The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

  “Bear with me for a moment, Detective Superintendent,” said Sparks, retrieving her lockpicks from the floor. She got to work on the left filing cabinet.

  “Did you know she possessed this skill?” Parham asked Kinsey.

  “No, sir,” said Kinsey. “But nothing she does surprises me. Or maybe everything.”

  “I’m inclined to take those away from her after this is over,” said Parham. “They aren’t legal.”

  “Try it, and I won’t be held accountable for my actions,” said Sparks.

  She pulled down on the handle, and the door to the cabinet swung open. She reached in and pulled out a stack of metal plates.

  “Damn, they’re heavy,” she said. “Would you be so kind, gentlemen?”

  Parham came over to take them from her. He looked at the top one carefully.

  “Board of Trade insignia,” he said. “That’s them, all right. Well done, ladies, you’ve found yourselves a counterfeiting ring. We shall need you to return with us to the Yard to give your statements. You may ride with Detective Sergeant Kinsey.”

  “About Mister Trower—” Mrs. Bainbridge began.

  “We shall discuss everything back at the Yard,” said Parham.

  “How do we know you won’t just run off with them and make your fortune?” asked Sparks.

  “The idea!” laughed Parham. “Give me some credit, Miss Sparks. I trusted you enough to bring my men here, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” said Sparks. “But remember—we know who you are.”

  “She’s teasing you, sir,” said Kinsey. “It’s her little way.”

  “Not a way to which I would ever wish to become accustomed,” said Parham. “I will see you back at the station.”

  He left.

  “Dear God, I’m shaking all of a sudden,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “Delayed reaction,” said Kinsey. “It isn’t pleasant having a gun pointed at one.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting on about,” said Sparks. “It was mostly pointed at me.”

  “But that was the plan,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “You distracted him and gave me a chance to pop the second whistle into my mouth.”

  “How did you know the gun was a Purdey?”

  “I’ve bagged my share of skeet,” said Gwen. “I know a Purdey over and under when I see one. I can’t say that I enjoyed facing the business end.”

  “This was a huge gamble,” said Kinsey. “You couldn’t be certain that the plates would be here. You might have got yourselves killed, or arrested for burglary, for nothing.”

  “Oh, we were absolutely certain that the plates were here,” said Sparks.

  “How?”

  “Because I broke in here last night and found them,” said Sparks. “Shall we go to the Yard now, Mike? It looks like it might be a long day.”

  She walked out, stopping to pick her bag off the floor and put her knife back inside.

  “You can’t bring that inside the office,” Kinsey called after her.

  “Give up, Detective Sergeant,” advised Mrs. Bainbridge as she walked past him. “We’ve won the day. Don’t spoil it.”

  * * *

  They rode in the back of Kinsey’s Wolseley. Kinsey sat up front with the driver.

  “I feel like a suspect,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “It’s rather thrilling, isn’t it? I don’t suppose we could ask you to turn the siren on?”

  “Sorry,” said Kinsey. “People still get in a panic when they hear sirens. Hell, they start diving for shelter when the buses change gears going uphill. We reserve it for actual emergencies.”

  The car turned into the entrance and came to a halt. The driver held the door for them and saluted.

  “At ease,” murmured Sparks as she got out. “You probably outrank me.”

  Kinsey led them to a bench outside of Parham’s office.

  “Wait here,” he instructed them. “I don’t know how long before we take your statements. Would you like a bit of grub while you wait? It’s early for the tea cart, but we can send someone out for some pastries.”

  “Sounds divine, thank you,” said Sparks. “I’m ravenous.”

  “Just a cup of tea for me, thank you,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “Right. I shall return.”

  He went off in search of sustenance.

  “How can you eat after everything we’ve been through?” asked Gwen.

  “We survived,” said Iris. “We must soldier on. Therefore, pastries. So, are we agreed upon our stories?”

  “We are,” said Gwen. “Let’s hope it works.”

  * * *

  They were each called in individually to make their statements, then returned to their bench. At several points, worried, grey-mustached men either in police uniforms decked in medals or in expensive Savile Row suits walked in and out.

  “Board of Trade upper echelon,” guessed Iris. “This must have stirred up quite the brouhaha. Some heads are going to roll.”

  The tea cart stopped by their bench around noon.

  “Compliments of the Yard,” said the lady as she handed them sandwiches on plates.

  Gwen dug into hers with a will.

  “Your appetite has returned,” observed Iris.

  “My emotions have been swinging back and forth like a sped-up grandfather clock,” Gwen replied. “I feel exhilarated. And hungry. This must be like what it is to be you.”

  “We can’t have that. One of me is quite enough.”

  “Some would say too many,” said Kinsey as he emerged. “Detective Superintendent Parham will see you now. Follow me.”

  He led them into Parham’s office, which was decorated with photographs of him standing with various notorious handcuffed felons and commendations from all levels, including one from the King.

  Parham stood as they entered.

  “Please sit, ladies,” he said, indicating the chairs in front of his desk.

  They did so. Kinsey stood in the corner, his arms folded.

  “First, the Yard wishes to commend you on your services in this matter, unorthodox and—frankly, illegal, as they were,” Parham began. “We will be mentioning your assistance in our official reports as well as the press release.”

  “Assistance?” Mrs. Bainbridge said indignantly. “We did everything!”

  “How will you be portraying our assistance?” asked Sparks.

  “As briefly as possible,” said Parham. “This whole matter—an investigator for the Board of Trade betraying his sworn duties, a scheme that if successful would have undermined the public’s trust in the government’s administration of rationing—well, it would be greatly embarrassing to all concerned.”

  “You’re hushing it up,” said Sparks.

  “Not entirely,” said Parham. “It will be announced, but without a great deal of detail. The three conspirators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

  “What about Dickie Trower?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “What about him?”

  “Certainly we have established the existence of others who had motive for killing Tillie La Salle. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

  “Detective Sergeant Kinsey, tell them the results of your investigations.”

  “Sir,” said Kinsey, stepping forward. “On the night of Miss La Salle’s murder, Roger Pilcher was indeed with his superiors at the Board of Trade, being debriefed. The meeting took place in Westminster for several hours. Mister Tolbert was playing cards with a regular group of cronies, all of whom can vouch for his whereabouts at the time. Miss Spencer was with her family.”

  “Surely they could lie for her,” said Sparks.

  “They could,” agreed Kinsey. “But we are unable to establish that.”

  “As far as Trower goes, we still have the murder weapon in his room,” added Parham. “We have no new evidence that contradicts that which already exists. Your efforts have been valiant, ladies. I almost wish that they had borne fruit. However, the Yard in the face of everything that is known stands b
y its previous conclusions. Trower remains our man.”

  “No!” protested Mrs. Bainbridge. “You can’t!”

  “Enough, Gwen,” said Sparks, resting her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “It’s over.”

  “We will not stop until justice is done!” shouted Mrs. Bainbridge, rising from her chair.

  “Please, Mrs. Bainbridge,” said Parham wearily. “Don’t let your emotions get the best of you. That will be all. Kinsey, please escort them out. Get them a cab. Our expense, but bring me a receipt.”

  “Sir,” said Kinsey. “This way, please.”

  He led them back to his office.

  “Could you direct me to the ladies’ room?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge, wiping her eyes. “I need to make some repairs.”

  “Down the hall, on the left,” said Kinsey.

  She strode angrily down the hall and disappeared.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kinsey. “We put as much pressure on them as we could, legally, but none of them cracked as far as La Salle went.”

  “I’m sure you tried your best, Mike,” said Sparks. “Thanks for that, anyway.”

  “There’s one other thing,” he said hesitantly.

  “What’s that?”

  “My clearance level was raised when I became a Detective Sergeant,” he said. “I decided to do some poking around.”

  “Into what?”

  “Some unsolved cases left over from during the war,” he said.

  Sparks felt a chill pass through her.

  “And?”

  “There was one that struck me. A man’s body found in an alleyway in Brixton. Stabbing death, lots of alcohol in his system, no witnesses.”

  Sparks said nothing.

  “There was a cursory investigation done, but it was wartime and resources were not exactly flowing to the department. The fellow turned out to have something to do with the Spanish Embassy and was believed to be a Nazi sympathizer, possibly a spy. There was a note to the file directing us to shut the investigation down quickly.”

  “Who from?”

  “It referred me to another file that I am not cleared to see,” said Kinsey. “But the photo of his face—I recognized him. He was that Spanish fellow I saw you with that night.”

  “But this wasn’t that night, was it?” asked Sparks.

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Kinsey. “Look, Sparks. I don’t know what happened. I’m not sure that I want to know. But if this was some counter-intelligence operation, and whatever happened was on behalf of King and country—”

  “This is utter nonsense, Mike.”

  “I’m trying to say that I think I’ve been wrong about you,” he said. “Everything that I’ve done in response has been wrong, and I’m sorry.”

  “You based your actions upon an honest and rational assessment of what you saw, Mike. And you’re still getting married.”

  “I could call it off,” said Kinsey. “I could explain.”

  “Don’t,” said Sparks. “I’m not worth it.”

  “I think that you may be.”

  “Knowing that you think so means the world to me, Mike,” said Sparks. “But it’s been too long. We’re different people now.”

  “Not so different.”

  “Do you remember that time we got caught by an air raid at your place during the Blitz?” she asked. “We spent the night huddling together inside a pair of blankets in that Anderson shelter, just the two of us. We made love, thinking we might die at any second, as the bombs fell so close that the debris was raining down on us for what seemed like hours.”

  “How could I ever forget that?”

  “I was twenty-three. It was the most intense, the most exciting night that I have ever experienced, or that I ever will experience.”

  “We might be able to match it in other ways,” said Kinsey.

  “No,” said Sparks. “We can’t. We shouldn’t. It can never be repeated. The world should never be like that again. But I want you to know that you are seared into my memory like no other person, Michael Kinsey. Go marry Beryl Stansfield and be good to her, and never think about me.”

  “You ask the impossible,” said Kinsey.

  “Always,” said Sparks, smiling. “Someday, I shall get it.”

  Mrs. Bainbridge returned, her face composed.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Sparks.

  “I’ll call for a cab,” said Kinsey.

  He walked them down to the entrance and held the door for them. They drove off.

  “Everything all right?” Gwen asked, looking at Iris in concern.

  “Yes,” Iris lied. “Let’s go home. It’s been a long day.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Gwen walked into the office just in time to see a dart whizzing by to her right. She stopped. Iris was standing behind her desk, another dart in her hand.

  “I do hope that there is a dartboard on the other side of this door,” said Gwen. “Otherwise, our security deposit is down the drain. Could you cease fire for a moment?”

  Iris nodded, and Gwen peered around the door.

  “Ah, there is a dartboard there,” she said. “I am glad, and I am puzzled. Has that always been there and am I just noticing it now?”

  “Get out of the way,” said Iris.

  Gwen moved quickly towards her side of the room as Iris hurled the dart. It landed just outside the outer bull’s eye.

  “Good shot,” said Gwen. “Is this about yesterday?”

  Iris walked over to retrieve the darts without answering.

  “I see,” said Gwen. “If it would help, I’ll stand you to a game or two. I won’t be responsible for the condition of the wall.”

  “It’s not about yesterday,” said Iris. “Please stop talking. I need that triple twenty.”

  She threw a dart.

  There was a copy of the Times in the wastebasket, violently crumpled. Gwen fished it out and smoothed it across her desk.

  “What’s in here that could have set you off, I wonder?”

  “Stop it.”

  “I am not going to sit here quietly while you’re in this insufferable and possibly dangerous state,” said Gwen, perusing the newspaper. “Let’s see. Anglo-Egyptian negotiations, no, it wouldn’t be that. The Americans have exploded another atomic bomb in New Mexico. Do you have particular feelings about the bomb? Or New Mexico, for that matter?”

  A dart struck in the twenty, just above the triple ring.

  “Apparently not,” continued Gwen. “American wheat shipment sent to Germany to feed coal miners. A pity, we could have used that here. Trial of Nazi commander for—”

  Iris drew her knife from her handbag, flicked it open, and threw it into the dead center of the dartboard, where it stuck quivering.

  “And bang goes the security deposit,” said Gwen. “Trial of Nazi commander for ruthless execution of eight British WAAF and FANY officers—women. They killed women. How awful.”

  “They knew what they were getting into,” said Iris, staring across the room at her knife. “We all did.”

  “You were one of them.”

  “I was supposed to be,” said Iris, sitting in her chair. “I trained with them. Special Operations. I could be prosecuted just for saying that out loud.”

  “You escaped. You survived.”

  “I never went!” shouted Iris, pounding her desk with both fists. “I broke my stupid ankle during parachute training. It was a night jump, and the chute wouldn’t open properly. I was falling through the dark, trying to get it free, screaming my bloody head off, and it finally did but it slipped air and I came in too hard.”

  “That wasn’t your fault,” said Gwen.

  “It was my fault that I couldn’t bring myself to get back in an airplane after it healed,” said Iris. “I panicked every single time. They ruled me unfit for overseas operations. I shifted to running teams from London, got loaned out for counterintelligence, but I didn’t go into battle with my friends. Marvelous women, every single one of them. Brave, inte
lligent, fierce women. I should have been with them. I felt like I had been given the white feather. Everyone was very understanding about it, and that made it worse. And then I found out what happened to them. They were betrayed and executed. Brutally.”

  Gwen said nothing, but reached out to take her hand. Iris pulled it away.

  “We used to have weekly dances,” she said. “We had clothes that looked like German-made clothes but were faked, right down to the labels and the stitching. We had to break them in so they wouldn’t look brand new, which would have been a dead giveaway. So we had dances, and they would put German records on the gramophone and we would have a jolly old time, chatting and flirting in German, changing partners, all those handsome boys, many of whom also died in the line of duty. Even with my ankle still throbbing, I would wear those clothes and go to those dances and play my part. Two of the women wore my size. I often wonder if they died wearing something I danced in.”

  “Let’s close up the shop today,” said Gwen. “Let’s find a pub that serves liquor before noon and raise a few to your friends.”

  “All I do nowadays when I think about them is drink,” said Iris. “Thank you, Gwen, but there is not enough liquor in the world right now.”

  “Fine, throw all the darts you want to. Only there’s still Dickie Trower sitting in jail despite our best efforts. We need a new plan.”

  “If our best efforts couldn’t save him, what makes you think our second-best will accomplish anything?”

  “We can’t give up.”

  “We can. We put our lives on the line, and for what? Three people in jail and the British public is safe from fake clothing coupons. Hooray and bully for us.”

  She held a dart in each hand, then whipped them simultaneously at the board. One of them hit the thin metal ring separating the outer bull’s eye from the rest of the board and bounced off.

  “Damn,” she grumbled, walking to retrieve it from the floor.

  “Iris, think of something,” said Gwen. “You’re the strategist.”

  “I’ve got nothing,” said Iris wearily. “I don’t know who else to question. Our covers with Tillie’s friends are blown to pieces, so we can’t go back. I have no more ideas, Gwen. I’m done.”