“Enough to make someone kill her?”
“I don’t know. Men sometimes behave strangely when jilted. They take it personally.”
“And now you’re afraid Mr. Mofongo might come for you?”
“Next to his sister, I was Carlos’s closest friend. Anyone seeking him would be watching me. Ottawa isn’t safe for either one of us.”
-15-
Murray Street
Sergeant Scobie trailed Inspector Hollingsworth through the front door of the Bluebird Café, where they both stopped briefly to stomp the snow off their boots. “The sergeant’s empire at the Ottawa Police Department has just expanded to cover homicide,” said the inspector.
“A slow town for murders,” Scobie said, dropping onto the back booth bench opposite Frances. “That Fenian nut, Paddy Whelan, shot D’Arcy McGee in 1868, then Billy Seabrook offed a gas station attendant in 1931. Two murders in seventy years do not justify a homicide squad. I was working on the dead dip case, so the chief told me to take on the murder.”
“A promotion?” asked Frances.
“A dog’s breakfast. The papers have already announced accidental death of a male foreigner. In the morgue, we have a poisoned female Cuban in drag. Covered up the gender. Have to cover up the murder as well.”
“But we still need to find the murderer,” said Frances. “The forged letters must be part of this.”
Scobie looked uneasily at the menu. “Ya’ hafta choose a Chinese joint for lunch? I’ve heard they serve cat meat as chicken.”
Frances shot him a look. “Like cats? Don’t order the chicken.”
Mei Lin approached with menus.
“Ni hao Mei,” said Frances. “Jong Foo chung, xie xie.”
“You speak Chinese?” Scobie’s eyes widened.
“Enough to get by in the Bluebird Café.”
“What’s good here?” asked the inspector.
“I always order jong Foo chung.”
“What’s that?”
“Chef Foo’s choice. The best food he has in the kitchen.”
“Changes every day?”
“Yes.”
“Eat it with chopsticks?”
“Yes.”
“Cheeseburger and fries, please,” said Scobie.
“Make that two,” added the inspector.
The food arrived as they exchanged notes. “This Carlota sounds like a loose cannon,” said the inspector.
“Certainly ‘loose,’” added the sergeant. “Any number of people might have wanted to off her.”
“Manuel, the older brother, for instance,” said Frances. “No love lost between him and the twins. Sibling deaths mean fewer heirs to the family estate. Carlos was also in deep trouble with the Cuban authorities for supporting the democracy movement.”
“And Gonzalez doesn’t know where Carlos is?” asked Scobie.
“So she says. She called him at the Windsor Hotel in Montreal to tell him about his sister’s death. She’s sure he’s gone into hiding now. His soulmate’s dead and he might have been the target.
“Oh. Carlos and the Señorita weren’t having an affair,” added Frances. “They’re cousins.”
“So?” said Scobie between mouthfuls. “I could tell you some stories about cousins that would shiver your timbers.”
“Gonzalez was upset,” said Frances, “but I didn’t get the feeling it was lovey-dovey. Carlos is nine years younger than she is. Handsome yes, but a bit unworldly for the tastes of the widow Gonzalez. She’s concerned about him, but worried about her own neck too. A couple of tough-guy Cubans named Rodriguez and Mofongo showed up at the consulate. Knew she was Orinoco’s cousin. Gave her a very rough ride. Scared her silly.”
“I don’t have much to report,” said the inspector. “The ski party participants seem pretty tame. Three ambassadors with their wives. A few lower-level embassy employees. Some visitors from out of town. One of the ski lodges was booked by a Boy Scout pack. Ten boys and two leaders. I talked to one of the adults. They skied in early, roasted marshmallows and left. Saw no one. The other lodge was tentatively booked by a Kinsmen group but nobody showed. It was a cold night.”
“Any way of tracking down those French Canadians with the wineskins?” asked Frances.
Scobie gave her an approving nudge. “This dame keeps coming up with the good questions.”
“And speaks Chinese,” added the inspector. “Persons of interest, but I have no idea where to find them.”
“We should go talk to Doc Thompson about sourcing hemlock poison,” said Scobie.
Just then, Huey Foo wandered out of the kitchen door beside their booth and lit a cigarette. “Ah! Miss Fran. Two visits Bluebird Café in three days? We very fortunate.”
Frances made introductions as a thought struck her. “You’re in the food business. Do you know anything about poison?”
“Lunch taste bad?”
“No,” laughed Frances. “Lunch is delicious. We’re caught up in a case of poisoning. It’s a mystery to us.”
“Many kind of poison,” reflected Huey Foo. “Cyanide work very fast. Dead in ten second. Arsenic slow, but fatal.”
“How about poison hemlock?” asked the inspector.
Huey Foo smiled. “Kid Baker, edge man in Montreal Mafia, big fan of poison hemlock. Invite enemy gangster to dinner at fancy hotel. Carry no gun. Rival let guard down. Kid Baker add poison hemlock to drink. No taste. Rival dead in one hour.”
“Does the Montreal Mafia have a branch office in Ottawa?” asked Scobie.
“No,” replied Huey Foo. “But can send messenger.”
At the morgue, Dr. Thompson and Dr. Cornell had spread a tablecloth on the dissecting gurney where they lunched on hot pastrami sandwiches and Cokes.
“Nice spot for a quick snack,” observed Scobie.
Dr. Thompson smiled. “There’s a ton of paperwork with an autopsy and we’re pressed for time.”
“Nobody said dying was easy,” added Dr. Cornell.
“Don’t mean to interrupt the picnic,” said the inspector, “but we’ve a couple of questions about poison hemlock.”
“I did a paper on poisons in my final year of medicine,” said Dr. Cornell while licking her fingers.
“Interesting?”
“Indeed. Some poisons are naturally occurring. Some poisons actually have health benefits in small doses. Some poisons escape detection because the common symptoms — vomiting, diarrhea, stomach cramps — are similar to other ailments.”
“See many cases of poisoning in Ottawa?”
“Not until yesterday. And suddenly, an epidemic.”
“Epidemic?”
“Yeah. Your female Cuban skier and the guy who’d been run over by a train.”
“No kidding? Both died of poison hemlock?”
“Yes. The guy smelled like a brewery, so I would have guessed that he was drunk and passed out while walking along the train tracks — an inauspicious spot to sleep it off. But there was just a trace of alcohol in his system along with a load of poison hemlock. Quite a coincidence.”
“Or not,” added Scobie.
“Could you identify the body?”
“Face was destroyed from the nose up.” Dr. Cornell picked up a clipboard and read. “Caucasian male. Approximately forty-five. Five feet eight inches tall. A hundred and fifty pounds. Dental decay. Several old body scars. Calloused hands. Cheap clothing. Pockets empty.”
“Any labels in the clothing?” asked Frances.
“Have a look,” said Dr. Cornell. She pointed to a shallow cardboard box on the counter.
The only label was on the waistband of the pants. It read “Hudson’s Bay Company, Dorchester Street, Montreal.”
“I’ll call the Missing Persons Bureau in Montreal,” said Scobie. “See if they’re missing a guy with half a head.”
Over on Murray Street, two city trucks sat wedged between the snowbanks in front of number eighty-nine. A crew was pickaxing a hole in the asphalt by the curb. The inspector threw the crew c
hief an inquisitive look.
“Sewer line frozen solid,” he volunteered. “Backed up into the basement. Helluva mess.”
There were six mail boxes in the shabby vestibule. “Orinoco” was on number two. They went up the stairs and down a narrow hall to the door.
“No key this time,” said Frances. “Break and enter?”
“Leave it to me,” said Scobie. He took out what looked like a key ring holding pieces of metal and twists of wire in various shapes and thicknesses. The simple lock tumbled quickly on his third try. Inside, disorder greeted them.
“Sloppy housekeeping,” observed Scobie.
“Or the place has been searched,” said the inspector.
“Not very carefully,” added Frances.
They split up to look around. In the bathroom, a cast iron tub sat under the window. Frances could see the dirty outline of a boot print in the tub bottom. She climbed into the tub to peek out the unlocked window. The outline of decaying footprints in old snow led to a fire escape ladder. She pointed all of this out to the inspector, who in turn pointed out an empty cigar humidor on the coffee table. Through the untidiness, there were signs that the place had been rummaged. Drawers not quite closed. Contents shoved aside but not dumped. Mattress askew on the bed. A clothing pile on the closet floor.
Beside the couch in the living room was a tall narrow bookcase overfull with a jumble of books. The inspector and Frances exchanged smiles.
“I wonder if Orinoco got a volume discount on these,” said the inspector. This time it was a vase at shoulder height that needed to be pulled forward to release the catch. It opened on a narrow room with a two-piece toilet. A small mirrored dresser blocked the door to the hall. Pajamas hung on a hook at the foot of the bed.
“Emergency housing,” commented Scobie. Under the bed were two locked cigar humidors. Scobie’s tool kit had them open in a minute. One contained bundles of Canadian and American banknotes held together by elastic bands. In the other were two brown packages tied up with butcher cord. Inspector Hollingsworth untied one to reveal what looked like icing sugar. He licked the tip of his index finger and dipped it in the powder. “Heroin,” he said.
Frances checked her watch. “This scavenger hunt is getting more interesting by the minute, but I’ve got to get over to the Bank. Deputy Governor Meldrum needs help with his speech for the gala tonight.”
“I should probably bag this loot and take it to the station for safekeeping,” said Scobie.
“Or,” suggested the inspector, “we could leave it for bait. Only the three of us and Orinoco know it’s here. If he’s on the run, he’s going to need funds and may come back for it. Could be our only chance to nab him. Can you get a stake-out team to cover the place?”
Scobie nodded.
When they relocked the door and returned to the street, the maintenance team was thawing the sewer line with a flame thrower. A piece of canvas displayed an assortment of goods recovered in the unplugging: soggy cigarette package, decayed wallet, set of keys. The inspector took out his handkerchief and picked up the keys.
“They were right on top of the ice in the frozen sewer,” said one of the workmen. “Lost recently.”
On the ring were three keys, a fob with the Triumph insignia, plus a small metal contraption that Frances didn’t recognize. One key was engraved with the distinctive B.A. script of the Balmoral Arms. The other two bore no markings. Scobie flashed his badge. “I’m heading back to the police station and could drop these off in the lost and found.”
“Thanks,” said the crew chief. “Save us the trip.”
Scobie led them straight back in and up the stairs again. One of the unmarked keys easily popped the lock to Orinoco’s apartment. In they went for a quick conference.
“Somebody came across the roof and climbed in through the bathroom window,” said Frances.
“Somebody opened the hall door using the key, then locked up and threw the keys down the sewer,” said Scobie.
“One of them probably emptied the cigar humidor,” added the inspector.
“One or both gave the apartment a quick search. Not much worth stealing beyond the cigars.”
“Except for the bonanza hidden behind the bookcase.”
“Which went undiscovered.”
“The footprints could have been there for weeks,” added Frances. “There hasn’t been much snow since that night you corralled me for Major Philpott.”
“But the key chain, if it was taken from Carlota’s pocket, must have moved here Tuesday night or sometime yesterday.”
“Whoever threw the keys down the sewer killed Carlota. Any chance for fingerprints?”
“On the key chain? I doubt it,” said Scobie, “but I’ll take them to our lab, and my stake-out boys can dust the apartment.”
“What happened to the key to the Triumph?”
“Disappeared with the car.”
“I’ll get the licence number from the registry office and send an APB to every cop shop within five hundred miles,” said Scobie.
“What’s that little metal contraption?” asked Frances.
The inspector unfolded what looked like a very short pair of scissors with opposing curved blades. “Cigar clipper,” he said.
-16-
Cartier Drill Hall
Scotty Meldrum was a social animal. The deputy governor had a quick wit and an easy grace in groups large and small. He spoke off the cuff in a reassuring baritone mellowed by a Scottish burr. Details, however, were not his strong suit and details loosened purse strings much quicker than confidently voiced generalities. Details were Frances McFadden’s bread-and-butter, making for a convivial partnership.
“I dunna like reading notes in front of a crowd,” Scotty said. “Yer mouth drifts from the microphone. Lose eye contact and ye lose the audience.”
“The prying open of pocketbooks, Mr. Meldrum, demands a precise command of Victory Bond statistics.”
“No lecture needed, lass. An under-financed war is a shabby war. Doomed to failure. Democracy hangs in the balance. Could ye jot down a few key figures on a small card?”
“Certainly.”
“D’ye know the agenda for tonight?”
Does Santa know when Christmas is?
“Guests begin arriving at the Cartier Square Drill Hall at 7:00 p.m. for cocktails and canapés. At 8:00, Major-General Crerar will be piped in by the Seaforth Highlanders. He’ll welcome everyone on behalf of the armed forces and introduce the governor general, who will highlight the contributions of Canadians to the Allied cause. The GG will ask everyone to join in singing God Save the King, then call on you to pitch Victory Bonds and their support of the war effort, emphasizing the success of previous bond campaigns. You invite everyone to shake hands with Major-General Crerar and the Earl of Athlone, then proceed to tables where Victory Bonds can be ordered and cheques signed. We want the report of a large undertaking to prod all Canadians to purchase bonds when public sales begin later this week.”
Frances related these details in a blur. She was losing a rear-guard battle with a migraine headache that was giving all the indications of a twelve-hour siege. She was unsure what actually triggered these attacks. Blocked sinuses? Alcohol? Threats of incarceration? Doctor Morton had told her to write down the circumstances of each assault, but the assault always dislodged her thinking about the cause to cope with the effect. She fought to get through the day, moving slowly and keeping to low light and quiet surroundings to cushion the throbbing. The gala would be resplendent with light and sound. There was nothing for it but to press on. With Scotty launched on task that evening, she could slip out early. Her apartment was just minutes from the Drill Hall.
Frances was waiting in the lobby of the Balmoral Arms when Scotty arrived in his Buick to pick her up. She had taken ten aspirin, which succeeded in numbing her body while her head still silently screamed.
“The Ottawa aristocracy, such as it is, will all be present tonight, lass!” Scotty Meldrum was a working
-class boy from Aberdeenshire with little good to say about aristocracies, but he understood that they often commanded deep pockets. It was a tribute to his gritty upbringing that his bear-like frame looked as at home in a tuxedo as in lumberjack plaid at the Five Lakes Fishing Club. “An excellent opportunity to dress to the nines without feeling guilty about the war. D’ye have enough tables to take the onslaught of bond subscribers? We don’t want ink drying in anxious pens.”
“Lovely metaphor,” said Frances. “We’ll have ten tables set up right beyond the reception line.”
“Attractive tables?”
“Linen tablecloths, fresh flowers . . . ”
“Aye, but . . . ”
Frances knew exactly what Scotty meant by “attractive” tables. Most of the cheque signers would be men. “I’ve recruited ten of the best-looking Bank employees, primed with demure smiles and stunning cleavages, to lever open wallets.”
Scotty roared. “Lass! Ye dunna miss a trick!”
The austere cavern of Cartier Drill Hall had been transformed into a winter wonderland of birch branches covered in twinkling lights and Kleenex flowers. An orchestra played Dorsey tunes in the background. The deputy governor got them each a tumbler of fruit punch laced with overproof rum. A drink that might encourage generous bond purchases, but not the perfect tipple for a troubled head. A large man with a large presence, Scotty appeared unvanquishable in tuxedo and cummerbund.
Frances wrinkled her brow. “It’s not fair that men appear so instantly gracious in formal attire when dressed identically. Women are required to look beautiful as well as distinctively different from each other.”
“Ye have managed admirably, my dear, so no complaints.”
Frances took his arm and they did the circuit of early arrivers — deputy ministers, supreme court justices, lumber barons and baronesses. Commander Evans threw a mock salute as they passed him chatting with the British high commissioner. They drifted towards a clutch of military officers in formal mess jackets where a towering figure with a chest full of service miniatures was conversing with Inspector Hollingsworth in his dress reds.
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