by Liz Turner
“Yes?” he replied.
“I suppose something’s been bothering me. Even if we do figure out exactly why Smith was here, who he really is, and who he was working for… we still won’t know what we’ve been trying to uncover for days. How did he end up dead against the tree in the park?”
***
A few minutes later, Hallie headed into the evidence locker, and she was immediately greeted by an older officer looking over at her from the shiny metal countertop that stood in front of the locker itself. He wore the same blue uniform as the other officers, along with a full chest of shiny medals and badges. Hallie knew he must have been a high-ranking sergeant; now, he was most likely retired, working in the evidence locker part time.
“Hello ma’am,” the officer, a tanned and wrinkled man of about seventy, said. “What are you looking for?”
Hallie smiled back at the man. “I’m looking for the evidence from the John Doe case,” she said, adding, “I’m Doctor Malone, the medical examiner on the case.” She stretched out her hand to shake his.
The officer nodded as he moved to the store room to pull the evidence from the case in question. He returned shortly with a metal box filled with John Doe’s clothing, the post cards, the poetry book, and his other belongings that had been found in the suitcase. When Hallie reached for the poetry book, he chuckled. “That sure is a popular item today. Those two young officers both checked it out—something about cracking a poetry cipher.”
“Yes, and I suppose it’s my turn to have a go at it,” Hallie replied wryly. She signed the log book he slid in front of her, writing her name right below that of the two young officers she knew had tried for most of the morning to solve the cipher, and failed.
“I’ll bet ten dollars you can crack it, even if them boys couldn’t!” The old officer said with a wink.
Hallie merely grinned—she didn’t want to let on to her own doubts about her ability to decipher the code—and thanked the officer.
Soon, she was huddled over the T.S. Eliot book in one of the conference rooms in the station. She rubbed her eyes. Nothing she had tried as a key for the code had worked so far, and she was beginning to doubt her own intuition—perhaps this truly was just a book of poetry with the scribblings of a suicidal foreigner written inside. Perhaps Smith was hardly a spy. Perhaps he was just an ordinary man who had suffered greatly and wanted to end his life. It wasn’t wholly unreasonable that a suicidal man may have gotten intrigued upon noticing that a certain pesticide used at his boarding house contained a lethal ingredient.
Hallie shook her head vigorously. The words were starting to dance in front of her eyes. She resolved to take a break, fetch a glass of water, perhaps talk a stroll down to the beach. Then she would return with fresh eyes and maybe see something she hadn’t before.
She was about to give up for the time being when one of the young officers entered the conference room. “Doctor Malone,” he said. “Detective Truman would like to speak to you. He’s just called the station. Follow me.” He gestured for her to come into Truman’s office, and once there, handed her the telephone receiver.
“This is Hallie Malone,” she said into the telephone.
“Doctor Malone, how’s the code cracking going? Any headway on that cipher?” came Truman’s voice.
Hallie felt a new wave of frustration go through her. She was close—she could feel it! The code was right there…right in front of her eyes… if only she could see it. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten very far with it,” she said, dropping into Truman’s comfortable desk chair.
“Ah, well, we’ve got time,” he said. “And anyway—I’m calling because I’ve actually run into a bit of luck here at the boarding house.”
“Smith called someone! And you deduced who?” Hallie said breathlessly.
“He did indeed call someone! Right as soon as he arrived. And then again right after that altercation with the gardener Moretti. Now, we don’t know who exactly, but Miss Jameson was helpful. She recalled right away that he had made a telephone call long distance. She was upset about the charges. So, I called the telephone company and discovered that he placed two calls to an unlisted number in Berlin.” Something registered in the back of Hallie’s mind. Berlin, she thought. But she had no time to ruminate on it. Truman kept talking. “And then I asked around the other guests at the boarding house if they had overheard anything, and while most were downright confused, one young lady said she been checking in right as Smith was using the phone.”
“Goodness, that is quite a bit of luck!” Hallie exclaimed. “What did she say he was talking about?”
“She said she hadn’t wanted to eavesdrop, but she did hear him say, ‘Location secured, but there’s trouble.’ Then he had claimed he would send the fellow a telegraph with more information.”
Hallie’s mind whirred. It felt like they kept uncovering various puzzle pieces…but none seemed to fit together to show any clear picture. She had a strong sense that the coded poetry book was the key. She thanked Truman for sharing the information and bid him goodbye. Then dropping the small book into her dress pocket, she switched off the light in Truman’s office and headed back to the cafeteria.
Hallie had donned her sweater and sun hat and was heading toward the front entrance when she was startled by a woman sitting in the usually empty waiting room. The woman was slight, the very definition of petite, her height not surpassing five feet. She had dark brown hair attractively curled and gathered to one side of her head, a large, light pink bow perched above her ear. Despite her small stature, Hallie sensed a powerfulness about her. Perhaps because of her strong eyebrows, Hallie mused absently. Her curiosity got the best of her. She walked over with a deliberate confidence and asked, “Excuse me, ma’am. Are you waiting for someone?”
The woman’s round eyes took Hallie in as she answered, somewhat reluctantly, “Yes, I am. They tell me I must wait here for a Detective Truman.” At that, the woman dropped her shoulders and once again moved her gaze to the floor.
Hallie was intrigued. Not only did the woman want to speak to Truman, but she had a distinctive eastern European accent! Hallie was certain she had something to do with Smith. But who was she? A relative? A fellow spy?
“Oh!” Hallie exclaimed involuntarily, as she began to understand this woman’s importance to the case. “I’m sorry, I’m… I work with Detective Truman. What is your name? And is this regarding the—”
Just then Truman came through the front door. He looked at Hallie and the woman curiously for a moment before one of the sergeants ran up from a back room.
“Detective Truman!” The sergeant said, turning briefly to nod at Hallie as he noticed she was there. “May I speak with you a moment?”
Truman nodded, and the two began to talk in hushed tones. Shortly, Hallie saw Truman’s eyes grow wide. He ushered her over with a motion of his head. “Doctor Malone,” he began, an urgency injected into his voice. “That woman you were just talking to is, I’ve just been informed, Emma Neumann. Our John Smith’s wife.”
Hallie’s jaw dropped. “I thought she might have something to do with him!” She said in a whisper. “So—Neumann?”
The sergeant nodded. “We took her statement when she came in. Husband’s name is Tobias Neumann. She says she came straight away after seeing his photo in the train station.”
Truman spoke up. “It’s police protocol to put of fliers of any unknown deceased. Just to see if anyone might have information to identify them.”
Hallie bit her lip. “I see. She’s here to identify him? I hope she can do one better. Let’s hope she knows why Tobias might have been doing in town—and perhaps even how he ended up a corpse.”
Chapter 10
The Cipher
H allie tore off her gloves. She had been called in to the hospital to treat a worsening jellyfish sting on one of her patients. She had treated it the day before, but a new infection seemed to have sprung up in its place. Although she always put her work, her patient
s, first, she couldn’t help but feel frustrated at the timing of it all. Neumann’s wife, right this very moment, was in with Detective Truman, identifying John Smith as her husband…perhaps even revealing the keys to the case. Hallie hurried to the locker room to change back into her day dress she was wearing earlier. She was anxious to get back to the station.
She was gathering her things, including Neumann’s poetry book, when a nurse walked in. She had worked with Hallie on several patients this summer. Her name was Hannah Eisner, and she was only in the first few years of her career as a nurse. “Oh, T.S. Eliot!” the young nurse exclaimed. “I adore his poetry. I didn’t know you liked poetry, Doctor Malone. What’s your favorite?” Hannah reminded Hallie of herself when she was a young doctor: eager to please, eager to learn, excited by everything.
Hallie was in a rush, but Hannah was peering at her so intently that she felt she had to answer. “Oh, um, well it’s not mine, actually. It’s a friend of mine’s.” Ordinarily, Hallie would have gladly engaged in conversation with a promising young medical professional like Hannah, but tonight, she had other matters on her mind.
But Hannah lifted the book right out Hallie’s hands and began flipping through it. “Aha! Here it is. My favorite poem, ‘Morning at the Window.’” Hannah began to read aloud, a dreamy look on her face, “‘And along the trampled edges of the street I am aware of the damp souls…’” Suddenly, Hannah knit her eyebrows together and frowned. “Huh.”
“What’s that?” Hallie asked, sighing. “Hannah, I am terribly sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry—”
“What?” Hannah said, still staring at the page. “Oh, of course. I apologize. I just noticed that your friend must have been writing in code in the book! The pages are full of it. How interesting. What a clever thing to do.” Chuckling, she handed the book back to Hallie.
Hallie stared at the nurse. “What do you mean? You can tell it’s written in code?”
“Oh, sure! My father’s worked in intelligence for years. He used to explain codes and stuff to me all the time. It really is interesting. My sisters and I actually used to create some ourselves. Quite fun.”
Hallie’s heart rate quickened. “Hannah,” she said slowly. “Do you know this particular code? Do you know how to crack it?”
The nurse took the book and flipped it open. “Ah, yes. It’s what I thought. It’s a Caesar shift cipher—Y cipher, to be precise. It’s actually quite easy to understand.”
Hallie felt dumb with relief. What luck! “Hannah, you have no idea what a good thing you’ve given me! Can you show me how to decipher these pages?”
“Oh absolutely, Doctor Malone!” Hannah said, lighting up at the chance to talk about her hobby. “Follow me!” The two found a table in the cafeteria and set to work.
In less than an hour, with Hannah’s help, Hallie had unearthed several pages of secret messages, logs of communication, and even personal notes—enough to convince her she had better talk to Truman straight away. She had a hunch, but she wasn’t sure she would be able to prove it.
Thanking Hannah, she slipped the book into her pocketbook and headed outside to meet Truman down at the station. She was nearly out the door when she realized Hannah’s sudden revelation had distracted her—she was still wearing her lab coat. Shaking her head at herself, she rushed back inside to the locker room to switch it out for her sweater.
The locker room was empty, and her sweater was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, Hallie began to search for it, cursing herself for losing valuable time. After searching in vain, she decided to come back for it another time and slid the lab coat off her shoulders. As she reached up to place it on her designated hook, she sensed a presence behind her.
“Hannah?” she asked, whirling around. The harsh fluorescent lights revealed the room to be empty. Only the wooden benches stared back at her. She peered around the corner. Nothing but more lockers. You’re being silly, she chided herself. Just then, she spotted her sweater peeking out from under the lockers and bent down to retrieve it. Suddenly, she felt a rough shove to her neck and shoulders. She heard a crack as her forehead hit the hard floor surface. A sharp pain bloomed between her ears and then everything went black.
Chapter 11
Confrontation
at
Cape Cod Inn
A sea-green wall, a painting of a seagull, with the words “Cape Cod” spelled out beneath it in curly lettering. As Hallie blinked, the room became lighter, and the painting came into focus. She recognized it: she was in one of the hospital rooms. A scratchy wool blanket was pulled up to her chin. She moved her arms, one by one carefully checking her limbs. She wore a hospital gown. Although she felt woozy and her arms were fairly weak, she seemed to be uninjured, if confused as to why she was lying in a bed in her own hospital. But when she tried to sit up quickly, she experienced a rush of pain in her head. The locker room! She remembered. Someone shoved me to the floor. She put her hand on her head and realized she was wearing a thick bandage right below her hairline.
She glanced at the clock on the wall and started. It had been a half hour since she had decided to go back to the locker room and look for her sweater! She was losing important time…she had to get to the station. She gingerly got out of bed and put her clothing back on, taking care to not move her head as much as possible. Just then, Dr. Peterman, one of Hallie’s summer coworkers, entered. He was an older man, just five years from retirement. Hallie admired him. He was going bald and wore thick glasses, but his mind was sharp. Hallie knew him to be a medical expert.
“Ah, you’re awake. Good, a very good sign. We didn’t expect you to wake up so quickly. You took quite the nasty spill. Thank goodness one of the nurses came in for the night shift and found you sprawled like you were on the locker room floor! You were unconscious,” he said, smiling gently. Hallie could see where his wrinkles came from—deep grooves formed around his mouth and eyes from years of smiles like this one. But his smile quickly faded as he noticed her clothes and her furtive glances to the door; he understood she meant to leave right away. “Doctor Malone, I’m sorry, but I cannot let you leave. We have yet to determine if you have a concussion. I must insist you remain in our care for twenty-four hours.” He looked at her from above his glasses with a reproachful gaze.
Hallie set her mouth in defiance. “Hallie Marie Malone. It’s nineteen fifty-one. I live in Warrenton, but I’m here in Sandwich, Cape Cod, for the summer. Seven times eight is fifty-six. I don’t feel the slightest bit dizzy, I can walk just fine, I’m not experiencing any nausea or blurred vision. I hereby diagnose myself with just the tiniest head injury possible—nothing serious. Thank you so much for your care, Doctor Peterman,” she said confidently, looking at him with a stare that meant, I dare you to try to stop me from leaving.
Apparently, Dr. Peterman got the message because he said, “Okay, Doctor Malone. Because I trust you to evaluate your own symptoms closely, I’ll release you today. But we do need to ask you some quick questions about your fall. There could be some underlying issues: it’s not normal, as you know, for a healthy woman to keel over so hard she knocks herself out cold.” He continued, looking down at his clipboard. “Had you been experiencing any headaches lately? Did you eat anything today? Do you recall a moment of dizziness or confusion just prior to the fall?”
Hallie looked at the doctor incredulously. Has he assumed I fell over on my own accord? Goodness, I’m not that old! She thought. “No,” she said evenly. “That’s not it at all. I bent over to pick up my sweater, and someone came behind me and shoved me down hard.”
Dr. Peterman’s mouth fell open in surprise, but his features quickly gathered into an expression of worry. “Oh my,” he said. “Do you know who?”
Hallie grimaced. “No, not definitely. But I do have an idea.” She slipped her shoes on and used the mirror in the room to carefully remove the bandage from her head. The damage wasn’t much—no broken skin, just a deep purple bruise that spread in a horizontal line across the very
top of her forehead. Raising her eyebrows sent a flash of pain down to her eyes. She tried to fix her hair so that it covered most of the bruise, but it was still visible. “That’s why I need to leave now, Doctor Peterman. I have to prove it before it’s too late,” she added. She grabbed her pocketbook from where someone had placed it on the bedside table. With a sinking feeling, she looked inside. Her wallet and other items were there, but one thing was missing: the T.S. Eliot book—full of Hallie’s deciphered messages. She groaned. Now, she was angry.
Peterman was still gazing at her with concern, but he sighed and moved aside for Hallie to pass him into the hallway. “Very well. Do be careful. I mean medically, of course. If you feel any dizziness at all, please check yourself back into the hospital. Don’t exert yourself more than necessary….” He was still talking as Hallie left.
Once back at the station, Hallie found Truman in the front room, looking over some paperwork.
“Where’s Mrs. Neumann?” Hallie asked him.
Truman looked up. Upon seeing her pale and sheened with sweat, he furrowed his eyebrows at her suspiciously. “Doctor Malone—what happened to you?” He made a sweeping motion across his own forehead in the place where Hallie’s dark bruise was showing. “Did you fall? Are you ill? You look rather white.”
Hallie waved an annoyed hand at him and smoothed her hair back over the bruise. “I’ll explain later. Where is Mrs. Neumann?” she repeated, using the authoritative voice she usually reserved for unruly patients.
Truman grunted, acquiescing. “I’d imagine she’s at her hotel gathering her things to leave.”
“What?” Hallie asked frantically. “You mean, she’s leaving Cape Cod? Now?”
Truman put down his pen and leveled his eyes at her. “What is it, Doctor Malone? We questioned her, but unfortunately the poor woman doesn’t have a clue as to how or why her husband turned up dead. Her story is credible. They’re on vacation from Sweden. She was very distraught—as you can imagine. I doubt that she had any idea what it was her husband was mixed up in. And I didn’t want to press her too hard. She just had to go through the ordeal of identifying her dead husband after all. She seems…fragile.” He seemed annoyed. Hallie could guess why. As far as he knew, despite the luck he’d had at the boarding house, most of the day had been a bust. Every lead they turned up, led to a dead end.