by Iona Whishaw
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
HE SURPRISED HIMSELF BY NOT thinking twice. Darkness enveloped this side street where the car was always parked. Andrews always said he didn’t like to park it on Baker Street because someone could run into it. Bloody idiot. He had studied where the brake hose was located behind the wheel on this model. Andrews would drive for what, thirty, forty miles before the leak began to affect the brakes? He’d get wet kneeling in the snow, he knew, but he was on the way home. Andrews would be another hour at least, doing what he’d set him to. They’d reached a truce of sorts, but he couldn’t afford to leave any loose ends. When that brat showed up he’d have to find a way to deal with him as well.
The street was deserted, the glowing yellow lights from the houses where people were preparing early dinners and keeping warm barely reflected outside. He pulled the side cutters from his pocket and knelt down, reaching his hand around the wheel to feel for what he knew was there. He would have to be careful to make the smallest cut; enough to weaken it, to create a slow leak. When it happened, and it would, Andrews would be hours and miles away. Andrews had balked when he’d been ordered to take paperwork to a customer in Kaslo, but then relented, saying he was going that way anyway, and as it was his day off he’d make an exception.
The feel for this had never left him, he thought proudly. Thirty years since he was a sapper in France, and he could do this in his sleep. In a moment he was walking around the block to where he had parked his own motor, with only slightly damp knees.
THE SUMPTUOUS LOUNGE of the new Hotel Vancouver was surprisingly spacious and beautiful, but the coffee was disappointing. Aptekar had been reading the paper in a deep chair by the window, but put it down to peer at the pale, brown, watery substance in his cup. The plush interior of the public spaces in the hotel put him in mind of some of the better European hotels, but the kitchen staff seemed sadly unable to understand the concept of coffee. Perhaps, being British, they would understand tea better. He would, he decided, have tea from now on. After all, there was not long to go. He would have his regular call with their man at 4:30 pm, get an update, and think about whether he would make the long, tiresome trip to find Lanette Winslow in the back-water she now called home, or if there was a means of persuading her to come and meet here.
He resumed his perusal of the newspaper, only to be interrupted by a bellhop. “There is a phone call for you, sir. If you come with me, I will show you to the phone box.”
Aptekar closed the door and consulted his watch. It was only just after one.
“Yes?”
“You’ve got to get me out of here!”
“Perhaps you could calm down, and begin at the beginning.”
“There’s no time. They’ve, I don’t know, somebody, has found the gun. And there’s trouble at work. You promised me! Well, time to pay up!”
Aptekar sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to collect his thoughts. He’d never been keen on this man. No point in dwelling on that. He needed a plan. If this idiot was coming anyway . . .
“Look, I will send you a wire. You’re to take it, and you are to give it to Miss Winslow. It will be enough to persuade her to come with you. Please go to the Western Union office. Do you have one there?”
“Yes, yes. Hurry, I haven’t got all day,” the man on the other end of the line whispered frantically.
“Then go there, collect the wire, pack your bags, go to Miss Winslow, and drive out to the coast. And for God’s sake, calm down. They’ve found the gun, but has anyone come for you?”
“No, but . . .”
“There, you see? I agree you should leave there, but there is no need to panic.”
“What about what you promised?”
“Please do not worry. We will settle all these details when you arrive. I already have your passage to Vladivastok arranged. From there you may do as you like. If you leave by this afternoon, I will expect you tomorrow evening.” Aptekar turned his mouth down and tilted his head in a silent apology to the truth. The young man would not be able to do as he liked. He would be interrogated, retrained, and put back into his own country, but somewhere more central. Ottawa, Montreal.
He stood in the phone box for some moments after hanging up. Contingencies. He had spent two wars, and the interwar period, in this game, and he understood contingencies. Sadly, human error seemed to be the key ingredient. He would like to blame the young man, who was vainer and less intelligent than he had hoped, but in fairness he knew the error had been on their end. They had been lured by his war record, but, and here he shrugged as he subjected himself to this analysis, if you recruit someone based on a failing, in this case a gambling habit, you are not always going to get the best candidate.
He went back to the lounge, asking for materials for writing a telegram, then sat smoking, looking at the passersby, shrouded by their umbrellas. He had already tired of rain. He must provide this man with a telegram that would, as he promised, guarantee that Miss Winslow would come with him, and do it quickly. He had known her father. That, he earnestly hoped, would be enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE DAY AFTER AMES AND Darling had retrieved the jacket and gun from the cabin, Sylvia stood panting in front of Charles Andrews’s house, her rubber overshoes barely keeping out the snow. The climb up the hill had been more of a scramble because of the condition of the sidewalks, and her desperation had added a degree of frenzy to the ascent. The door opened and Andrews seemed to burst out, using his suitcases to push at the screen door. He didn’t see Sylvia until he was most of the way up the walk, and then he stopped as if he’d been struck.
“What’s going on, Charlie? Where are you going?” She’d vowed to be strong and commanding, but she could hear the desperate rising tone in her own voice.
“None of your business. Go home, Sylvia.” Andrews had come back to life and was now pushing his way through the gate and opening the trunk of his car.
Sylvia grabbed at his hand. “Charlie, please. You can’t leave me! I don’t care where you’re going, you have to take me with you!” Andrews yanked his hand away from her and slammed the trunk shut.
“I’ve gotta go, okay? You don’t want to come with me. Get lost, will you?”
“But the baby, Charlie. You can’t leave me with the baby!” She was wailing now, and holding his coat.
Andrews saw a curtain flutter in the house next door. Sylvia’s hysterics were beginning to be noticed. He needed to get away without a fuss. He opened the rear door and pulled her roughly by the arm. “Get in and shut up!” he hissed at her, wanting to slam the door, but mindful of the attention, he closed it carefully. In the driver’s seat he clutched the steering wheel with both hands and closed his eyes with a kind of desperation he had never felt before. One step at a time, he told himself, one step at a time. He would get out of town first. He would think along the way of what to do. He could put her off at her house, or even in Balfour, leave her with Lucy. Ha! How about that for irony.
The shock of finding that someone had been to the cabin and taken the gun and jacket had sent him into a tailspin. Everything seemed to be happening at once. And now the instructions to take the girl to Vancouver. He was already struggling with whether he should pick her up and keep going towards Kaslo, up through New Denver and back out to Slocan and thus to the coast, or pick her up and drive all the way back. Now he had Sylvia having hysterics in the back seat. Slow down. Think.
“I don’t understand, Charlie. Where are you going?”
He needed to calm her down, that was for sure. What if she didn’t consent to get out in Balfour in this clingy state? “I need to go on a business trip, that’s all. For the bank. I’m coming back. You didn’t need to get yourself into such a lather.”
“I don’t believe you! It’s that woman, isn’t it? You’re running off with her. Well, I won’t let you!”
The near accuracy of this guess made him clench his teeth. He had to get rid of her. “Listen, baby. It’s not li
ke you think. I’m not running off with anybody. I don’t know how you could think that. We’re opening another branch of the bank and I’m going to go see to it. That’s all. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.”
By this time, they were approaching the ferry landing. Sylvia lived just beyond it in a new little cul-de-sac. As he started to turn onto her street, she guessed what his plan was.
“Oh no you don’t! You can’t take me to my house. My father has already thrown me out. I mean it, Charlie. You try to drop me off here, I will scream the place down! I got nobody. Do you understand? Thanks to you I’ve got nobody, no job, no money, nothing.”
He wanted to do some screaming himself, to tell her to shut up, to push her out of the car. Anything to get rid of the noise. It was a long way to Balfour. “All right, all right. Keep your hat on. Just calm down. When we’re on the other side, I’ll turn the radio on. Just sit back and relax, will you? That can’t be good for the baby.”
“A fat lot you care about the baby!” she said and settled back in the corner with her feet up on the seat.
It was as he was nearing Balfour, Sylvia safely asleep in the back, that he had his brain wave. The drive had been steady but slow, and in that time he’d been struggling with how he would persuade her to get out at Lucy’s. The problem was, he didn’t know where Lucy lived because he’d always picked her up after work for their meetings, and the gas station would be closed by the time they got there, so she wouldn’t be at her job at the phone exchange. She worked during the day, and the night operator would have taken over. As his headlights brought the gas station dimly into view at the top of the rise, it hit him. He didn’t need to get rid of Sylvia. He could use her. He glanced into his rear-view mirror. In the faint light thrown by the dashboard he could see that she was sleeping deeply. Perfect. He had to keep her that way.
He’d brought everything he might need to persuade Lane to come with him to Vancouver. The telegram, but just in case, a revolver and chloroform. He had all along hoped it would not come to that—that she would understand and come with him—but he didn’t want to leave anything to chance. He glanced again into the back as he slowed down. Sylvia seemed to sense the change in speed, and she shifted with a slight groan. But she did not wake. He pulled gingerly to a stop and reached into the glove box. The headlights lit up the edge of the trees that stood like sentinels along each side of the road. Velvety darkness reigned outside the beacon of light. A dusting of snow began to fall.
Finding what he wanted, he poured a little chloroform onto a handkerchief and then, holding his breath against the smell, he turned and kneeling on the front seat reached over and placed it over her mouth and nose. She woke and tried to rise, her eyes registering panic, but it was too late. She slumped back, her head rolling uncontrollably as it hit the door. He didn’t want to use too much. No point in killing her.
He sat for a moment holding the cloth. The sweet, cloying smell was overwhelming in the enclosed space. He’d have to get rid of it. Everything depended on Lane buying his story. He got out of the car and, bunching up the handkerchief, threw it into the darkness of the trees, and then took up handfuls of snow and rubbed his hands to get the smell off. Thank God he hadn’t used his gloves! They’d be full of the stench. He got back in and pulled his gloves on after sniffing diffidently at his hands. He’d open the windows. In the three miles to King’s Cove the smell would clear out of the car.
He climbed the sharp turnoff to King’s Cove and drove slowly up the dark road. The snow was coming down harder. It seemed like the middle of the night, though it was barely after six. At Lane’s gate he stopped. If he opened the gate and drove in, it would take too long to back out. He would turn the car here so that they could leave quickly. When he had done this he shut off the engine and looked into the back seat. He could see the dark form of Sylvia splayed out, one leg hanging off the seat. He reached into the glove box, then shook his head and snapped the glove box shut without taking any of his persuasions. He had all he needed in the back seat. He sat a minute longer and listened. He could hear Sylvia breathing. Perfect.
At the sound of his urgent knocking, Lane appeared in the lit hallway and pulled open the door.
“Mr. Andrews. What on earth . . .”
“Miss Winslow, you have to help! We were visiting nearby and Sylvia has taken a turn. She’s pregnant, and I think she’s passed out. I didn’t know what to do. I need to get her to hospital, but I need someone to help.”
Lane looked past him into the dark. The snow had picked up and was now falling in great thick flakes. She could see the dark shape of his car on the road.
“Please, hurry! I don’t know what’s wrong with her!”
The panic in his voice galvanized her. “Just a minute. You go to her, I’ll be right there.” She ran back into the kitchen for her flashlight, then slipped on an extra sweater. In the hallway she pulled on her plaid jacket and struggled into her boots. Her Franklin was down to embers, so she closed the stove and latched it. It would be safe. She flipped off the hall light, wishing she had time to call Darling, and hurried towards the car.
Andrews was pacing impatiently by the car, rubbing his gloved hands. The flashlight revealed no one in the front seat, and Lane looked at him in surprise.
“She’s here, in the back. She was tired and said she wanted to rest with her legs up, only when I was trying to talk to her she wouldn’t wake up!”
Lane moved around the front of the car to get to the other side. He’d left his headlights on, and they illuminated the tracks he made in the snow as he’d turned the car. What was it about that? Lane pulled the back door open, wondering why she thought there was something more amiss than the disastrously passed-out form of Sylvia. She climbed in, pulling Sylvia’s head onto her lap, and leaned down to look at her. Sylvia seemed to be breathing, but she was slumped awkwardly. She wanted to put a pillow under the girl’s head, and moved to sit in the space left by her feet.
“Let me go back and get a pillow, she—” she began, but Andrews slammed the door shut and climbed into the driver’s seat, grinding the gears as he started the car.
“We don’t have time!” he nearly shouted, lurching up the road and around the corner down the hill to the Nelson road.
Sylvia flopped dangerously at every lurch. If she were just asleep she would have woken, the way she was banging about. Lane pulled at her so that the girl’s head and body were leaning more fully against her. The car stopped abruptly at the turnoff, and then Andrews turned north. It took a moment for Lane to register that they were headed away from Nelson.
Holding Sylvia’s dead weight uncomfortably against her own shoulder, she said, “What are you doing? We’re going the wrong way. We should be going to Nelson to the hospital!” He ignored her, gripping the steering wheel as his back tires skidded on the turn. She had to get through to him. “Charles, please.”
Behind them she registered headlights flashing briefly, lighting up the back of Andrews’s head, and then turning up toward the Cove. Whoever it was, they were gone in a moment, and in the darkness Lane felt a sharp sense of abandonment.
“There’s a small hospital in Kaslo,” he finally said.
Lane could see his profile, partially lit up by the dashboard, his hat pulled forward, obscuring his eyes. “I don’t believe you. You can’t possibly be thinking of driving at night, in this snow, along that dangerous road.” Lane could feel fear rising in her like a dark tide. “Charles,” she said, working to keep her voice calm and strong, “you have to stop this car, now. I don’t understand what’s going on, but Sylvia needs help. She could lose the baby.”
Andrews emitted a noise that Lane could not interpret by way of response and sped up. In the silence of this complete defeat, Lane tried to think her way through. They had begun to suspect Charles Andrews. This very car was likely the one that had been seen in New Denver. The snow tires. Yes! That was it. It fell home. Snow tires were a rarity, and she could swear these had the same mark
ings as the tracks Ames had photographed on the road the night of the murder. She tried to think through her next move. She would enrage him if she indicated in any way that they suspected him, but she had to find out why she was on this mad nighttime drive with him and this unconscious girl. Why was Sylvia unconscious? Had she really passed out as he’d said? He’d sounded genuinely panicked.
As if in answer to her thoughts, Sylvia emitted a little moan. Had Andrews heard? He gave no sign of it. He seemed lost in his thoughts.
“Could we at least have a little music or something?” she asked. Without speaking Andrews reached out and turned on the radio. There was an intermittent signal with some sort of big band program surging and fading by turns. Under the noise of the radio she whispered frantically, “Sylvia, Sylvia, wake up!” In her proximity to Sylvia’s face, she knew instantly. Chloroform! She had to rouse her. If there was going to be any need to escape, she needed Sylvia awake. He had no intention of going to a hospital in Kaslo, she knew now. In fact, she doubted there even was one there. Why on earth was he driving anywhere with Sylvia in this condition? Lane rolled the window down slightly and felt a sharp stream of cold air. She glanced at Andrews. The radio was beginning to produce longer intervals of static. He was playing with the dials. A sombre man came on saying something about an extreme weather warning, and then the voice disappeared in a high-pitched whine of static.
“Wake up!” she whispered again, gently rubbing Sylvia’s face. Sylvia stirred, emitting another low moan. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked uncomprehendingly around her. Lane put her finger to her lips, shaking her head urgently. “Sylvia, don’t say anything. Do you hear me? Just nod. It’s important. Can you do this?” Sylvia’s gaze turned to her and her eyes widened, panic clearly visible. But somehow something in Lane’s voice got through to her, and she nodded. “Just keep pretending you’re asleep.”
Sylvia’s hand came up to her mouth, and she wiped it, trying to lick her lips.