accent. “Those Von Alders sure know how to entertain. There were a couple of actors, the Russian ambassador, two British authors, that pop artist who paints nothing but pictures of jock straps, and a dozen other people I never did get to meet.”
“Did any of them seem particularly cozy with the ambassador?” I asked, taking a whack at the ball and, in a lucky shot, driving it hard into Z1’s midsection, making it impossible for him to return the shot.
“Whew!” he mumbled, straightening up with an effort, his face beaded with sweat. Then, in answer to my question, he said: “It appeared to me that all the guests there were pretty chummy with one another. Like they were all charter members of some exclusive club. You know what I mean?”
I nodded. “But was Helga or her mother, Ursula, ever alone with the ambassador for any length of time during the evening?” I asked, racing back and forth across the court. I didn’t know what kind of information I was expecting to get from him, but any kind of lead or link between the dead ambassador and one or another of the Von Alders would help.
“No,” Z1 answered, doing his own share of running. “Actually, the Russian spent most of the time talking with that artist and finally wound up the evening buying two paintings the fellow had brought along. It struck me as the worst kind of capitalistic decadence for the Communist to pay good money for paintings of jock straps.”
I had a sudden, wild idea. “What would you think if I asked AXE to arrange an autopsy on the dead Russian’s brain?”
“An autopsy?” Z1 exclaimed, swinging around and looking at me. “What could an examination of his brain prove?”
“It’s just a hunch,” I said. “I can’t get it out of my mind how weird the whole situation is. Not just what happened today, but all the previous killings — or I should say suicides. These men have formed the strangest assassination squad I’ve ever seen. Maybe they’d been drugged first, or hypnotized, or brainwashed. Somebody had to have gotten to them to make them behave in such an identically irrational way. There’s got to be an explanation. Maybe an autopsy would provide some answers, help us understand the reasons behind the case.”
“I suppose it’s worth trying.” Z1 shrugged.
“Hawk wants me to move in on Helga right away,” I told him. “As soon as we finish the game, I’ll call her and try to make a date for tonight. I guess you’d better report back to Hawk at headquarters. Be sure and tell him that I want to get an autopsy done on the Russian.”
“Sure thing,” he said, missing a shot and losing the game to me.
After we had showered and dressed, we went to a bar and had a couple of chilled martinis, and I called Helga Von Alder from a phone booth.
“Dumplink!” she squealed delightedly as soon as she heard my voice. “You’re back. That dumb sister of mine let you get away. Will I see you tonight?”
“Exactly what I had in mind,” I told her. “I’ll pick you up about eight.”
When I had completed the call, Agent Z1 and I parted company. I headed for the luxurious Sutton Place apartment AXE had leased for me — or rather for “Tony Dawes.”
One of the advantages of undercover work for AXE was that the organization spared no expense in creating a fool-proof disguise for its agents. The apartment of “Tony Dawes” was a good example. It was a smart, elegant bachelor pad, complete with all the accessories of seduction that such a man would provide for himself. Soundproofed from outside, high enough to give a view of the city — and privacy — and engineered with all the latest electronic equipment from intimate lighting to quadrophonic sound throughout. My only requests had been a small gym and a sauna. I spent the remaining hours of the day working out on the punching bag and parallel bars and finished with a sauna bath. It was seven thirty-five when I set out in my dinner jacket to call on Helga Von Alder.
Helga’s apartment was a penthouse on Park Avenue in the eighties, in a regal building that looked more like a private club than a residence. I had expected her to be alone, but when I arrived, I saw that Ursula was there with a gray-haired gentleman, whose face looked vaguely familiar although his name momentarily eluded me.
“But Dumplink,” Helga greeted me, planting the usual open-mouthed Von Alder kiss on my lips and pulling me inside, “say hello to Ursie”— the Von Alder daughters called their mother Ursie — “and her escort, Byron Timmons.” I recognized the man then as one of the country’s oil tycoons. Ursula Von Alder also gave me a kiss on the lips that was far from maternal, and Timmons shook my hand stiffly.
“Ursie and Byron were just leaving,” Helga added, smiling cherubically.
Byron Timmons muttered, “Ah, yes,” and began to help Ursula into her mink coat.
“We were talking about the terrible accident poor Vladimir Kolchak had,” Helga said. “You heard it on the news?”
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid not.”
“He was killed at the United Nations this afternoon,” Helga said sadly, “some kind of boiler explosion.”
“Terrible,” I said, wondering if Hawk had concocted the “boiler explosion” for the press all by himself.
“Poor Vladdy,” Helga said, “he was always so full of life. I’ll miss him.”
“You knew him?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Helga answered. “He was an old friend of Ursie’s. He was here at the house, at a party, just two nights ago.”
“We’ll all miss him,” Ursula repeated, kissing Helga on the cheek, brushing my lips with hers, and heading for the door. Byron Timmons followed after giving me another stiff handshake.
As soon as Helga closed the door behind the departing couple, she collapsed into my arms with stifled giggles, whispering, “Oh, Dumplink, Byron Timmons is awful angry at me — and you. When I made the date with you this afternoon, I had completely forgotten I was supposed to go to the theater with him tonight. When I remembered, I had to do some frantic rearranging and call in Ursie for a substitute. I told Byron you were an old friend I hadn’t seen in years and you were in town only for the evening.”
“I knew he wasn’t exactly happy about something. Now I understand.”
Helga pulled away, shaking her head. “Sometimes I can be so naughty. But I wanted to be with you.”
“I’m pleased,” I told her, “and flattered. Now where would you like me to take you?”
“It’s such a nasty night out,” Helga said softly, “I thought maybe you’d just rather stay here and be cozy. If you don’t mind making do with something simple like champagne and cavier. I’m afraid that’s all we have in the house, and it’s the servants’ night off.”
“I can’t think of a nicer way to spend the evening.”
She had surprised me. She was dressed in a skin-tight, white evening gown, her blonde hair carefully coiffed, a diamond necklace around her throat with matching diamond pendants swinging from her earlobes. She was ready for a night on the town. But then I realized that the Von Alder women probably dressed like that just for an evening of lounging around the house.
Helga turned on some music and turned down the lights. Soon she brought out the champagne and caviar, and we sat side by side on a leopard-skin chaise in front of floor-to-ceiling windows where we watched the city lights and snowy darkness.
“You know, Tony,” Helga said softly, turning toward me as we both sipped the chilled champagne, “you’re not like the other men I’ve known in my life. I can usually figure them out pretty easily, figure out what they want from a woman. With you I’m not so sure, though I haven’t known you for very long. And that’s a challenge. I find it exciting, and I think all the other Von Alder women, including Ursie, do, too.” She sat up straight suddenly. “Did you enjoy yourself with Maria?”