“I thought he was skiing north of Ottawa. But he wasn’t.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“For a fact.”
“The Ottawa papers reported him killed in a ski accident last Tuesday night.”
“Well, Inspector, you didn’t come down to Montreal looking for him if you believe what you read in the Ottawa papers.”
“How do you know he wasn’t killed Tuesday?”
“Because Slim and Kelso saw him eating breakfast in the restaurant at the Windsor Hotel Wednesday morning. Excellent appetite for a dead man. In spite of what the Ottawa papers say. Or, what Lapierre and Fitzsimmons had just told me an hour earlier.”
“Why are you looking for him?”
Kid Baker gave Inspector Hollingsworth a level stare. “Is this an information trade?” he asked.
“I can tell you what I know if you tell me what you know,” said the inspector. “Off the record, of course.”
“Of course,” smiled Kid Baker. “Okay, Horseman. Your game. Your first move.”
“Fair enough. We have a little espionage fraud going on up in Ottawa. We think Orinoco was involved.”
“Espionage fraud? That’s a new one on me.”
“Somebody — might be Orinoco — has been creating phoney secret documents and fobbing them off on unsuspecting enemy agents.”
“Selling misinformation? Doing our side a favour then, isn’t he? Going to give him a medal?” He paused. “Oh. I bet you want to know who he’s shopping to.”
“You nailed it, Mr. Baker. Your turn.”
“Orinoco was running a small courier service to the States. Freelance. Using his diplomatic passport for cover. Good game if you don’t get greedy. When it came to my attention, I brought him in for a chat. He’s young. From Cuba. Didn’t know the local rules. We worked out a deal. He was free to continue, but I wanted a few carry assists. I deal with New York on a regular basis. I shouldn’t have trusted him, but he was a dog nut.”
“A dog nut?”
“Yeah. He was magic with mutts. Most people brought to meet me are already scared. They see Brutus eyeing them and they shit their pants. ’Scuse my French, miss.
“This Orinoco didn’t know me from Adam. He gets hustled into the room, ignores me completely and walks right over to Brutus. Whispers something, puts his hand down so Brutus can smell him. Rubs the dog’s ears. Mumbles some more and the goddam guard dog rolls on his back for a tummy rub. My 100-pound mastiff is suddenly a puppy. Orinoco told me he grew up with dogs. Loved them, lived them, knew breeds and bloodlines. Had a sixth sense for them. Good thing, because he didn’t have much sense for anything else.
“So, the deal worked fine for a few months. Then my shipments start to get shorted. Not a big skim, but over time it adds up. I talk to Orinoco and he swears on Bibles that he delivers exactly what he’s sent with. Brutus doesn’t detect a false note. After a lull, the skim starts again. So Myer Lansky and I, we set up a blind carry. Measured exactly in New York before shipment. Measured exactly on arrival in this very office. It’s light ten percent.
“Dog lover or not, Señor Orinoco qualified himself for early retirement. But there’s a screw-up. Several screw-ups, actually. For a month I’d been paying Seguin salary plus expenses to tail Orinoco in Ottawa. Last week, Seguin phones in, tells me he’s on Orinoco like white on rice, but needs an increase in his expense account. I agree, happy to reward competence. An hour later, Slim spots Orinoco in one of my casinos here. Now, I cannot afford being lied to by the hired help, so a few days later, I send Lapierre and Fitzgerald up to Ottawa to arrange a couple of retirements using my patented quiet and bloodless system. They retire Seguin, but they get the wrong person on the ski trail. And, dumb fuckers — sorry again, miss — they steal his wheels and drive the hot car back to Montreal, like a dagger pointing at my heart. I grit my teeth because they’re bragging to me about the take-out like they won the Olympics. So, I have Kelso treat them both to the terrific brunch at the Windsor Hotel before the payoff.
“Guess what? Orinoco is sitting four tables away by the window. Kelso phones me and I drive by. Sure as God made little green apples, there’s Orinoco putting marmalade on his toast.
“I tell Kelso and Slim to have these guys drive to an empty warehouse in the harbour for the payout. They’re sitting in the front seat of the Triumph counting out their money . . . ”
“With Kelso and Slim in the back?”
“You got it. Early retirements. I would like to know who got retired in Ottawa in Orinoco’s place.”
“His sister, Carlota.”
“A broad? Those dorks couldn’t tell a man from a woman?”
“Carlos and Carlota were twins. Almost identical. They pulled this charade a lot. Dressed up as each other. Big game. Lots of laughs, until last Tuesday. May have been the reason Seguin was confused.
“One funny thing about the retirement package. Carlota was poisoned, poison hemlock — you may have heard of it — which did kill her, but someone broke her neck and threw her down a cliff. That type of operation sound familiar?”
“Nope. Lapierre and Fitzsimmons knew my plan and said they stuck to it.”
“Anybody else onto Orinoco?”
“There were some Cubans in town. They dropped in for a social call. One guy was very slick, the other guy was a gorilla. Brought greetings from Billy Esterbrook, who runs the casinos in Havana. They said Billy was thinking of expanding his franchise to other islands. Might be interested in a partnership deal with us. Didn’t really seem like the full story to me. Gave them complimentary chips at my casino. Asked them if they wanted some girls.
“Know what they wanted? They wanted ski lessons, for Christ’s sake. Not much skiing in Cuba it seems. So, I sent them to Saint-Sauveur to Denis Lanctot’s lodge. Ate French food and took ski lessons. Funny, eh? Cubans — they’re a strange crowd.”
-26-
Stake-Out
There had been a notable thaw in Frances’s détente with Sargent Scobie. “How’s the stake-out going?” she asked when they met with Inspector Hollingsworth for coffee at the Honeydew.
“Got the front door of 89 Murray Street and the rear window of apartment number two covered twenty-four seven. Nothing so far.”
“How many men does that take?”
“Just four. Two senior constables, Lewis and Forsythe, both quite diligent as they’re prepping for their sergeant’s papers, and two young guys, O’Malley and Clark, keen as puppies at chow time. They spell each other doing twelve-hour shifts and rotate through both locations.”
“The chief doesn’t mind the manpower?”
“The chief wants the dead dip case solved, he has to pay the piper.”
“Where are your guys set up?” asked the inspector.
“There’s a flophouse right across Murray Street from number 89. Rented the furnished room upstairs at the front. Lewis has a camera with a telephoto lens and takes a picture of everybody who walks through the front door. He’s seen Orinoco’s picture and has snapped photographs of the other residents. Any strangers enter, he takes note. Slow action. Not a social lot.
“Forsythe sits behind a high-powered telescope in an empty office over a warehouse on Clarence Street. Back window faces smack into the living-room window of apartment two. Great resolution. You can see the wood grain on the hall door. A mosquito couldn’t get in without being noticed. They have a direct phone line to each other and the front desk at the police station if they need reinforcements.
“One of the senior guys is always on duty at one site or the other. The juniors rotate through. Both stakes keep a log. Entries required every ten minutes, even if it’s ND — no developments.
“I go over once a day with doughnuts and coffee. I do a walkthrough of the apartment and check the stash. Chat up the other tenants. A boozer who spends most of the day at the Lafayette Tavern, an insurance salesman at Met Life, a floor walker at Freimans and a squirrelly little guy who tunes pianos. Has perfect pitch,
apparently. None of them knows much about Orinoco. Seen him in the hall or collecting his mail. Say ‘hi,’ that’s about it. He’s quiet and travels a lot. These guys like quiet, even the boozer. I’ll let you know if Orinoco strikes the bait.”
It didn’t take long. Inspector Hollingsworth phoned the bad news to Frances at seven o’clock that night.
“Scobie called while I was out walking my dog. He was just checking in with his boys on Murray Street during their shift change. The junior guys, O’Malley and Clark, were curious what heroin looked like, so Scobie took them over for a dekko. Sprang the catch on the secret passage and took them into the room behind the bookcase. The cigar humidors under the cot felt very light when he lifted them. He sprang the locks with his set of magic keys and presto — both boxes empty.”
“Empty?”
“He’s a little embarrassed, and a lot annoyed. Wants us down right now to Murray Street for a conflab. Shall I pick you up?”
Scobie was pacing back and forth in apartment two like a caged rhinoceros. The stake-out squad sat crestfallen at the kitchen table. Scobie’s eyes shot lightning.
“Here’s the story,” he said. “I dropped by at the shift change about six. O’Malley and Clark were curious as to what they’ve been guarding, so I brought them in for a peek. Nod back up to Forsythe in the flophouse room. Wave to Lewis out the back window. Show the boys the secret doorway behind the bookcase. Demonstrate my skills picking the locks on the cigar humidors. Nada. They’re both empty.”
“When’s the last time you saw them full?” asked Frances.
“Last night about six o’clock. Check the logs.” Both notebooks came out.
“Sergeant Scobie enters Murray Street door at 6:01 p.m.,” read Lewis. “Sergeant Scobie exits 89 Murray Street at 6:11 p.m.”
Forsythe read, “Lewis phones at 6:02 p.m. to advise that Sergeant Scobie is entering the front door of 89 Murray. Door of number two opens at 6:03 p.m., Sergeant Scobie waves, opens bookcase portal and disappears. At 6:08 re-enters apartment two, closing bookcase portal behind him. Waves. Exits via hall door at 6:09 p.m.”
“And nobody else entered the apartment until the sergeant came in tonight?” asked Frances.
“No, ma’am.”
“How about the front door traffic yesterday?” asked the inspector.
“The front door log was longer. At 7:14 a.m. janitor chips the ice off the front steps and takes out the garbage. Various tenants leave for work between 8:15 and 8:45 a.m. Mailman enters at 9:30 a.m., leaves at 9:34 a.m. Two tenants home for lunch. Tenants return to work. Tenants come home from work. Sister of tenant in number five brings a casserole over for brother’s dinner at 5:34 p.m. Leaves at 5:38 p.m. Scobie does his apartment check 6:01 to 6:11 p.m.
“Salvation Army Army officer talks to building custodian on the steps. Gets a donation, enters at 7:33 p.m. Leaves at 7:46 p.m.”
“Salvation Army officer?”
“Yeah,” said O’Malley. “Seen her canvas my side of the street, knocking on every door. She crossed the street at the corner and worked back along the other side.”
“Woman?”
“Yeah.”
“Description?”
“Not much of a looker. Grey hair in a perm under her Sally Ann cap. Bundled up to keep warm. Solid build. Slight limp. Grandmotherly smile.”
“She was in the building for thirteen minutes?”
O’Malley checked his notes. “Yeah. Through the window of apartment number one, I could see her briefly at the door. Didn’t get a friendly reception. She was out of my sight line as she moved farther down the hall.”
“Lewis,” said Scobie, “go ask the other tenants if they talked to a Sally Ann last night.”
He was back in five minutes. “Only O’Driscoll, the Met Life guy in apartment one, had a visit. Didn’t give her a dime. Thinks the Salvation Army is run by communists.”
“Is it possible she entered the far bedroom by the hall door?” asked Frances.
“Couldn’t have,” said Scobie. “There was a dresser blocking the door on the inside, remember?”
They went through the bookcase portal and looked at the mirrored dresser against the hall door. Scobie walked over to it. He unlocked the door from the inside and turned the handle. The dresser was on casters. The door swung inward carrying the dresser in an arc. He closed the door and the dresser swung neatly back into place. It was screwed directly to the door.
“Shit!” said Scobie. He hit the wall with his fist. “We’ve been Sally Anned.”
“I’ll call the Salvation Army Mission,” said Inspector Hollingsworth. “See who they had out canvassing donations last night.” He walked over to the phone on the kitchen counter and the operator put him through. Reception had him wait for a moment, then he addressed a couple of questions to a Major Newman. “Yep. Yep. Nope. Just curious. Thanks,” he said and hung up. “Major Newman says they had some sort of gospel revival at the mission last night. Every Salvation Army officer for twenty miles around was at the meeting.”
“Shit!” repeated Scobie.
“It must have been Orinoco dressed as a middle-aged woman,” said Frances.
“But why would he bother dressing in disguise to visit his own apartment?” asked Scobie.
“Only two possible answers to that,” said the inspector. “Either he spotted the stake-out . . . ”
“Or somebody tipped him off,” said Frances.
“The stake-out, front and back, is invisible,” refuted Scobie. “No cop uniforms going in or out of either place. Paid two weeks’ rent for the flophouse room and registered in the name of Jones.”
“We never had a light on in either place,” said Lewis. “Nobody could see in through the grimy windows.”
“You four tell anybody — anybody — your sweethearts, or wives, or both — what you were up to these last few days?” asked Scobie.
They shook their heads in unison. “You told us to say ‘special assignment’ if the wife asked,” said Forsythe. “That’s all I said. Myrna cares about the pay cheque. She doesn’t care about the details.” The other three nodded in agreement.
“We need to regroup,” sighed Inspector Hollingsworth. “You want to grab a coffee at the Bluebird?”
“I need something stronger than coffee,” said Scobie.
“How about my apartment?” said Frances. “It’s quiet. There’s a full liquor cabinet.”
“Do we keep the stake on?” asked Scobie.
“It’s a long shot,” said the inspector, “but I think we should keep it active for another couple of days. There may be other visitors.”
The constables, quite chastened, returned to their posts. The inspector drove Scobie and Frances back to the Balmoral Arms.
Frances poured three doubles over ice, placing a half bottle of Macallan on the table between them. The silence was broken only by the sound of ice clicking against crystal until Sergeant Scobie spoke. “While you two were in Montreal, I checked the banks where Orinoco had accounts in various names. Every account had been drawn down to almost nothing. A total of nearly three thousand dollars withdrawn in the last two weeks.”
“But the bank books showed large balances,” said Frances.
“If you have ID, you don’t need the bank book to make a withdrawal. Remember, he had all those passports.
“Oh. An anonymous letter arrived at the station for me,” Scobie added. “Must have come from Lulu Torrance. The three addresses hit by those kids who lived down the lane from Cat Courchene? A pawn shop at 220 Dalhousie, a house at 91 Coburg and a second-floor apartment at 89 Murray Street. I think that clears the Cat of all charges. May he rest in peace.”
“So,” said Inspector Hollingsworth, “who tipped Orinoco?”
“As in the mystery of the despoiler of Carlota Orinoco,” said Frances, “the list of candidates is short.”
“Just the three of us. And Commander Evans,” said the inspector.
“I have complete confidence in you both,” sa
id Frances, “but could some inadvertent comment . . . ”
“I didn’t even tell the chief where the stake-out was,” said Scobie. “He just knew it related to the dip’s death.”
“I talked to a colleague at the Bank about solving puzzles,” said Frances. “I didn’t mention the stake-out or the bait.”
“Well, I didn’t tell either my wife or my dog, my two closest companions,” said the inspector. “The only other person in the know was Commander Evans.”
“Com-man-der Evans,” repeated Frances — her voice like a roller coaster.
“You told Evans about the stake-out?” asked Scobie.
“Of course,” said the inspector. “He’s part of the team.”
“How about Quigley?” asked Frances. “Did you tell him?”
“No. I intended to, but, remember? He cut me off that night we were briefing him in the Shefford apartment. Gave me the feeling that he had no interest in logistics, only results.”
“So. What do we know about this Commander Evans?” asked Scobie.
“Just what Philpott told me. Royal Navy background going back to 1910. Served on cruisers and battleships with distinction in the last war. Bunch of medals. Lost a couple of brothers on the Somme. Seconded to MI6 in 1937 as things started to cook in Europe. Sent to Ottawa last fall to ensure that Canadian security wasn’t a sieve for sensitive data being shared. Quiet chap. Don’t think he loved reporting to Philpott, but he bit his tongue. That’s about it.”
“Not much to go on,” said Scobie. “Any way for you to flesh out the commander a bit more? Given the circumstances?”
“I did a course once with a Brit named Sorley-Tobin,” said the inspector. “Decent fellow. Very good at darts. He’s at MI5, the internal security network in the UK. MI5 and MI6 cross swords occasionally.”
“Pissin’ on each other’s turf?” asked Scobie.
“Kind of. Anyway, I could wire Sorley-Tobin tonight and ask on the q.t. for any scuttlebutt on Evans.”
Scobie looked grim. “Good idea, ’cause it’s down to this, folks — the leak is either Evans, or one of us.”
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