Carbon Copy Page 8

  “Apartment 606 at the Balmoral Arms was my friend Anna Deloitte’s place. I’ve been there many times. It’s a two-bedroom apartment. She ran a small business out of her home and used the second bedroom as an office.”

  “God Almighty! If three men from Military Intelligence can’t tell if an apartment has one bedroom or two, we might as well surrender to the Germans.”

  “Interested in checking the place out on the q.t. ?”

  “Break and enter, Miss McFadden? Please remember I’m an officer of the law.”

  “Oh really? And where was this ‘officer of the law’ costume when I purloined that cigar band from Sergeant Scobie’s Crown evidence? ‘In for a penny,’ Inspector . . . I’ve got a key to Anna’s place. I used to water her plants when she travelled. I think I’ll drop in and see how the African violets are doing. I could use an assistant, water being as heavy as it is, and me just a dame. Go through the garage and up the back stairs to the sixth floor. I’ll meet you there.”

  In the deserted hallway Frances turned the key in the lock of 606. The place was obsessively neat. It looked as though no one actually lived there. Every surface was dusted and polished. Ashtrays were clean and wastepaper baskets empty. There was not one stray newspaper or magazine anywhere. The kitchen was spotless. Frances found the spoons in the kitchen cutlery drawer nestled perfectly into each other, as were the forks. Glasses in the cupboard were aligned in crisp ranks by size and shape. There were only a few clothes in the bedroom closet. A dressing gown and slippers. Two folded sweaters. Three laundered shirts on hangers. The bathroom medicine cabinet held only Brylcreem, aspirin, a toothbrush and a bottle of Old Spice aftershave.

  “Remember Señor Orinoco’s office at the Cuban consulate?” said Frances. “It was an ungodly mess. This place is in apple-pie order. Could the same person who worked there live here?”

  “Another good question. Sergeant Scobie would be proud.” said the inspector before adding, “I only see one bedroom.”

  A foot beyond the bathroom door the hall terminated in a built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Frances pointed. “The second bedroom was down there.”

  The bookcase was jammed with cloth-bound editions except for a bust of Pallas Athena wedged in at waist height. Frances tried to lift it, but it was fixed to the shelf. When she twisted it clockwise there was a soft click and the whole bookcase swung backwards away from them.

  “Secret passage!” exclaimed the inspector like a kid who’d found a stray cookie.

  Frances stepped past the bookcase into the hidden room. To the right, a typewriter sat on a small desk. Next to it, two cane-back chairs faced a double keyhole vanity under a large mirror. There was a sink in the corner and a daybed nestled under the window. Built-in closets with louvred doors filled the left wall. When Frances opened the first closet, a light illuminated the interior. Before her were what looked like duplicate sets of women’s clothes — skirts, dresses, suits, blouses, slacks, sweaters — arranged by colour. Some were on red coat-hangers, some were on blue hangers. There were two shoe racks underneath. On the right rack were eight pairs of neatly polished women’s shoes. The left rack mirrored the right, with eight scuffed but identical pairs. Narrow drawers on each side held socks, underwear, gloves, handkerchiefs and scarves. Some brassieres were padded, some were not; otherwise, everything was identical. On two upper shelves, twelve mannequin heads held paired hats or identical sets of wigs in different colours and hair styles.

  They moved to the next closet to find a parallel arrangement in men’s clothing on colour-coded coat hangers with shoes on racks below. One shoe pair in each style was fitted with a padded liner as if to accommodate a slightly smaller foot.

  “Impressive!” exclaimed Inspector Hollingsworth. “At home, I can barely find a matching pair of socks.” He fingered the fabric of a suit jacket. “High-quality duds.”

  Frances looked for a label in the back of several pieces of clothing. “No labels,” she said. “Custom tailored.” She walked across to the wide makeup table beneath the mirror. The right side was meticulously neat. The left side was a shambles. Two drawers were filled with eye liners, lipsticks, rouges, mascaras, cold cream. The drawer on the right was pristinely ordered, the other a hodgepodge.

  Frances sat down on the daybed. “Señor Orinoco appears to have liked multiple clothing options.”

  “And another person appears to have completely harmonized tastes,” replied the inspector. “Jeez Louise! Halloween every day.”

  “He could be in two places at once,” said Frances. “With a carbon copy, he could look after twice as many social obligations.”

  “Or rob a bank with a perfect alibi elsewhere.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth began rummaging in the desk drawers while Frances lifted down a large photo album from a shelf above the bed. “Ah! Here’s part of the answer,” she said, reading a caption under a baby photograph. “Carlota Maria and Carlos Fernando born May 28, 1915.”

  “Twins?”

  “Close to identical. I can’t tell who’s who.”

  Pictures of a large Spanish-style home with a tile roof and stucco walls. Palm trees in the background. Large family groupings with young children, two of whom were the same size. Then pictures of the twins together in swimsuits captioned “Carlota and Carlos, Varadero, 1921.” Identical smiles, identical sizes, one with shoulder-length hair, the other with a dishevelled mop. Photos of them walking holding hands, standing arm in arm, playing leapfrog. Then a picture of the two, perhaps twelve years old, dressed as identical bull fighters. Slightly older, they were identical large-bosomed señoritas, then farmers under sombreros, then indistinguishable nuns. All with different dates and locations and events. “Carlota and Carlos at the Diegos’ New Year’s Masquerade — 1932.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth was unearthing treasures from the desk drawers. “Well, well, well,” he said as he set up neat little piles on the desk top. “These two collected passports like some people collect matchboxes. In addition to Cuban diplomatic and regular passports are British, Spanish, American and Colombian passports in various names and genders. And,” he added, “bank books in a variety of names with current balances.”

  He pulled out red and blue ink pads and two stamps. He tried each on a piece of typing paper. One said “CONFIDENTIAL,” the other “TOP SECRET.”

  Frances inserted a sheet of paper into the typewriter and dashed off six sentences. She pulled the paper out and examined the print.

  “Well?” asked the inspector.

  “I’d need to compare them directly to Major Philpott’s evidence to be sure, but the script looks very familiar.

  “So, we likely have Carlota in the morgue and Carlos out God knows where. Oh!” Frances added. “Forgot to mention. Señor Orinoco rents another apartment at 89 Murray Street near the market.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Little bird.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth gave her a glare.

  “Remember, Inspector, you’ve got a major and a commander on your side of the table. Not to mention the full force of the law, when you choose to obey it. Little Frances needs the occasional trick up her sleeve.” She smiled demurely. “That said, I’m happy to share another apartment search with you.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth checked his watch. “I’m beat, and the missus will be wondering if I’ve been kidnapped. What say tomorrow morning I fill Sergeant Scobie in on this development and ask him to pick up Señorita Gonzalez for questioning. She was certainly not very forthcoming yesterday. A chat with a city cop about a mysterious death investigation might open her up. I’m sure he’d let us watch the show behind the one-way glass in the interview room. Then we’ll check the accident scene and what’s-her-name at the British High Commission.”

  “Sour-Sins?”

  “I think it was Bower-Bins. Then 89 Murray Street. You up for all that, miss?”

  “On holiday but shackled to the city by Major Philpott? I think I can clear my calendar.�
�

  Frances felt like a voyeur, eyeing the exchange hidden from view. It was quite the tennis match. Sergeant Scobie shot a question across the net; Señorita Gonzalez fired it right back. Ball quickly out of her court. Anxious and edgy, she didn’t hide her distaste for being there.

  “Full name?”

  “Marta Maria Gonzalez.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Marital status?”

  “Widow.”

  “You seem young to be a widow.”

  “There isn’t an age requirement.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Office manager. Cuban consulate.”

  “How long?”

  “Six years.”

  “Since the consulate opened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you enter consular service?”

  “Widows need to eat.”

  “Why Canada?”

  “I speak English and French.”

  “Your English is excellent. Is it common for Cuban women to speak three languages?”

  “My mother was American. She had a French maid.”

  “That’s all it took?”

  “Then a degree in languages at the University of Havana.”

  “Did you know Señor Orinoco in Cuba?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what capacity?”

  Her eyes shot lightning back at Sergeant Scobie. “As a Cuban.”

  “Did you know that Señor Orinoco went skiing Tuesday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “He told you?”

  “I keep the appointment book.”

  “Did he often take part in social events?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he a social person?”

  “It was part of his job.”

  “Was he an experienced skier?”

  “It never snows in Cuba.”

  “I take that as a ‘no’?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “Was it surprising that he would go on a ski outing then?”

  “No. He’s athletic.”

  Sergeant Scobie didn’t disclose the gender of the dead body and the rally quickly ended. He let her go and joined them in the viewing room. He shook his head as he lit a cigarette. “You heard the expression ‘scared shitless’? Little miss sophisticated Cuban señorita here? That’s what scared shitless looks like. I’ve seen it often enough to know.”

  “Scared of?” asked the inspector.

  “Ending up on a slab in the morgue like that other dame. For sure, the señorita knows something she’s not telling.”

  “Maybe something she wishes she didn’t know,” said Frances.

  “Maybe somebody warned her to keep her mouth buttoned,” continued the sergeant. “I doubt we can get her to say anything on the record. Confronted by the cops, people go one of two ways. Some spill the beans, some clam up.” He blew smoke out through his nose while reflecting. “But, just maybe, Miss McFadden,” he said, addressing Frances by name for the first time, “maybe a little girl talk might pry the truth out of our shy señorita. Care to give it a whirl?”

  “Job one would be to convince her that if she talks, she won’t end up dead,” said the inspector.

  “Whaddaya think?” added the sergeant. “Some hoochiekoochie going on between the señorita and Orinoco?”

  “She was clearly upset,” said the inspector.

  “Yes,” said Frances, “but it didn’t read as sorry-I-lost-mylover upset. Fear was melting the polish off her fingernails. She was ‘somebody’s-going-to-kill-me-slowly-and-painfully’ upset.”

  “She might be right,” said the inspector. “She must know that Orinoco really isn’t dead. That that body was Carlota’s. She scoffed when I phoned her with the news of the death.”

  “Because she’d just seen Orinoco?” asked Sergeant Scobie.

  “That’s my guess. Strange, though. If Orinoco is still out there somewhere, why hasn’t he come forward to clear up the mistake and claim his dead sister?”

  “Maybe ‘the mistake’ is the only reason he’s still alive,” said Frances.

  “You think this death was suspicious?” asked the sergeant.

  Inspector Hollingsworth sucked the flame of a kitchen match down into his pipe bowl. “Dead woman dressed like a man? Man a person of interest in an espionage investigation? Man with half a dozen passports and a dozen disguises? The word ‘suspicious’ does come to mind.”

  “If Gonzalez is willing to help us, can we offer her any protection?” asked Frances.

  “I could probably pull some strings to get her quietly out of the country,” said Inspector Hollingsworth. “There’s a war on. Cuba is an ally. Don’t want a diplomatic fuss. Bereaved colleague. One of those levers should work.”

  “Care to join us, Sergeant?” asked Frances. “Bring your galoshes. We’re going over to check out the accident scene, bottom of the cliff, top of the cliff, Keogan Lodge. Then we’ll chat up this social organizer of the ski hike at the British High Commission, Mrs. Dower-Dins . . . ”

  “Bower-Bins.”

  “Right. After that, I’m willing to meet with Señorita Gonzalez, femme à femme, if you want. See if I can squeeze anything out of her in return for a free pass out of town.” Frances reflected. “I wouldn’t mind a free pass out of town myself.”

  “What about Major Philpott?” asked Inspector Hollingsworth. “Shouldn’t I keep him abreast of developments?”

  “Developments?” Frances snorted. “Has the major’s mind developed at all? He’s decided forever and ever amen that McFadden is the guilty party. All this other stuff is baloney. Why taint his delusions with the truth?”

  -12-

  Keogan Lodge

  Inspector Hollingsworth gave his poker buddy a call and Sergeant Gagnon was waiting when they arrived at the Hull police station. On the ride, Sergeant Scobie was filled in on room 606 at the Balmoral Arms.

  “God!” said Scobie. “We’ve gone from a Cuban cigar band to a dead diplomat to a secret costume warehouse. And it ain’t even ten o’clock.”

  Gagnon greeted Scobie and glanced at Frances in the back seat. “Miss McFadden and I are working together on a case that involves the deceased,” volunteered Inspector Hollingsworth without mentioning the dead body’s gender.

  Gagnon navigated as they drove up the Fortune Lake Road to the accident scene. The road curved between snow-laden pine trees, pretty as a Christmas card. “This Orinoco must have been some dumb cluck to ski over a cliff on a moonlit night,” he said.

  “Or completely pissed,” added Scobie. “That embassy crowd has unlimited access to duty-free booze.”

  “Are these moonlight ski parties a regular thing?” asked the inspector.

  “A couple a month, when the moon’s near full and there’s a clear sky,” explained Gagnon. “There are three lodges on the groomed trails. Just shacks, really. Skiers can book one through the ranger station. People meet in the parking lot and ski in laden with wineskins and treats. Get a fire roaring in the wood stove and carouse till the goodies are gone, then ski out.”

  “Anything unusual about this mishap?”

  “Other than a dead diplomat dangling from an evergreen like a Christmas ornament? Nope.”

  “Who found the body?” asked Scobie.

  “Carpenter named Phil Charlebois lives down the road,” said Gagnon. “Out walking his dog before breakfast yesterday. Dog goes nuts, races through the snow into the trees barking like a maniac. Charlebois figures the mutt has treed a couple of squirrels. Calls. Whistles. Curses. Dog doesn’t come back, so he scrambles through the snowdrifts to give the cur a kick home. Back side of a pine he comes face to face with an upside-down head in ski clothes. Eyes wide open. Nostrils frosted. Charlebois knew the guy had to be dead. Goes home and calls the station. I come up in the paddy wagon with a couple of constables. Checked for a pulse in the neck. Nothing. Had an awful time getting the body disentangled from the tree branches. Loaded him into the wagon and checked f
or ID. When I saw he’s a dip, I called Scobie ’cause a frozen pipe burst in our morgue flooding the floor and your side of the river would need to close the case anyway. Scobie sent an ambulance over to pick up the body and take it to the Ottawa morgue. The end.”

  There had been substantial disturbance in the knee-deep snow. “You shoulda worn higher boots,” said Gagnon, who had taken the precaution. “You’re all going to get wet socks and very cold feet slogging through this.”

  “Looks like a herd of moose been rutting here,” said Scobie. Broken branches traced the path of the body’s descent.

  “No point in searching for car keys until spring,” Frances said to the inspector.

  They looked up the steep cliff face. “Can’t be more than a hundred feet to the top,” observed Scobie. “Be a hell of a climb to get up there from here.”

  “Your guys check the top of the cliff?” asked the inspector.

  “Nope,” said Gagnon. “It’s a twenty-minute drive around the mountain to the parking lot where the ski trails start. Then you have to hike in. You that interested?”

  The inspector looked at Frances, and the other two followed suit. She nodded. “Just curious,” she said, although her feet were damp and freezing.

  They drove around to the parking lot, where there were already five cars sitting at one end. They picked up a map from a rack and followed the signs down a well-packed trail to Keogan Lodge. A cold, empty timber rectangle with a cement floor. Battered pine tables with simple benches stood on each side of a central stove. A trail headed west past two outhouses, then ran parallel to the top of the cliff face a hundred yards away. Sets of ski tracks flanked by the marking of ski pole baskets left the trail to the abrupt edge of the cliff where there was confusion in the snow, including a fan shape where one or more skiers had turned and returned to the trail. The light snow that had fallen overnight blurred the markings.

  “Hard to tell if these ski tracks were made at the same time. Did Orinoco see tracks leaving the main trail and come over to investigate?” said Sergeant Gagnon.

  “Or did someone come this way later looking for Orinoco?” suggested the inspector.

  “Or did someone accompany Orinoco to the cliff edge?” wondered Frances.