-27-
Exit Orinoco
For the first time since her “holiday” began, Frances woke to a free day and drew a bath while the coffee perked. Sunlight poured into her apartment, beckoning her outdoors into a mild February day with the first faint hint of spring in the air. She phoned Katie Warren at D. Kemp Edwards Lumber Yard to see if lunch at the Honeydew would work.
“Well, good morning, slug. You been hibernating? We’re doing inventory and I have to work through lunch hour, but I get off early. Why don’tcha drop over for supper with me and the boyo? Just spaghetti and meatballs, but there’s plenty for company.”
“Perfect,” said Frances. “I’ll pick up crusty bread from Licari’s on my way.”
On Somerset Street, almost every third square of sidewalk was dry and free of snow. Frances came to the door of Mary Bedford’s apartment building and rang the bell on a whim. Mary was home helping her almost two-year-old son colour pictures of the Virgin Mary. A cup of tea visit stretched to a tuna sandwich lunch as the friends caught up on gossip.
Back out on Bank Street, the marquee over the entrance to the Capitol Theatre caught Frances’s eye. Matinee double feature of Citizen Kane starring Orson Welles and The Roaring Twenties with Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney. She entered in time for the cartoons and newsreel. Three hours later, she emerged humming the song Priscilla Lane sang so magically in the Bogart film:
It had to be you, it had to be you
I wandered around and finally found,
that somebody who…
…just thinking of you…
It had to be you, wonderful you
It had to be you…
She bought bread and Chianti and took the bridge over the frozen Rideau Canal to Sandy Hill. Down below, some kids had cleared the snow from a patch of the canal ice and were playing shinny in the fading light. Her nose and ears burned with the cold by the time Frances reached the Warrens’ coach-house home. A warm fire. Laughter. Hot food. Gratifyingly good company. Ode to joy.
Replenished in body and spirit, Frances returned to the Balmoral Arms after eight o’clock to find a hodgepodge of trunks, suitcases and cardboard boxes stacked in the lobby. The elevator door opened and out came Miles, pushing a dolly holding three more boxes.
“Rummage sale, Miles?”
“No, miss. Sorry for the mess. A CNR freight truck’s coming right over to pick everything up. Movers are supposed to use the back entrance, but the garage door’s jammed.”
“Who’s moving?”
“The lady subletting 606 is leaving on short notice. A death in the family.”
A death in the family.
“Apartment 606? She’s there now?”
“Yup. Just tidying up. The place hardly needs it, she’s so neat.”
There was no answer to Frances’s knock at 606. She went up to her apartment, got the key and returned. The door opened on a clean, empty space. All the books had been taken off the case that fronted the secret passage, but the bust was still there. She twisted it and the bookcase swung inward to reveal the back of a long-haired woman packing a box on the bed. The woman whirled around at the sound.
“Who are you? How’d you get in?”
Frances held up the door key like a talisman. “This used to be Anna Deloitte’s apartment. I watered her plants when she travelled. A pleasure to meet you at last, Señor Orinoco.”
The woman sat down on the bed beside the half-filled box. “You’re mistaken. I’m Dominique Conchico,” replied a confident female voice.
Frances walked over and gave the woman’s hair a tug that could have been embarrassing under other circumstances. The wig lifted in her hand.
“Am I? Mistaken? Señor Orinoco?”
A sharply defined line of makeup was exposed on his forehead where the wig had met the skin beneath. The confidence drained out of Orinoco’s shoulders like air from a blown tire.
“No surprise to see you packing in a hurry. There’s a mob out there searching for you.”
“Carlos Orinoco is dead. It was in the papers. I . . . I . . . ” He sat stupefied until a thin voice crawled from his throat. “Who are you? Who sent you?”
“I’m Frances McFadden. Nobody sent me. I work at the Bank of Canada. You forged my initials on some counterfeit Bank documents. That got me into a lot of trouble, Señor Orinoco.”
“God’s truth,” he whispered like a penitent at confession, “I never intended harm to anyone.”
“Then there’s quite a chasm, Señor Orinoco, between intention and outcome. Your sister? Dead. The two men Kid Baker sent to kill you — who killed Carlota by mistake — also dead, for that mistake. Gib Seguin, Kid’s guy? Who swore he was on you like glue, but was following Carlota? Costly mistake. Dead. An ex-burglar named Cat Courchene got caught up in your slipstream somehow. Dead. Five people dead because you stumbled into their lives. You’re not much of a good luck charm.”
Drops of perspiration formed in the line between Orinoco’s hair and the makeup. He licked his lips. “What . . . will you . . . do?”
“Well, I have some options. The Mounted Police are very keen to know who you’re selling secrets to. Even counterfeit secrets. Kid Baker thinks you’re skimming his deliveries. He doesn’t like being crossed. Then there’s Señor Rodriguez and Mr. Mofongo, your Cuban compatriots. They’re interested in discussing politics with you. And Cat Courchene’s fiancée, Lulu Torrance, would love a crack at you for ending her dream.”
Rivulets of sweat began to trace serpentine pathways down through Señor Orinoco’s makeup. “You are right, Miss McFadden. Enemies surround me. And Carlota, my soulmate, is gone. Is life worth living without her?”
Frances restrained an eye-roll. “You must think so or why pack and run?” She sat down. “Now, I’m not obliged to report on you to anyone. If I could get a few answers, I’d be happy to see you scram before anyone else gets killed.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with a softball. How did you know Montague Norman owns a Sheltie named Cupid?’
“I love dogs. We always had six or seven at home in Cuba. Recently, some sort of distemper infected them, and five, including Jojo, my favourite, had to be put down. I’m shy. I found the small talk required at diplomatic receptions awkward until I learned to ask people about their dogs. Dog owners, the British in particular, love to talk about breeds, shows, pets owned by famous people. The Queen’s corgis, Montague Norman’s Sheltie . . . ”
Frances nodded. “Did you tell Carlota to join that ski party disguised as you?”
“No! I told her to stay out of sight. Mofongo was after me. So was Baker. I wouldn’t have stayed in Montreal except I was expecting a valuable shipment from New York. I waited an extra day, but it never arrived. Then Gina phoned with the news about Carlota.”
“Gina is Señorita Gonzalez?”
“Yes. My cousin.”
“She’s a widow. Shouldn’t she go by ‘Señora’?’
“Her marriage was not a happy one. Her husband had a handsome face but an ugly soul. He died in mysterious circumstances — probably killed by Mofongo. Gina is still young. ‘Señorita’ states an openness to opportunities.”
“Why didn’t you come to Ottawa to claim Carlota’s body?”
He winced. “I was wrong not to come. My life is plagued by poor decisions. The newspapers announced the death of Carlos Orinoco — no mention of a female victim. So many people wished me dead that it seemed a miraculous opportunity to start fresh.”
“How did you know your apartment on Murray Street was being watched?”
“I was having a shave in the barbershop on the corner. My face was wrapped in steaming towels, except for my eyes. I saw Mofongo walk up and down the street several times. With him lurking, I knew I had to stay away.”
“Yet you went back in disguise.”
“No. The valuables I left there were less valuable than my life.”
“You didn’t return to the room behind the
bookcase door?”
“No.”
“Somebody did.”
Señor Orinoco’s eyes darted around in confusion, then a light went on. “I see,” was all he said.
“Do you know who that might have been?” asked Frances.
“Oh, no . . . I was just confused.”
Liar.
Frances pressed. “I am most curious, Señor, about which enemy was buying your phoney documents.”
“Believe me, Miss McFadden, I did not betray the Allied cause with those fictions. I knew no secrets, so no secrets were lost.”
“Should your clients learn that, the queue behind the Mounted Police, Kid Baker, Lulu Torrance and Mr. Mofongo could grow.”
Señor Orinoco’s face sank before the vision of this tidal wave.
“Here’s the deal. I want the list of your customers. That’s all. Give me those names and you’re free to go.”
Señor Orinoco took a deep breath and closed his eyes for fifteen seconds. “Meet me for breakfast at the Chateau Laurier tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. I’ll give you the names then.”
“Why not now?”
“My files are locked away in a safe place. I don’t have all the names, addresses, phone numbers at the top of my head. It will take me a few hours to lay my hands on them.” He took another deep breath. “Believe me, Miss McFadden, I live in fear for my life. I’m exhausted by the hiding and subterfuge. This apartment reminds me too much of Carlota, so I’m spending my last night in Ottawa at the Chateau Laurier.
“My luggage downstairs is being sent directly to Union Station. I’m booked on the Chicago Mainliner that departs tomorrow morning at ten. A new beginning. You’ll have the information you want and I’ll be out of the way forever. Does that satisfy?”
Frances mulled the offer.
“And could you please help me finish packing up Carlota’s clothes?” Orinoco said during the lull. “I’m donating her wardrobe to the Salvation Army Thrift Store. She had excellent taste. It would be a shame not to let someone make use of the clothes. A tribute to her memory.” His stifled sob brought Frances around.
When they finished packing, Miles brought the last of the boxes down to the lobby where the freight truck driver was waiting. Carlos had replaced his wig and fixed his makeup. “Thank you, Miss McFadden. You’ve been very understanding. Until tomorrow at eight. Please don’t be late. I can’t miss that train.”
The truck rolled out as Murray from Red Line arrived to take Dominique Conchico and her Louis Vuitton green and tan overnight bag to the Chateau Laurier. While she handed Miles a two-dollar bill with such a becoming smile that he blushed beet red, Frances had a quick whisper with Murray. “Carry her bag right to the hotel front desk and phone me from the lobby if she doesn’t check in.” A second two-dollar bill was exchanged.
Frances raced back up to her apartment. Inspector Hollingsworth’s phone went unanswered for eight-nine-ten rings before an irritated female voice picked up and demanded, “Who is this?”
“Hello, Mrs. Hollingsworth? This is Frances McFadden. I’m very sorry to disturb you so late but I need to talk to the inspector right away. Is he in?”
“No. He’s in a Scottish Rites meeting at the Masonic Lodge.”
“Could you please have him call me when he gets in, no matter the time?”
“He won’t be home before midnight. Only a death in the family would compel William to phone anyone that late.”
“Tell him it’s about the Culloden File. If he’s still too polite to call, have him meet me for breakfast tomorrow at the Chateau Laurier at 7:45. It’s vital to this case we’re working on.”
“Yes, dear,” an unconvinced voice muttered before hanging up.
Frances called the Ottawa Police Station. Sergeant Scobie was off duty, but she cajoled his home number out of the desk sergeant.
“Yeah?” said a tired voice.
“Sorry to disturb you at home, sergeant. It’s Frances. Orinoco just showed up at the Balmoral Arms to clean out the apartment. I saw him off to the Chateau Laurier disguised as a woman, Dominique Conchico. He’s promised to meet me there for breakfast tomorrow at eight with a list of his clients. Can you be there?”
“Sure.”
“In the meantime, could you switch your stake-out crew to the Chateau? Front door, side door, service entrance, tunnel to the train station? He told me he’s leaving on the ten o’clock for Chicago. Let’s make sure he doesn’t give us the slip. Who knows who he’ll be dressed as, but he’ll be carrying a very attractive Louis Vuitton suitcase. Green and tan. If he tries an early departure, nab him and call me.”
“Will do.”
-28-
Chateau Breakfast
Neither policeman had called by 7:10 the next morning, so Frances left to catch the streetcar down to Union Station. Across the street, between the Chateau Laurier and the Rideau Canal locks, several police cars and an ambulance were parked helter-skelter blocking traffic. She stood on tiptoes for a peek over the onlookers but could see nothing and headed into the hotel dining room for coffee.
By her third cup, Frances had checked her watch a dozen times. Finally, at 8:15, Inspector Hollingsworth and Sergeant Scobie ambled through the dining room door. There was no haste in their grimness.
“Where have you two been? What’s going on outside?” Frances glared at Scobie. “Did you tell the inspector that Orinoco’s bringing his client list to breakfast? We’re lucky he’s late.”
The waiter arrived with a coffee carafe as they sat down. They both drank deeply before the inspector spoke. “Señor Orinoco’s not going to show, Miss McFadden.”
Frances’s heart clenched. “But we had him trapped. The sergeant’s men were watching all hotel exits.” She paused. “Weren’t they?”
“All but the window of room 918,” said Scobie. “We just put what’s left of Orinoco in an ambulance for Doc Thompson at the morgue.”
“What?”
“The doc’s not going to like the paperwork problem,” said Inspector Hollingsworth. “He already filed Carlos Orinoco’s death certificate once. He’s back. Dead again.”
“A beat cop spotted the body down by the canal locks at first light,” said Scobie. “Phoned the station. They got me out of bed to come down. Body crumpled and bloody like a red rag doll, but Orinoco’s face didn’t have a scratch. Head landed in the snow. Easy to identify. I called the inspector.”
“How . . . ?”
Inspector Hollingsworth checked his notepad. “Orinoco booked into room 918 last night under the name of Dominique Conchico. Room service took up a steak dinner for two at 9:30 p.m. A wake-up call was left at the front desk for 5:00 a.m. When Conchico didn’t respond to the call this morning, a bellhop went up and knocked. No answer, so housekeeping opened the door. No Conchico. No Orinoco. Window wide open on the cold winter night. It was almost seven when they found the body.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Frances. “Last night he was ready to begin a new life where no one knew him — Chicago for a start. He was sad about the deaths of Carlota and his favourite dog, but he wasn’t suicidal. I don’t think he jumped.”
“Could have been pushed,” suggested the inspector.
“Or was he dead before he went out the window?” added Scobie.
“Did you search the room?”
“Yes, and the body. Nothing except an empty Louis Vuitton suitcase in the closet, a wig and female clothes on a hanger.”
“No passport? No money? No train ticket to Chicago?”
“Nothing. Although somebody ate the room service dinner.”
“But he was travelling in disguise,” said Frances. “He knew a posse was out looking for him.”
“Well, somebody found him.”
“Orinoco must have told someone where he was. Hey! If the train ticket’s gone, might somebody be hopping the Mainliner to Chicago in his place?”
The inspector jumped up, wagging a finger at her. “The good questions keep coming. Order me egg
s — sunny — and sausage. I’ll check with Union Station for the reservation of Carlos Orinoco, or Dominique Conchico, or anyone travelling on that ticket.” He headed to a phone booth in the lobby.
“Getting much sleep these days, Sergeant?” asked Frances after they ordered breakfast. “You look like the wreck of the Hesperus.”
“Ulcers. Don’t sleep well,” Scobie admitted in a rare personal revelation. His vacant stare gave way to a bleak smile. “It’s nice to know you care, Miss McFadden.”
She gave him a punch on the arm. “Come on, Sergeant. Buck up. We’re almost at the finish line.”
“I misjudged you,” he confessed.
Their breakfasts arrived just as the inspector returned. “Surprise, surprise. There are two trains for Chicago out of Ottawa this morning. The Mainliner leaves at ten via Toronto and Detroit. It’s loading now. The train Dominique Conchico was booked on left at six. Crossed into the States on the train ferry at Ogdensburg. Goes via Syracuse, Buffalo and Cleveland to Chicago.”
“That double-crosser!” said Frances. “Teared up to get me packing his sister’s clothing for the thrift store? Invited me to a tell-all breakfast at eight when he’s booked out of town at six? And I fell for it?” She smacked her forehead. “I’m going dotty in my old age.”
“Go easy on yourself, Gramma,” said Scobie. “We all make mistakes.”
“Anyway,” said the inspector, “someone showed up with the ticket and took the compartment. Probably Señor Rodriguez. An additional coach ticket was purchased for his ‘butler.’ A dark guy with a cannonball head and big shoulders.”
“Mofongo.”
“Stop the train and arrest them.”
“Train crossed the St. Lawrence into New York State at 7:15 a.m. They’re gone. We don’t have extradition arrangements with the Americans.”
“Back up a minute,” said Frances. “Room service sent up dinner for two? Who signed for it?”
The inspector checked his notes. “The room service guy said a youngish man took delivery. Illegible scrawl. No one else in the room.”
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