He returned shaking his head. Inspector Hollingsworth pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Well, thanks for your professional advice, Mr. Courchene.”
“Pocket the sawbuck, Inspector. I kind of like being a consultant. A lot easier than shovelling coal for the CPR. Might be a new career for me.”
“Then I’m in your debt,” said the inspector.
“I just might need a character reference sometime,” said the Cat with a thin smile. “With our good friend Scobie, for example. Be worth a lot more than ten bucks if it keeps me outta the slammer.”
“Rain check?”
“Rain check,” echoed the Cat. He bowed elaborately to them both and headed for the door.
-18-
Search Warrant
Sergeant Scobie’s crew was in for the fingerprint dusting but found only evidence of Frances and illegible smudges. After they left, it took her two hours to return the apartment to order. With a weekly cleaning service, she was normally spared this drudgery. Finished at last, Frances was hot and had a desperate need to get out of the place. Where to go but the Bank? Her home-away-from-home.
“Some holiday!” exclaimed Bridget.
“You’re drawn to this place like a moth to a candle,” said Maddie.
“An addiction. It can’t be healthy,” concluded Brendan.
“Good to know everything’s under control. I just wanted to check in with the deputy governor on how the gala went last night.” She headed down the hall for an audience.
“Glorious!” beamed Scotty. “Best launch ever. Sold the proverbial pisspot worth of Victory Bonds. We’re still tallying the receipts. I’ll do a press conference tomorrow to announce the gala sales. People partied to the wee hours. You should have stayed.”
“You’re right,” Frances agreed. “I should have stayed.”
When she walked back into the office, Maddie waved her over. “Inspector Hollingsworth on line two. Says it’s important.”
Frances picked up the extension in the MBO. “Good day, Inspector. How have you been all this time?”
“Glad I caught you! I tried to reach you at your apartment. An item has just popped up that needs urgent attention. Can I pick you up at the Bank? Sparks Street entrance in ten minutes?”
“That urgent?”
“Culloden File urgent.”
“Two Culloden Files in one morning?” mulled Frances. “I don’t think that’s allowed.”
“Then it’s time to change the rules.”
“So,” began the inspector as Frances settled into the seat beside him, “I had quite an interesting morning after I left you. I phoned Commander Evans to update him about the poison hemlock deaths and the stash we found in the Murray Street apartment. He likes the stake-out idea for Orinoco and, in that polite-but-understated British way, complimented us on our progress.”
“Did you talk to Major Philpott as well?”
“No. Facts that contravene his concept of the truth seem to irritate him. We can tell him tonight if he shows any interest. “Then RCMP Commissioner Wood called me in. Wanted three search warrants quicky-quick, so I went over personally to the court house to get them issued by the duty justice. I dropped the paperwork off with Katy Malone, his secretary. When I asked her for a rush order, she just about went through the roof.
“Ji-sus, Ji-sus, Ji-sus,” she said in her beautiful Irish brogue. “Is every house in Ottawa getting searched today? I’ve just been typing up six warrants for Military Intelligence, and now the Mounties come riding over the hill with rush orders?”
“I pleaded that the defeat of Germany was hanging in the balance if I couldn’t get those warrants back to my commissioner by early afternoon. Could she just pop in and ask his lordship if that’s adequate time for a rush order?”
“She gives me that ‘this-will-cost-you’ look, pops up, and disappears into the judge’s chambers. In her haste, she left a file open on her desk.” The inspector shared an innocent smile. “I confess to a certain curiosity about the activities of Military Intelligence, so I stole a glance to see who was on its search warrant list.”
“And?” said Frances as the car turned south on Percy.
“Guess.”
“I don’t know! Governor Towers?”
“Nope, but close.”
“The deputy governor?”
“Nope. Getting colder.”
Her mind raced. “Not the governor, but close . . . not the . . . not me!”
“You win the kewpie doll. Apartment 7SW at the Balmoral Arms.”
“But who . . . ? But why . . . ?”
“Well, the ‘who’ is our good friend Major Philpott. His scrawl was on the bottom of the forms. I had to mull over the ‘why’ until a convergence of divergent events struck me like lightning,” Inspector Hollingsworth answered with a catand-canary smile.
“I need more clues. No convergent lightning is striking me.”
“The break-in at your apartment? Almost nothing taken?”
“Yes. I mean ‘no’. So?”
“Well, just suppose, for the sake of argument, that all that mess was a distraction.”
“It worked. I was distracted, and a little terrified. A distraction from what?”
“To cover up for something that was left behind. Something that would incriminate you if it was discovered, say, by Military Intelligence exercising a search warrant.”
“Like what?”
“More forged documents. Money you can’t account for. Mysterious list of foreign names who might be enemy agents.”
“Major Philpott would set me up with planted goods?” Frances said with dismay. “That’s hardly cricket.”
“Nor, I’d wager, is it within the scope of the major’s imagination, as annoying a person as he can be. Somebody else must have done the deed and tipped him off so he can swoop in and catch you red-handed.
“Katy said none of the warrants would be signed and ready until the justice returns from lunch at one-thirty. I’m betting that the minute the major has them in hand, he’ll hightail it to your apartment.”
“God help me! What do we do?”
“I’m suggesting a pre-search search.”
Inspector Hollingsworth parked on a side street a block from the Balmoral Arms. “You go in the front door and engage the doorman in light banter while I sneak up the back stairs to the roof and come down through the greenhouse to your apartment. I can’t be caught helping you out. I’m supposed to be on the right side of the law.”
Frances smiled icily. “Need I remind you, Inspector, that I’m also on the right side of the law?”
He was waiting inside when Frances turned the key in her door. “Do we have to flip everything upside down again? I just spent two hours putting the place to rights.”
“I don’t think so. Whoever decided to set you up and sic the major on you wants the damning evidence easy to discover. Like an Easter egg hunt — hidden, but accessible.”
“But it can’t be too obvious or I would have stumbled on it cleaning up.”
“Correct. So think out of sight, but easy to find if you’re looking.”
“In a hollowed-out book in my study? I saw that in a movie once.”
“Far too complex for the major. He’s not going to haul four hundred books down and go through them one by one. Maybe under a carpet or inside a vase. You sweep the bedrooms and I’ll start in the living room. Operative prepositions are ‘behind,’ ‘in’ or ‘under.’”
“I’m getting quite a lot of experience at apartment searches,” observed Frances. “Could turn professional.”
The ninth place Frances looked was behind the oil painting of Georgian Bay hanging over the desk in her study. “Inspector!” she called out, placing the painting face down on the desk. A manila envelope was taped to the back. Out came her tweezers and she drew forth three sheets of paper. Letters addressed to Graham Towers purportedly from the minister of finance, the minister of war production and the prime minister. All marked TOP SECRET
or CONFIDENTIAL with familiar stamps. All contained details about the war effort.
“This is the treasure trove,” said the inspector. “Can you get the envelope tape off the back of the painting with your tweezers? Good! I’ll have it all checked for fingerprints. We can go over the letters in detail later.”
“Do you think there’s more?”
Inspector Hollingsworth checked his watch. “I doubt it, but let’s give it another twenty minutes. You sweep the rooms I just covered and vice versa.”
Nothing turned up. Just as the inspector was leaving, Miles the doorman called up. “Miss McFadden? Are you missing a brooch and a ring by any chance?”
“Yes, Miles, as a matter of fact I . . . I’ve misplaced them recently. Why?”
“You know those sand-filled canisters we use as ashtrays beside the elevator and the garage door? I clean them every day. I pour the sand through a sieve into a pot to catch the butts and matches, then replace the sand. I just sieved the one by the garage door to the back stairs, I found two pieces of jewelry. I thought I’d seen you wearing this brooch before. It’s very distinctive. I’ll hold them for you at my desk in the lobby.”
“Thank you, Miles. I’ll be right down.” Frances shared the news.
“Interesting concept of larceny,” said the inspector with another magical smile. “A short-haul jewelry thief who ditches the goods before leaving the building.”
He took the envelope down the stairs to the parking garage and out the back door. Frances picked up her mother’s jewelry from Miles and gave him a two-dollar tip. She’d learned long ago that having the doorman in your corner was worth rubies.
Frances’s culinary expertise was limited to tea, toast and scrambled eggs. Enough for a late lunch. At two o’clock the doorbell rang. She opened it to find Major Philpott standing there with a jaunty swagger, like Napoleon at Austerlitz. Two men in military uniforms trailed in his wake.
“Good afternoon, Major. Something come up that couldn’t wait until our seven o’clock meeting?”
The major straight-armed the search warrant into her face. “I have a warrant to search your premises, Miss McFadden,” he said. “Please stand aside.”
Frances did not stand aside. She popped the warrant out of the major’s fingers and perused it slowly, as if it were the detailed recipe for an exotic dish. She had never seen a search warrant before and was relishing the experience. “This is quite unexpected,” she drawled. “I’d like to get a legal opinion . . . ”
“Call your lawyer if you wish, but we’re authorized to enter and undertake an immediate search,” said the major as he brushed her aside. The two soldiers nodded uncomfortably as they followed him in. Frances retreated back to her tea and eggs. “Let me know if I can help in any way,” she offered.
They scoured the place for ninety minutes. Each military man searched each room separately. They did not dump drawers out, but did examine them carefully, checking to see if anything was taped to the bottoms. Pillows came off the furniture and were replaced. Mattresses were lifted. Chairs were turned upside down. The stove and fridge opened. All the pictures were taken down and the backs scrutinized. As time wore on, the major grew snappish with his assistants.
From her den bookshelves, Frances fetched Sun Tsu’s The Art of War, and was reading in the living room when the major came back to her. “Find what you were looking for?” she asked with a concerned smile.
Major Philpott hid disappointment poorly. He managed to say, as neutrally as possible, “I was acting on orders. Which I was merely following. As is my duty. Information had come to Military Intelligence that certain items might be concealed in your apartment,” he said.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Frances. “Who would say such a thing! And why would someone hide something in my apartment?”
“I . . . I . . . , ” stuttered a man not usually at a loss for words.
“Find any . . . ‘items’?”
Major Philpott clenched his teeth but admitted nothing.
“Well then, Major, I will call my lawyer first thing tomorrow. I have to confess that I’ve found Military Intelligence to be somewhat intrusive in my life of late, including turning the home of a loyal Canadian upside down.”
“Do not think for a minute that this alters our scheduled meeting for seven o’clock tonight. I’m required at a headquarters briefing at four, but that should clear the rest of the evening. We will pursue your situation to a conclusion, if it takes all night.”
“Sounds like a treat, Major. Should I bring my pajamas?”
-19-
Captain Quigley
Frances arrived at the Shefford apartment just before seven to find Commander Evans and Inspector Hollingsworth drinking tea and marvelling at the cleverness of secret doors and hidden-hinged bookcases. Commander Evans checked his watch. “Wonder what’s holding up Major Philpott? He’s the soul of punctuality.”
“He left a message at my office to be prepared for a long night,” said the inspector. “Implied fresh developments.”
“Got the same message,” confirmed Commander Evans. “Any ideas?”
Inspector Hollingsworth shook his head.
“Well,” said Frances, “I might be ‘the developments.’ Someone was in my apartment last night when I got home from the Victory Bond launch. I was drugged, then my place was turned upside down. I called the inspector when I woke up. He surveyed the situation and invited a break-and-enter specialist over for an assessment. Then Sergeant Scobie came through searching for fingerprints. Nothing significant. I just got the apartment shipshape this afternoon when Major Philpott showed up with a search warrant and two assistants. They spent ninety minutes combing the apartment.”
“Find anything?” asked the commander.
“Major Philpott didn’t say, so I think not. Had he found evidence of my guilt, I’m sure he’d have arrested me on the spot.”
“This break-and-enter expert was from the Ottawa Police?” asked the commander.
“No. He was a reformed second-storey man named Cat Courchene.”
Commander Evans’ eyes widened. “A thief? Interesting. Any insights?”
“He was somewhat disdainful. Thought it looked like an amateur job.”
“Oh? Because . . . ?”
A key clicked in the apartment door lock, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing. Then footsteps, and a youngish man in a three-piece suit peered in through the archway. A cigarette hung rakishly from a handsome face with a Clark Gable moustache. He looked like he’d just come from a night club.
“Quigley,” he said. “Captain,” he said. “Philpott’s replacement. This the right place?” He flipped a notepad out of an inside pocket in his suit coat. “Commander Evans?” he addressed the navy uniform, receiving a nod. “Inspector Hollingsworth?” he said to the bald inspector, earning a second nod.
He sat down and opened a stylish leather satchel to remove a file, “So. Why is it that . . . ” — he checked his notes — “ . . . after lengthy interrogations, you haven’t been able to run this poor bugger McFadden into the ground?” He gazed from one man to the other. The inspector and the commander exchanged silent glances before looking over at Frances.
She broke the silence. “I am the poor bugger McFadden,” she said.
“You?” Captain Quigley yelped, like he’d just been goosed. “I thought you were the stenographer, for God’s sake.” He checked the file again. “Philpott spelled ‘Francis’ with an ‘i’.”
“Not Major Philpott’s only mistake,” said Frances.
“No indication at all that McFadden from the Bank of Canada was a woman.” Captain Quigley continued reading. “It’s ‘McFadden pretends,’ . . . or ‘FM professes,’ . . . or ‘the accused denies . . . ’” He squinted. “Mind you, Philpott’s writing looks like Sanskrit. I might have missed some nuances.”
“Unlikely,” said Frances. “Nuance and Major Philpott are strangers.”
“Sincere apologies,” said Captain Qui
gley. “And sorry to be out of uniform. I’ve been doing undercover work.”
“What happened to Major Philpott?” asked the commander. “He contacted my office just hours ago about tonight’s meeting.”
“Well, that’s the military for you,” smiled the captain. “Most things move at a glacial pace. Occasionally, there’s an avalanche. I was running a stake-out in Montreal at ten o’clock this morning. My replacement told me I’d been ordered directly to headquarters and they sent me straight up to Ottawa on the next train in the clothes I was wearing. Reported to my new commanding officer here just after four. He showed me to my office and I just chanced to see Major Philpott exiting on the fly. A patrol boat was apparently being held for him at Quebec City to take him right up to Frobisher Bay.”
“Frobisher Bay!” Commander Evans chuckled. “I think the major had expectations his new posting would be in a warmer clime.”
“Yes, well, I don’t know what things are like in your services, but most army officers view every new posting as a punishment for past misadventures rather than a reward for services rendered. The silent question when they shuffle us always is: ‘Are they trying to put their best man in a critical spot to help win the war, or are they moving deadwood to a place he can do little harm?”’ Another smile. “I have no idea which category I fall into.
“Anyway, I don’t know how Philpott possibly got any sleep. He was running twenty priority files simultaneously. I spent two hours giving them a quick look before I checked his appointment calendar and discovered I was already late for this meeting.”
“Did he brief you on this file?”
A snort. “‘Brief’ is the operative word. He pointed to a box of files on the corner of his desk. ‘There you go,’ he said, and was gone. I must say, Philpott looked like his dog had just died. Was he suffering from heartburn? Or gout? I only had a cursory glance at this file. Would help if you each fleshed it out in your own words.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Frances, standing up.
“Please stay, Miss McFadden,” said the captain. “I have no wish to insult you further by colluding behind your back. You have a heavy stake in this file. I’d welcome your perspective.”
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