That evening after dinner, when the members of the board had dispersed to catch trains and planes back to their homes, Rhys walked into Elizabeth’s office where she was working with Kate. “Thought I ought to give you a hand,” Rhys said lightly.
No explanation of where he had been. Why should there be? Elizabeth thought. He doesn’t have to account to me.
They all set to work and the time flew. Elizabeth watched Rhys now, bent over some papers, rapidly scanning them, his eyes quick and alert. He had found several flaws in some important contracts, that the attorneys had missed. Now Rhys straightened up, stretched and glanced at his watch.
“Oops! It’s afetr midnight. I’m afraid I have an appointment. I’ll come in early tomorrow and finish checking these agreements.”
Elizabeth wondered if his appointment was with the brain surgeon or with one of his other—She stopped herself. What Rhys Williams did with his private life was his own business.
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said. “I didn’t realize it was so late. You run along. Kate and I will finish reading these papers.”
Rhys nodded. “See you in the morning. Good night, Kate.”
“Good night, Mr. Williams.”
Elizabeth watched Rhys leave, then forced her mind back to the contracts. But a moment later her thoughts were on Rhys again. She had been eager to tell him about the progress that Emil Joeppli was making on the new drug, to share it with him, yet she had held back. Soon, she told herself.
By one o’clock in the morning, they were finished.
Kate Erling said, “Will there be anything else, Miss Roffe?”
“No, I think that’s all. Thank you, Kate. Come in late tomorrow.”
Elizabeth stood up, and realized how stiff her body felt from sitting so long.
“Thank you. I’ll have everything typed up for you tomorrow afternoon.”
“That will be fine.”
Elizabeth got her coat and purse, waited for Kate, and they walked to the door. They went out into the corridor together and headed toward the private express elevator that stood there, door open, waiting. The two of them stepped inside the elevator. As Elizabeth reached for the lobby button, they heard the sudden ringing of the telephone from the office.
“I’ll answer it, Miss Roffe,” Kate Erling said. “You go on ahead.” She stepped out of the car.
Downstairs the night guard on duty in the lobby looked up at the elevator control board as a red light at the top of the board flashed on and began descending. It was the signal light for the private elevator. That meant Miss Roffe was on her way down. Her chauffeur was sitting in a chair in a corner, drowsing over a newspaper.
“The boss is coming,” the guard said.
The chauffeur stretched, and started lazily to his feet.
An alarm bell suddenly shattered the peace of the lobby. The guard’s eyes flashed to the control board. The red light was moving in a quick plunging pattern, gathering speed, marking the descent of the elevator.
It was out of control.
“Oh, Jesus!” the guard mumbled.
He hurried to the board, jerked open a panel and pulled the emergency switch to activate the safety brake. The red light continued its downward plunge. The chauffeur had hurried over to the control panel. He saw the look on the guard’s face.
“What’s going—?”
“Get away!” the guard yelled. “It’s going to crash!”
They ran from the bank of elevators toward the farthest wall. The lobby was beginning to vibrate with the speed of the runaway car inside the shaft, and the guard thought, Don’t let her be in it, and as the plunging elevator shot past the lobby, he heard the terrified screams from inside.
An instant later, there was a loud roar, and the building shuddered as though it had been hit by an earthquake.
CHAPTER 31
Chief Inspector Otto Schmied of the Zurich Kriminal Polizei was seated at his desk, eyes closed, taking deep yoga breaths, trying to calm himself, trying to control the fury that filled him.
In police procedure there were rules that were so basic, so obvious, that no one had thought it even necessary to put them in the police manual. They were simply taken for granted, like eating, or sleeping, or breathing. For example, when an accident-related fatality occurred, the first thing the investigating detective did—the very first thing a detective did, the simple, obvious, you-don’t-have-to-draw-it-on-a-fucking-blackboard thing he did—was to visit the scene of the accident. Nothing could be more elementary than that. Yet staring up at Chief Inspector Otto Schmied from his desk was a report from Detective Max Hornung that violated every element of police procedure. I should have expected it, the Inspector told himself bitterly. Why am I even surprised?