Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(76)
She felt his fear, a wave of palpable emotion that spread like an airborne disease, and almost stepped away from him. “Who are they?”
“Russians, a Russian.”
“Arsov? He threatened you?” She raised her light to see his face. This made no sense. Arsov was too old and feeble to threaten a strong young man. And there were no Russians on his staff.
Mulholland shook his head, all bravado finished. Even his voice changed. “No, not him. The ones I borrowed money from. They want it now. All of it.”
Clarity came in a flood, as did memories of stories she had heard while working in financial crimes. Arsov’s note also now made sense. He was wealthy enough to help and perhaps less judgmental than the Vallottons.
“Monsieur Arsov knew of your trouble?”
“I’d hinted. I’d hoped he would volunteer to help. Maybe ask if he could help. He knew what I needed.” Mulholland wiped his brow. “The day she was killed I knew time was running out.” The words tumbled from Mulholland’s lips. “That’s why I was outside. Trying to work up my nerve to see that—well, to see him. Then his butler turned me away. Said the old man didn’t have time for me. For me! The godson of—” He stopped abruptly. “I was waiting, sitting in the summer pavilion, about to freeze to death, when I saw the policeman.”
“I think Monsieur Arsov changed his mind. That’s what he meant in his note. He had been too strict. When I told him about the thefts, he may have wondered if it was you. That’s why he wanted to talk to me. He wanted to help you.”
“That’s brilliant. Too bloody late now.”
She wondered if Mulholland was right and it was possible that someone looking for him had killed Felicity, mistaking her for the man. However, she’d had some experience with the Russian mafia—at the points where they intersected with financial crimes—and didn’t think this was their style, at least not in Switzerland. They were more likely to either wait for Mulholland to leave the country and make a spectacle of his death, or lure him away and dump the body somewhere. They wanted to be able to bank in Switzerland and would keep a low profile in the country. At the same time, a clean kill with no grand gesture wasn’t their style either.
“You don’t know what it’s been like.” Mulholland placed a palm flat on his chest and pressed. “I swore that once this was over I would get a job in a bank, or an insurance company, working nine to five, or whatever people do. But it never ends.” He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. “I’ll never set foot on a yacht again, or ski, or borrow money.”
Agnes watched him fumble for another cigarette and was moved to pity. He inhaled deeply, his hand no longer shaking.
“That day was one dismal failure after another. Every minute I was one step farther down the path of no return. Jesus, I was starting to have dreams that the police would arrest me. Bad dreams that ended with a cold dark jail cell. And that day, the day she was murdered, was the worst. That fucking, filthy recluse of a man could save me with a word as easily as most people ordered water in a restaurant, but wouldn’t take the time to see me. Driving me to ruin. Fucking foreigner.”
Agnes didn’t point out that Mulholland was also a foreigner in Switzerland. The young man spat out a fleck of tobacco, weighing the hand-rolled cigarette on his palm. Agnes saw his eyes dart to his gold case. For a moment he weighed the case in his hand, delaying. She could sense him estimating.
“Who else could I ask?” he continued. “Someone who wasn’t a fucking Slav. Someone who understood what a gentleman needed and how hard it was to have a name like mine. Fucking Norman conquerors and our legacy, name and land but no money and now not even land. Still, a chap has to order champagne—vintage stuff, not California sparkling wine, and send flowers and fly first class.”
“Your parents didn’t leave you with any funds?”
“The last time I saw my mother she was exclaiming about their new airplane. That it was simply darling, perfect for skimming over the plains. Her new Leica camera in its custom leather case, film hanging in canisters from the woven strap. She thought she was a modern-day Isak Dinesen … without the trouble of having to actually live in the country for years or write anything more than a postcard.
“When the headmaster called me to chapel and told me they’d crashed their second day in Africa, he forgot to mention that I wouldn’t be back after winter break; there was no money to pay the fees and my parents already owed the school for two years. Like the fucking Duke of Edinburgh: proud name, no money, and too many rich connections. Someone should have said sorry old boy but you’re poor and you will have to go to the local comprehensive. Tough luck. Instead, I was sent to my new guardian’s school, expensive but they paid the bills, vacationed on yachts, learned to ski, and maintained my birthright.” He slumped. “At the least the Duke of Edinburgh had the sense to marry a rich woman.”
“Am I interrupting?” Vallotton asked from the darkness.
Mulholland pressed back against the wall and Agnes thought he would run if he could only push past them. She explained quickly, sparing none of the details.
“How much?” Vallotton asked.
Mulholland mentioned a sum that made Agnes queasy, but Vallotton only looked thoughtful, then repeated his question. Mulholland’s hands shook so hard he couldn’t hold his cigarette to his lips. He tripled the figure, faltering as he spoke. Vallotton raised an eyebrow and looked satisfied this time.