Death in a Darkening Mist Page 12

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  London

  “WE HAVE TO STOP MEETING like this,” the director said mirthlessly. “Especially,” he added, looking around with distaste, “in teashops. How many pubs in this city?” The teashop in question was near the Embankment just off the Strand, on a downhill that looked as if it had never seen the sun and had a tired, smudged air. The windows were dirty, the curtains faded, and the director sniffed suspiciously at the biscuit that accompanied his grey tea.

  “Sorry. I was just following protocol, which, by the by, was your outfit’s bright idea. If I had my way you’d just pop along to the Yard where the lighting is excellent.” They had been unable to get a window seat and were in a corner by the stairs down to the loo.

  “What have you got this time?”

  “We’ve had another envelope from your chum, Darling, in Canada.” Livingston opened the large manila envelope and drew out two photographs, pushing them across to the director. “And again, it seems to be more along your line.”

  Looking closely at each photograph, the director hid the relief he felt. The first showed two very close-up views of a bullet, and the second was a photo of a dead man. “Don’t know him,” he said, pushing the dead man back at Livingston, “but this, yes. I’d know it anywhere. We used this after ’43. It’s for a Welrod Mk11. This thing was designed to use almost any type of ordnance if the agent ran out, but this is the original slug designed for it.”

  Livingston consulted a letter that had come with the photos. “That’s what their source suggested it might be. He’ll be pleased to have that confirmed. Is it possible a Canadian soldier just trousered one of these and took it home after the war?”

  “These were not general issue. They were made for a specific purpose. Handed out to fifth columnists, that sort of thing. They were made for close range, not the average fighting man.”

  “Ah, something for the barbaric activities of your branch.”

  The director ignored the jibe. “What does he mean, their ‘source.’ What ‘source’?”

  “Doesn’t say. And not so fast on the dead man. He’s not Canadian, likely.”

  “No, of course not. Why else would you drag us to this Dickensian place? What is he then?”

  “He’s very possibly a Russian. He was living among some local Russian sect, the Doukhobors, but he might be Soviet. The question is, is he known to you? One of your double agents?”

  Wearily the director took up the photo again and gazed at it. “Well, I don’t know him. I’ll send it round to the Russian desk. Anything else?”

  Livingston scanned the paperwork. “Nope. That’s the lot.”

  The director stood, slurping back the last of his tea; they boiled water for tea, after all. How bad could it be? “Next time, a pub somewhere on the surface, I don’t care what the protocol is. If you are on the phone with Canada, confirm the weapon and I’ll get back as soon as I can whether this man has anything to do with us.”

  In some agitation, the director made his way back to MI5 clutching the envelope. If he was one of theirs, that would mean they didn’t have much of a grip on him, if he was hiding out in Canada. The whole point of being a double agent was to hide out in your own country. Lane was on the Russian desk before she left. Was it something to do with her? Was she acting in some double capacity?

  “Okay, get hold of yourself!” he admonished himself furiously. Lane would have nothing to do with this. He knew her that well. But he was nevertheless relieved when, an hour later, he had confirmed that no one at the Russian desk had ever seen the man. Still, Lane was undoubtedly the “source” of the information about the gun. What else might she be tempted to reveal? He still wished fervently that he had succeeded in getting her back, not for himself, of course, that ship had sailed during the war, but for the country. She was a damn good agent.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  LORENZO WAS DELIGHTED TO SEE them. “Ah, Dottore! And you bring nice young protégé as well. Welcome! Today the missus make gnocchi. Delicious!” He showed them to a table near the kitchen. The restaurant opposite the train station was filling up, and smelled equally of tomato sauce and damp wool. The lean, anti-Italian war years looked like they might finally be beginning to fade. Even just this past the summer, he had still seemed to be suffering from the war-time prejudice. Now Lorenzo was busier than ever. Perhaps the cold was driving the railway and lumber workers in for a good, hot meal.

  Darling and Ames got out of their heavy coats and settled onto chairs. It was still cold outside, but the air had a less clean and more unwelcome damp quality. The road outside the windows was slushy and dirty. If it froze in the night, the roads would be treacherous.

  “Protégé?” asked Ames, putting his hat on the edge of the table.

  “I wouldn’t worry. Lorenzo has a continental view of the world. I wouldn’t protect you if you were in the path of an avalanche.”

  “Good to hear, sir. What are you having?”

  “I suspect we are both having gnocchi.”

  As if Darling had conjured him, Lorenzo appeared with a basket of bread and some water, announcing, “Gnocchi are on their way, sirs. Mrs. Lorenzo is very fond of you, Inspector, she is making it a little special. Extra everything.” He stood gazing at them. “How is not-compliant woman, Inspector?”

  Darling coloured, a circumstance not unnoticed by Ames, who was agog.

  “Seems all right, thank you.” He hoped to get out of it with this stingy response.

  “Is very good she not go back to England, yes? Oop, there is bell. I come back with lunch.” Darling wished now that he had not told Lorenzo in the summer about his concern that Lane’s old handler would pressure her into return to England, and his relief at the end that she had not.

  “We’ve had a call from Wakada. He’ll be here today with the suitcase,” said Darling, pressing on with business.

  “Excellent, sir.”

  “Wipe that smirk off your face, Ames.”

  “I’m not smirking, sir.”

  “I’m not that hopeful about this suitcase. If young Ben Wakada has used it and found nothing in it, I don’t see what use it will really be. I suppose I’m hoping there will be some mark of identification that no one else using it would have thought important.” He dug into his extra-everything gnocchi and felt a momentary wave of bliss.

  “Not-compliant woman?” Ames said, shattering the mood. He knew he had his boss on the ropes, and wanted to be careful not to push his luck, but this was really too good. Clearly Darling had spoken at some time with Lorenzo about Miss Winslow, and while he could resent slightly that he was not his boss’s confidant of choice, he was now certain that Darling liked Miss Winslow, and judging by the fireworks that sometimes erupted between them, he would lay any money that she liked him as well.

  Darling rewarded Ames by ignoring him completely, and instead called Lorenzo over to the table when it looked like there was a momentary break in the service rush. He pulled a chair out and Lorenzo sat down with a sigh of relief. “Lorenzo, you get Russians in here, do you not?”

  “Yes, Russians, Polish, local Indians, everything.”

  “I’m sorry to do this to you at lunchtime, but we are trying to learn anything we can about this man.” Darling reached into his coat and pulled an envelope out of the pocket, from which he produced a small four-inch version of the picture of the dead Strelieff. “Have you ever seen him in here?”

  Lorenzo took the picture and studied it. “I don’t think so, Dottore. Is your new dead guy, eh? No. I can say I’m sure of it. At least not in, say, the last three years.”

  “Thanks anyway.” Darling took the photo and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. “Tell Mrs. Lorenzo that these are delicious. In fact, this lunch is the one thing that has cheered me up on this otherwise miserable day.” Here he looked darkly at Ames.

  BACK AT THE station the desk sergeant handed Darling a message. “London, sir.”

  Darling read the message as he and Ames he
aded upstairs. “It looks like Miss Winslow was right about the gun. The man, however, is not known to either the police or the Intelligence branch. Hmm.” He read further. “That weapon was mainly for the French Resistance and German underground. Designed with silencer and usable at close range. Well, we know that, don’t we? Why would our man be killed by this weapon if he wasn’t some sort of spy? Who else would have one?”

  They were just about to go into Darling’s office when he said brightly, “Ames, have you done your paperwork on the thefts from Mr. Wing’s hardware? No, I can see you haven’t. Why don’t you cut along and do it? I’ll let you know when I need you, there’s a good fellow.” And he went into his office and shut the door.

  Fair enough, thought Ames, barely ruffled, but I know what I know, and he settled down to his paperwork whistling a few bars of “A Fine Romance.”

  Left on his own, Darling sat down and arranged the already meticulously arranged things on his desk, and then got up and stood by his window with his hands in his pockets, looking across the town to Elephant Mountain looming above the opposite shore of the lake. It was cleanly white. Serene from this distance. He felt he was being childish, that if he were more adult he would admit the inadmissible.

  His thoughts turned to Gloria. He had not seen her for six years, not since that embarrassing tea. He still did not know if she had survived the war. Some of the fly girls had been killed when the planes they were delivering had been attacked. How would he feel if he heard now that she’d been killed? Perhaps she was off in Africa flying. He had taken some time to get over her, and finally had talked himself into understanding that it had been nothing, no more important than some lighthearted wartime romance. But it had been hard, because what he learned about himself was that he was not a man for the lighthearted wartime romances. He was an all-or-nothing man. After he had been shot down he simply decided it was irresponsible to risk the emotional life of anyone else in such brittle times. Now he saw it was himself he’d been protecting.

  With something approaching irritation, he felt himself sliding dangerously into the thrall of a woman he’d only known since the summer, who was here recovering from some sort of behind-the-line service in the war, and who, while clearly blindingly intelligent, had accumulated who knew what sort of history in the course of her work. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Ames was being insufferable.

  The phone was a welcome relief. “Yes?” he nearly barked into the receiver.

  “There’s two gentlemen to see you, sir. Japs, sir,” said the desk sergeant.

  “O’Brian, the war’s over. Japanese to you. Apologize and send them up, please.”

  Mr. Wakada and his son, Ben, came in holding two suitcases, one new and the other a battered mate to the one they’d recovered at Strelieff’s house in New Denver. Darling shook hands with them.

  “I’m sorry about my man downstairs. Thank you for coming.”

  “We’ve heard worse. I guess we were hoping we’d get less of it now the war’s over. To be honest, there was plenty of that to be had in Vancouver before the war as well. That’s why the wife and I decided to stay up here. We didn’t want to come here in the first place, and I’ll never get back what I lost, but I ended up making some good friends here. People who are willing to live and let live.”

  Darling invited them to sit down and asked, “How’s school, Ben?”

  “It’s good, sir, thank you. I think Alberta is going to be mighty cold, though! I’d rather go out to the coast, but, well, you know. Nothing doing out there for us.”

  “With any luck, that will not last forever. Thank you for bringing in the suitcase. Your father said you noticed nothing unusual about it.”

  “No, sir. I felt around for a false bottom or something, but nothing.” He stood and put the suitcase on the desk and snapped open the two locks. The inside was revealed to be lined with fabric, with a thin, stiff wooden frame around the perimeter of both the top and bottom. Darling ran his hand along the bottom and closed the case.

  “Strelieff was anxious to have it back. Very odd. It’ll probably do us no good at all, but I certainly thank you for taking the trouble to bring it in. I’d like to compensate you for the purchase of the new one.”

  The Wakadas stood, ready to leave. “There is no need for that, thank you very much, Inspector,” Wakada said firmly. “We are only happy to help in any way we can.”

  “AMES, GET IN here,” Darling called into the hall first thing next morning. “Done your paperwork?”

  “Nearly, sir. I was going to finish it up today.”

  “A likely story. In the meantime, we have the suitcase. See if you can turn some of your detecting skills to finding out why its owner was so keen to have it back.”

  London, October, 1945

  The club was smoky, dark, and hot. The noise of the band made it difficult to hear, even in this back room. Drunk as he was, he knew he was losing badly. Pretty decent fellows, though. They extended credit, laughing. He laughed with them, exhilaration coursing through him. The girl leaning over his chair smelled of sweat and perfume. He could not remember when he had felt freer or happier.

  The next morning, he also could not remember how he had gotten home. Had one of the guys driven him? Thank God for his constitution. He was tired, but not sick. No headache. He never got them, not like some of his buddies. He gazed blearily at the clock. It was ten. He started and then remembered he still had this day before his leave was up. It didn’t matter anyway. They were being sent home. The whole thing was over now.

  The city had a raucous, slightly out-of-control feel to it. Soldiers still in uniform took advantage of the gratitude of a population that had been hammered by bombing and deprivation. Mild, dry weather added to the sense of celebration. The winter had not yet set in, which was lucky, as it was bound to bring with it a renewed awareness of shortages and the daily grind of ration books and clambering over rubble in cold, wet weather.

  Relieved that he still had a few shillings in his trouser pockets, he made his way up Piccadilly, already busy with people enjoying the unexpected sunshine. He was not even aware of the car that stopped just ahead of him until the man who alighted from the rear door was in front of him.

  “Ah. Good morning. Can I ask you to come along with me?” It seemed useless to resist the politely pointed gun partially revealed within the sleeve of the overcoat. No one on the street seemed to notice anything amiss. He could be swallowed up forever, he thought, right in public view.

  “What’s this about?” he asked. What was that accent? Not English, for sure.

  “A little matter of five thousand pounds.”

  December, 1946

  He wanted nothing more than to throw the blasted thing in the lake. He shuddered at the thought of having to use it again, but he could not risk it. He might be needed. Who knew what was going on out there? The gun lay on a soft leather sheet the size of a large handkerchief. He had not yet dismantled it. He did this now, laying the two parts side by side and carefully rolling them in the leather casing. The remaining bullets were in a small pouch, which he rolled in with the gun.

  Still shaken by the day’s events, he relived the earlier call. He had wanted desperately to whisper, “I told you not to call me here,” but that would have aroused suspicion. Instead he had smiled and nodded, and said, “Yes, madam, I’ve done what you requested. We’ll send that right out to you.” He had felt strangely exuberant after the call, thrilled somehow that he was fooling everyone. It was only now, looking at this deadly leather bundle under the dim reading lamp in his bedroom, that he felt the fear that his situation, in truth, warranted. Now he would have to move it; get it out of the house. And then he thought he would let them know about the girl. That was interesting. They might think so too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IT WAS LIKE OLD HOME week at the post office when Lane arrived the following Monday. The prospector’s pack horse stood patiently outside, blowing steam into the cold air, Reginald Mather was
just coming out as she approached, and she could hear other voices from inside.

  “Good morning, Reginald,” she said unavailingly, though she thought she might have detected the slightest nod as he swept past her. Could he be relenting? He was still hurt and angry about the business in the summer. She knew he blamed her. Inside, Glenn Ponting, the prospector, was pushing his mail into his leather satchel and Harris was leaning on the ledge of the window into the mailroom. She greeted Ponting, whom she rarely saw, and was surprised again by how young he appeared behind all that beard. She wondered who would write to him. Some loving middle-class family in Toronto or Edmonton? He returned her “good morning” with a slight smile and a touch of his hat, and went out. She could hear him talking to the horse. Eleanor must have found an apple. She always had something for everyone.

  Harris by this time had turned and was headed out the door. “Miss Winslow,” he said with a nod. He looked tired and seemed to have aged ten years since the summer. He shoved a grease paper–wrapped parcel into one pocket and his letters and newspaper into the other and went out the door, slamming it.

  “Hello, dear! Nice to see a cheerful, young, unbearded face in here. Between those two grumpy old men and that Ponting with the manners of man who doesn’t see a human creature from one month to the next, it’s felt a bit like the valley of the damned in here this morning.” Eleanor reached into the mail slot assigned to Lane and pulled out a letter. “Something for you here, my dear. I know you’ll be happy. From your gran!”

  Eleanor reached under the counter and pulled out a packet of her ginger cookies. “I kept these back for you, dear.” She leaned on the counter. “Ponting had some odd news. He said he was certain he saw smoke one day in that old cabin above his. He thought someone must have moved in, but he hasn’t seen hide nor hair since. Saw footprints going up past his place one time.”

  “Perhaps my tireless real estate agent from town was showing someone the cabin?”