Mrs. John Doe

by Tom Savage

  Laura’s, noon tomorrow

  She wondered who or what Copperfield was, and who Laura was, not to mention Naseem. The two men had spoken of this person with particular urgency; they didn’t know where he/she was, and that clearly worried them. Naseem, or possibly Nassim? Definitely an Eastern name, whichever way you spelled it.

  But now she had a more pressing problem. The suspicion had been gnawing at her since she first saw the chauffeur join her quarry on the bench. She went into the kitchen and poured coffee in the oversize mug she found in the drainer. She smiled at the words on the cup: STOLEN FROM BUCKINGHAM PALACE. Back at the desk, she started a fresh page of the legal pad, a timeline of the actions as she understood them:

  June 28: Car accident in Kensington. Jeff plants wallet, keys, camera on body; gives two notes to Solange with instructions; then goes to Bill Howard’s country house.

  June 29: Phone call to me from Bill Howard.

  June 30: I come to London. Yussuf already following me. Bill meets me. Morgue. Yussuf attempts robbery in Russell Square. Craig Elder in place, foils Yussuf. Craig calls Bill H., who calls Jeff. Jeff leaves house for train station, abducted by South Asian/Middle Eastern man. Solange gives me first note, leaves for Paris.

  July 1: Solange killed in Paris. I go to Paris. Jacques Lanier in place. Museum, false second note from false courier. Yussuf (?) follows me from museum. Jacques loses tail. Pinède, sniper in place. Jacques kills sniper, injured. Chez Martine.

  July 2: Craig arrives. Paris. Solange’s apt., real second note. Gray SUV follows us north. We lose tail, abandon car, assume disguises. Louis Reynard, Channel, Lucky Dolphin. New car to London.

  July 3: Yussuf at hotel with flowers. Craig tails, loses Yussuf. Russell Square, Leicester Square. Andy Gilbert!!! Jeff being held somewhere. Plan to fly weapons (?) out of England tomorrow at 3 p.m.

  Nora stared down at the page, reading and rereading the sequence of events, and one fact was clear to her. Someone was very much in charge of everything that was happening to her. It seemed almost staged, like a play. Someone was directing all the action, and she had a fair guess whom that someone must be. It was the only way to make sense of the whole scenario.

  Now she remembered something else. The phony second note, the one the creepy man had given her in Musée Rodin: GOOT! Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir. She recalled a night, a dinner in a beautiful London restaurant some ten or eleven years ago. She and Jeff had been the guests of Bill and Vivian Howard, and Jeff had told their hosts about his most recent trip to France. He’d explained about his regular pilgrimages to Pinède, placing a dozen roses on Grand-tante Jeanette’s grave. Vivian had said she thought that was the sweetest thing she’d ever heard, and her husband had agreed…

  Something was wrong with Nora’s timeline, something that nagged at her. She looked back at the earliest notes at the top of the page. And there it was:

  June 28: Car accident in Kensington. Jeff plants wallet, keys, camera on body; gives two notes to Solange with instructions; then goes to Bill Howard’s country house.

  That wasn’t possible, was it? Jeff arranged the accident, yes, that much was true. But the notes from Solange were only necessary later, after Nora had been knocked down in Russell Square Gardens. That’s when Jeff decided to get Nora out of England to France, to Charles de Gaulle Airport. He wouldn’t have written the two notes until then, June 30, two days after the accident. If he had been already hiding out in the house in East Anglia—on the other side of England—on June 30, how had he managed to get two handwritten notes to Solange in London? And how on earth had Solange managed to get there so fast, waiting in the hotel lobby when Nora arrived, less than an hour after the attempted robbery in the park?

  Unless…

  Unless Solange had been a backup, plan B, a contingency plan in case Nora was in danger at any time after she was given the manila envelope. That’s the only way Jeff could have written the notes two days beforehand. He knew there might be trouble, so he had Craig Elder follow her, and he had Solange waiting to take over the babysitting duties in the hotel. Solange had the notes, if necessary; otherwise, she was simply supposed to guard Nora until Nora flew back to New York the next day.

  But Nora had disrupted the schedule, getting out of the limousine and heading into the park instead of going straight back to the Byron as expected. Craig Elder had followed her there, and the terrorist, Yussuf, had been following her ever since she’d boarded the plane at Kennedy. When he showed himself and tried to steal her purse, plan B had immediately gone into play.

  Now it all became clear. Except for one thing…

  Solange had been Bill Howard’s new girlfriend. He was divorcing his wife of twenty-five years to marry her. He’d even bought the country house for her. If they had been so much in love, how could Bill Howard be the arms dealer?

  That was what Nora now suspected. When the arms dealer had learned that Nora was being sent to France, he’d come up with a diversion, a phony but plausible way to get her to an isolated place, kill her, and bury her. The note instructing her to go to Pinède: Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir. Aside from herself and Jeff, Bill Howard and his wife were the only people who knew about Pinède. And it was Bill Howard’s driver, Andy Gilbert, who’d met the terrorist in Leicester Square. He’s planning to move it out tomorrow. He was Bill Howard. Who else?

  But Solange had been murdered, probably by the same assassin who’d waited for Nora in the cemetery. Could Bill Howard really be that cold-blooded? Could he have ordered the killing of his own lover, fiancée, future wife? No, it didn’t make any sense. Which left only one possibility.

  Vivian.

  Vivian Howard, Nora’s chic, funny, scatterbrained friend of fifteen years, a criminal mastermind? That was patently absurd. Vivian, bless her heart, could barely negotiate a white sale at Fortnum & Mason, let alone an illegal arms deal. She thought Red China was what you used with a black tablecloth, and she probably couldn’t find Iran or Iraq or Afghanistan on a map. If she ever met an Al Qaeda operative face-to-face, she’d ask him who designed his lovely kaffiyeh. No, Vivian was definitely not involved in this.

  Nora had to assume that Bill was Mr. X. She had to assume that he’d had Solange killed. The people on the other end of the deal were presumably paying millions, much more than Bill Howard would ever see from Her Majesty’s government payroll, and that was a good motive. Untold wealth was always a good motive for just about anything.

  She had to find Craig Elder.

  There was no telephone in the apartment. Jeff had taken his cell with him, along with his computer. Craig had given her his phone number, so she decided to risk a trip outside, to find a pay phone in the neighborhood.

  She was standing up from her husband’s desk, reaching for her coat, when she heard the sudden sound of a key in the lock of the apartment door. She froze, staring, as the door slowly swung open.

  Chapter 32

  It was the young woman Nora had seen emerging from the Jenner apartment downstairs and leaving the building. She bustled into the room, heavy plastic grocery bags dangling from each hand. She was turning toward the alarm panel when she saw Nora standing by the desk.

  “Oh!” she cried. “Oh dear, I beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t know anyone was home.”

  Nora inhaled, getting over the shock. Then she managed a smile. “My husband isn’t here. He’s—away.”

  The young woman nodded. “Yes, I know. Mrs. Noone, isn’t it? I recognize you from the snap next to his bed.”

  Nora frowned, wondering when this pretty woman had seen the photo next to her husband’s bed. “And you’re Ms. Jenner?”

  “Missus. Mrs. Jenner. Polly.”

  “Nora,” Nora said, relieved. “Nora—um—Nora Noone.” She winced at the sound of that and then masked it with another smile. “And what are you doing here, Polly?”

  Polly Jenner held up the grocery bags. “I do for him, don’t I? Weekly shopping, cleaning, and laundering. I’m the c
har for everyone else in the building—they’re all men, you know—and today it’s Mr. Noone.”

  “Oh, I see,” Nora said, and now she was very relieved. Looking at the bags, she said, “Let me guess: frozen fried chicken dinners, canned—I mean, tinned—soup, microwave popcorn, Diet Coke, oatmeal, and strawberry yogurt.”

  Polly burst into a grin. “You forgot the chocky chip biscuits.”

  Nora nodded. “Of course. He dips them in the yogurt.”

  “That he does! There’s also fresh fruit and veg for salad, and salad dressing.”

  Nora widened her eyes, impressed. “Those must be your idea, not his.”

  “Yup! I told him to eat salad and fruit every day, and he minds me. My Danny is the same—what is it with men and fresh veg? You’d think we were trying to poison them! Danny works for Vauxhall, you know, autos. Well, let me put all this away, then I’ll see to the cleaning.” She headed for the kitchen.

  Nora followed her. “I just made a pot of coffee. Have some. Let’s sit down for a bit before you start working.”

  “Ta.” Polly quickly emptied the bags and stowed everything in the refrigerator and cabinets. Then she found a cup and poured. They sat at the kitchen table.

  “So, when did you last see, um, my husband?” Nora asked. She wondered if he’d told this woman his first name or if he’d invented one. Better not to chance it, she thought; I’ll just call him Mr. Noone.

  “Hmm, that would be three days ago—no, four. Four days ago. I met him on the stairs as he was going out, around teatime. He had a bag with him, you know, a big valise. He said he’d be away for a few days. A computer convention in Nottingham.”

  Nora nodded. So, he’d given Polly Jenner the usual cover story. Mr. Noone was in electronics.

  “Oh, and he came back that night,” Polly went on. “Very late it was too—midnight, by my bedside clock. Danny and me was wakened by a loud thump from the ceiling, and then we heard footsteps walkin’ round up here. A few minutes later the door opened and closed, and he came away down the stairs. I figured he must’ve forgot somethin’ he needed for his trip.”

  Nora smiled at the girl and glanced around the kitchen, thinking of her timeline. That had been the day after the “accident” in Kensington, the day Bill had called her in New York. By midnight that night, Jeff had been in Bill Howard’s country house on the other side of England, and the next evening he’d vanished. She didn’t doubt that Polly and her husband had heard someone moving around up here, but she was certain it had not been Jeff. She suppressed a shudder.

  “Funny, him going away—with you coming all the way over from America,” Polly mused.

  “Oh, I knew about the convention,” Nora said quickly. “I’m—I’m joining him there tomorrow.”

  Polly nodded. “How’s your daughter?”

  Nora blinked. “Um, fine. Dana’s fine. She’s a college student—”

  “I know,” Polly said. “She’s beautiful, and her middle name is Lee, and she’s studying to be an actress, just like you. He told me about her when he gave me the code for the alarm.” She jabbed a thumb toward the living room, where the panel was. D-A-N-A-L-E-E.

  “Of course,” Nora said. “Where are those biscuits?” She stood up and went over to the cabinets. She found the pack of cookies and put several of them on a plate. “Here.”

  “Ta.” Polly picked one up and dunked it in her coffee.

  “You just go about your business when you want, Polly. I have to find a telephone. My cell—I mean, my mobile is, um, dead, and I must make some calls—”

  “Here.” Polly pulled a cellphone from her pocket and handed it to her. “Help yourself.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Nora said. “You’ve saved me a lot of bother.” To emphasize her gratitude, she added, “Has Mr. Noone paid you for this week? Because I can do that, and for the groceries.”

  Polly’s eyes brightened. “That would be terrif! The receipt from the market is here, and he pays me thirty quid.”

  Nora glanced at the receipt and went to get her purse. Polly cleaned, shopped, and laundered for three male neighbors, so that was ninety pounds a week without leaving home, added to her husband’s automotive paycheck. Clever girl. And she was so friendly, so personable, that she’d made Nora temporarily forget the gravity of her situation. But now she remembered.

  The wig was lying on the desk beside the bag, and Nora was glad she’d decided to remove it and wash her face before Polly’s unexpected arrival. She’d never have been able to explain the old-lady drag to a neighbor who thought “Mr. Noone” was in “electronics.” She stuffed the wig into the bag, paid Polly, and took the phone into the living room.

  She tried Craig’s number three times, but there was no answer and no recording for messages. She thought of texting him, but she stopped when she realized that he’d have no way of replying. She couldn’t give him Polly’s number, and her own iPhone was back in the hotel safe at the Byron. He hadn’t given her an email address. And what could she tell him at this point, anyway? I think your boss/friend/father figure might be the arms dealer, so please come rescue me tonight. He’d think she was insane. No, she needed to speak with him on a phone—or, preferably, face-to-face—so she could explain. She finally gave up.

  Polly went downstairs and came back with a bucket of cleaning supplies and a vacuum cleaner. Nora sat in the living room, listening to the activity in the bathroom, bedrooms, and kitchen as the time passed. She went into Jeff’s bedroom and lay down while Polly worked in the living room. She dozed fitfully, but she couldn’t sleep. When Polly finally went home at six o’clock, Nora washed her face again, put on makeup, and fixed her hair. She was no longer an elderly lady from France; she was Nora Baron once more.

  Mrs. Jeffrey Baron.

  She was reaching for her coat when she stopped short, remembering. Her husband had left three keys on his key ring for her. The big one opened the main door downstairs, and the medium one opened this apartment. She fished in her pocket for the key ring and held it up, frowning at the tiny third key. That would open…what?

  She stood in the center of the living room, gazing slowly around. A safe? If so, where? Behind a painting? No, all the walls in the apartment were bare. She remembered their hiding place back home, and she went into the bathroom. Jeff had provided her with a hollowed-out compartment behind the medicine cabinet in their master bathroom, a small space that could hold valuables. The cabinet was hinged on one side; it unlatched on the other side and swung outward. Perhaps he’d installed one here…No, this cabinet was firmly attached to the wall.

  Back in the living room, she looked around again, and her attention quickly focused on his desk. It was the most logical place, after all, and now she noticed the desk drawer. There was a tiny keyhole at the top, just above the handle. The wood around the lock was damaged; someone had been here, and she had a fair guess who. She slid the drawer open.

  A gun. Nora stared down at the small, sleek object. Then she looked at the red box beside it: .38 caliber bullets—no, rounds. She picked up the weapon and peered at the inscription: Smith & Wesson LadySmith. Stainless steel, with a black rubber coating on the tiny handle, a two-inch barrel with a sight near the tip, and a chamber for five rounds. She aimed across the room; it was very light in her hand. And that short barrel—was this what they called a snubnose? Whatever it was, it was fully loaded, and so small that she could conceal it anywhere. She wrapped it in the gray woolen shawl and placed it in the bottom of her bag, then piled the wig and everything else on top of it. She decided against taking the box of rounds. She shut the drawer and locked it.

  What was the penalty for carrying a weapon in England? And what if she actually had to use it? She’d only imagined shooting someone when she’d played the murderous bank robber on television years ago, and the thought hadn’t been pleasant, even when she was in character. She’d shot and killed a policeman, then one of her own gang, and in the final scene she’d injured one of the stars of the series before
she herself was killed. But the blood had been a mix of corn syrup and food coloring, and all those victims had stood up and walked away when the director yelled Cut!

  Could she, Nora Baron, actually aim a weapon at someone and squeeze the trigger? She doubted it. She remembered holding Jacques Lanier’s heavy SIG Sauer, the feel of it in her hands, the panic and nausea induced by merely looking at it. But this morning, in the Byron dining room, she’d wished for it before going off to tail Yussuf. Now, for better or worse, she was glad to have the revolver. She wondered why Andy Gilbert and/or Bill Howard hadn’t taken it when they searched here the other night. They’d probably dismissed it as unimportant; they’d been looking for something else.

  The sun was setting when Nora left the building. She stopped at a big red phone box and tried Craig’s number once more. Still no answer. Her only ally, the only person she trusted in this whole scenario, was out of reach for the time being. She didn’t have a clear theory of what was happening here, and she didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have anything at all except an illegal gun and an overwhelming need to find her husband.

  She hailed a cab near Soho Square, gave the driver Vivian’s address, and rode northwest through the darkening streets, to face the enemy alone.

  Chapter 33

  Few neighborhoods in London have detached, stand-alone houses with front and back gardens and garages, mainly because few people can afford them. Bill Howard and his wife were among the exceptions. They weren’t part of what Americans would refer to as the one percent, but they were well-off by any standard. Bill was highly paid for his services to the Crown, and Vivian was the only child of Maxfield Gordon, a prominent real estate developer in the postwar years. He’d left his widow more than enough, and she’d left Vivian an impressive dowry and this house on a quiet, tree-lined street in the northwest sector of St. John’s Wood, well removed from the bustle and noise downtown. This area was so isolated and exclusive as to be practically a suburb, London’s equivalent of Larchmont, Chevy Chase, or Beverly Hills.