Carbon Copy

by Ian McKercher

  Well, well. Frances’s opinion of Military Intelligence bounded upward as she sat down. Captain Quigley was respectful and open-minded. He jotted notes while Inspector Hollingsworth updated both officers on the gender of the murder victim and the coincidental poisonings. He was going through a detailed description of the contents of the hidden room in apartment 606 at the Balmoral Arms when Captain Quigley looked at his wristwatch and cut in. “In summary, the whole espionage case hinges on the authenticity of the documents. Miss McFadden contends they are forged. That she did not type them. That they do not come from the Governor of the Bank of Canada. Thoughts, Evans?”

  “Well, I initially assumed they were real. They looked authentic. Miss McFadden has certainly led me to doubt their veracity.”

  “Inspector?”

  “Miss McFadden has drawn our attention to a number of inconsistencies in the evidence. I no longer believe the documents to be real.”

  “Miss McFadden, is there any way you could prove absolutely that the letters are forgeries?”

  “Certainly, Captain. Speak to Governor Towers. He has a prodigious memory. He’d tell you immediately that he did not dictate them.”

  “Surely Philpott already interviewed Towers about this?”

  “The major chose not to involve the governor in the investigation,” said Frances. “I believe there was some bad blood between them. Governor Towers is away on holiday for three weeks. You can speak with him when he returns.”

  “Any other way to corroborate?”

  “You could write to Montague Norman at the Bank of England or Marriner Eccles at the US Federal Reserve. Simply ask if they received the originals of these carbon copies.”

  “Wouldn’t we run into Official Secrets Act issues?” asked the captain.

  “No. You’re not asking them about the contents of the letters, or how they responded. You merely want to know if they received a letter with such-and-such a date on a certain topic. Yes or no.”

  “You are quite the problem solver, Miss McFadden,” Captain Quigley observed. “The simplest thing seems to be to await Governor Towers’s return for a validation. Until then, I see no reason to waste any more time on this investigation. Do either of you?”

  The commander and the inspector both shook their heads.

  “There is the peripheral consideration,” said Frances. “Someone is forging Bank of Canada documents for some purpose.”

  “And that purpose is . . . ?” asked the captain.

  “Likely to sell to an agent of a foreign power. Following this up might smoke the agent out.”

  “Well,” said the captain, “I’m all for catching enemy agents, but that does not fall within the narrow parameters of my role here. My duty is to assure that security has not been breached, and it sounds to me that it hasn’t. I have many new responsibilities, and I don’t currently have the time to deal with peripheralities. I suggest we hold the file in abeyance pending my interview with Governor Towers.”

  A welcoming effusion pervaded the room like the smell of Christmas baking.

  “Would you mind terribly, Captain,” inquired Commander Evans, “if we carried on trying to discover the perpetrator? British military intelligence would be very interested in ferreting out an undercover agent in Canada. It may plug a hole in the Allied security system. Wouldn’t the Mounted Police be interested as well?”

  “Certainly,” said the inspector.

  “We would keep you informed, of course,” added the commander.

  “Fine,” said the captain. “I’ll leave you to it. Happy hunting.” He gathered up his things, bowed graciously with a click of his heels, and left.

  After the door closed, the inspector passed judgement. “Smart,” he said.

  “Smart and hard-working or smart and lazy?” asked Frances.

  “Either is a vast improvement,” replied the inspector.

  “Well, gentleman,” said Frances, standing up, “if you’re done with me, I’ve had a very rough twenty-four hours and need a bath.”

  “Miss McFadden, might I put forward a consideration?” asked the commander. “I realize this has been onerous for you, but the interests of the Bank would not be served if rumours got out that there were unresolved security concerns emanating from the governor’s office.”

  “Even false rumours?”

  “True or not, suspicions could have negative repercussions on the Bank’s financing the war effort with Victory Bonds. Inspector Hollingsworth mentioned your help scrutinizing the alleged documents. Would you be willing to continue to support our investigation?”

  Frances laughed. “Gentlemen, I’m a bank clerk! I have no training in uncovering espionage networks. And, I’m supposed to be on holiday.”

  “Do you want to protect the Bank’s work?”

  “Of course.”

  “With the governor out of the country and the deputy governor fully engaged in running the Bank on his own, who is better placed than you?”

  “I have to agree,” chimed in Inspector Hollingsworth. “I think the fact that you don’t have an investigative background is a bonus, actually. You don’t share our biases. You come at evidence fresh.”

  “Getting back to Major Philpott’s search warrant for your apartment,” said the commander. “I don’t wish to speak ill of a colleague, but I’d be very surprised if the major thought that one up on his own. Someone must have prodded him to it as a source of incriminating evidence. Who would have done that?”

  “Not me,” said Inspector Hollingsworth.

  “Would your superiors in the Mounted Police have suggested it?”

  “Not without consulting me first. Would your department have spooked someone higher up in Canadian Military Intelligence?”

  “Very unlikely. My reports back to the UK are very general in nature so they don’t give an enemy much should they be intercepted. My oral reports are detailed, but I haven’t been home for three months.”

  “Then who?” asked Frances. “Major Philpott did express the strong wish to have this case wrapped up before he was reposted. He always suspected me. Maybe he persuaded his CO that a search warrant would reap rewards.”

  Commander Evans looked sceptical. “Think so? I never found the major that persuasive.”

  “Too bad he’s on his way to Frobisher Bay,” said Inspector Hollingsworth. “We could ask him.”

  “Couldn’t you contact him on the radio in the patrol boat?” asked Frances.

  “They’re concerned about enemy submarine traffic in the Gulf of St. Lawrence and along the coast of Labrador,” said the commander. “Allied ships maintain radio silence except for emergencies.”

  “But when he reaches Frobisher Bay?”

  “That could be weeks away. If the former officer in charge up there spent most of his time searching for German radio transmitters along the deserted coastline, Philpott could be out on patrol for a month.”

  “In the meantime, somebody is forging documents,” said the inspector. “Nobody would waste time creating them without a market. Find the buyer, find the spy.”

  -20-

  Doppelgänger

  “How are we supposed to have any ‘mice-will-play’ activity around here if you keep dropping in unannounced?” asked Brendan when Frances dropped in the next day unannounced.

  “Why are you still in Ottawa?” asked Maddie. “I thought you’d be basking on some tropical beach by now.”

  “This major had me handcuffed to Ottawa until last night,” replied Frances, “and now something else has come up.” She checked her inbox. “Was there a press release on the Victory Bond sales at the gala?”

  “Mr. Meldrum’s being interviewed by the papers right now,” said Bridget. “We hit the jackpot. He left the Cartier Drill Hall with cheques and cash worth more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A big spread in the evening editions should really pop sales when they open to the public tomorrow. Scotty is hoping for another sellout in forty-eight hours.”

  When the
others returned to their typewriters, Claire walked over to Frances and whispered, “Could I have a private word, miss?” She looked . . . not troubled exactly . . . but not at ease.

  Frances said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Claire, could you come into the MBO for a few minutes to help me sort through my mail?” In they went and closed the door.

  “Heard from Nora Bolton?” Frances asked.

  “No. Nothing yet. No, this is something different. I saw the picture of that dead Cuban diplomat in the newspaper. I don’t know whether this means anything or not, but that guy was a regular at the Ping Pong Club.”

  “Really? Did you know him?”

  “Just a nodding acquaintance. He was exceedingly handsome but, well, a man. I didn’t go to the Ping Pong Club looking for men. Extremely polite. Very sharp dresser. Always wore a suit and tie. Most Ping Pongers go for the casual look. Beer-swigging cigarette smokers. He drank rum on the rocks and smoked cigars, which set him apart. He didn’t put on airs, mind you. Went by the name of ‘Angel.’ Most people who frequent the club don’t use their real names. Said he was a businessman from Montreal. Travelled a lot, so his Ping Pong visits were hit and miss. Never let on he was a diplomat as far as I know.” Claire hesitated. “Remember I mentioned those rooms on the top floors of the hotel, above the Ping Pong Club? That rented by the hour?”

  “Oh, right,” said Frances. “For philosophical discussions.”

  “Yeah. You book a room with the bartender to get a key. People would drift out in ones and twos. If you were looking for someone and asked ‘Where’s Angel?’ and the answer was ‘Be back in an hour,’ you knew he was upstairs with somebody.”

  “Did Angel favour male or female partners?” asked Frances. “For philosophical discussions?”

  “He was kind of shy, actually. Didn’t seek action, but he was, shall we say, hospitable when approached. Either male or female. Sometimes both.”

  “At the same time?”

  “That wasn’t unusual at the Ping Pong Club,” said Claire with a ‘you-know-what-I-mean?’ look. “Nothing was unusual at the Ping Pong Club. That’s what made Angel stand out. He appeared such a conventional businessman type. And miss, no lie, I never went up to one of those rooms for philosophical discussions or anything else. I’m just guessing what actually went on upstairs. I had Nora and was happy with her until I met Daphne and then I had more than my hands full.”

  “So you didn’t know Señor Orinoco well?”

  “I didn’t know him in the biblical sense, if that’s what you’re getting at. He did lay a great kiss on me at last year’s Doppelgänger Party.”

  “Last year’s what?”

  “Yeah,” she giggled. “I never heard the word ‘doppelgänger’ before either. It’s German. It means ‘look-alike double,’ or something like that. People at the Ping Pong are all about dressing up. They love it! Disguises free them to live out their fantasies. I actually wonder if Angel came to the club disguised as a businessman. Halloween is huge at the club, but just about any occasion invites a dress-up. There’s a stag night, when everyone dresses as a man, and a doe night when everyone dresses as a woman. Valentine’s Day, everybody wears some love-theme outfit.

  “Anyway, Nora explained to me that for Doppelgänger Day couples had to dress exactly alike — hair, clothing, makeup. We’re not the same size, so we looked kind of like Laurel and Hardy, but it was lots of fun. There was a contest for the best ‘twins.’ After a few drinks, everybody was saying to all these pairings, ‘Oh, you two are going to win for sure.’ Well into the evening, the door swings open and in come two identical Japanese geishas. They wore the full kit — kimonos, obi sashes at the waist, elaborate makeup and piled hairdos. Absolutely identical! Both really striking. You could not tell them apart. They smiled. They bowed elaborately. They kissed cheeks. The Ping Pong crowd is very big on cheek-kissing,” added Claire. “Not a Methodist tradition. I asked Nora who they were, but she claimed she had never seen them before, and she’d been a Ping Ponger for years. Now it’s a private club, open only to members and friends, so somebody must have known them, but nobody was saying.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, the bartenders, Louie and Gus, who were the only ones there not dressed up, were the judges. The prizes for best doppelgängers were two bottles of champagne. So, we all formed a circle around the dance floor in our pairs and Gus and Louie walked around to check the costumes. They pretended to deliberate, but there was no contest really, and when they presented the prize to the geishas everyone cheered. The geishas bowed, accepted their champagne, then stood back to back in the centre of the circle. In tiny footsteps — those geisha kimonos are tight — they scurried away from each other towards the edge, kind of like it’s a duel or something. Just before they reached the rim of the circle, the champagne was popped. Each geisha grabbed the person right in front, gave him or her a kiss and a slug of champagne straight from the bottle. They work their way all around the circle. Male, female, didn’t matter, everybody got a kiss and a drink. Let me tell ya, those were pretty passionate kisses. Nearly knocked my socks off.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, they returned to the centre of the circle and bowed to each other. Then one geisha took off the wig and wiped off his makeup with a bar cloth, and presto, it’s Angel — well, the diplomat, Señor Orinoco. Everybody was agog. More wild applause. Then there was a rhythmic clapping to get the other geisha to take off her costume for a full reveal, but no dice. She waved a demure geisha wave and Angel escorted her out.

  “After that, Angel began to show up with the doppelgänger on a regular basis. Sometimes they were dressed as two men, sometimes as two women, sometimes as each other. They were quick to buy a round of drinks and became very popular, although their small talk didn’t reveal much about their lives. Someone started calling them Tweedledum and Tweedledee, ‘Dum’ and ‘Dee’ for short, no matter how they were dressed. It became a bit of a mystery game to figure out which one was Angel. Sometimes he would reveal, sometimes he would let the mystery stand. His partner never disclosed. More mystery. I actually took a peek at the sign-in book at the door for a clue. It just said ‘Angel’ and ‘Tweedledee.’”

  “So, you never knew who Angel’s partner really was?”

  “No. And another curious thing. There were regular ping pong competitions. Angel was trim and athletic, but he didn’t . . . he didn’t have a strategic sense of the game. Against most players at the club he was constantly outfoxed. He was a gracious loser, but he always looked surprised when he lost to a player clearly not as agile as he was.”

  “Did the doppelgänger play?”

  “Never. They were both so good-looking, they broke a few hearts. As I said, they didn’t rent rooms, but each or both would take an invitation upstairs from just about anybody. Ping Pongers were pretty shameless, but those two, when they showed up together, accepted a lot of invitations. When Angel was there alone, he was more subdued. Shyer alone? Hard to say.”

  “Broke a few hearts? Do you think anyone was put out enough to do Angel or Dee harm?”

  Claire mulled the thought over. “Gee, I don’t know,” she said finally. “Hey! Want me to take you to the club tonight as my guest? You can ask around. You’d have to be circumspect. People there are cautious with confidences.”

  “What if I get invited upstairs for a philosophical discussion?”

  “Miss! I’ve seen the way you handle Governor Towers and assorted cabinet ministers. Nobody at the Ping Pong Club would be a match for you.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth entered the Bluebird Café with rosy cheeks and frozen eyelashes. Frances persuaded him to try jong Foo chung for lunch before she asked, “Ever heard of the Ping Pong Club?”

  “That vice den in Hull?”

  “Members wouldn’t be so judgemental. Anyway, my sources say that Señor Orinoco was a regular.”

  “No kiddin’!”

  “And he often showed up with a . . . ,” she smi
led, “doppelgänger.”

  “A what?”

  Frances explained. “It was the one place that Orinoco and his twin sister fit in easily. Ping Pongers love to dress up, cross dress and — apparently — undress upstairs. I’m going over tonight to see if I can discover anything.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” asked the inspector.

  “I’ll have an escort. And I’ll watch my step. If I can handle being mugged in my own apartment, I can probably handle the Ping Pong Club. Tell me what to look for.”

  “Orinoco’s out there somewhere. Does anybody know where? Why hasn’t he gone public about his ‘mistaken’ death? Love to find him. He’s our only link to this spy case.”

  “At the club he never owned up to being a diplomat or a Cuban. His story was that he was a businessman from Montreal who was on the road a lot.”

  “If the Ping Pong Club is a free sex shop, you might inquire about torrid love triangles.”

  “I think triangles might be pretty tame by Ping Pong standards.”

  “Rectangles? Octangles? Pick your geometric preference. What we know for sure is that an Orinoco was murdered.”

  “Or rather,” said Frances, “someone thought they murdered Carlos Orinoco.”

  “Or,” continued the inspector, “did the murderer know he or she was really killing Carlota?”

  “This is all very confusing,” said Frances. “Like one of those Russian dolls inside a doll inside a doll. Floating sixhundred-million-dollar Victory Bond issues seems simple by comparison.”

  “You could retire from sleuthing and go on holiday,” offered the inspector.

  “And miss out on all the fun?”

  -21-

  The Ping Pong Club

  Frances had Murray from Red Line Taxi fetch her at the Balmoral, then drive her to the Honeydew on Sparks Street where Claire was shivering in the cold night air. Rather that than explain a taxi pick-up at her parents’ house.