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  “May I?” asked the inspector and reached for a cigar too quickly for Señorita Gonzalez to refuse him. Close to the rounded end was the band in bright red and gold. The inspector took his band out and compared them. He nodded. “And the vice-consul?” he asked, pocketing the cigar.

  There was no logical reason why the tour should continue, but Señorita Gonzalez clearly wanted them gone as soon as possible, so she led them to a back office that was small and untidy. The smell of cigar smoke emanated from an overflowing ashtray that balanced precariously on a sloping hillock of papers. Files, books and magazines covered the floor and overwhelmed a low bookcase. Behind the desk hung a large portrait photo of a handsome young man. A brass plaque identified Carlos Fernando Orinoco, Vice-Consul of Cuba. It was the sort of thing a doting mother would have commissioned. A boxy humidor peeked out of the wash of papers on the desk. Señorita Gonzalez extracted the humidor and opened it for the inspector’s viewing but kept it out of his reach.

  As he turned to go, he asked, “Any break-ins or thefts from the consulate in the last six months?”

  Señorita Gonzalez shook her head.

  “And, would either the consul or vice-consul keep a supply of Montecristos at their homes?”

  Señorita Gonzalez reflected briefly. “No idea” was all she offered as she took them to the door.

  “Not very chummy,” said Frances when they returned to the inspector’s car. “We should introduce her to Major Philpott. They might hit it off.”

  “I got the feeling she was playing defence for somebody. Maybe herself.”

  “She sure doesn’t dress like any office worker I’ve ever met. Those fingernails have never met a typewriter keyboard.”

  “Now that dashing portrait of Vice-Consul Orinoco,” said the inspector. “He looked more like the type of Cuban you might like to meet, Miss McFadden.”

  Frances smiled. “I just might, Inspector. My interest in things Cuban is growing by the minute.”

  “Why don’t we find out if these Montecristos are as good as they claim?” said the inspector, pulling the purloined cigar from his suitcoat vest pocket.

  “Why don’t you share that pleasure with your wife so my clothes don’t smell like a smokehouse for a week?”

  -8-

  Huey Foo

  Frances asked Inspector Hollingsworth to drop her on Rideau Street on the pretext of shopping. Metaphorically speaking, it was not a lie. She attributed any successes in her young life to extensive “off the record” information sources. Her ace in the hole was Huey Foo, the Buddha-like cook at the Bluebird Café. He ran a number of businesses, some legal, some quasi-legal, and had developed an unparalleled network of contacts which kept him a step ahead of the competition and the law. He observed. He listened. He remembered. He knew what needed to be known. Ace in the hole.

  The Bluebird on Dalhousie Street had an other-worldliness that appealed to Frances’s sense of nostalgia. Open the front door and step through a time warp into a simpler age. The restaurant was modest and dimly lit. Pristinely clean linoleum was worn colourless in high traffic areas. The varnish on the high-back booths glowed with a faded patina. Lao Lin, the ancient Chinese man who smoked a clay pipe behind the cash register in the front window, always bowed formally to her, and Mei Lin, the Eurasian waitress, smiled collegially when she entered.

  “Party of one?” she said with a wink.

  “Party of two if Mr. Foo can spare a minute.”

  Mei retreated through the swinging doors to the kitchen and was back in seconds. “You have influence in the kitchen. He’ll be out in a minute. Menu?”

  “Just coffee.”

  Huey Foo joined her, placing a platter of steaming dough shapes on the table between them. “Long time no see, Miss Fran. Try jiaozi. Little steamed dumpling. Very tasty. Favourite dish for lunar New Year.”

  Frances struggled to pick up one of the slippery devils with chopsticks and fumbled it into the dish of soy sauce. She nibbled into a dough pocket of pork and onions and mysterious seasonings.

  “Wow!” she said as she swallowed quickly and levered a second to her lips.

  “Surprise to see you, Miss Fran. Some say you go on holiday. But here you are in Bluebird Café.” Jiaozi disappeared into his mouth like a card trick.

  Frances had ceased being surprised by how well-informed Huey Foo was for a cook who seldom left his kitchen. That’s why she was there. “I had hoped to get out of town, but life got in the way of my best intentions.”

  Buddha man sat and smoked in silence. Huey Foo never rushed anywhere but somehow always got there first.

  “Can’t a girl just make a social visit to an old friend?”

  “Girl, maybe. Miss Fran business lady. Not waste time on chit-chat.”

  Frances shrugged and smiled. “I have no secrets.” She downed two more jiaozi and then said, “Some things have happened to me lately that I don’t understand. I need help to sort them out.”

  Huey Foo pulled a package of Export A out of his dirty apron and lit a cigarette. He waited. He was good at waiting.

  “First of all, somebody is following me to work and home. It is no secret where I work, or where I live. Why would someone do that?”

  “What follower look like?”

  “I’ve never noticed. Don’t know if it’s a man or a woman, or the same person every day.”

  Huey looked at her silently. “How know you followed?”

  “Oh, somebody else is following me too, and noticed the first follower.”

  “You very popular, Miss Fran. Like Pied Piper.”

  “Apparently.”

  “First follower very not smart not notice being followed.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Unless want to be noticed.”

  “Why would he want to be noticed?”

  “Decoy. No point to follow you. You walk work. You walk home. Why waste time follow you?”

  “Exactly my thought, but . . . ?”

  “First follower wait outside Balmoral Arms. Wait for someone. See second follower. Watch you leave for work. Follow you. Second follower follow you both. First follower lead second follower on blind trail.”

  “So you think my being followed has nothing to do with me?”

  “Yes. What you think?”

  “Well, I never thought of it that way.” Frances nodded. “Makes sense. Someone else living at the Balmoral Arms is the real person of interest. Next point. A number of people have sprung into my life recently. Are any of these names familiar? Inspector Hollingsworth?”

  “Mounted Police. Honest man. Own small black dog.”

  “Sergeant Scobie?”

  “Ottawa Police. Rough manner. Fairly honest.”

  “Fairly?”

  “Sometimes break law to solve crime.”

  “Commander Evans? Royal Navy?”

  “Not know. New in Ottawa?”

  “I believe so.”

  “No seaport in Ottawa. Why British navy man here?”

  “He doesn’t work on a ship. He’s helping the Canadian government with issues related to the war. Major Philpott?”

  “Canadian Army?”

  “Yes.”

  “Time-wasting man.”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “Like dog with bone. Not give up on bad idea.”

  “How about Cat Courchene?”

  Huey Foo allowed himself a serene smile. “Curious interest for Bank of Canada lady, Miss Fran. Cat good thief, but not rob Bank. Not his game.”

  “How can someone who steals be ‘good’?”

  “No moral judgement. Cat good at being thief. Successful career for many year. Buy nice house with proceeds. Caught one time only. Not in act. Betrayed by angry woman. Sent prison two year. Bad time for him. Stop crime life. Now work train yard for CPR.”

  “Carlos Orinoco?”

  Huey Foo slowly exhaled cigarette smoke dragon-like through his nostrils before replying.

  “Cuban vice-consul?”

  “Yes.”


  “Stay away Señor Orinoco.”

  “Why?”

  “First reason, Señor Orinoco have bad judgement.” Huey Foo sucked through his teeth. “Young, yes. Handsome, yes. Play dangerous game. Not understand rule of game. One day, pay heavy price.”

  “What kind of game?”

  Huey Foo’s forehead furrowed. “Some English word mean foreign envoy protected from Canada law?”

  “Diplomatic immunity?”

  “Yes. Señor Orinoco think break Canada law, no punishment.” He shook his head. “Maybe true. But many wolves and tigers outside law. No protection for Señor Orinoco.”

  “Wolves and tigers?”

  “Canada law is safe path through jungle. Stay on path, law protect you. Even break law, diplomat man protected. Step off path, no law, only — as you say in English — ‘law of jungle.’ Señor Orinoco is small potato. Play dangerous game with big potato. Pain to come.”

  “What law does he break?”

  “Señor Orinoco travel New York City often. To trade Cuban cigar or rum? To see Broadway show? Don’t think so.”

  “Then why?”

  “Smuggler man.”

  “What does he smuggle?”

  “Small thing. Easy to carry but high value.”

  “Like what?”

  “Heroin. Cocaine. Diamond. Ruby.”

  “Does he move these things into or out of Canada?”

  Huey Foo threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Kitchen door swing both way.”

  “But he’d lose his job if he were caught.”

  “No fear. Diplomat man own special red passport. Not searched when he cross border.”

  “Why would he engage in smuggling?”

  “Vice-consul job have poor pay. Señor Orinoco have rich taste.”

  “For what?”

  “Fine clothes. Best hotel. Cuban politics. Señor Orinoco rent two apartment in Ottawa. Man only sleep in one bed each night. Why rent two apartment?”

  “Two? Where?”

  “One near you in Balmoral Arms. Sixth floor. One close by at 89 Murray Street.”

  “Does smuggling pay that well?”

  “Cuban in Canada lose passport, go to consul office to get new one. Some say Señor Orinoco sell passport to non-Cuban under table.”

  “That’s it? Smuggling and forging passports?”

  “Diplomat attend many meeting, many social event with high official. Hear private talk. Can sell information. Very dangerous if information not correct.”

  “Don’t you sell information?”

  “Never. Listen, yes. Gather, yes. Never sell.” Huey Foo spat out some tobacco caught on his tongue. “I buy, sell only thing I can see. Like food, like cleaning service. Can’t see information. Can’t know information true. Not true, bad value. Buyer very unhappy.”

  Huey Foo looked Frances directly in the eye. “Señor Orinoco not bad man.” He shook his head. “But Señor Orinoco ‘not understand’ man. Like child. In-no-cent. In-no-cent man much more dangerous than evil man. Stay away, Miss Fran.”

  “Innocent of . . . ?”

  “Smuggling very old business. Many gang work smuggling road long time. Señor Orinoco new at this game. Very foolish to compete with gang. Maybe diplomat escape law. Diplomat not escape gang. Gang not care fig for diplomat im-mun-i-ty. Gang care make money. I think very soon, ‘So long Señor Orinoco.’”

  “He’ll leave town?”

  “Leave Ottawa. Leave smuggling business. Leave information-selling business. Maybe leave world.”

  Frances’s eyes widened. “Do you think that Señor Orinoco and Mr. Courchene might work together as partners?”

  Huey Foo thought a long moment and absently blew smoke rings. “No. Both criminal, yes, but play different game. Cat is athlete. Climb drainpipe to rob empty house. Very good at this. Little education, but smart. Señor Orinoco smuggle, forge, sell information. Different game.”

  “You suggested there was a second reason to avoid Señor Orinoco. Besides his ‘dangerous innocence’?”

  Huey Foo gave Frances his serene Buddha smile. “Many Chinese folk story about . . . I think you say shape-shifting?”

  “Shape-shifting?”

  “Yes. Popular idea in folk tale. Explain unexplainable. Person change shape by magic. To animal. To other person.”

  “Why?”

  “Big advantage. Warrior change to old woman to hide from enemy. Girl change to fox to run from attacker.”

  “Señor Orinoco changes into an animal?”

  “No, no.” Hughie Foo smiled. “Hard to explain. One time, Señor Orinoco come Bluebird Café for lunch. Carry small suitcase. Kitchen door window have one-way glass. Cook see into restaurant, customer see mirror only, not see into kitchen. I see Señor Orinoco pay bill, go to washroom beside kitchen door. But Señor Orinoco not come out of washroom. Pretty woman with long hair and pretty dress come out of washroom. Walk out of restaurant. Shape-shift. Like Chinese myth story.”

  -9-

  Vice-consul

  Corporal Taggart from Major Philpott’s office called Frances to ask if she would mind postponing their seven o’clock session for twenty-four hours. The major was required at headquarters all evening. Mind? It was like having a tooth extraction postponed. Frances treated herself to a movie at the Roxy, The Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart. She loved the antics of Sam Spade, the tough-minded sleuth with a keen moral compass. Sam’s help would be handy in Ottawa right now.

  Chained to the city by the major’s decree and the Victory Bond launch, Frances swaddled herself in her winter coat and a wool hat that mercifully covered her ears. Her fleecelined boots squeaked on the packed snow as she struggled along the sidewalk into the Bank of Canada the next morning. Brendan, Bridget, Maddie and Claire hummed like a Rolls Royce with the governor in residence. When he was absent, a playfulness tickled through the secretariat. Teasing increased and they took turns bringing in treats for morning break. There was no disrespect, particularly towards Frances, whom they all still addressed as “miss.” Nor did responsibilities go unmet, but urgency was dialled back, like the cooling down lap after a horse had run a fast race. Brendan and Maddie had a jigsaw puzzle going on a card table in the MBO to work at during breaks.

  “Hey, miss! You’re supposed to be on holiday,” said Brendan, looking up from a puzzle picture of two ships of the line engaged in full cannonade on the open seas. “You don’t trust us to hold the fort?”

  “These officers have me on a short leash. I might as well tidy up a few things while I wait for a reprieve.”

  Frances walked down the hall to see how Scotty Meldrum was holding his ground as point man with the governor gone. “Tickety-boo here, Miss McFadden,” he beamed. She hadn’t doubted it. According to the Bank Act, the deputy and the governor shared the same job description, ensuring a smooth transition “in the event of unforeseen developments,” as the governor’s death was euphemistically phrased.

  Scotty enthusiastically outlined the speech he was planning to give at the Victory Bond launch. When she returned from the deputy governor’s office, Bridget told her that Inspector Hollingsworth had called but left no message. Frances phoned the inspector’s office, but he was out. He reached her just before lunch.

  “An interesting but unfortunate development, Miss McFadden,” he said.

  “Concerning?”

  “Señor Orinoco. The Cuban vice-consul you were so enamoured with yesterday?”

  “I believe that was your interpretation, Inspector.”

  “Well, too late for a romantic attachment, I’m afraid. They found his body this morning in Gatineau Park.”

  “Dead?” A jarring thought, even though Frances only knew the man from a fleeting glance at youthful vigour in the office portrait photo.

  “Yes. Appears to have fallen down a cliff while cross-country skiing. A dog-walker found the body hanging upside down in a Norway pine this morning and called the Hull police. Bernie Gagnon, the Hull desk sergeant, and I are old poker bud
dies. His usual beat is domestic disputes, drunks and stolen bicycles. When he checked the victim’s ID, he called me right away — dead diplomats being a bit out of his league. There’d been a frozen pipe burst in the Hull morgue and the place was awash in eight inches of water, so he wanted to send the body over to the Ottawa morgue. I got in touch with Sergeant Scobie and he’s handling the transfer.

  “Somebody tipped off the papers and reporters have been pestering both Gagnon and Scobie for details. Dead bodies are big news. We’ve held them off temporarily with ‘young man, non-Canadian, skiing accident, next of kin being notified.’ They’ll want more flesh for the late afternoon editions.”

  “Accidental death?”

  “Looks like he missed a turn in the dark on the ski trail that runs along the top of the ridge. Appears to have fallen down the cliff head first and broken his neck. Still had one ski on.”

  “What, pray tell, was a Cuban diplomat doing skiing in the Gatineau Hills at night?”

  “I like that about you, Miss McFadden. The good questions. Even Sergeant Scobie admits that.”

  “Yeah, not bad for a dame.”

  “Remember Señorita Gonzalez mentioned that Orinoco had a diplomatic function last night? Well, it was a moonlight ski to Keogan Lodge for mulled wine and cheese, put on by the social committee of the diplomatic corps. A Mrs. Bower-Bins at the British High Commission organized it. I left a message for her to call me.”

  “Did you notify the Cuban consulate?”

  “I did. Señorita Gonzalez laughed right out loud. ‘Impossible!’ she said. So I read her the driver’s licence found on the corpse. That drained the laughter from her voice. I told her we needed someone to come down to the morgue and make a positive identification, then notify the next of kin. She felt the consul should handle it. But Señor Hernandez had waited three weeks for a meeting with C.D. Howe and a batch of officials from the Ministry of Trade. That’s where he was scheduled to be for most of the day. She was going to try to get through to him. I urged haste, as an autopsy will be necessary. That’s where we stand. I’ll keep you posted on developments if you like.”