Carbon Copy Read online

  “I did wonder about that. The RCMP codes all sensitive documents for transmission. I suspected that the Bank of Canada would do the same.”

  “Suspicions confirmed,” said Frances, taking a reflective sip of Scotch. “Then there’s the question of style. In a formal letter, Governor Towers insists on brevity and a strict business protocol. He loves dogs — has two of his own — but would never, I mean never, ask about a dog’s health in a business letter.

  “However, and here’s the funny thing, Montague Norman did just celebrate his twenty-first anniversary as governor of the Bank of England, and he does own a Sheltie named Cupid. Who would know those things?

  “Now . . . about the source of those counterfeit letters?” asked Frances.

  “Off the record?”

  “Do we have to repeat this before every sentence?”

  “Point taken. Do you know Sergeant Scobie of the Ottawa Police Department?”

  “Scobie . . . Scobie . . . why is that name familiar? Oh! I remember. A police officer named Scobie came to inform me about my mother’s death years ago. I think he was a constable then. He was directing traffic near the accident scene.”

  “That’s him. A bit rough around the edges but razor sharp. His beat is fraud, bunko, and break and enter. The tissues were found in a stash of stolen goods in a shed belonging to Cat Courchene, a second-storey man.”

  “A what?”

  “A cat burglar. Very successful judging by the house he lives in, which would be well beyond the reach of a workman in the CPR train yards.”

  “Not so successful that he eluded the attention of Sergeant Scobie.”

  “It was an accident, actually. The fire marshal’s boys unearthed the stuff. All those old houses in Lowertown have a back shed where they used to store kindling when they had wood stoves. Last month a fire broke out in one and burned up a five-door row. The fire department warned everybody about storing combustibles in those sheds. They were going down the back lane doing random checks and found this big pile of newspapers in Cat’s shed. Gave it a kick and out slid a battered suitcase full of suspicious goods which they turned over to Scobie. It was mostly second-rate jewellery together with odds and sods of silverware, plus an envelope with the two letters. Possibly acquired by accident when a silverware drawer was dumped out in the dark.

  “Upon his arrest, Cat disclaimed all knowledge of the treasure, of course. Never saw any of it before, he says. Swears it must have been planted. He’s out on bail pending trial for possession of stolen property. The letters looked fishy to Scobie, so he showed them to me. I felt obliged to pass them along to Major Philpott.

  “The major feels he has the Cat by the whiskers. Instead of six months in the local slammer for possession of stolen goods, Cat could do fourteen years for espionage in Kingston Pen, or be hanged for treason. Given that leverage, the major’s sure Cat can be persuaded to reveal where the letters came from.”

  “Not without Mr. Courchene confessing to stealing. Couldn’t you just check on recent thefts reported? Tally up stolen items against the swag?”

  “Scobie’s done that. No luck. No surprise. I mean, if you were selling secrets to the enemy, would you call the police to report them stolen?”

  “Is it possible Cat Courchene has branched out from B and E and forged the letters himself?”

  “Not likely. Cat dropped out of Grade Six to work as a navvy in the train yards. He can write his name and read a stop sign, that’s about it. That doesn’t take away from the fact he’s cunning and agile. Can go up a wall like a spider.”

  Frances went to the dining room for the Macallan and replenished their glasses. “So where do you think the letters came from, Inspector?”

  “Of course, I never suspected you, Frances, but I don’t know your office staff well enough to be assured one of them might not have been the guilty party.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “A cleaner or night watchman?”

  “Files are always locked when we leave the office. And, as I’ve said, those letters bear none of the hallmarks of Bank of Canada correspondence.” Frances took a deep drink. “So, to repeat Major Philpott’s surprisingly intelligent question, who would fabricate phoney Bank of Canada letters? And to what purpose?”

  “Well, Frances, that brings up my second reason for dropping by. At least half a dozen men in Major Philpott’s department pored over those flimsies, and no one — no one — twigged to the inconsistencies you pointed out. They were all wearing blinkers, of course, having decided in advance that it was a Bank of Canada inside job. You’ve put that theory in jeopardy, although the major tenaciously believes you’re the culprit.

  “So, I was wondering if you’d be willing to have a look at Cat’s suitcase to see if anything else jumps out that’s been missed. Major Philpott has you chained here even though you’re officially on holiday. The quickest way to punch your ticket out of Ottawa is to hand him a better spy candidate.”

  “Scobie won’t mind?”

  “I doubt it. As far as he’s concerned, the suitcase contents are evidence of theft. He has no particular interest in specific items. Also, Cat’s a bit of a smart aleck and gets under Scobie’s skin. Scobie would be delighted to send him to the big house for a long time.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth thought for a moment. “Getting back to your ‘why’ question — in a war situation, inside information can command a price from someone working for the other side. A German or Italian agent might be willing to pay well for confidential material.”

  “But every German or Italian in Canada is either incarcerated as an enemy alien or under careful watch.”

  “True. Third parties could do the dirty work if the price was right.”

  “But in Ottawa? Hardly the hub of international intrigue.”

  “Don’t sell the place short from a spy’s perspective. Great Britain obviously shares military secrets with Ottawa. Way over here on the distant periphery of the war, security might be deemed lax. If it’s no trouble, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning for a visit to the police station.”

  “My late mother used to say, ‘Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.’”

  “Nice alliteration. Are you the troubler, Miss McFadden? Or the troublee?”

  “Pick me up at eight.”

  -7-

  Montecristo

  Sergeant Scobie was not a ladies’ man. When Inspector Hollingsworth and Frances arrived at his office the next morning, he gave a curt nod to the inspector and threw a thumb at Frances. “Who’s the dame?”

  A cigarette with an inch of ash drooped from the left corner of his mouth. His mangy green tie hung loosely, exposing an unbuttoned collar. A rumpled suit jacket had sleeves worn to a sheen.

  “Sergeant Scobie, may I introduce my very perceptive friend, Miss McFadden? She’s a banker by trade.” Scobie tilted his head at her like a curious bird eying a worm. “I invited her down to have a look at Cat Courchene’s merchandise, if you don’t mind.”

  Scobie stared at her with tired eyes. “Dames can’t be trusted,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “And they don’t know dick about police work.”

  The inspector absorbed the snub with a smile. “Frances had a look at those letters you gave me. Pointed out several red flags that neither Major Philpott nor anyone at Military Intelligence caught.”

  Scobie snorted. “That goddam major couldn’t find his arse with two hands and a road map. He’s the dumbest cluck I’ve ever seen in uniform, and I’ve met some beauties. ‘Military Intelligence’ for the love of Jesus! Isn’t there some fifty-cent expression for words that contradict each other?”

  “Oxymoron?” offered Frances.

  “Is that it? Well, the ‘moron’ part fits.”

  The inspector cleared his throat. “I’ve asked Miss McFadden to examine the suitcase.” Pause. “If you don’t mind,” he repeated into the silence.

  Scobie’s face clearly assigned dames and morons to the same category, but professi
onal courtesy won the day. “What the hell,” he said. He stood up and led them to the evidence lock-up where he signed for the suitcase, then took them to a small room with a small table under a glaring light. He took pairs of cotton gloves out of a drawer. “Put these on unless you want your paw marks owning the evidence.”

  “You find Cat’s fingerprints?” asked the inspector.

  “Only on the suitcase, which Cat admitted he owned. Claims the stuff inside must have been left by the tooth fairy.”

  The inspector carefully took items out and placed them on the table. Rings, necklaces, cufflinks, candlesticks, random place-settings of silver plate. Four large cigars with fancy red and gold ring bands. “Any other letters?” asked the inspector.

  “Just the two I gave you.”

  Frances picked up one of the cigars and sniffed it before handing it over to the inspector, who pulled out his folding magnifying glass and examined the band. “Says ‘Montecristo.’” He whistled. “Looks like a pretty fancy smoke. I wonder . . . ,” wondered the inspector. “Suppose the letters were stuck in a cigar humidor. Cat dumps the humidor . . . ”

  “Cat maintains his complete innocence,” Sergeant Scobie reminded them.

  “Cat . . . or whoever . . . dumps the humidor holus-bolus into his swag bag during the B and E. Likes a good smoke, doesn’t even know the letters are there.”

  Scobie gave the thought a “maybe” nod.

  “Do you mind if I keep one of these cigars?”

  “Inspector, this is Crown evidence. I shouldn’t even be lettin’ you see it.”

  “Cat claims he was set up,” added the inspector. “Any chance that’s true?”

  The quick-lipped sergeant held fire for a moment. “A chance. This stuff . . . ” — he waved dismissively at the items on the table — “is hardly worth the effort of stealing. Nothing here would prod a fence to open his wallet very wide.” He lit a new cigarette from the embers on the stub he was finishing. “Cat did two years in Collins Bay a while back. I heard it wasn’t a pleasant experience. He’s a little guy, and, . . . well . . . prisons don’t favour the small, shall we say. I doubt that virtue has redeemed his criminal spirit, but I’d say he’s gun-shy of an encore in the hoosegow.”

  “With all that climbing drainpipes and clinging to window ledges, would a burglar carry a suitcase?” asked Frances. “Seems unwieldy. Wouldn’t a pillow case be more suitable? And would a guy with a criminal record keep stolen property in his back shed?”

  Eventually Sergeant Scobie broke the silence. “Insightful,” he conceded. “For a dame.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Coulda used a bag for field work and the suitcase as a repository. That does leave the hiding place as not such a bright idea.”

  “And is Cat not so bright?” asked the inspector.

  “I gotta tell ya, I don’t like the guy. He’s far too mouthy. Yeah, he dropped out of elementary school, but he did pull off dozens of heists without leaving a trace.”

  “How’d he get caught?” asked Frances.

  “Maisie Dempster. His girlfriend. The jealous type. Suspected that Cat’s nocturnal activities were not all restricted to honest thieving. She got very drunk one night and had it out with him in the Lafayette draft room. Lots of screaming and cursing. He socked her and the cops had to come and haul them both away. She was so pissed at him for smacking her that she squealed on him.” Scobie shook his head. “Women!”

  Inspector Hollingsworth shot Frances an interrogative eyebrow. She shook her head. “Thank you then, Sergeant. We’ll leave you to your duties.”

  Out on Elgin Street, Inspector Hollingsworth confided, “You’ll have to excuse the sergeant’s manners. He’s had some unfortunate relationships with women. Ditched by a fiancée at the chapel door and then had a wife run off with a lumberjack. His sourness is more personal than professional.”

  Frances reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a flattened Montecristo cigar band and handed it over. “Little gift I found stuck in the bottom of the suitcase.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth mock-whispered, “You stole Crown evidence?”

  “Dames can’t be trusted. I felt obliged to live up to my reputation. Oh, and that odour on the tissues mingling with the scent of Old Spice?”

  “The scent you couldn’t identify?”

  “Yes. I’ve identified it. There’s a United Cigar Store on Sparks Street. Let’s see if we can learn anything.”

  Big Ross Donaldson turned the cigar band over in his huge fingers and held it up to the light. “Cuban,” he said. “Expensive,” he said. “Where’d you pick it up?”

  “Crime scene,” replied the inspector.

  “Funny,” said Ross, “’cause you can’t buy these in Canada. Some sort of tariff problem.”

  “Who would know where to find a Montecristo?”

  “You might chat them up at the Cuban consulate,” said Big Ross, cracking his knuckles.

  Back on the street the inspector said, “Well, you’ve done your duty, Miss McFadden. Thank you very much for advancing the plot. Unless . . . you’re interested in expanding your circle of acquaintances beyond police sergeants to include Cuban diplomats.”

  “What the heck,” said Frances. “Got time on my hands and detective work is a wonderful distraction from Major Philpott.” As they got back into the inspector’s car, a thought struck her. “You know, a neighbour of mine in the Balmoral, Anna Deloitte, got married and moved to Argentina. She sublet her apartment to . . . if memory serves . . . someone from the Cuban embassy.”

  “Consulate.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Small world.”

  The Cuban consulate was housed in a small Queen Anne style brick house in Sandy Hill. Elaborate bargeboard trim on the steep eaves spoke of an attempt at style on a modest budget.

  “What’s the difference between a consulate and an embassy?” Frances asked as they headed up the sidewalk to the front porch.

  “Only the big boys have embassies. The Americans and the French exchange ambassadors who run embassies. The British send high commissioners — the equivalent of an ambassador — to commonwealth countries. Smaller fry have consulates and envoys. A notch down the pecking order but much cheaper to operate.”

  “And why would the Cubans even have a consulate in Ottawa?”

  “To promote trade and encourage tourism. Serve as a resource for any Cuban businessmen trying to understand Canadian tariffs and taxes.”

  “Governor Towers spent a couple of years in Cuba when he worked for the Royal Bank. He may still have connections there.”

  When they walked through the front door, a raven-haired woman turned large eyes towards them. She had long mascaraed lashes and a jolt of neon crimson lit her lips.

  “Good morning,” said the inspector. “I’m Inspector Hollingsworth from the RCMP and this is Miss McFadden.” His disarming smile did not disarm.

  The woman dismissed them with a bored look. “I’m Señorita Gonzalez,” she said, adding as an afterthought, “the office manager.”

  Long, lacquered fingernails matched her red lipstick. Nails that would have been battered to bits on a typewriter. Her black sheath dress was not standard attire for Ottawa office clerks.

  There was not much of an office to manage. Through a French door across the hall, in what used to be the living room, three over-stuffed chairs sat in front of an ornate marble fireplace. Beyond, in the former dining room, sat a small conference table hedged by six straight-backed chairs.

  “How may I help you out, inspector?” Señorita Gonzalez’s tone suggesting that “out” was the operative word.

  “Is the Cuban consul in?”

  “No. Señor Hernandez is at a reception at Rideau Hall. The new consul from Argentina presented his letters of credence this morning. The diplomatic community was invited to a reception in his honour.”

  “Is the vice-consul there as well?”

  “No. Señor Orinoco’s in Montreal.” She flipped through a notebook on her
desk. “He’ll be back later this afternoon. Has a diplomatic engagement tonight.”

  “And is that the complete staff complement?”

  “A clerk-typist comes in three mornings a week.” Señorita Gonzalez stifled a yawn. “May I ask the nature of your business?”

  Inspector Hollingsworth pulled the cigar band from his suitcoat pocket and handed it over. “I was wondering if someone could identify this.”

  Señorita Gonzalez walked to the window and examined it in the light. “It is a cigar band from a Montecristo. The most expensive cigar manufactured in Cuba.”

  “Are they sold in Canada?”

  “Not yet. Señor Hernandez is working on a permit to import them. There has been protectionist resistance from Canadian tobacco growers.” She made a dismissive sound in her throat. “Montecristos are such a superior cigar that they wouldn’t compete against any Canadian product.” Lest she appear to be insulting local agriculture, she added, “The Cuban growing season is long, sunny and moist. It is well suited to high-quality strains of tobacco that could not be grown in Canada.” She handed the cigar band back to the inspector.

  “If these are not imported, could you suggest how this band might end up in Ottawa?”

  Señorita Gonzalez shrugged. “A tourist perhaps, or a businessman returning from Cuba.”

  “Do many Canadian tourists or businessmen visit Cuba these days?”

  “No. The currency exchange restrictions have dried up Canadian travel. There hasn’t been a Cuban businessman here in months.” She paused. “The consul and vice-consul each have a humidor on his desk for personal use. All diplomats are allowed such exemptions. I’m told that the Canadian attaché in Havana imports maple syrup for his own use, even though Cuban sugar is the finest in the world.”

  Quid pro quo.

  “I suppose no country wants its foreign emissaries to feel homesick,” said the inspector. He added with a genial smile, “Might I see one of these Montecristo cigars?”

  Señorita Gonzalez’s face clouded for a moment as she debated whether to leave the two of them unattended or to take them on a tour. “Please follow me,” she decided and led them upstairs. What had been the master bedroom at the front of the house was now the office of Consul J.O. Hernandez, proclaimed by a brass nameplate on a desk that was too large for the room. The desktop was clear except for a green-shaded lamp, a mahogany humidor and an ashtray. Señorita Gonzalez opened the humidor to reveal a dozen cigars inside.