The Reluctant Detective

by Finley Martin

  “Can I make suggestions?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I can get you a tracking device. Not a satellite one, though. It would take too long to set it up. An RF one will do.”

  “Can I operate it?”

  “It would be better if I did.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Your plan hinges on the pick-up man not checking the contents of the valise. If he does check, even a bit later, your plan falls apart.”

  “What then?” she asked.

  After lunch Dit took Anne back to her Victoria Row office and drove around the block while Anne dumped the contents of the valise into her safe. Then she ducked out the back door of the building into an alley where Dit was waiting.

  “Is that the valise the money came in?”

  “This is it.”

  “It has a bullet hole in it.”

  “Yeah, I saw that upstairs. Cutter got a few rounds off before I got away. I was too pumped with adrenaline at the time to notice. A million-plus makes a pretty good backstop, doesn’t it?” Anne grinned, but it was strained, and she felt her stomach tighten into a cramp.

  “I think maybe it would be a good idea if you didn’t go back to the office today… and you didn’t go back to your apartment for a while.” Anne nodded. “I’ve got plenty of room at my place,” he suggested and looked over at Anne. She nodded again.

  Dit turned onto the Hillsborough Bridge and crossed into the community of Stratford. He followed a winding country road which traced the outline of the shore. Between clusters of elm and maple and single-family residences that whizzed by, Anne watched the Charlottetown skyline shimmer under a strong afternoon light. Across the bay, sailboats from the yacht club practised racing manoeuvres. A tanker lay warped to several mooring piers below the bridge while its oil was pumped into storage bunkers ashore. Copper-clad spires of the Basilica towered above the convention centre and hotels and squat condominiums. Then, as a stand of trees interrupted Anne’s view, Dit swung off onto a private dirt road that wound through the wood for fifty yards or so before it led into several acres of neat, lush lawn. In the centre of the open area was a house, a large, brick, two-storey place. A thick hedge of trees on either side lent the property a feeling of isolation and privacy. The same woody hedge framed Hillsborough Bay, the mouth of the harbour, and the City of Charlottetown into a pretty picture in front of the west windows of Dit’s house.

  Dit dropped Anne at the front door and handed her the house keys.

  “Make yourself at home. There’s food and refreshments in the fridge. The pool’s at the back. Sauna’s next to it. Make yourself at home,” he said again. “I mean it. Relax. Kick back. Tomorrow you’ll have your work cut out for you. I’ve got odds and ends to take care of in town. I’ll probably be back around seven, no later than eight.”

  “Thanks.”

  As the sound of Dit’s van faded, Anne turned and looked at the house closely for the first time. In spite of having been invited on several occasions, she had never been there before. A kind of social prejudice had taught her to shy away from most societal functions. Such a bias had begun to take root in Ottawa, not long after her husband Jack had died. It had been subtle at first. Then it had become a pattern which was unmistakable. Wives regarded widows like her as a potential threat to their marriage. Philanderers pursued single moms as easy conquests, and bachelors dreaded the baggage of a ready-made family. From those experiences, she’d learned that hopes are fragile and dreams are ephemeral things, not to be eschewed, but not to be trusted either. So, the easier choice had been to slip under the radar. The easier choice had been to gracefully adapt to a pleasant anonymity. Eventually, she’d learned polite ways to avoid the awkwardness, the snubs, and the loneliness of social affairs. Excuses, such as trouble finding a babysitter, a promise to be elsewhere, or any number of small obligations which one must attend to, had become second nature.

  Her subsequent move to Prince Edward Island had been a positive step. She felt more loved and secure in the company of Uncle Billy and among friends like Ben and Sarah, Mary Anne, and, more recently, Dit. But old habits died slowly.

  Dit’s home had a stateliness that set it apart from the frilly Victorian and busy Gothic architecture of vintage Island homes. It reminded her of a French country home. Simple in shape. Strong lines. Antique brick. And its formidable hip roof with several dormers added not only imposing height, but strength of character as well.

  Anne strode through the main entrance. Several guest bedrooms opened to her left, a wide staircase to the second floor ahead, and kitchen and dining areas on her right. Passages on each side of the stairs led into the living room, bright with sunlight. Anne opened the patio doors on the west end of the room and walked into a covered plaza. The plaza ended at a large swimming pool. Beyond it spread a panoramic view of Charlottetown half a mile across the bay.

  Anne circled the pool and settled in a cabana chair for half an hour. A subtle fragrance of pine and salt water played about the air. She watched crinkles of sunlight form and reform in the ripples of a falling tide like the childhood magic of a kaleidoscope. Then the sun became hot, and she returned to the living room, kicked off her sandals, and flopped onto a sofa.

  She lay there half-awake, half-dazed, drifting in a kind of euphoria, as the touch of sun warmed her like a blanket. The apprehension she’d felt when she arrived, even the memory of it, had vanished now. Music played softly in the background. Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman. The music had begun when she’d walked through the front door. She didn’t know how. Songs of hope. They felt good. She felt comfortable.

  A swirl of those feelings, like warm brandy, coursed through to the extremities of her body and propelled her deeper toward sleep, and at the end of that corridor floated a final intimation of a frivolous thought: … it needs flowers…

  30

  Dit’s van didn’t pull into the driveway until eight-thirty. Anne was still asleep on the couch when he entered the living room. She was sleeping on her side, her hands clasped together as if she were in prayer, and they tucked under her head to form a pillow. Her hair had fallen over her cheeks, and he could hear soft breathing. His heart quickened at the sight of her. She looked so small and vulnerable. He wanted to reach out and touch her, hold her in his arms, and the thought of doing so began to stir old memories and a familiar, warm reverie, but his grip on the cold metal rims of the wheelchair quickly brought him back to reality. He lived in a world of sensation and intimacy different from the world around him. It was foolishness to think otherwise, he thought, and it was fantasy to pursue it.

  Dit gathered up a light blanket, spread it out, and pulled it over her shoulders. She sighed at the touch of it. His hand drifted across her hair. Then he wheeled himself toward the master bedroom.

  Anne woke at seven. She felt disoriented. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was and, when she did, she still felt that something was not quite right. Then she heard the splash of water. Still groggy, she went onto the patio. She saw Dit in the pool.

  “I didn’t know you could swim,” she said.

  “You never asked,” he hollered from the far end. Then he pushed off and headed back toward Anne. She stood near his wheelchair. Steps led down from there into the water. When he turned again for another lap, Anne watched his arms bite into the water. Muscles rippled across his shoulders and back. Then she noticed a strap around both lower legs.

  “What’s the strap for?”

  “Keeps legs together… so they won’t thrash about… maintains stability… when I’m swimming…,” he explained in short bursts at each stroke each time his head lifted out of the water.

  Anne sat in his chair and watched him continue his laps. Dit’s curls went nearly straight with the weight of the water. He swam strongly, as if in a race, and after two more laps he pulled himself onto the steps and sat i
n the shallows near Anne, his chest heaving to catch his breath.

  “How many laps?”

  “Thirty today.”

  “Isn’t the water cold? It’s not even July yet.”

  Dit just pointed to the solar panels.

  “Do you do laps every evening?”

  Dit looked at her and began to chuckle.

  “What’s the big joke?”

  Dit shook his head and waved a hand in the air as if to say, you’ve done it again.

  “What time is it?” he gasped, still a bit out of breath.

  “It’s seven, smart-ass. So what? And stop giggling at me.”

  “It’s seven in the morning, not seven at night. You slept through.”

  Anne looked carefully around. “Oh… I thought something about the light was different.”

  An hour later Anne had showered and dressed. She towel-dried her hair and followed the smell of bacon and coffee to the kitchen. Dit was making breakfast. Anne took a seat at a dining room table, her back to a wall. Through the window beside her, Anne watched a steady creep of cars. They moved like dedicated ants across the Hillsborough Bridge and headed for the downtown core of the city. Dit slid a glass of orange juice toward her. She drank it down.

  “Beautiful set-up you have here,” she began. “Did you design it?”

  “It’s pretty much a traditional French plan. Though I made some changes to suit my lifestyle,” he added.

  “The cabinets and countertops are lower,” she observed. “Almost the right height for me.”

  “And no doorsills, steps, or seams between rooms. Wider passageways. And some other stuff. Doors which open automatically. A satellite sound system which turns on when I come through the front door and follows me from room to room. Convenient and fun, too.”

  “So if all that is for convenience, why’d you build a two-storey house with a staircase you can’t use?”

  “I’ve always liked big houses… with staircases. I thought about putting a motorized lift in, but I didn’t. Instead I have an elevator. It holds a couple of people, it opens onto the upstairs hallway, and it can go up another level to a look-out. Spectacular view from there. Makes you feel like you own the universe. I’ll show you later. Now, let’s eat,” he said.

  As it turned out, there would be no tour of the house. And as time for the money drop neared, the butterflies in Anne’s stomach became more unruly, and she became more focussed on the job ahead – making the drop, tracking the go-between, and locating the Client. So many things could go wrong, she thought, and this may be my last chance to get it right.

  At least Dit had eased some of her anxiety. She would never have gotten a wink’s sleep either on that sofa in the office or on her bed at home. Every creak on the stairs and every crow scratching at the roof would have kept her eyes bolt-open and her nerves wound taut as a guitar string. The invitation to stay at his house was a godsend, but not the only one. She discovered the other one soon after they had returned to the living room and Dit handed her the valise.

  “Oh my god, that’s real money,” she exclaimed. The valise rested on her lap. She stared into it. It was filled with bundles of US hundreds and looked just like it had when she first received it. “Is it?” she added hesitantly. She ran her hand over the bundles as if to dispel a mirage. Her expression changed to confused astonishment.

  Dit grinned. “To an extent,” he said. “Lift that top bill.”

  “Oh my god, the rest is just paper. But the bills…?”

  “They’re real. I had to scour three local banks to get enough American money to bait your trap. Good thing it’s tourist season.”

  “Everything is perfect… but how did you do this?” she said, still in awe.

  “I modified a surveillance system for Same-Day Printers last year. Somebody had been walking out the back door with supplies and skimming their till. I installed it on the QT in the wee hours one night. We caught the thief on tape. It was the owner’s nephew. They were still happy enough about my work to do a rush job for me yesterday afternoon. I showed them a few bills. They measured the dimensions, found some passable pale green stock, and cut it to match. They were also able to bind it into packets. Pretty neat job, eh?”

  “Perfect,” she said again. “And the tracking device?”

  “Beeping away as we speak… in the middle of a bundle of money. These two little antennas here attach to my van. They’ll pick up a radio transmission from the button. This box,” he said and held up something the size of a pistol storage case, “records the direction. The needle on this dial points toward the source of the signal, and we just follow it.”

  “Sounds simple,” said Anne brightly.

  “It sounds that way, doesn’t it?” Dit said.

  31

  The Confederation Centre of the Arts is a cluster of buildings. Each of them is sheathed in glass and grey stone slabs on an elevated grey stone plaza. The complex covers an entire city block in the heart of Charlottetown. Its modern, bunker-like appearance starkly contrasts with the nineteenth-century red brick buildings that huddle around it. Inside, broad corridors connect a commodious stage and theatre, a gift shop, a coffee nook and restaurant, an art gallery, lecture halls, three levels of public library, a stately reception hall, and mezzanines of offices, dressing rooms, and storage areas.

  To reach the Confederation Centre, Dit and Anne drove across the Hillsborough Bridge, turned left, and headed along the avenue which paralleled the water. Neither of them spoke. Each was obsessed with their individual silent preparations for Anne’s transfer of the baited money. Anne had visited the Confederation Centre on countless occasions. She thought she knew it well. Still, she found herself tracing the main hallways in her mind and trying to remember passageways less frequented and exits rarely used.

  Dit turned right on Great George Street. A few blocks up he pulled into an empty parking space half a block from where Great George intersected Victoria Row.

  “All set?”

  Anne nodded. “You?”

  Dit opened the box on the console next to him. He flipped a power switch. The needle jumped to life as the machine registered a signal from the beeper in Anne’s valise.

  “Looks like you’ve got a live one.” He glanced at his watch. It was eleven. “Got your cell phone? And your car?”

  Anne nodded to the first question and pointed to the parking lot on the corner to answer the second.

  The parking lot was next to her office on Victoria Row, and the Confederation Centre’s stage-door entrance was across the street. Anne grabbed the valise, got out of the car, and headed for it, and, as she did so, she glanced back up at her office window. The face that stared back at her from that same window expressed just as much surprise as her own certainly revealed. His visage disappeared behind the reflective glare, but not before she recognized the blond hair that belonged to Cutter. He must have broken in and lain in wait for her, and now that he had seen her and had seen the valise with the bullet hole still in it, he would be coming after her.

  Anne ran the last few steps to the Confed Centre and pushed through the stage-door entrance. Twenty yards ahead was the inner courtyard, a hub of restaurants. To her left was a small doorway which led backstage. A uniformed commissionaire manned a desk and phone there when he wasn’t making rounds.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the guard. “I have a delivery for the seamstresses.” Anne held up the valise. “Can you tell me which room they’re in?”

  “Which seamstress are you looking for, luv?”

  “It doesn’t matter. They ordered some fabric and lace trim. They said they needed it right away.”

  “Right, then. Through that door…” He pointed behind him. “Turn right, and it’s second door on the right.”

  Anne took a quick look behind her. She saw no one, but she guessed Cutter must have been halfway across
the street and heading for the door.

  “Look, I think I saw someone that might be following me. A big rough-looking guy. Blond. He kept staring at me. Gave me the creeps. Do you think you could keep an eye out?”

  “Consider it done. Have a good day, ma’am.”

  Anne disappeared through the door leading to the seamstress’s room, passed it, and worked her way deeper backstage. It was almost empty this close to lunchtime. One or two stage hands leaned against walls and took no notice of her. The door to the dresser’s room was ajar and vacant, and Anne slipped inside. There were no windows and the lights were off. She sat on a stool on the darkest side of a large cupboard and listened to the beat of her heart and the wheezing sound of her own breathing.

  “Can I help you, sir?” asked the commissionaire. He had stepped away from his desk and was standing in the middle of the main corridor when Cutter pushed through the double doors and stumbled down the half dozen stairs to the main floor.

  “I’m looking for somebody,” Cutter said. His eyes scanned the corridor ahead and the passages that opened on several sides. She could be anywhere, he thought. “A girl.”

  “Aren’t we all, sir? The commissionaire smiled at his own little joke. “And what might yours look like?” he said, resuming his businesslike demeanour.

  “Short. Long brown hair. Slim build. Not bad-looking.”

  “Was she carrying a suitcase?” asked the commissionaire.

  That’s the one. Where did she go?”

  “Friend of yours, is she?”

  “My sister… Kate.”

  “In that case, she came through here, headed toward the coffee shop, and went upstairs to the plaza and the Grafton Street exit. Looked like she was in a rush… taking a short cut somewhere.”

  Cutter stepped around the commissionaire and ran down the corridor. The commissionaire watched him bound up the stairs and disappear outside.

  “And you have a good day too, sir,” he said to himself, settling into the chair at his station and reaching for the crossword puzzle in The Guardian.