“Wonderful.”
“You’ve been very understanding, miss. Thank you.”
“Hey, you introduced me to the Ping Pong Club. Helped me solve the spy puzzle and kept me out of jail. I owe you big time.”
Huey Foo came out of the kitchen to make sure Mei Lin had the order right. “Three order jong Foo chung?” he asked. “No cheeseburger?”
“That’s right,” said Sergeant Scobie. “I’m ready to take the plunge. Chopsticks and all. It’s time for new horizons.”
“Good,” nodded Huey Foo. “Your friend Captain Quigley come Bluebird Café three time this week. Enjoy Chinese cooking very much. Ask me cater office party.”
“You’ve made quite a conquest amongst the occidentals,” said Frances. “Must be good for business.”
“Yes,” said Huey Foo. “Very strange. Canadian missionary travel China. Preach Christian heaven. Save Chinese soul. Huey Foo Chinese missionary travel Canada. Cook heavenly food. Save Canadian stomach.”
“Turnabout is fair play,” said Inspector Hollingsworth. “Although I think the occidentals win on the exchange.”
Huey Foo shrugged philosophically and returned to the kitchen.
“Now,” said Frances to the sergeant, “why this transformation?”
“Six sudden deaths make you wonder whose number is next. Could be me.”
“Carpe diem? Good idea,” said Frances. “You know, Sergeant, maybe it’s time to forgive womanhood for past grievances and give the fairer sex another chance.”
“Funny you should mention that. Dr. Cornell asked if I’d accompany her to see The Paddington Mystery at the Imperial.” He blushed and looked down. “Kind of . . . like a consultant, you know? Offer the policeman’s point of view.”
“No woman should ever attend a movie without a consultant,” said Inspector Hollingsworth.
“It’s no big deal. Just a movie. And then maybe a toasted western at the Tic Toc.”
“Ah,” said Frances. “A toasted western can be the start of a very slippery slope. I hope you’re going to name your first daughter after me. I did bring you two together.”
“Cut it out, you guys. These chopsticks are giving me enough grief.”
“Getting back to business,” said the inspector, “do you believe Commander Evans’s story?”
“I believe Evans was responsible for Carlos Orinoco’s death, one way of the other,” said Frances. “Either he killed him, or he set him up for the Cubans. It seems strange to me that Evans didn’t bring the payoff drugs and money directly to Orinoco’s room to exchange for the list of clients. Why would Orinoco surrender the list without the ransom in hand?”
“Yes,” said the inspector. “Evans could have knocked out Orinoco and tossed him out the window, then invited Rodriguez and Mofongo up for the room service dinner and to pass along the train ticket. If anyone suspected murder, the train ticket and Cuban fingerprints on the cutlery would lead the trail away from Evans.”
“Or,” said Scobie, “maybe he actually did leave the dirty work to the Cubans.”
“If he trusted them to be diligent,” added Frances. “Evans had excellent motives for wanting Orinoco dead. He’d been double-crossed into paying for phoney state secrets. Orinoco knew Evans was in the counter-espionage business and could have blown his cover. Finally, Evans brushed off his ‘multidimensional relationship’ with Orinoco a little too casually. Homosexuality is a criminal act in England. MI5 would believe him exposed to blackmail if they learned about it. Orinoco’s death solved many problems for him.”
“What about the ‘long game’?’
“The concept makes sense,” said Frances. “I’m just not sure which side Commander Evans is playing for in the long game.”
“Oh?”
“He said that he ‘asked up the line for instructions’ about Cat Courchene. Up what line?”
“Somebody up the chain of command at MI5?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Evans was quite bitter about what empires and hierarchies did in the last war. Brothers, killed. Parents, emotional bankrupts. School chums, decimated. His faith in Rule Britannia has been undermined.”
“In favour of . . . ”
“In favour of a world of equality and fraternity.”
“Communism?”
“He didn’t say that in so many words, but . . . ”
“It’s hogwash,” said Scobie. “Stalin’s not a protector of the masses. He’s murdered millions. He’s as bad as Hitler.”
“Stalin won’t live forever. Perhaps a philosophy that extends beyond borders is what Evans finds intriguing — after we’ve seen the carnage that nationalism and patriotism hath wrought.”
“How do we determine which side he’s on?”
Frances picked up a snow pea with her chopsticks. “In the fourteenth century, the kingdoms of England and France were constantly at war. Nobles held fiefdoms in both countries. Divided loyalties. When the kings met on the battlefield, the nobles would sit up on the hills with their feudal armies watching and waiting. When the outcome was clear, they joined in on the winning side.”
“So, we wait?”
“So, we wait.”
Acknowledgements
Writing is a solitary act, yet many midwives assist at the birth of a book. Editor Janet Shorten and designer Magdalene Carson, both consummate professionals, claim a special place in heaven for their advice and patience.
I am deeply indebted to Susan Cornell of Kirbyville, Texas, and Bob Neilson of Jamberoo, New South Wales, who were tireless in their contributions to the early manuscript. Sue Pike, a published author of mystery short stories, shared excellent advice on the genre.
Manuscript readers Barb Coyle, Don Hall, Amelia Hope, Ann Hyland, and George Pike offered insightful help to improve the final product.
A number of others made contributions to bringing the novel to you, including Olga Lee, Larry Deibel, Bridget Hall, Luke Maloney, Dan Way, Dudleigh Coyle, Jack Nield, and Don Ray.
Over forty book clubs examined my first novels, invited me to discuss them, and encouraged me to keep writing. A profound thanks for these interactions.
Much of this novel was written overlooking the Atlantic Ocean on the shady verandah of the Bahia Blanca Hotel in Rio San Juan, Dominican Republic. Heartfelt thanks to Lise Pineau and her friendly staff.
Finally, an apology. Cross-country skiers familiar with the trails at Camp Fortune in the Gatineau Hills will note that poetic licence has been exercised to move Keogan Lodge to a different location. I loved the name, it just wasn’t in the place I needed it to be.
About the Author
Ian Stewart McKercher was born and raised in the very civil society of London, Ontario, where murder and blackmail were considered to be impolite.
He cut his teeth on the mystery genre at age ten with Franklin W. Dixon’s The Hardy Boys, followed by Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason series and then Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Complete Sherlock Holmes.
Recent mystery interests include the British crime series Foyle’s War, Scott and Bailey and Grantchester.
He attended Wortley Road Public School, London Junior High School and South Collegiate before taking a degree in English and History at Queen’s University in Kingston.
He moved to Ottawa in 1969 to teach English. In 1983-84 he took an eighteen-month leave to teach English in Beijing, China, where he began writing The Underling. Teaching responsibilities back in Ottawa meant he was only able to work sporadically at his writing until he retired in 2005.
The Underling was published in 2012 and popular response to the exploits of Frances McFadden at the Bank of Canada encouraged him to write a sequel, The Incrementalist, published in 2016. Work on a third book in this series was suspended to focus on completing the mystery novel Carbon Copy.
He currently lives in the Glebe area of Ottawa with his wife, Amelia Hope.
To order copies of any of these books,
contact Ian McKercher
304 Queen Elizabet
h Driveway, Ottawa, K1S 2M7
[email protected]
(613) 235-4863
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