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  “I’d like.”

  At four o’clock, Inspector Hollingsworth called back. “I’m at the morgue right now with Sergeant Scobie and Dr. Thompson. You won’t believe it.”

  “Another development?”

  “I’ll say. Look, we’ve got another star chamber show with Major Philpott tonight at seven. Can we meet first at the Chateau Laurier for dinner? There’s a new consideration for your resourceful mind.”

  “No clues?”

  “I want to see your face when you hear this one.”

  “You think that my insatiable curiosity will lure me deeper into this mess?”

  “You know me too well,” said the inspector.

  Frances walked through the front door of the Chateau Laurier just as bundles of the late editions of the Ottawa Citizen were coming into the lobby news stand. The bold headline on the front page proclaimed, “Diplomat Dies in Skiing Accident.” A brief article ended with “further details will be released after next of kin have been notified.”

  Frances’s affinity for the Canadian Grill at the Chateau Laurier went back a long way. Not only was it the best dining room in Ottawa, but Dr. Grace had hired her right there after a wine-soaked lunch to help set up the archives for the Bank of Canada back in 1934. An embarrassing image flashed before Frances’s eyes — her youthful self in knee socks and plaid pleated skirt. Time changes many things.

  “Mademoiselle McFadden!” exclaimed Henri, the veteran maître d’, “so good to see a cheerful face in these sombre times. Dr. Grace’s window table is taken, I’m sorry to say . . . ” His voice trailed off as though he’d just been caught pawning the family silver.

  “Actually, Henri, one of the alcove tables with the swag curtains would suit me better tonight. Inspector Hollingsworth of the Mounted Police will be joining me shortly.”

  “Of course, Mademoiselle,” he said with a neutral nod that conveyed both relief and mild puzzlement. He escorted her to the farthest corner of the expansive dining room. Frances was pouring soda into her iced Macallan when the inspector dropped into the seat across from her. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow, an unusual sight in Ottawa in February. He ordered a drink and shook his head. “What was it that Alice said in Wonderland? ‘Things keep getting curiouser and curiouser’?

  “Señor Hernandez called this afternoon and I gave him the few details I had about the accident. He agreed to come right down to the morgue to identify the body before contacting next of kin. Tough task. Unexpected death of a young man in a foreign country. Orinoco couldn’t have been out of his twenties. Oh, by the way, he was your neighbour. According to his driver’s licence, he lived on the sixth floor of the Balmoral Arms.”

  “I thought so!” said Frances. “Anna Deloitte told me she had sublet her apartment to a Cuban diplomat.”

  “Ever bump into him?”

  “Not that I recall. I’d remember that handsome face. But my hours are crazy — I’m gone early and home late.”

  “I called Major Philpott with the news,” continued the inspector. “He wasn’t much interested even after I mentioned the cigar band connection. Said he’d have his men check out the apartment. He sees Orinoco as another red herring, like Cat Courchene. You still hold centre stage for him. My phone isn’t down ten seconds when Doc Thomson calls me from the city morgue. Wants me to come down immediately.” The inspector shook his head, took a deep drink, then laughed. “My mother said there’d be days like this.”

  “What?” beseeched Frances. “Don’t torture me!”

  “I got there to find Scobie had been summoned as well. Dr. Thompson introduced us to a female intern, Dr. Cornell, who has been placed with him on a one-month rotation. When Señor Hernandez arrived for the ID, they took us into the mortuary. Cold, creepy place. Stink of formaldehyde. Brutal lighting. A body lay on a metal gurney covered by a white sheet. Thompson folded the sheet back to expose the face. We all looked at Hernandez, who gulped, then nodded his head twice. After a few seconds, the doc gave a Mandrake-the-Magician flourish and swept the sheet off the naked corpse.

  “Guess what? The dead man is a woman.”

  -10-

  Naked Truth

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” said Frances.

  “Join the club.” Inspector Hollingsworth drained his Macallan and twirled his forefinger towards the waiter for another round. “The body they found carrying the driver’s licence of Cuban vice-consul Carlos Orinoco was female.”

  “Nobody twigged to this earlier?”

  “Easy mistake. Bulky winter clothing, and according to the doc, the chest tightly sheathed in a corset. Toque pulled down over the ears. Facial features androgynous. No jewellery. No makeup. No plucked eyebrows. I gotta say, even dead it was a handsome face. Spitting image of that portrait we saw in the vice-consul’s office. Assigning a gender to the face in the morgue really depended on the hair style, which was Brylcreemed into a man’s pompadour.”

  “What did Señor Hernandez have to say?”

  “Hernandez collapsed into a chair against the wall. His mouth opened and closed like a drowning guppy.” Inspector Hollingsworth had a compassionate laugh. “I felt sorry for the guy, but Scobie and I could hardly keep straight faces. Here’s this hoity-toity diplomat in a three-piece suit. Thinks his second-in-command is toes up on a morgue gurney in a foreign country. Almost teared up identifying the face. And poof! Orinoco’s a woman.

  “While we waited for him to recover, Doc Thompson and Dr. Cornell got into a bun toss over the cause of death. Thompson pointed to the corpse’s distorted neck and hypothesized that death was likely from a broken neck. But Cornell reminded us that it had been a very cold night and hypothermia might be the cause. Thompson smiled and commented that Cornell, being a product of the new school of medicine, values scientific evidence over indoor conclusion-jumping. They were going to complete the autopsy tonight, with coffee and a doughnut riding on the outcome.

  “Hernandez found his voice and asked how many people knew we were dealing with a woman’s body. Doc Thompson confirmed it was just the five of us in the room. Hernandez wanted to keep it that way, but I reminded him that autopsies are public documents. Thompson can’t falsify information. That’s illegal and unethical. He’d lose his licence.

  “Hernandez, ever the diplomat, said he had no wish to compromise the integrity of a professional physician. However, he was quite concerned that this development would be a tremendous embarrassment to the Cuban government should it become public. The death had already made the local news and revealing the body’s gender would make Cuba a laughing stock.

  “I asked Hernandez if he believed the Carlos Orinoco who came to work every day at the consulate was a man. Absolutely, he said.

  “Scobie reminded Hernandez that he had just mis-identified the face and wondered aloud if he might have been mistaken. Hernandez wrestled with this and said that Señorita Gonzalez, the office manager, would know for sure as Orinoco was her intimate friend. He did not say ‘lover’ or ‘mistress.’

  “So Scobie jabs a finger at the corpse and asks, ‘Well, who’s this, then?’

  “Hernandez shakes his head. ‘I cannot say for certain. I know Señor Orinoco had a sister. I’ve never met her, but perhaps . . . ’

  “We tried to figure out a way to help the poor guy. Scobie said that he’d have to release something to the press soon, or they’d get very suspicious. He could refer to ‘diplomatic sensitivity’ and leave details vague.

  “Doc Thompson reminded us about the public nature of an autopsy report, so I said I’d check with my superiors, but in the interests of national security concerning an ally during wartime, blah, blah, blah . . . I could request that parts of the autopsy be redacted for the duration. Keep the death notice simple and direct all inquiries to my office.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth pulled a folded sheet of paper from his suitcoat pocket and handed it to Frances.

  Carlos Fernando Orinoco, vice-consul at the Cuban consulate, was killed in a tragic
ski accident on the night of February 17th. He apparently became disoriented in the dark and fell to his death down the steep cliff near Keogan Lodge.

  The body will be cremated and repatriated to Cuba. Letters of condolence may be left at the Cuban consulate on Wilbrod Street.

  “When Scobie and I left, he turns to me and says, ‘You know, something like this is impossible to keep quiet.’”

  “Like now, for example?” smiled Frances.

  “Hey! Quid pro quo. This conversation didn’t take place, did it?”

  “Of course not, Inspector.”

  The waiter came by and they ordered dinner but held off on a third round of drinks.

  “Did you ask Señor Hernandez about the Montecristo cigars?”

  “Yup. He doesn’t keep any at home. He hasn’t noticed any missing from his office.”

  “Did you examine the corpse’s personal effects?” asked Frances.

  “No,” said the inspector. “Why?”

  “Women carry different things in their pockets than men do. Exactly how manly was this woman trying to be?”

  “Well, the two docs will be working on the autopsy right now. We could drop in on our way to meet Major Philpott.”

  “Let’s. Are you going to tell the major about this development?”

  “Why not?”

  “Major Philpott gets confused by a traffic light. Imagine tossing this gender blender into the mix. If Señor Orinoco is the source of the fake letters, we need to nail down that proof before the trail gets cold. And if the body carrying the ID of Señor Orinoco is not Señor Orinoco, where in the world is Señor Orinoco?”

  “The good questions, Miss McFadden!”

  “One other thought,” added Frances. “Did you check the accident scene?”

  “Check it for what?”

  “I don’t know. Check to make sure it was an accident.”

  “You think it wasn’t an accident?”

  “You’re the crime guy, Inspector. I’m just a bank clerk. It is highly coincidental, or quite inconvenient, depending on your point of view, to have our key link in an espionage case suddenly end up dead.”

  “You have a very suspicious mind, Miss McFadden.”

  “I’ve been spending too much time around Major Philpott.”

  At the General Hospital morgue, doctors Thompson and Cornell were hard at work, swathed in large latex aprons and rubber gloves. “Nothing conclusive yet,” said Dr. Thompson. “Personal effects? Check that shoebox on the desk.”

  There wasn’t much. A wallet containing a driver’s licence, fifteen dollars in bills and sixty-five cents in change. A white handkerchief, which Frances ran under her nose before shaking her head. “No Old Spice,” she said. Half a roll of Life Savers, a torn ticket from the Capitol Theatre, several Kleenexes. The end.

  “Doesn’t tell us much,” said the inspector.

  “Notice anything missing?” asked Frances.

  The inspector studied the pile, then shook his head.

  “Dump the contents of your pockets on the table.”

  The inspector winced. “I have to get to the major’s inquisition well before you . . . ”

  “Won’t take thirty seconds.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth shrugged and obliged. Wallet. Handkerchief. Laundry ticket. Cough drops. Folded magnifying glass. Keys . . .

  “Funny,” he said. “No keys for apartment or car. Could have fallen out as she went down the cliff, I suppose . . . ”

  “Get your snow boots out and pick me up at seven tomorrow morning, Inspector. We’ll have a look at the accident scene. Bottom of the cliff. Top of the cliff. Then I’ll tag along for your chat with Miss Power-Pins if you don’t mind.”

  “Bower-Bins. Goodness, Miss McFadden! You’re developing quite a penchant for investigation. Should I swear you in as an acting detective?”

  “I have a vested interest in solving this and getting Major Philpott off my back and onto someone else’s. Speaking of . . . we should go.”

  “You know that I can’t help you in there. I need to appear scrupulously impartial during these interviews, or our little subterfuge is up.”

  “Don’t worry. An army major, a British navy commander, and an RCMP inspector up against a female bank clerk? Sounds like an even match to me.”

  Twenty minutes later, Inspector Hollingsworth answered her knock on the door of room 25 at the Shefford Apartments. “Evening, Miss McFadden. Good of you to arrive so promptly.” In the dining room she was greeted by a genial nod of the pipe from Commander Evans and the eternal frown of Major Philpott.

  “Miss McFadden,” began the major, “let me impress upon you the urgency of this investigation. We are at war with a brutal enemy. We must strain every fibre to win.”

  “I am straining every fibre, Major,” Frances replied in a tone that might have hinted at mockery had the major had his antennae up.

  “I’m due to be posted out of Ottawa any day now. While it will be a blessing to escape this godawful cold, I want this mess cleared up before my replacement arrives.” He checked the fractious file yet again. “I fail to see how this Orinoco connection impacts the case at all.”

  “Well, Major,” Inspector Hollingsworth replied, “the letters were found at the home of a man who has done time for burglary. He claims not to know where they came from. The letters are fairly sophisticated and likely beyond his capacity to forge. He may be lying, or someone else may actually have placed the stolen articles in his back shed.”

  “Why?”

  “To hide them? To incriminate Mr. Courchene? Who knows? The other goods might have some value at a pawn shop, but not the letters. Therefore, it is unlikely that the letters were stolen intentionally, but they might have been quickly dumped from an over-turned drawer or silverware case, or . . . cigar humidor. If Mr. Courchene stole them, he can’t tell us where they came from without confessing to the crime, earning himself a long stay in Kingston Penitentiary. If he didn’t steal them, then he really doesn’t know the source.

  “A lucky break came when we found that the cigars in the stolen goods were an expensive Cuban brand, Montecristos, unavailable to the general public in Canada. Only two people had easy access to them, the Cuban consul and the vice-consul. The consul, Señor Hernandez, is a career diplomat. He is unlikely to moonlight as a cat burglar or document forger. He told me at the morgue that he does not keep Montecristos at home and has not noticed any missing from his office. This leaves only one probable source of the cigars, and hence, the letters — the vice- consul, Señor Orinoco. Had he hidden the fake letters in the bottom of his cigar humidor? That seems, right now, to be the most likely hypothesis. Where did he get them? Why was he hiding them? What was he going to do with them? Unfortunately, Señor Orinoco can no longer answer these questions.”

  “You’re grasping at straws,” said the major. “I searched Orinoco’s apartment this afternoon. No humidor. Not even the scent of cigar smoke.”

  “That was quick work,” said Commander Evans.

  “I had Murphy and Dobbs from our forensic unit with me. It doesn’t take long to search a one-bedroom apartment.”

  “This is apartment 606 at the Balmoral Arms?” asked Frances.

  “Yes. Nothing of note.”

  “A one-bedroom apartment?”

  “Are you deaf, Miss McFadden? Yes! A one-bedroom apartment. The Orinoco goose chase is at a dead end. We need to refocus.”

  The phone rang and Major Philpott went out into the hall to answer it. He was back in less than a minute. “General Crerar requires me at headquarters immediately,” he said, pretending to be annoyed. He did not add “for my advice on the salvation of the free world,” but that was implied.

  “Inspector Hollingsworth and I could carry on interviewing Miss McFadden, if you wish,” offered Commander Evans.

  The major did not wish. He wanted to be in on the kill. “Thank you, no, Commander. We will adjourn until tomorrow night at seven. I want this wrapped up then, Miss McFadden, or yo
u’ll force my hand to measures that you will not like.”

  Frances shook her head. “Can’t be here, Major. I’ve cleared three evenings for your interrogation sessions, but tomorrow night I’m required to help with the Bank of Canada’s launch of the new Victory Bonds at the Cartier Drill Hall.”

  “I insist you be here! There’s a war on, dammit.”

  “Governor Towers is out of town. I’m to assist Deputy Governor Meldrum with the logistical details of the bond release.”

  “What a coincidence,” said Commander Evans with a pleasant smile. “I’ll be attending the gala as part of the British embassy delegation.”

  “A triple coincidence,” added Inspector Hollingsworth. “Commissioner Wood has asked me to represent the RCMP. I’ll be there in full dress uniform.”

  Major Philpott threw up his hands. “I want you all back here Friday night, sharp at 7:00 p.m. Bloody well be prepared to work until dawn to get this case cleared up.”

  -11-

  Apartment 606

  The street in front of the Shefford was rutted with ice. Frances picked her way cautiously across it and hid in the darkened lobby of the facing apartment building. Minutes later, the three officers emerged, and Major Philpott marched away down Metcalfe Street. Inspector Hollingsworth and Commander Evans both lit pipes under the street light and spoke briefly before parting ways. When the commander turned the corner, she slid along the icy sidewalk to catch up to the inspector.

  “Inspector! A new development!”

  “In ten minutes? You’ve solved the case?”

  “Not quite. Major Philpott claimed he searched Señor Orinoco’s one-bedroom apartment, right?”

  “Right.”