Carbon Copy

by Ian McKercher

  “Who’s under all those ribbons?” asked Frances.

  “You’ve never met Major-General Crerar? Chief of the General Staff? Sterling chap. Served with distinction in the last war. And much more important, an excellent fly fisherman.” He swung Frances in and made introductions.

  “Miss McFadden,” said the major-general with a smile. “How is it that a beauty such as yourself favours a banker this evening when so many Canadian officers are bereft of escorts?” He shot a wink at Scotty, who was old enough to be her father.

  “Well, Major-General, I’m sure your officer corps is distinguished and charming, but I have made few acquaintances there, so busy do you have them working to defeat the Hun. The deputy governor was gracious enough to rescue me from serving cocoa in a musty Red Cross canteen to take in the bright lights of the Drill Hall.”

  “Not met any Canadian officers? What a shame. We should do something about that!”

  Inspector Hollingsworth threw a meaningful look her way and they locked glances.

  “Oh. I have met one. Major Philpott.”

  “Philpott? Alas, too late, my dear! We’re about to shuffle several dozen officers to new postings and he’s in the rotation. Have to fill positions from Jamaica to Baffin Island. Devilishly hard to know who would work best where, although they all have strong leadership skills. The Frobisher Bay position has been vacant for two months since poor Latimer died from eating tainted seal meat. Need to get someone on a boat north immediately. The other stations are manned by active service officers and aren’t quite as urgent.”

  “Frobisher Bay in the Arctic has strategic significance?” asked Scotty.

  “We don’t expect an invasion, but the British have concerns that the Germans might secretly be setting up antennas along the deserted coastline to pick up radio traffic on convoy movements. Vigilance is necessary, with lives and ships at stake.”

  “What a coincidence,” said Frances. “I believe that Major Philpott entertains a very special feeling for wintry weather.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth’s eyes widened.

  “Does he?” exclaimed Major-General Crerar. “Gracious, I didn’t know!”

  “Isn’t that your understanding, Inspector?” Frances asked.

  Trapped, Inspector Hollingsworth licked his lips to gain a few seconds.

  “Or am I mistaken?” Frances pressed.

  “A special feeling. Yes. You could . . . say that.”

  Major-General Crerar looked delighted. “Splendid! That would solve a huge piece of the puzzle. Curtis,” he said to his aide, “make a note. We’ll get Philpott on the next boat to Baffin Island.”

  “Please don’t mention we spoke,” Frances cautioned, lowering her voice. “An officer of Major Philpott’s integrity would never wish to seek preferment.”

  “Of course not. You have my word. And here I was thinking of posting him to Bermuda!” He laughed and beamed with satisfaction.

  Scotty noticed that Ralston, the Minister of Finance, had arrived and excused himself. Frances made a smiling exit and headed towards the punch table as calmly as her headache would bear. Inspector Hollingsworth caught up to her. “That was hardly Christian, Miss McFadden,” he said with a narrow smile.

  “I respectfully disagree, Inspector,” said Frances, returning the smile. “I was merely following the teachings of the Bible.”

  “Where do the gospels espouse exiling a warmth lover to the high Arctic?”

  “Ecclesiastes 11, verse 1. ‘Cast your bread upon the waters and it shall be returned tenfold.’ You know exactly what kind of bread the major has been casting my way all week.”

  The inspector countered, “But doesn’t Romans 12, verse 17, read, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord’?”

  “While reading the Bible cover to cover, Inspector, as I’m certain you’ve done many times, one can’t help noting that Ecclesiastes comes before, and surely takes precedence over, Romans.”

  The inspector arched an eyebrow. Frances arched an eyebrow right back. “Besides, the Lord occasionally requires assistance in temporal matters.”

  “Major Philpott will be . . . apoplectic.”

  “More to the point, Major Philpott will be safely out of the way.”

  “Harm’s way, or our way?”

  “Probably both. He has done nothing but handcuff the investigation here. What’s that expression about having to be cruel only to be kind? The Baffin Island post could open a door for him. Some sweet-tempered Native woman may be able to soothe his savage breast.”

  Laughter and chatter filled the great hall beneath the twinkling lights. War worries were far away, although Frances’s head continued to vibrate. At the stroke of eight, bagpipes skirled, and Major-General Crerar took his place at the microphone on the platform vacated by the band. He welcomed everyone on behalf of the armed forces so valiantly fighting abroad and invited His Excellency, the Earl of Athlone, to the stage. The governor general spoke of Canadian dedication and fortitude, especially in standing by the United Kingdom in the face of desperate tyranny. His fondest wish was that the evening would be “propitious to the Allied cause,” to which end he invited Deputy Governor Meldrum to the stand.

  Scotty was brilliant. Not only short and concise, but his Scottish brogue emphasized the tie to the mother country without having to mention it. “This third issue of Victory Bonds is our largest ever, with a goal of $600 million. All earlier issues have sold out within forty-eight hours. Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to greet the governor general and the chief of defence staff here on my right, then proceed to the tables where Bank of Canada employees can take your orders for bonds.”

  A line quickly formed during the enthusiastic applause. Shaking the hand of a governor general and a major-general could fuel self-deprecating bragging at the curling club or the office for weeks. “Just between us, the GG confided to me that . . . ” or “M-G Crerar completely agrees with me that we need to . . . ” People moved fluidly from the reception line to the tables and purchases were handled with alacrity and generous smiles. All was in order. Frances’s head was pounding like a tom-tom, distorting her vision. She whispered a brief adieu to Scotty Meldrum, telling him the short walk home in the crisp snow would clear her head.

  Miles was off duty and the lobby of the Balmoral Arms stood empty. The elevator clanked tentatively up to the seventh floor. Frances’s unsteady hand fumbled to get the key into her door lock. When she entered and switched on the hall light, the glare temporarily blinded her. As she unbuttoned her overcoat, a gloved right hand holding a noxious cloth closed over her mouth and nose from behind. A strong left arm clasped her arms to her sides. Gasps for air drew a pungent odour into her lungs. Her scream drowned in her throat. Frances saw black and red circles throbbing towards her and then she saw nothing at all.

  -17-

  Morning After

  Frances woke suddenly, a nasty taste fouling mouth and nostrils. She was lying in her bed, shoeless but fully dressed, a feather comforter tucked chin-high. She blinked several times to overcome a wooziness and then checked the time. It was 6:56 a.m. Careful listening detected only the ticking clock and distant street traffic. She propped herself up on the edge of the bed, stood unsteadily, then shuffled to the bathroom to scour her face and brush her teeth.

  A hurricane had ripped through her apartment. The walkin closet contents were flung asunder. Her jewellery box was upended on the dresser and her mother’s wedding ring and a silver filigree brooch were missing. The bathroom medicine cabinet was open and the drawers of the vanity were stacked on the counter, contents in disarray. Books had been torn from shelves, and paper was strewn on the polar bear rug in the study. Kitchen cabinet doors were splayed wide. Her dining room credenza had been opened, but the liquor stock did not appear diminished. In the living room, cushions were upturned on the sofa and wing chairs.

  Shaken, unsure, and feeling violated, she called Inspector Hollingsworth. “Do you have a minute? The Culloden File would benefit from yo
ur immediate attention.”

  “When and where?”

  “Your earliest convenience at my apartment.”

  “Put on the coffee. I’m on my way.”

  Frances filled the percolator and slumped into a kitchen chair as it bubbled into life. She was frightened and dispirited, wary of touching anything. At least her headache was gone. In eight minutes flat, the doorbell rang.

  “I came home early from the charity gala,” she explained to the inspector as she took his coat and hat. “Had a fivealarm migraine. Scotty Meldrum was sailing before the wind and didn’t really need me after his speech. Bank employees were busy taking purchase orders, so I slipped out. I opened the apartment door, snapped on the hall light and was kicking off my boots . . . ”

  “When suddenly . . . ”

  Frances cowed him with a beady stare. “When suddenly, I was grabbed from behind. A gloved hand clamped a foulsmelling rag over my face and my arms were cinched to my sides. My scream was muffled under the choking cloth. I saw whirling spirals and passed out. I woke up twenty minutes ago in bed, fully clothed.”

  “Is the smelly cloth still around?”

  “Not that I noticed. Let me get you the face cloth I just used to wash up.”

  The inspector sniffed. “Chloroform.”

  Frances poured coffee for them both and led a tour.

  “My, my, my,” said the inspector.

  “What do you make of it all?”

  “Apartment-rifling is outside my area of expertise. I’m more the spies-and-dead-diplomats type. We might benefit from a professional assessment.”

  “Sergeant Scobie? He doesn’t like dames, remember?”

  “I think he’s warming to you, but why not go right to the top?” Inspector Hollingsworth took a notebook from his breast pocket, looked up a number and dialled on the kitchen phone.

  “Mr. Courchene? My name’s Hollingsworth, from the RCMP. I’m doing some research and was wondering if you’d be kind enough to offer me the benefit of your advice? There’s ten dollars in it for an hour’s work if you’re interested. Good. Apartment 7SW at the Balmoral Arms on Metcalfe Street. Thank you.” The inspector hung up with a smile. “A strong public spirit, or curiosity, or perhaps the ten bucks, has motivated Cat Courchene to join us directly.”

  “You think this is Cat Courchene’s work?” Frances asked with a sweep of her hand. “Planning to sweat a confession out of him when he’s confronted with the mute evidence of his larceny?”

  “You watch too many gangster movies, Miss McFadden. What’s that old saying? ‘Set a thief to catch a thief’? I’d be interested to hear what a card-carrying second-storey man has to say about this.”

  Cat Courchene did not keep them waiting long. He was short, just Frances’s height, but lithe and muscular. He walked with his shoulders — not quite a swagger, but with purpose. A bushy head of hair and eyebrows like tire tracks. Eyes that inventoried everything. He whistled. “Some mess,” he said.

  “Your good friend Sergeant Scobie would probably try to browbeat you at this point,” said the inspector.

  “Yeah. Scobie would like to lay every crime known to man at my doorstep, right back to Eve in the Garden of Eden.”

  “You do have a criminal record.”

  “I do. I made a few mistakes. I paid big time. All the gold in Fort Knox wouldn’t tempt me to that again.”

  “Scobie did find you in possession of stolen goods.”

  “Two funny things about that, Inspector. Sure, that was my suitcase, but those trinkets — honest, I’ve never seen ’em before. The suitcase was in the unlocked shed outside my back door. Anybody could have stashed stuff there. Number two, has anybody actually reported that stuff missing? Ain’t that a prerequisite to claim the stuff is ‘stolen goods’?”

  “You think somebody was hiding their Christmas presents at your place until they could wrap them?”

  Cat smirked. “As good a call as any.”

  “Anyway, that’s not my interest, Mr. Courchene. I’d like you to have a look around and tell me what you think of all this.” The three of them walked silently from room to room. Cat kept his hands deep in his pockets, but his eyes shot everywhere. They ended the tour in the dining room and all sat down.

  “Your professional assessment?” asked the inspector.

  “A little background on the situation would help,” said the Cat, adding, “Mind if I smoke?”

  Frances shook her head and he lit a cigarette while she told him the story.

  “So,” Cat reiterated, his voice rising for emphasis at the end of each sentence. “You come home about nine o’clock. You’re blinded when you flick on the lights. Someone grabs you from behind. Slaps a chloroformed cloth over your face. You wake up in the morning to this. That it?”

  Frances nodded.

  “I don’t know how to put this delicately, miss, but um . . . were you um . . . interfered with?”

  “Well, I was drugged and blacked out,” said Frances.

  “Yeah, but, you know . . . ?”

  “Oh! No! No,” Frances interjected. “I woke up in bed with all my clothes on. My comforter had been tucked up under my chin.”

  “A real gent,” said the Cat.

  “Why would you ask a lady such a question?” demanded the inspector, whose face had coloured at the innuendo.

  “Just trying to establish motive, Inspector. Isn’t that where you gumshoes usually start? This, um, visitor, had no interest in taking advantage of a beautiful woman he had rendered helpless. A silver brooch and an old wedding ring might get him twenty bucks from an honest fence. Slim pickin’s for this mess. What did this guy really want?”

  “You think it was a man?”

  “Held Miss McFadden so tight she couldn’t scream or move? Then carried her . . . ” — he gave Frances a quick appraisal — “125-pound body . . . ”

  “A hundred and twelve pounds!”

  “ . . . 112-pound body into the bedroom and carefully tucked her in. Didn’t tie her up. Didn’t kidnap her for ransom. Made a hell of a mess for a fella with lots of time while the miss is out colder than a mackerel.”

  “Any candidates?” asked Inspector Hollingsworth.

  “Scobie is much better acquainted with the criminal element these days than me, Inspector. I retired right after grad school at Collins Bay. There are a couple of light-fingered lads who regularly drink beer in the Lafayette Tavern. They might be motivated to crawl up the occasional drainpipe to jimmy a second-storey window, but seventh-floor apartments are way out of their league.”

  “They’re not flexible?”

  “They’re not crazy. You fall from a second-floor window ledge and you might break a leg. Fall from the seventh floor and the funeral mass is the next afternoon. Question number one, How did the visitor get in?”

  “I didn’t notice any signs of forced entry,” said Frances.

  “Let’s have another look at the front door.” They looked. Nothing. “Any other way into your place?”

  “There is an interior staircase to a greenhouse on the roof. Want to check it out?”

  Cat nodded. Frances led them up the circular stairs to the greenhouse. Outside, a series of deep impressions in the snow led back and forth between the greenhouse and the rooftop housing of the building stairwell.

  “One question answered,” said Cat as they returned downstairs. “Have you dusted the place?” he asked the inspector.

  “Not yet. I’ll get Scobie over here to do it.”

  “Questions two and three, what did the guy want and did he find it? Anything missing besides the jewellery?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed. I don’t own much of value.” “Oh? Pretty nice duds in the closet.”

  “Sure, but bulky to cart away, and only of interest to someone my exact size.”

  “Say 112 pounds?”

  “Say.”

  “And this furniture is carriage trade material,” added Cat, giving the walnut dining table a respectful tap with his knuckles
. “But it’s awkward hiking off with a coffee table under your coat. Any other mysterious entries in this apartment building lately?”

  “Haven’t heard of any,” said Frances. “The neighbours are private, but public spirited. They’d share news of a break-in.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth looked meaningfully at his watch. “Is that it, Mr. Courchene?”

  “Some final thoughts. First, your run-of-the-mill stumblebum thief don’t carry around a cloth soaked in chloroform. A heist gets interrupted, he scrams. Don’t want no assault charge added to B and E. Next, the first thing I learned when I entered the trade — from which, let me remind you, I am now fully retired — was to leave no traces.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “So’s the victims don’t know they’ve been jacked for a while. Gives you lots o’ time to fence the goods. This” — he spread his arms wide — “looks like a billboard ad.”

  “Maybe the visitor was in a hurry,” offered the inspector.

  “With the miss conked out cold?”

  “Advertising what, exactly?” asked Frances.

  “Hard to say,” shrugged Cat. “Maybe a warning? This is either a hack amateur job, or there’s another agenda.”

  “What ‘other agenda’?”

  Cat Courchene took a long drag on his cigarette. “Any enemies, miss?”

  Frances narrowed her eyes in thought. “I don’t think so.”

  “Nobody want to scare the bejesus out of you?”

  “I’m a mild-mannered bank clerk, Mr. Courchene.” She spread a hand at the carnage. “I don’t think I’ve offended anyone enough to invite this.”

  “Well then, it’s a mystery, Inspector,” the Cat said with a smile. “Not a pro. Not an amateur way up here on the seventh floor.” He cocked his head playfully towards Frances. “An angry ex-boyfriend?”

  Frances blushed. “A teapot has a spicier love life than I do, Mr. Courchene.”

  “Mind if I give the joint a second quick stroll through to see if anything jumps out?”

  “Go ahead,” said Frances. The inspector lit his pipe and they drank cold coffee while they waited for the Cat at the dining room table.